It’s dark, really dark—the kind of dark that makes it hard to see shadows while playing with your mind; provoking you to presume that things are there that might not be. Something on the cold stale ground sparkles a few yards away. Of course. They’re toenail clippings. Sparkling a creamy, almost fluorescent, yellow is a small pile of toenail scraps that look like strategically placed crescent moons trying to provide a speck of light in this musty black alleyway of the earth.
There must be a hot dog stand near by because through the stench of raw flowing sewage, there is a delightful flutter of Hebrew National franks roaming around, seeking attention. Those hot dogs smell good enough to provoke a hungry man to accost an innocent passerby and possibly take a monstrous bite out of the stranger’s arm. Those goddamn toenail clippings kill the mood though; make you forget about simple things like hunger and hygiene. They bring you right back to this tectonic asshole formed at the ridge of two plates: society and me.
A thick constant stream of smoke, or maybe it’s steam, piles out of a an open manhole. Like an old woman whose had her fair share of late night adventures in the realm of sexual deviance, this gaping hole swirls gorgeous spirals of smoke into the sky like some kind of ritual she performed after an intense orgasm experienced in a dirty motel far away from her and her husband’s place of residence. That smoke is entrancing. It forms pictures over the dark backdrop and fingers you to come dance; fall in its arms; slide down its body; penetrate its core. It’s so thick. Like a child who sees snow for the first time, you want to run through it and totally immerse yourself. There are those goddamn hot dogs again. They must have another batch brewing.
Why do humans do this? They make this perfectly industrialized piece of earth their own and then forget about it. The meandering cracks in the beaten asphalt tell their own stories of what they’ve seen and how good the old days were even though now they are old and falling apart. Some dead grass pokes through some of the cracks; just a couple blades—nothing to write home about. I guess it’s making an effort but it has been overtaken; conquered; forgotten.
A soft breeze keeps sporadically rolling buy. It’s nice because it moves the smell of rank sewer mold down the way but it keeps bringing those goddamn hot dogs. Something’s dripping. Thank God—it’s a distraction from those delicious wieners. Looks like water but it’s black—like the kind of black that blood exudes after it dries on a lightless basement floor following countless months of being ignored. It’s got a nice rhythm—a little uneven but there’s a method to its madness. If Schubert wrote songs with an eyedropper and a mason jar of liquid, this is the melody he would choose. Not only does the gloomy water bathe the air with its song of loneliness, it’s also making a pretty sizeable puddle that’s starting to run amok. Little offshoots of slowly streaming liquid roll around in a snakelike fashion, looking for your dry shoe if nothing else. Just like everything else in this godforsaken place, these glistening lost trails are here and nobody knows it. It’s like all facets of melancholy and grime converged to take over this one place and make it their own; it’s drab and depressing. It’s gorgeous.
12.28.2007
12.27.2007
Inside the Mind of Doctor X
Well, it is time to spout off some more lies in order to make people feel good about themselves and better serve my fellow man. My preference would be to pull out a Mossberg Maverick eighty-eight and unleash a magazine or two of steadily shot hollow points into the unsuspecting faces of the whore sheep that herd closer and closer together with their: cameras, tape recorders, notepads, and all the other mental masturbatory devices used to record falsities. I stand here, fingering the podium; shuffling papers; ready to hang myself. Press conferences bore me but you know what they say, "sometimes—" Well, you know how it goes.
Look at them. I have literally become God to these people over night. Just like the Hebrews in the day of Moses, these slaves of Western idealism and disengaged consumerism have been itching for someone to release them from their unnecessary bondage. The only difference between these twits and the Hebrews is that the Hebrews supposedly didn't deserve it. I wasn't there so I can't really say but I know this—these dolts deserve every bit.
Five till ten. All right man, pull it together. See, this is always my problem. I get so worked up thinking about the true purpose behind my endeavor that I become lost in my own world of genius. It's time to put on the dead smile and suck the souls out of this ignoramus crowd. My toe taps rhythmically—always a good sign. There must be at least a hundred reporters stuffed into this tiny lobby, staring at me like dogs tend to do. Look at that obtuse blob. He should paint himself white, add a couple dozen black dots, and change his name to Roley. And her—would it kill her to tame that frizz just a bit? I guess I didn't realize that this was an open invitation to fast food gluttons and creatures from the Black Lagoon. God help me.
Four till ten. I stare at the floor, trying to hide any tell that might give away my true intentions of destroying all of these worthless kumquats, their children, and their children's children. It's not that I wish any true harm to the youngsters of this world. It's more like I'm offering a gift of salvation—something that would deliver these kids from their future misery. As for the accursed adults, shame on them for bringing excess lives into their society of excessiveness.
Callahan, the organizer of the event and monetary provider of the cause, steps up and quiets the crowd. I wouldn't mind jumping on his back and grabbing that hideous imperial moustache with both hands. Then I could ride him like the ass that he is and spur him in the side until his kidneys fall out. I know it's not often acceptable to say such things about a well respected politician and former war hero that funds your project but come on, he's still a politician, which means I've got lines in the wrinkles of my scrotum straighter than Nietzsche over there.
Listen to him. He speaks like a constipated baboon. He can't even say "rhinovirus" right. I guess it could be "rheenovirus" if you're an autistic child playing checkers by yourself under a bridge. Sweet boneless Christ. How long does it take to explain the rudimentary processes I utilized to form the cure? It's not rocket science. It's just an answer to the oldest virus that has plagued man since day one: the common cold.
He's starting to wrap it up. Okay, focus. Whatever you do, just don't go mad and start blurting obscenities at every media rapist in sight. Keep cool, Doctor. But I ever so badly want to watch them spontaneously combust now. Six years after they take my vaccination seems entirely too long. I've never had a knack for patience. Oh great. They're clapping. I wish a band of Roman soldiers would just burst through the door and nail each and every hand of all these overwhelming charlatans to one giant blood-splattered cross. Okay, no more of that.
The claps stop and I swallow a nice pool of saliva that I've been saving a while to ensure my mouth doesn't dry out. Then, I switch it to autopilot and I start to speak. I don't even know what I'm saying. I just read as I imagine the audience being avid Fleetwood Mac fans, singing, "Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies." What’s hurting them more—this or the truth? Honestly, I don’t care.
Look at them. I have literally become God to these people over night. Just like the Hebrews in the day of Moses, these slaves of Western idealism and disengaged consumerism have been itching for someone to release them from their unnecessary bondage. The only difference between these twits and the Hebrews is that the Hebrews supposedly didn't deserve it. I wasn't there so I can't really say but I know this—these dolts deserve every bit.
Five till ten. All right man, pull it together. See, this is always my problem. I get so worked up thinking about the true purpose behind my endeavor that I become lost in my own world of genius. It's time to put on the dead smile and suck the souls out of this ignoramus crowd. My toe taps rhythmically—always a good sign. There must be at least a hundred reporters stuffed into this tiny lobby, staring at me like dogs tend to do. Look at that obtuse blob. He should paint himself white, add a couple dozen black dots, and change his name to Roley. And her—would it kill her to tame that frizz just a bit? I guess I didn't realize that this was an open invitation to fast food gluttons and creatures from the Black Lagoon. God help me.
Four till ten. I stare at the floor, trying to hide any tell that might give away my true intentions of destroying all of these worthless kumquats, their children, and their children's children. It's not that I wish any true harm to the youngsters of this world. It's more like I'm offering a gift of salvation—something that would deliver these kids from their future misery. As for the accursed adults, shame on them for bringing excess lives into their society of excessiveness.
Callahan, the organizer of the event and monetary provider of the cause, steps up and quiets the crowd. I wouldn't mind jumping on his back and grabbing that hideous imperial moustache with both hands. Then I could ride him like the ass that he is and spur him in the side until his kidneys fall out. I know it's not often acceptable to say such things about a well respected politician and former war hero that funds your project but come on, he's still a politician, which means I've got lines in the wrinkles of my scrotum straighter than Nietzsche over there.
Listen to him. He speaks like a constipated baboon. He can't even say "rhinovirus" right. I guess it could be "rheenovirus" if you're an autistic child playing checkers by yourself under a bridge. Sweet boneless Christ. How long does it take to explain the rudimentary processes I utilized to form the cure? It's not rocket science. It's just an answer to the oldest virus that has plagued man since day one: the common cold.
He's starting to wrap it up. Okay, focus. Whatever you do, just don't go mad and start blurting obscenities at every media rapist in sight. Keep cool, Doctor. But I ever so badly want to watch them spontaneously combust now. Six years after they take my vaccination seems entirely too long. I've never had a knack for patience. Oh great. They're clapping. I wish a band of Roman soldiers would just burst through the door and nail each and every hand of all these overwhelming charlatans to one giant blood-splattered cross. Okay, no more of that.
The claps stop and I swallow a nice pool of saliva that I've been saving a while to ensure my mouth doesn't dry out. Then, I switch it to autopilot and I start to speak. I don't even know what I'm saying. I just read as I imagine the audience being avid Fleetwood Mac fans, singing, "Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies." What’s hurting them more—this or the truth? Honestly, I don’t care.
12.21.2007
Remo
What the hell is he wearing? Are his thumbs really popping through self made holes in the cuffs of his sweatshirt? He looks so dirty. Those fingernails are a quarter inch too long. They’re going to start curling back soon. Jesus. The least he could do is scrape the gunk out from underneath. He must be a smoker because those bad boys are creamy, and not the good kind of creamy. Perhaps he had a sadistic breakdown and went to town on his mitts with a pair of pliers. That would explain the cracking and random white streaks.
Who wears their hair like that? It’s so greasy and stringy. He might as well duct tape some wet angel hair pasta to his tiny little dome and let that flop around in the wind. Always sitting by himself: observing, coughing, and seemingly never blinking. No one really knows his story. What the hell a guy like that is doing in the commissary of a prosperous law firm is simply beyond human reason. He never leaves. Not once, do you see him opening or closing any of the entrance doors. It could be that he slips in and out the back but that’s doubtful. He’s not that inconspicuous. Where does he get the money to buy lunch everyday? He could be a janitor but where’s his broom or his bucket or his gingivitis infested teeth? The man has an immaculate set of chompers. That’s the only clean or presentable thing about him. Good work, Remo. At least there’s one thing about you that draws attention away from your careless grime.
What’s with the snakeskin boots? Cowboy kicks are stylish and acceptable but not if they have a whitewashed pair of tapered jeans stuffed into them. One of the more interesting things about this cat, though there are many, is that he carries a little orange umbrella around. He hangs it off the back of his jeans even when there’s not the remotest chance of rain. Maybe it’s full of poisonous gas like the Penguin from Batman and he’s masterminding some devious plan to kill us all while we enjoy our lunch. That would certainly explain a lot.
Is he done eating already? That’s one minute and thirty-nine seconds earlier than his annual average from the past five years. He’s moving quickly now and keeping his arms tight against his abdomen as he usually does. Come on, Remo. Do something else out of routine. Someone just called out his name. No response—typical. And like that, he’s gone into his hidden world of mystery. You’re a weird fella, Remo—a weird fella.
Who wears their hair like that? It’s so greasy and stringy. He might as well duct tape some wet angel hair pasta to his tiny little dome and let that flop around in the wind. Always sitting by himself: observing, coughing, and seemingly never blinking. No one really knows his story. What the hell a guy like that is doing in the commissary of a prosperous law firm is simply beyond human reason. He never leaves. Not once, do you see him opening or closing any of the entrance doors. It could be that he slips in and out the back but that’s doubtful. He’s not that inconspicuous. Where does he get the money to buy lunch everyday? He could be a janitor but where’s his broom or his bucket or his gingivitis infested teeth? The man has an immaculate set of chompers. That’s the only clean or presentable thing about him. Good work, Remo. At least there’s one thing about you that draws attention away from your careless grime.
What’s with the snakeskin boots? Cowboy kicks are stylish and acceptable but not if they have a whitewashed pair of tapered jeans stuffed into them. One of the more interesting things about this cat, though there are many, is that he carries a little orange umbrella around. He hangs it off the back of his jeans even when there’s not the remotest chance of rain. Maybe it’s full of poisonous gas like the Penguin from Batman and he’s masterminding some devious plan to kill us all while we enjoy our lunch. That would certainly explain a lot.
Is he done eating already? That’s one minute and thirty-nine seconds earlier than his annual average from the past five years. He’s moving quickly now and keeping his arms tight against his abdomen as he usually does. Come on, Remo. Do something else out of routine. Someone just called out his name. No response—typical. And like that, he’s gone into his hidden world of mystery. You’re a weird fella, Remo—a weird fella.
12.19.2007
12.18.2007
Chaz D. Balantine
Look at him—that sexy little swine. Fingertips still glistening from his fifth hand wash this morning. It’s barely noon. He’s been up since seven; he hasn’t really done anything besides get black coffee and a whole-wheat bagel but he’s up. Good morning Chaz D. Balantine, you lucky bastard. Who would have ever known that the dust from the rodeo clown days would finally escape his now flawless pores? It’s really no wonder that he’s as built as he is. All of that fleeing from angry beasts and submerging yourself in a ring of testosterone would transform anyone into a lean piece of devil’s food crafted by the hands of Zeus himself. Some people are just chosen, I suppose.
If you would have asked me five years ago where I thought Chaz would end up later in his life, I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you the underwear business. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a bus cruise by, promoting his boxer brief covered phallus. What really blows the mind is how a man in his late twenties can be so completely hairless. In his photos, they airbrush his nipples because they are a little too dark but that’s it. Everything else is au natural.
I went to his house once. What a place. The man’s got a penthouse in the East Village that would make the average American cream in their socks. It’s pristine. Two maids alternate during the day and they run a tight ship. There’s never a smudge or fingerprint on the countless granite countertops and there’s four boxes of lint rollers in the cleaning closet. It almost seems like the obsession to become the object of the public’s perception of perfection has transformed his home into something also equally as “perfect.”
I don't watch him because I'm gay, or because I have some weird obsession, or because I idolize him. He just interests me, that's all. I've known Chaz for quite some time (not in the Biblical sense) and I just positively know that there is something else to him that no one else sees.
For a guy who only wears boxer briefs in photos, he sure has an interesting fashion sense. He doesn’t even wear underwear outside of work and he seldom can be seen in a tee shirt. Lintless polyfiber long sleeves are what cover his muscular upper body. I’d wear 1980s tank tops if I were him—no substitutes. So, how does an alcohol abstaining high school drop out get blessed with such an awesome set of junk and a perfect life? That was the question that plagued me quite some time. Then I realized that the answer was simple. He used to be a rodeo clown and like every single rodeo clown on God's good green earth, he sold his soul to the devil.
If you would have asked me five years ago where I thought Chaz would end up later in his life, I sure as hell wouldn’t have told you the underwear business. You can’t walk down the street without seeing a bus cruise by, promoting his boxer brief covered phallus. What really blows the mind is how a man in his late twenties can be so completely hairless. In his photos, they airbrush his nipples because they are a little too dark but that’s it. Everything else is au natural.
I went to his house once. What a place. The man’s got a penthouse in the East Village that would make the average American cream in their socks. It’s pristine. Two maids alternate during the day and they run a tight ship. There’s never a smudge or fingerprint on the countless granite countertops and there’s four boxes of lint rollers in the cleaning closet. It almost seems like the obsession to become the object of the public’s perception of perfection has transformed his home into something also equally as “perfect.”
I don't watch him because I'm gay, or because I have some weird obsession, or because I idolize him. He just interests me, that's all. I've known Chaz for quite some time (not in the Biblical sense) and I just positively know that there is something else to him that no one else sees.
For a guy who only wears boxer briefs in photos, he sure has an interesting fashion sense. He doesn’t even wear underwear outside of work and he seldom can be seen in a tee shirt. Lintless polyfiber long sleeves are what cover his muscular upper body. I’d wear 1980s tank tops if I were him—no substitutes. So, how does an alcohol abstaining high school drop out get blessed with such an awesome set of junk and a perfect life? That was the question that plagued me quite some time. Then I realized that the answer was simple. He used to be a rodeo clown and like every single rodeo clown on God's good green earth, he sold his soul to the devil.
12.14.2007
12.12.2007
The Last Revelation
The following was published this morning on Six Sentences (www.sixsentences.blogspot.com):
The Last Revelation
It wasn't until I felt the burning sword of revelation in my subconscious that I thought something may be wrong. As if the constant intellectual masturbation wasn't enough, this sharp edge was the one thing that could bring me to insanity, bring me to a state of peace, or utterly destroy me without any consequence whatsoever. The worst part is that I have no control - powerless. If I could control these thoughts and impeding revelations, my neck wouldn't be suffering rope burn from the proverbial noose. Unfortunately, I am powerless and have no idea how to accept this sad truth so I write these last words as oxygen fails to fill my lungs and as I make a statement to show that I do have some control. I apologize for the messy writing but you have no idea how hard it is to transcribe your thoughts coherently as your body convulses and your dying thigh serves as a desk but I shouldn't digress and waste my last words making excuses for why I can't properly express myself.
The Last Revelation
It wasn't until I felt the burning sword of revelation in my subconscious that I thought something may be wrong. As if the constant intellectual masturbation wasn't enough, this sharp edge was the one thing that could bring me to insanity, bring me to a state of peace, or utterly destroy me without any consequence whatsoever. The worst part is that I have no control - powerless. If I could control these thoughts and impeding revelations, my neck wouldn't be suffering rope burn from the proverbial noose. Unfortunately, I am powerless and have no idea how to accept this sad truth so I write these last words as oxygen fails to fill my lungs and as I make a statement to show that I do have some control. I apologize for the messy writing but you have no idea how hard it is to transcribe your thoughts coherently as your body convulses and your dying thigh serves as a desk but I shouldn't digress and waste my last words making excuses for why I can't properly express myself.
12.10.2007
The Fast and the Hungry
This morning I took a little trip to my local doctor's office for a physical and some blood work. I know what you're thinking: what is a healthy twenty-two year old beefcake like myself doing getting blood examined? Well, the sad truths of old age and imposing independence are upon me as I will no longer be on my parents' health insurance plan once 2008 rings in because I am no longer a student. Although this could easily turn into some kind of commentary on U.S. Health Insurance and give a Sicko-esque assessment, it won't. The meat and potatoes of this story has to do with the twelve hour fast that I had to endure prior to the physical.
So if it wasn't awkward enough last night attending my girlfriend's company Christmas party and not being able to take part of the fabulous free buffet and beverages at the lovely Cafe La Boheme, the awkwardness definitely hit its peak this morning when I divulged to my doctor that I have experimented with marijuana, LSD, mushrooms, cocaine, various pills, and even one time an innocent bug -- very strange thing to have to do on an empty stomach. Luckily, this is not my first experience with fasting as I have had blood drawn before. However, not every time I have fasted has been mandatory.
In 2004, at least I believe it was 2004, I decided to embark on a spiritual journey and cleanse myself of the drug infested lifestyle that had plagued me prior. Maybe it was November. Either way, it was to be three days and three nights without food or water spent in the woods. I recall that every minute leading up to it was trying. Things were constantly coming up, people were calling me to see what I was up to for the weekend, etc. Nothing could divert me though. I was dead set on being alone in the wilderness with no phone, no computer -- none of that nonsense.
The day leading up to it was a Thursday and I spent it at home. I enjoyed the last of what modern society has to offer and packed my car. All I had was a tent, some firewood, a lantern, a backpack, a few blankets, a pillow, a chair, a pellet gun, a hatchet, some newspaper, a box of matches, a canister of gasoline, a journal, a pen, a cell phone that was to remain off unless an emergency arose, and a Bible. My only clothes were a pair of jeans, one shirt, one pair of socks, one pair of walking shoes, one pair of ugg boots, a sweatshirt, and a wool lined jacket. I may have brought a guitar as well but I'm not entirely sure. It was sometime in the winter months but it wasn't rainy. Like I said, I think it might have been November. That night, I kissed my parents good-bye, turned off my cell phone, and embarked on a journey into the world of solitary.
After checking into a local deserted campground, I shined my car brights on my secluded area and pitched my tent. I made a nice little fire and enjoyed the stars while doing some reading of the Bible. I was excited to see what the next day might bring. Crawling into my tent with a smile, I stopped, said a quick prayer, and drifted to sleep.
The next morning I awoke with typical hunger -- nothing out of the ordinary. I drained the proverbial lizard and read some Bible by the blackened fire pit. Then I decided to take a little walk around and get to know my earth. The rest of the day mostly encompassed more reading, plenty of sleeping, and a little more walking. It's funny because when you're not worried about time and you're in the wilderness, your body clock adapts to that of the sun. So when night falls, you build a fire and enjoy the sky for a bit and then you go to sleep. However, the effects of hunger and dehydration were beginning to take their toll.
According to my journal, that Friday night (a full twenty-four hours in my fast), "I was not even able to read the Word because of my lack of energy. Instead, I went sleep..." And no, that is not a typo, that's what is written. This fast was supposed to be spent reading the Bible and better trying to understand life and myself. The ironic thing is that in a personal journey such as this, your biggest enemy is yourself. That entire night, and the next for that matter, was plagued with dreams of food and drink. Because of the vividness of each REM cycle, I was sure I had broken my fast. That matched with hunger proved to be a powerful obstacle. Even the coldness of the night was less of a distraction.
I made it through though and awoke the next morning to a beautiful crisp sunrise. After a little stretch and a couple breaths of incredibly fresh air, I sat at the table that came with the campsite and read some Good Book. Surprisingly, even when you are fasting, you continually pee. I urinated all the way up until I returned home even though I wasn't ingesting anything. So after a couple chapters and letting some warm liquid evacuate my body, I packed up my backpack.
This day's journey was the greatest. I went far into the woods. Admittedly, I was moving quite slowly because my body was so deprived. But I felt good. I found a nice walking stick and journeyed to a nice spot under a gargantuan bridge. I thought I was hallucinating at first because it looked so big. After a slow admiration, I wrote in my journal and read more. Then it was off even deeper.
I went until I could only see nature in front of me. Behind me was still that massive obstruction, but my eyes were to the west. After sitting down on a perfectly shaped log to read some Bible, I took a good little nap. When there's no nourishment in your system, you sleep often. Upon awaking, completely unaware how long I had been out, I rose and headed back to camp. Under the bridge I heard animals in the distance. I had just read of Samson's strength and although I was weak, I felt prepared to engage in acts of violence if necessary. It must have been survival mode taking over because I pictured ripping a beast's jaw from its head in order to save myself. I would never do that but I was going a little crazy and I wanted to make it back home. Luckily, it was only two pit bulls with no leashes accompanied closely by two owners. They barked, they growled, they circled me (the dogs that is) as I smiled at them and the owning couple. I was ready with my walking stick to engage if necessary but it didn't come to that. Instead, I walked on to camp.
After ditching my walking stick, I doused some wood with gasoline, made a fire, and watched the sunset. I really felt whole. God was definitely my focus and I felt closer to Him and to myself. My body was falling apart but my mind was clear. I had absolutely no concept of time other than that it was night. The hunger was strong and reading by the fire was quickly putting me to sleep. Into the tent I went.
That night was the worst. It was terribly cold, my stomach was eating away at itself, I was having insane dreams, I was anything but comfortable, and I was so thirsty. It felt as if I was waking up every half hour. I don't remember exactly what happened, but early in the morning I woke up to a dew drenched tent and overcast skies. My mood was a mixture of confusion, delirium, frustration, and helplessness. I packed up as quickly as I could, which was quite slow. Nothing seemed to be going right as I was fumbling things and trying to get home as soon as possible. I couldn't do the last day. It was too much. I finally got in my car and carefully drove home. I'm pretty sure I went about fifteen miles an hour the whole way. Utterly drained and experiencing feelings I had never known, I prayed that I make it home in one piece.
I remember the first thing I ate after I unpacked early that Sunday morning -- a big bowl of Coco Puffs and a tall glass of water. I was almost instantaneously full. My father awoke and came downstairs to find me at the table. He was happy I was home safe and sound and happy to see me easing myself back into a life with food. Knowing I was in no position to speak about my journey, he cleaned up after me as I walked upstairs and got into my warm bed. That was some of the best sleep I have ever had -- not only because I was back to comfort but also because my mind had been opened and I felt anew.
That night I went to a steak house with my parents. I ate a huge slab of beef, potatoes, rolls, and a chocolate milk. Of course, it was more than I could fit in my stomach but it made for excellent leftovers. I told my parents of my adventures and new thoughts. They were enthralled. I told them how I had read somewhere between five and eight books of the Old Testament and how I finally felt a deeper connection to God, the earth, and myself. It was as if I was a new person and I was seeing the world differently. It seemed as if the prayer I had made to find some answers, accompanied with the action I took to seek them, was answered and I was experiencing life in a much richer way than I had just a few days earlier.
Today reminded me of that experience and how much we can learn about life and ourselves when we purge the seemingly necessary distractions from our lives. Granted, when I was in the woods, no one was sticking a needle in my arm but just like a little bit of me is now sitting in some vials waiting to be examined, a little piece of me remains out in the woods waiting to be revisited.
So if it wasn't awkward enough last night attending my girlfriend's company Christmas party and not being able to take part of the fabulous free buffet and beverages at the lovely Cafe La Boheme, the awkwardness definitely hit its peak this morning when I divulged to my doctor that I have experimented with marijuana, LSD, mushrooms, cocaine, various pills, and even one time an innocent bug -- very strange thing to have to do on an empty stomach. Luckily, this is not my first experience with fasting as I have had blood drawn before. However, not every time I have fasted has been mandatory.
In 2004, at least I believe it was 2004, I decided to embark on a spiritual journey and cleanse myself of the drug infested lifestyle that had plagued me prior. Maybe it was November. Either way, it was to be three days and three nights without food or water spent in the woods. I recall that every minute leading up to it was trying. Things were constantly coming up, people were calling me to see what I was up to for the weekend, etc. Nothing could divert me though. I was dead set on being alone in the wilderness with no phone, no computer -- none of that nonsense.
The day leading up to it was a Thursday and I spent it at home. I enjoyed the last of what modern society has to offer and packed my car. All I had was a tent, some firewood, a lantern, a backpack, a few blankets, a pillow, a chair, a pellet gun, a hatchet, some newspaper, a box of matches, a canister of gasoline, a journal, a pen, a cell phone that was to remain off unless an emergency arose, and a Bible. My only clothes were a pair of jeans, one shirt, one pair of socks, one pair of walking shoes, one pair of ugg boots, a sweatshirt, and a wool lined jacket. I may have brought a guitar as well but I'm not entirely sure. It was sometime in the winter months but it wasn't rainy. Like I said, I think it might have been November. That night, I kissed my parents good-bye, turned off my cell phone, and embarked on a journey into the world of solitary.
After checking into a local deserted campground, I shined my car brights on my secluded area and pitched my tent. I made a nice little fire and enjoyed the stars while doing some reading of the Bible. I was excited to see what the next day might bring. Crawling into my tent with a smile, I stopped, said a quick prayer, and drifted to sleep.
The next morning I awoke with typical hunger -- nothing out of the ordinary. I drained the proverbial lizard and read some Bible by the blackened fire pit. Then I decided to take a little walk around and get to know my earth. The rest of the day mostly encompassed more reading, plenty of sleeping, and a little more walking. It's funny because when you're not worried about time and you're in the wilderness, your body clock adapts to that of the sun. So when night falls, you build a fire and enjoy the sky for a bit and then you go to sleep. However, the effects of hunger and dehydration were beginning to take their toll.
According to my journal, that Friday night (a full twenty-four hours in my fast), "I was not even able to read the Word because of my lack of energy. Instead, I went sleep..." And no, that is not a typo, that's what is written. This fast was supposed to be spent reading the Bible and better trying to understand life and myself. The ironic thing is that in a personal journey such as this, your biggest enemy is yourself. That entire night, and the next for that matter, was plagued with dreams of food and drink. Because of the vividness of each REM cycle, I was sure I had broken my fast. That matched with hunger proved to be a powerful obstacle. Even the coldness of the night was less of a distraction.
I made it through though and awoke the next morning to a beautiful crisp sunrise. After a little stretch and a couple breaths of incredibly fresh air, I sat at the table that came with the campsite and read some Good Book. Surprisingly, even when you are fasting, you continually pee. I urinated all the way up until I returned home even though I wasn't ingesting anything. So after a couple chapters and letting some warm liquid evacuate my body, I packed up my backpack.
This day's journey was the greatest. I went far into the woods. Admittedly, I was moving quite slowly because my body was so deprived. But I felt good. I found a nice walking stick and journeyed to a nice spot under a gargantuan bridge. I thought I was hallucinating at first because it looked so big. After a slow admiration, I wrote in my journal and read more. Then it was off even deeper.
I went until I could only see nature in front of me. Behind me was still that massive obstruction, but my eyes were to the west. After sitting down on a perfectly shaped log to read some Bible, I took a good little nap. When there's no nourishment in your system, you sleep often. Upon awaking, completely unaware how long I had been out, I rose and headed back to camp. Under the bridge I heard animals in the distance. I had just read of Samson's strength and although I was weak, I felt prepared to engage in acts of violence if necessary. It must have been survival mode taking over because I pictured ripping a beast's jaw from its head in order to save myself. I would never do that but I was going a little crazy and I wanted to make it back home. Luckily, it was only two pit bulls with no leashes accompanied closely by two owners. They barked, they growled, they circled me (the dogs that is) as I smiled at them and the owning couple. I was ready with my walking stick to engage if necessary but it didn't come to that. Instead, I walked on to camp.
After ditching my walking stick, I doused some wood with gasoline, made a fire, and watched the sunset. I really felt whole. God was definitely my focus and I felt closer to Him and to myself. My body was falling apart but my mind was clear. I had absolutely no concept of time other than that it was night. The hunger was strong and reading by the fire was quickly putting me to sleep. Into the tent I went.
That night was the worst. It was terribly cold, my stomach was eating away at itself, I was having insane dreams, I was anything but comfortable, and I was so thirsty. It felt as if I was waking up every half hour. I don't remember exactly what happened, but early in the morning I woke up to a dew drenched tent and overcast skies. My mood was a mixture of confusion, delirium, frustration, and helplessness. I packed up as quickly as I could, which was quite slow. Nothing seemed to be going right as I was fumbling things and trying to get home as soon as possible. I couldn't do the last day. It was too much. I finally got in my car and carefully drove home. I'm pretty sure I went about fifteen miles an hour the whole way. Utterly drained and experiencing feelings I had never known, I prayed that I make it home in one piece.
I remember the first thing I ate after I unpacked early that Sunday morning -- a big bowl of Coco Puffs and a tall glass of water. I was almost instantaneously full. My father awoke and came downstairs to find me at the table. He was happy I was home safe and sound and happy to see me easing myself back into a life with food. Knowing I was in no position to speak about my journey, he cleaned up after me as I walked upstairs and got into my warm bed. That was some of the best sleep I have ever had -- not only because I was back to comfort but also because my mind had been opened and I felt anew.
That night I went to a steak house with my parents. I ate a huge slab of beef, potatoes, rolls, and a chocolate milk. Of course, it was more than I could fit in my stomach but it made for excellent leftovers. I told my parents of my adventures and new thoughts. They were enthralled. I told them how I had read somewhere between five and eight books of the Old Testament and how I finally felt a deeper connection to God, the earth, and myself. It was as if I was a new person and I was seeing the world differently. It seemed as if the prayer I had made to find some answers, accompanied with the action I took to seek them, was answered and I was experiencing life in a much richer way than I had just a few days earlier.
Today reminded me of that experience and how much we can learn about life and ourselves when we purge the seemingly necessary distractions from our lives. Granted, when I was in the woods, no one was sticking a needle in my arm but just like a little bit of me is now sitting in some vials waiting to be examined, a little piece of me remains out in the woods waiting to be revisited.
12.08.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 7)
THE SCIENTIST
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the right is the most mysterious. Their backgrounds, their minds -- all is off limits to a certain extent. Everyone else at the table thinks they know this couple but rest assured, they don't. They are a power couple but they don't flaunt it. Instead, they just do and leave it at that. No need to talk, no need to gloat, and definitely no need to make themselves spectacles. The man on the outside, who refuses to fully expose his face, is the ringleader. He does not want his face in this picture. The only reason he looks at the camera, partially showing himself, is to not draw too much attention. If he were completely missing, that would be a little too suspicious. He has much too much on his mind to focus completely on the camera.
This party is the fruition of his plan and his wishes. He has a very unique relationship with each individual. The Soldier and he served in the war together; only he was the lieutenant rather than just a private. Although the Soldier has no idea, this man witnessed many of the secrets and ritual killings that took place overseas. The lieutenant had observed from afar but never been noticed and never brought it up. They remain friends but the lieutenant is utterly disgusted with the private that served under him -- completely disgusted.
He was a close friend of the Socialite's parents. The mother had confided in him many a time that she suspected something peculiar between her husband and her daughter. Naturally, he comforted her and reassured her that it was an absurd presumption. When he later heard about the murder, he knew that he had given false comfort. In his heart, he knows that the surviving young woman was the cause for two deaths and yet she acts as if nothing ever happened. She sees him as a sweet longtime family friend that has always offered support. His disgust runs deep for the socialite. He sees her as a human abomination.
The Satanist was a cute that he ran into outside one day while he was walking his Labrador. They became relatively good friends. He would invite her over for tea, cigarettes, and the occasional gin. It was a nonsexual relationship that involved mostly a good amount of talking about everything from popular culture to politics to what America has become in the last fifty years and where it will be in the next fifty. It was a beautifully healthy relationship until spirituality entered the picture. He made it well known that he believed in an all powerful creator, although he was unsure whether or not the ideas believed in the Judeo-Christian world were enough for him. The conversation took a turn when he mentioned that the idea of a fallen angel trying to fight against God was a preposterous notion. "It would be like a house cat trying to fight a good sized dog," he said. The Satanist forced a smile but that was the last time she came over. Two weeks later, the man's Labrador disappeared from the front porch area of his house. However, there was a black house cat tied to the dog's leash. He knew exactly what had happened but he never brought it up in the sporadic subsequent conversations that took place later on. She would always smile and he would smile back. Deep in his heart, he knew what she was and she disgusted him.
His relationship with the Sophisticate was an interesting one to say the least. They had known each other in the early years of the Sophisticate's horse racket. Offering his connections and vast leads, he helped his friend’s business flourish. They were stellar partners. After that run ended and the Sophisticate was hanging by a thin thread, the man offered him a job. He kindly thanked him but refused the offer because of his pride. So instead, the man gave him some money, which did not need to be paid back, in order to reestablish himself. Later, the man heard that the Sophisticate was back on his feet with a new late night business. This brought a smile to his face. He was happy to have helped someone in need and eager to see what his money had been put toward. As soon as the man walked into the Sophisticate's new office, he left -- disgusted.
For a number of years, he had a relationship with the Saint because she often was his teller at the bank. He liked her as a person. She was cordial, personable, and had a good spirit. Many a time she would talk to him about Christianity but never in a pushy way -- he liked that. He never swayed toward her beliefs but he respected them because he so highly respected her. When he found out that she had married the Sophisticate, he also found out that her sister-in-law was the Satanist. He could not believe that someone so sweet could be so naive. How could she be involved with such a disgusting pair? From then on, he ceased going to her at the bank. Her ignorance disgusted him.
This is a man who loves his wife. She is the only one who truly knows him. Everyone else thinks him to be a businessman, or a retired military man, or just an intellectual. But in actuality, he is a devoted scientist who refuses to expose his talent and livelihood to anyone -- except for his wife. After all, she is his creation. After his encounters with all of these people at the table, he lost his faith in humanity and decided that only an artificial being could satisfy him. Really though, he created her as a tool -- a tool to destroy the ones who had so jaded his perception. For years, he has been planning this event. This is the third and final Christmas party that all of these individuals will attend together. They're comfortable and unsuspecting. The time is perfect. After this picture is taken, the rest of the guests leave, and it is just their table left drinking some late night beverages mixed with a powerful sedative, he will murder every last one of them.
He knows that his wife plans to murder him after the others are gone. She doesn't know he knows but that's because she is only a machine. That is why he will force her to kill herself in front of the others so that those scarred by suicides will rekindle their horror. Then he will systematically kill the rest, starting with the Satanist -- the piece of filth that stole his dog. That way, everyone will die having been a witness to, or at least affected by, a suicide and a murder. Next will be the Socialite. She will be spinning after seeing another woman murdered. It will conjure up memories of his parents. Her death will hurt the Soldier. Then the man will tell him that he knows his secrets and witnessed his ritual killings. Then he will slice the Soldier’s throat. The last two left will be the Sophisticate and the Saint. The man will kill the Sophisticate and speak to the Saint as she cries. He will explain that these were all terrible people and that she should have known better. And right when she thinks that God will save her because she is the only good one there, the man will tell her that she will not want to go on living with these kinds of images burned into her memory. Then he will kill her.
At that point, he will use his knowledge of science to dispose of the bodies and completely clean the scene of any evidence. After that, he will take a small dose of cyanide and take a nap in a large incinerator because he will not be able to live with himself. He will know that what he did was just but his mind will never be the same and no achievement will ever live up to the complexity and precision of this particular plan. In the end, it will simply seem as if none of them ever existed. The earth will be rid of seven corrupt individuals and the abuse of life will be replaced by necessary death. And no one will remember the Mammoth Christmas Party of 1956.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the right is the most mysterious. Their backgrounds, their minds -- all is off limits to a certain extent. Everyone else at the table thinks they know this couple but rest assured, they don't. They are a power couple but they don't flaunt it. Instead, they just do and leave it at that. No need to talk, no need to gloat, and definitely no need to make themselves spectacles. The man on the outside, who refuses to fully expose his face, is the ringleader. He does not want his face in this picture. The only reason he looks at the camera, partially showing himself, is to not draw too much attention. If he were completely missing, that would be a little too suspicious. He has much too much on his mind to focus completely on the camera.
This party is the fruition of his plan and his wishes. He has a very unique relationship with each individual. The Soldier and he served in the war together; only he was the lieutenant rather than just a private. Although the Soldier has no idea, this man witnessed many of the secrets and ritual killings that took place overseas. The lieutenant had observed from afar but never been noticed and never brought it up. They remain friends but the lieutenant is utterly disgusted with the private that served under him -- completely disgusted.
He was a close friend of the Socialite's parents. The mother had confided in him many a time that she suspected something peculiar between her husband and her daughter. Naturally, he comforted her and reassured her that it was an absurd presumption. When he later heard about the murder, he knew that he had given false comfort. In his heart, he knows that the surviving young woman was the cause for two deaths and yet she acts as if nothing ever happened. She sees him as a sweet longtime family friend that has always offered support. His disgust runs deep for the socialite. He sees her as a human abomination.
The Satanist was a cute that he ran into outside one day while he was walking his Labrador. They became relatively good friends. He would invite her over for tea, cigarettes, and the occasional gin. It was a nonsexual relationship that involved mostly a good amount of talking about everything from popular culture to politics to what America has become in the last fifty years and where it will be in the next fifty. It was a beautifully healthy relationship until spirituality entered the picture. He made it well known that he believed in an all powerful creator, although he was unsure whether or not the ideas believed in the Judeo-Christian world were enough for him. The conversation took a turn when he mentioned that the idea of a fallen angel trying to fight against God was a preposterous notion. "It would be like a house cat trying to fight a good sized dog," he said. The Satanist forced a smile but that was the last time she came over. Two weeks later, the man's Labrador disappeared from the front porch area of his house. However, there was a black house cat tied to the dog's leash. He knew exactly what had happened but he never brought it up in the sporadic subsequent conversations that took place later on. She would always smile and he would smile back. Deep in his heart, he knew what she was and she disgusted him.
His relationship with the Sophisticate was an interesting one to say the least. They had known each other in the early years of the Sophisticate's horse racket. Offering his connections and vast leads, he helped his friend’s business flourish. They were stellar partners. After that run ended and the Sophisticate was hanging by a thin thread, the man offered him a job. He kindly thanked him but refused the offer because of his pride. So instead, the man gave him some money, which did not need to be paid back, in order to reestablish himself. Later, the man heard that the Sophisticate was back on his feet with a new late night business. This brought a smile to his face. He was happy to have helped someone in need and eager to see what his money had been put toward. As soon as the man walked into the Sophisticate's new office, he left -- disgusted.
For a number of years, he had a relationship with the Saint because she often was his teller at the bank. He liked her as a person. She was cordial, personable, and had a good spirit. Many a time she would talk to him about Christianity but never in a pushy way -- he liked that. He never swayed toward her beliefs but he respected them because he so highly respected her. When he found out that she had married the Sophisticate, he also found out that her sister-in-law was the Satanist. He could not believe that someone so sweet could be so naive. How could she be involved with such a disgusting pair? From then on, he ceased going to her at the bank. Her ignorance disgusted him.
This is a man who loves his wife. She is the only one who truly knows him. Everyone else thinks him to be a businessman, or a retired military man, or just an intellectual. But in actuality, he is a devoted scientist who refuses to expose his talent and livelihood to anyone -- except for his wife. After all, she is his creation. After his encounters with all of these people at the table, he lost his faith in humanity and decided that only an artificial being could satisfy him. Really though, he created her as a tool -- a tool to destroy the ones who had so jaded his perception. For years, he has been planning this event. This is the third and final Christmas party that all of these individuals will attend together. They're comfortable and unsuspecting. The time is perfect. After this picture is taken, the rest of the guests leave, and it is just their table left drinking some late night beverages mixed with a powerful sedative, he will murder every last one of them.
He knows that his wife plans to murder him after the others are gone. She doesn't know he knows but that's because she is only a machine. That is why he will force her to kill herself in front of the others so that those scarred by suicides will rekindle their horror. Then he will systematically kill the rest, starting with the Satanist -- the piece of filth that stole his dog. That way, everyone will die having been a witness to, or at least affected by, a suicide and a murder. Next will be the Socialite. She will be spinning after seeing another woman murdered. It will conjure up memories of his parents. Her death will hurt the Soldier. Then the man will tell him that he knows his secrets and witnessed his ritual killings. Then he will slice the Soldier’s throat. The last two left will be the Sophisticate and the Saint. The man will kill the Sophisticate and speak to the Saint as she cries. He will explain that these were all terrible people and that she should have known better. And right when she thinks that God will save her because she is the only good one there, the man will tell her that she will not want to go on living with these kinds of images burned into her memory. Then he will kill her.
At that point, he will use his knowledge of science to dispose of the bodies and completely clean the scene of any evidence. After that, he will take a small dose of cyanide and take a nap in a large incinerator because he will not be able to live with himself. He will know that what he did was just but his mind will never be the same and no achievement will ever live up to the complexity and precision of this particular plan. In the end, it will simply seem as if none of them ever existed. The earth will be rid of seven corrupt individuals and the abuse of life will be replaced by necessary death. And no one will remember the Mammoth Christmas Party of 1956.
12.05.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 6)
THE SYNTHESIS
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the right is the most mysterious. Their backgrounds, their minds -- all is off limits to a certain extent. Everyone else at the table thinks they know this couple but rest assured, they don't. They are a power couple but they don't flaunt it. Instead, they just do and leave it at that. No need to talk, no need to gloat, and definitely no need to make themselves spectacles. The woman on the inside looks into the camera with a Mona Lisa smile. She's not drawing much attention to herself. This is a true sign of her power.
No feelings. No emotional investments. There's not all that much that is human about her rather than her appearance and speech. She has sex with her husband but she doesn't orgasm. She can't. She does all manners of everyday activities: showers, eats, interacts with humans, etc. The reason she is able to manipulate people as well as she does, and the reason she holds a specific control over those she comes in contact with, is because she is smarter than them. That and she lacks the attributes that keep people from succeeding without distraction, whether it be emotional, mental, or physical. She is special.
Her veins, her hair, her skin, her organs -- all are fabricated. They were designed. If compared with human parts, they would seem similar but be obviously different in composition. Her synthetic parts were carefully and skillfully designed by someone who wanted her to have life. The funny thing is that he thinks she has feelings to a certain degree. She lies to her creator and tells him she does. Tells him that he fully pleasures her, that she loves him, that the life he has given her is wonderful. She doesn't know why she does it but she does. It's not that she's unhappy (she isn't capable of being unhappy); it's just that she has no soul and somehow she knows that because she is constantly around natural people. She's not jealous (she isn't capable of being jealous) but she controls others because they have souls and are able to be controlled.
So when it comes down to it, the creation controls the creator to a certain extent. She will never get sick because she is not susceptible to disease. She will grow older because nothing lasts forever and she was designed to decompose at a similar rate to that of humans. But she will not feel pain, suffering, or disappointment. However, she will know death as she has known life. The only difference with her is that there is no journey down the Styx River. There is no Heaven. There is no Hell. When she's dead, she is gone forever. That is something she will never be able to comprehend.
The others at the table think she is truly amazing. They see her as more than just the perfect wife of a brilliant businessman. Unbeknownst to them, she is the tool for which they have all gathered. This is her Christmas party. Because they love and respect her, they delighted in showing up. Over the years, she has been building her reputation with these particular people in order to gather them together. Why? She doesn't know. Partly because someone told her to do it but mostly because she can. Her limp wrist signifies the strings she uses to work her puppets at the table. Ironically, she is but a puppet herself. So her creator thinks. She has plans of her own. After the murder of the five people to the left, she will kill her creator. Not because she wants to (she isn’t capable of wanting) but because she can. After all, no prison could harm her and she would be free from any emotional repercussions. The joys of being artificial are eerily similar to that of being natural.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the right is the most mysterious. Their backgrounds, their minds -- all is off limits to a certain extent. Everyone else at the table thinks they know this couple but rest assured, they don't. They are a power couple but they don't flaunt it. Instead, they just do and leave it at that. No need to talk, no need to gloat, and definitely no need to make themselves spectacles. The woman on the inside looks into the camera with a Mona Lisa smile. She's not drawing much attention to herself. This is a true sign of her power.
No feelings. No emotional investments. There's not all that much that is human about her rather than her appearance and speech. She has sex with her husband but she doesn't orgasm. She can't. She does all manners of everyday activities: showers, eats, interacts with humans, etc. The reason she is able to manipulate people as well as she does, and the reason she holds a specific control over those she comes in contact with, is because she is smarter than them. That and she lacks the attributes that keep people from succeeding without distraction, whether it be emotional, mental, or physical. She is special.
Her veins, her hair, her skin, her organs -- all are fabricated. They were designed. If compared with human parts, they would seem similar but be obviously different in composition. Her synthetic parts were carefully and skillfully designed by someone who wanted her to have life. The funny thing is that he thinks she has feelings to a certain degree. She lies to her creator and tells him she does. Tells him that he fully pleasures her, that she loves him, that the life he has given her is wonderful. She doesn't know why she does it but she does. It's not that she's unhappy (she isn't capable of being unhappy); it's just that she has no soul and somehow she knows that because she is constantly around natural people. She's not jealous (she isn't capable of being jealous) but she controls others because they have souls and are able to be controlled.
So when it comes down to it, the creation controls the creator to a certain extent. She will never get sick because she is not susceptible to disease. She will grow older because nothing lasts forever and she was designed to decompose at a similar rate to that of humans. But she will not feel pain, suffering, or disappointment. However, she will know death as she has known life. The only difference with her is that there is no journey down the Styx River. There is no Heaven. There is no Hell. When she's dead, she is gone forever. That is something she will never be able to comprehend.
The others at the table think she is truly amazing. They see her as more than just the perfect wife of a brilliant businessman. Unbeknownst to them, she is the tool for which they have all gathered. This is her Christmas party. Because they love and respect her, they delighted in showing up. Over the years, she has been building her reputation with these particular people in order to gather them together. Why? She doesn't know. Partly because someone told her to do it but mostly because she can. Her limp wrist signifies the strings she uses to work her puppets at the table. Ironically, she is but a puppet herself. So her creator thinks. She has plans of her own. After the murder of the five people to the left, she will kill her creator. Not because she wants to (she isn’t capable of wanting) but because she can. After all, no prison could harm her and she would be free from any emotional repercussions. The joys of being artificial are eerily similar to that of being natural.
12.03.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 5)
THE SAINT
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The woman to the right of the man in the middle is the most peculiar of the three. She's a one hundred and ten percent, true blue, holy rolling, honest to goodness devout follower of Jesus Christ and the core Christian faith. She's a good girl -- she loves Jesus. Of course, she's not to be confused with the Christians wrapping around the mid west and making up the good ol' Bible-thumping Bible Belt. Never has she pushed someone or hated them for not sharing her beliefs. That's not to say that she's never attempted to share the gospel because she most certainly has done that. But all she really is guilty of in that category is love.
For her, it all started in the home that her father had built with his bare hands. He was a genuine craftsman, a jack-of-all-trades if you will. He built it for his wife, who was pregnant. They had five children total and the girl who would later come to serve the Lord was the last to come. This was not a home of Christianity, or any defined theism for that matter. The newly blessed parents were seemingly good people and they loved their children. They loved them so much that they gave the first born very special attention. Without any guilt whatsoever, the father would molest her -- and the mother would watch. This continued on even after the second child, another girl, was born. She suffered the same treatment. As was the same for the next female child. Finally, child number four was a male. The mother had wanteda son since she had been at the altar. She now had someone to experiment with. And the father had just another to add to his collection. When he was old enough, he was persuaded to lie with his older sisters and told that there was absolutely nothing taboo about it. The parents just wanted to watch their children strengthen their bonds. And if the children didn't know how to perform something asked, the parents would show them.
The last daughter to enter the house was not touched as a child. However, she did grow in years while watching her parents defile one another and the other children. But for some odd reason, they never touched her or asked her to participate. Still, the girl was forever scarred. That is how she came to love Jesus. It was her interpretation that God had spared her from the destructive hands of her parents. She realized this after all of her siblings committed a mass suicide. It was two days before her graduation. That was when she knew that all the insecurities she had about attending school at the collegiate level were insignificant. She had been accepted to a plethora of schools and it was set in her mind that she would leave her parents' house, never look back, and go to university.
She graduated with flying colors. She earned a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology with a Minor in Music. She was a truly gifted flautist. Because she had been so overly exposed to sex and unimaginable volatility, she never accepted offers from the opposite sex. She sacrificed her first kiss, which had yet to come, in order to excel in her studies and better develop her relationship with God. However, her education and drive could only get her a job as a teller at a prestigious bank.
Over the next few months, she yearned for something more. She prayed that the void she was feeling be filled. She prayed f or a sign. God seemed to have taken a vacation from this woman's problems. Finally, she decided that it was her job that was contributing to her unhappiness. One day, she marched into the bank, knowing that she would quit at the end of the day, and did her job as usual. As she was thinking about what her spontaneous jump into the world would be like, a man walked in with a heavy deposit. She had seen him before but never assisted him. That changed when he walked to her counter. He asked her out for a drink after her shift and she knew that his request was God's sign.
Throughout the next year, they became a fully functional couple. He was fine with the fact that she was a virgin and the first man she had ever touched. She was happy to find someone so surprisingly normal and enchanting -- especially in her first and only boyfriend. When the day came, she had no reservations about saying, "I do."
At the wedding, she met her new sister-in-law. She thought her to be cute but quite odd. For whatever reason, she just knew there was something about her. It was obvious that her husband's sister had some unexplained feelings about the new happy couple but nothing was ever discussed.
This woman smiles at the camera because she is happy and it's what she does best. Even when thoughts of her family prancing around the house naked and moaning filter into her mind, she forces a smile. She always relies on God and thanks Him for a husband that is true to her and responsible for keeping the woman from making a huge mistake. He's the sign and secondary savior that was sent down to fill the void in her life.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The woman to the right of the man in the middle is the most peculiar of the three. She's a one hundred and ten percent, true blue, holy rolling, honest to goodness devout follower of Jesus Christ and the core Christian faith. She's a good girl -- she loves Jesus. Of course, she's not to be confused with the Christians wrapping around the mid west and making up the good ol' Bible-thumping Bible Belt. Never has she pushed someone or hated them for not sharing her beliefs. That's not to say that she's never attempted to share the gospel because she most certainly has done that. But all she really is guilty of in that category is love.
For her, it all started in the home that her father had built with his bare hands. He was a genuine craftsman, a jack-of-all-trades if you will. He built it for his wife, who was pregnant. They had five children total and the girl who would later come to serve the Lord was the last to come. This was not a home of Christianity, or any defined theism for that matter. The newly blessed parents were seemingly good people and they loved their children. They loved them so much that they gave the first born very special attention. Without any guilt whatsoever, the father would molest her -- and the mother would watch. This continued on even after the second child, another girl, was born. She suffered the same treatment. As was the same for the next female child. Finally, child number four was a male. The mother had wanteda son since she had been at the altar. She now had someone to experiment with. And the father had just another to add to his collection. When he was old enough, he was persuaded to lie with his older sisters and told that there was absolutely nothing taboo about it. The parents just wanted to watch their children strengthen their bonds. And if the children didn't know how to perform something asked, the parents would show them.
The last daughter to enter the house was not touched as a child. However, she did grow in years while watching her parents defile one another and the other children. But for some odd reason, they never touched her or asked her to participate. Still, the girl was forever scarred. That is how she came to love Jesus. It was her interpretation that God had spared her from the destructive hands of her parents. She realized this after all of her siblings committed a mass suicide. It was two days before her graduation. That was when she knew that all the insecurities she had about attending school at the collegiate level were insignificant. She had been accepted to a plethora of schools and it was set in her mind that she would leave her parents' house, never look back, and go to university.
She graduated with flying colors. She earned a Bachelor's Degree in Psychology with a Minor in Music. She was a truly gifted flautist. Because she had been so overly exposed to sex and unimaginable volatility, she never accepted offers from the opposite sex. She sacrificed her first kiss, which had yet to come, in order to excel in her studies and better develop her relationship with God. However, her education and drive could only get her a job as a teller at a prestigious bank.
Over the next few months, she yearned for something more. She prayed that the void she was feeling be filled. She prayed f or a sign. God seemed to have taken a vacation from this woman's problems. Finally, she decided that it was her job that was contributing to her unhappiness. One day, she marched into the bank, knowing that she would quit at the end of the day, and did her job as usual. As she was thinking about what her spontaneous jump into the world would be like, a man walked in with a heavy deposit. She had seen him before but never assisted him. That changed when he walked to her counter. He asked her out for a drink after her shift and she knew that his request was God's sign.
Throughout the next year, they became a fully functional couple. He was fine with the fact that she was a virgin and the first man she had ever touched. She was happy to find someone so surprisingly normal and enchanting -- especially in her first and only boyfriend. When the day came, she had no reservations about saying, "I do."
At the wedding, she met her new sister-in-law. She thought her to be cute but quite odd. For whatever reason, she just knew there was something about her. It was obvious that her husband's sister had some unexplained feelings about the new happy couple but nothing was ever discussed.
This woman smiles at the camera because she is happy and it's what she does best. Even when thoughts of her family prancing around the house naked and moaning filter into her mind, she forces a smile. She always relies on God and thanks Him for a husband that is true to her and responsible for keeping the woman from making a huge mistake. He's the sign and secondary savior that was sent down to fill the void in her life.
11.30.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 4)
THE SOPHISTICATE
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The man in the middle is the brother of the woman to the left. He is also the husband to the woman on the right. He loves them both but he has always loved his sister. He doesn’t care that she is a Satanist or what crimes she commits. His only care is that she is happy. Staring deep into the camera with those pale blue eyes, he touches both of the women he loves. However, you can easily tell which one he is closer to.
Yes, one time he had intercourse with his sister next to his mother's corpse. It's not that he is a disturbed individual. It's just that he really loves his sister and nothing could stop him from seizing the opportunity given him by his disturbed sibling. But she never allowed him to love her that way again. He prayed -- to God, to Satan, to whomever -- that he and his sister would once again be one. His prayers were not answered. After a few months, he moved away and tried to refocus his life.
With the money left from his mother, he bought a horse stable with a dozen thoroughbreds. He bred them, raced them, and made a fine living. There's good money in horse breeding. Before he knew it, he was one of the wealthiest men in town and everyone knew it. In fact, too many people knew. Practically over night he had turned into this sophisticated businessman making honest money. When it seemed as if things were at their peak, something happened. Some of his prized horses that were scheduled to race went missing one morning. Someone had stolen them. He knew. He knew damn well who took those horses. Those well-nurtured beasts were lying dead somewhere in the forest -- full of stab wounds and probably burnt to a crisp. This was bad for business. You fail to deliver a horse for a race, you change the odds. A lot of people bet the ponies and they all knew the man with the best breed in town. All bets were off.
The man needed to quickly think of a way to maintain his wealthy status and win back his reputation. He had decided that hard work and an honest living weren't viable options so he improvised.
With some of the money he had left, he was able to purchase a handful of common whores for nighttime events seven days a week. Late in the evenings, men would come from all around to this man's horse stable. They'd sit in a closed off barn while low lights flickered and rich orchestral music played. In the blips of light, men would spend well-earned money to watch these women engage in unspeakable acts with the man's remaining thoroughbreds. For just a little extra, they could make requests. For a little more, they could have one of the whores next. The man was back on top, pulling in more whip than before. It wasn’t honest but it was good. Life was perfect.
He met a nice girl at the bank one day when he was making one of his large deposits. The stolen horses taught him an important lesson: save money. She was a university girl and she was beautiful. They went out for drinks after her shift. He insisted. The next day they went on a picnic. The day after that, they went riding on some of his horses. They fell in love. She loved his wit. He loved her innocence and morals. Never would he have guessed that a year later he would be married to a Christian girl.
He loved her so much that after the honeymoon, he stopped his business -- sold the stable altogether. They had enough money to enjoy a sophisticated manner of living while she continued working at the bank and he traded stocks.
She is everything to him, especially everything that his sister is not. He tells himself he loves his wife. He looks in the mirror and says that he no longer has any feelings for his sister. The way he sits at the table tells the truth. The way he looks into the camera makes him transparent. After all, there's a reason he's not dressed as sophisticated as he usually is.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The man in the middle is the brother of the woman to the left. He is also the husband to the woman on the right. He loves them both but he has always loved his sister. He doesn’t care that she is a Satanist or what crimes she commits. His only care is that she is happy. Staring deep into the camera with those pale blue eyes, he touches both of the women he loves. However, you can easily tell which one he is closer to.
Yes, one time he had intercourse with his sister next to his mother's corpse. It's not that he is a disturbed individual. It's just that he really loves his sister and nothing could stop him from seizing the opportunity given him by his disturbed sibling. But she never allowed him to love her that way again. He prayed -- to God, to Satan, to whomever -- that he and his sister would once again be one. His prayers were not answered. After a few months, he moved away and tried to refocus his life.
With the money left from his mother, he bought a horse stable with a dozen thoroughbreds. He bred them, raced them, and made a fine living. There's good money in horse breeding. Before he knew it, he was one of the wealthiest men in town and everyone knew it. In fact, too many people knew. Practically over night he had turned into this sophisticated businessman making honest money. When it seemed as if things were at their peak, something happened. Some of his prized horses that were scheduled to race went missing one morning. Someone had stolen them. He knew. He knew damn well who took those horses. Those well-nurtured beasts were lying dead somewhere in the forest -- full of stab wounds and probably burnt to a crisp. This was bad for business. You fail to deliver a horse for a race, you change the odds. A lot of people bet the ponies and they all knew the man with the best breed in town. All bets were off.
The man needed to quickly think of a way to maintain his wealthy status and win back his reputation. He had decided that hard work and an honest living weren't viable options so he improvised.
With some of the money he had left, he was able to purchase a handful of common whores for nighttime events seven days a week. Late in the evenings, men would come from all around to this man's horse stable. They'd sit in a closed off barn while low lights flickered and rich orchestral music played. In the blips of light, men would spend well-earned money to watch these women engage in unspeakable acts with the man's remaining thoroughbreds. For just a little extra, they could make requests. For a little more, they could have one of the whores next. The man was back on top, pulling in more whip than before. It wasn’t honest but it was good. Life was perfect.
He met a nice girl at the bank one day when he was making one of his large deposits. The stolen horses taught him an important lesson: save money. She was a university girl and she was beautiful. They went out for drinks after her shift. He insisted. The next day they went on a picnic. The day after that, they went riding on some of his horses. They fell in love. She loved his wit. He loved her innocence and morals. Never would he have guessed that a year later he would be married to a Christian girl.
He loved her so much that after the honeymoon, he stopped his business -- sold the stable altogether. They had enough money to enjoy a sophisticated manner of living while she continued working at the bank and he traded stocks.
She is everything to him, especially everything that his sister is not. He tells himself he loves his wife. He looks in the mirror and says that he no longer has any feelings for his sister. The way he sits at the table tells the truth. The way he looks into the camera makes him transparent. After all, there's a reason he's not dressed as sophisticated as he usually is.
11.28.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 3)
THE SATANIST
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The blonde on the left with the big ruby lips, she looks at the camera but isn't focused on it. Her mind is somewhere much different. She is debating in her head the best sacrifice to make during the upcoming full moon.
She grew up with only a mother and her brother. He's the man to the right of her. Their mother worked three jobs: a waitress, a homemaker, and a whore. Her house was her office for two of the three jobs. It was not uncommon for her daughter and her son to see her with strange men, who would leave late in the evening or early in the morning. The daughter didn't mind.
When this girl was all but thirteen, she made some special friends. They were older and more knowledgeable of the world. They showed her that there was a spirit realm that could give her life meaning. She had nothing else of substance in her life so she engaged. It all started with a harmless sacrifice.
One night the group had gathered somewhere in the hills, dressed in black. After a few traditional prayers, one of the members pulled a live cat from a bag. A short rope was attached to its collar and hooked to a stake. Then the group of five all drew knives. That was the first of many sacrifices that this particular girl would make.
As she grew older, some would call her a serial killer if they knew what she did on the weekends. Others would say she was just cutting down the excess population. And still, others would say that she was just a confused Satanist with a troubled past. She wasn't troubled though. Her head was clear and she knew exactly what she was doing. She sacrificed her mother on her twenty-first birthday. Her brother and her made love next to the corpse. She loved him as only a brother but he had always wanted her. She wanted to share the moment with someone close to her. That was the only time their souls would ever truly connect and neither of them would ever regret it.
She is to herself. If looks could kill, she'd love to watch people die. She hasn't sacrificed in over a month and now her thirst to please her god is poking her heart. She wants to burn her brother's wife at the stake. That's the woman to her right. It's partly because she loves her brother, and since the night that they shared their mother's death there has been a deep connection, but mostly, it's because the woman is a God fearing, too good to be true charming person. Her brother has changed since he married her. She wants things back to the way they were.
She knows the pure couple because she was a friend of the soldier's lover. She absolutely adores his wife but she doesn't know why. The other couple is mediocre in her eyes. She could live with them or she could sacrifice them. Either way.
The full moon is coming. She knows this as she looks into the camera. And she knows that when the full moon is gone, her brother will once again be independent. It is decided.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The blonde on the left with the big ruby lips, she looks at the camera but isn't focused on it. Her mind is somewhere much different. She is debating in her head the best sacrifice to make during the upcoming full moon.
She grew up with only a mother and her brother. He's the man to the right of her. Their mother worked three jobs: a waitress, a homemaker, and a whore. Her house was her office for two of the three jobs. It was not uncommon for her daughter and her son to see her with strange men, who would leave late in the evening or early in the morning. The daughter didn't mind.
When this girl was all but thirteen, she made some special friends. They were older and more knowledgeable of the world. They showed her that there was a spirit realm that could give her life meaning. She had nothing else of substance in her life so she engaged. It all started with a harmless sacrifice.
One night the group had gathered somewhere in the hills, dressed in black. After a few traditional prayers, one of the members pulled a live cat from a bag. A short rope was attached to its collar and hooked to a stake. Then the group of five all drew knives. That was the first of many sacrifices that this particular girl would make.
As she grew older, some would call her a serial killer if they knew what she did on the weekends. Others would say she was just cutting down the excess population. And still, others would say that she was just a confused Satanist with a troubled past. She wasn't troubled though. Her head was clear and she knew exactly what she was doing. She sacrificed her mother on her twenty-first birthday. Her brother and her made love next to the corpse. She loved him as only a brother but he had always wanted her. She wanted to share the moment with someone close to her. That was the only time their souls would ever truly connect and neither of them would ever regret it.
She is to herself. If looks could kill, she'd love to watch people die. She hasn't sacrificed in over a month and now her thirst to please her god is poking her heart. She wants to burn her brother's wife at the stake. That's the woman to her right. It's partly because she loves her brother, and since the night that they shared their mother's death there has been a deep connection, but mostly, it's because the woman is a God fearing, too good to be true charming person. Her brother has changed since he married her. She wants things back to the way they were.
She knows the pure couple because she was a friend of the soldier's lover. She absolutely adores his wife but she doesn't know why. The other couple is mediocre in her eyes. She could live with them or she could sacrifice them. Either way.
The full moon is coming. She knows this as she looks into the camera. And she knows that when the full moon is gone, her brother will once again be independent. It is decided.
11.26.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 2)
THE SOCIALITE
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the left is the purest. They are truly in love and produce envy from onlookers because of their natural displays of affection. She looks right into the heart of the camera lens. She always does. Sure, she dresses nice to impress her peers and random passersby, but really, she does it for the photographs.
Her eyes truly are the window to her soul -- so transparent and open. It's those eyes that tell her story: where she's been, whom she's been with, what she's seen. Her eyes weave the tale of how she was born into wealth with everything in abundance. However, all these things she later grew to appreciate, and even love, were mere ways to coat her early years with as much gold and fine jewelry as possible in order to blind the poor girl.
From the minute she came into this world, her father had a strong affection for her. He loved her -- in every sense of the word. Although he was a very busy businessman with a small empire in the palm of his hand, he took the time to be the one there for his daughter. He would insist on changing her, bathing her, and putting her to sleep. But he did not do these things out of love as much as he did them out of desire. Before the girl had even developed a substantial memory, she had already endured things she would want to forget. Her father's hands were tools of disgust that would forever frame her as someone always drawing attention. He loved her red hair and those big, beautiful, deep green eyes. They saw everything he ever did. Sometimes they were glazed over with tears but they could always make out the blurred vision of subtle force joined with a smile.
As she grew older, her father showered her with gifts -- any and everything she wanted. At first, it was simply because he was in love with her. But as he continued this behavior, he realized that it seemed to make his daughter forget whatever unbearable things he would do to her in the night or when his wife was away. The girl never brought up the sexual encounters. She acted as if they had never happened. All she cared about was the attention. She got it at home. She got it at school. She even got it on the street. If she wasn't getting attention, something was wrong and she would run home to Daddy, who was always there to give her what she needed. The girl's mother was unaware of the two's relationship in the beginning. But one night, her building suspicions came to fruition.
It was Christmas Eve and the teenage girl was opening the presents designated for that night. Her father was drinking. He had just lost a dynamic piece of his empire. His wife was in the kitchen baking desserts and preparing for the following day. Wandering over to his daughter, he sat behind her on the ground. She was full of smiles and she revealed expensive gifts. After opening a diamond-encrusted necklace, she hugged her father. He squeezed her tight and kissed her ear. She went to pull away but the scotch-induced strength was overpowering. He kissed, and licked, and groped, and smiled. She stared at the necklace to take her mind off of it. Then the girl's mother entered and screamed. She was holding a knife. She dropped it and stood against the wall as her husband turned to see her. She questioned his actions through tears and he slowly approached. His secret was out. He picked up the knife and stood in front of his wife. The girl sat on the floor, watching it all. Her father told his wife that she would never be able to let his secret out. She promised to keep her mouth closed but this was not enough. He slit her throat and she fell to the ground. He turned around slowly and saw his daughter silently crying. Dropping the knife, he walked upstairs. A few minutes later, a gun blast echoed through the house.
Years went by and the girl came to be nothing less than a local sensation. She used her mass inherited wealth and status to demand attention from everyone around her. When she met her husband, it changed everything. He didn't pay as much attention to her as everyone else. She decided this is what she needed -- someone completely opposite her father. That way, there was a lesser chance of her past and volatile instability coming out. After all, she didn't want someone close to her to die because of overaffection. Everyone who knew her secrets was dead and she yearned for the companionship of someone normal. The veteran she married after knowing him two months was perfect. He had a simple life and an uncomplicated past. She had found someone who wouldn't read the fine print written on her cavernous eyes.
This is why she looks straight into the camera lens. This is why her eyes seem vast and endless. She still wears the pearls, still dresses up, still makes people turn their heads. She loves her husband. His normalcy is the perfect compliment to her disturbing past. She can't risk anyone learning of her secrets. If someone did, she would have to do exactly what she had seen her father do all those years ago.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the left is the purest. They are truly in love and produce envy from onlookers because of their natural displays of affection. She looks right into the heart of the camera lens. She always does. Sure, she dresses nice to impress her peers and random passersby, but really, she does it for the photographs.
Her eyes truly are the window to her soul -- so transparent and open. It's those eyes that tell her story: where she's been, whom she's been with, what she's seen. Her eyes weave the tale of how she was born into wealth with everything in abundance. However, all these things she later grew to appreciate, and even love, were mere ways to coat her early years with as much gold and fine jewelry as possible in order to blind the poor girl.
From the minute she came into this world, her father had a strong affection for her. He loved her -- in every sense of the word. Although he was a very busy businessman with a small empire in the palm of his hand, he took the time to be the one there for his daughter. He would insist on changing her, bathing her, and putting her to sleep. But he did not do these things out of love as much as he did them out of desire. Before the girl had even developed a substantial memory, she had already endured things she would want to forget. Her father's hands were tools of disgust that would forever frame her as someone always drawing attention. He loved her red hair and those big, beautiful, deep green eyes. They saw everything he ever did. Sometimes they were glazed over with tears but they could always make out the blurred vision of subtle force joined with a smile.
As she grew older, her father showered her with gifts -- any and everything she wanted. At first, it was simply because he was in love with her. But as he continued this behavior, he realized that it seemed to make his daughter forget whatever unbearable things he would do to her in the night or when his wife was away. The girl never brought up the sexual encounters. She acted as if they had never happened. All she cared about was the attention. She got it at home. She got it at school. She even got it on the street. If she wasn't getting attention, something was wrong and she would run home to Daddy, who was always there to give her what she needed. The girl's mother was unaware of the two's relationship in the beginning. But one night, her building suspicions came to fruition.
It was Christmas Eve and the teenage girl was opening the presents designated for that night. Her father was drinking. He had just lost a dynamic piece of his empire. His wife was in the kitchen baking desserts and preparing for the following day. Wandering over to his daughter, he sat behind her on the ground. She was full of smiles and she revealed expensive gifts. After opening a diamond-encrusted necklace, she hugged her father. He squeezed her tight and kissed her ear. She went to pull away but the scotch-induced strength was overpowering. He kissed, and licked, and groped, and smiled. She stared at the necklace to take her mind off of it. Then the girl's mother entered and screamed. She was holding a knife. She dropped it and stood against the wall as her husband turned to see her. She questioned his actions through tears and he slowly approached. His secret was out. He picked up the knife and stood in front of his wife. The girl sat on the floor, watching it all. Her father told his wife that she would never be able to let his secret out. She promised to keep her mouth closed but this was not enough. He slit her throat and she fell to the ground. He turned around slowly and saw his daughter silently crying. Dropping the knife, he walked upstairs. A few minutes later, a gun blast echoed through the house.
Years went by and the girl came to be nothing less than a local sensation. She used her mass inherited wealth and status to demand attention from everyone around her. When she met her husband, it changed everything. He didn't pay as much attention to her as everyone else. She decided this is what she needed -- someone completely opposite her father. That way, there was a lesser chance of her past and volatile instability coming out. After all, she didn't want someone close to her to die because of overaffection. Everyone who knew her secrets was dead and she yearned for the companionship of someone normal. The veteran she married after knowing him two months was perfect. He had a simple life and an uncomplicated past. She had found someone who wouldn't read the fine print written on her cavernous eyes.
This is why she looks straight into the camera lens. This is why her eyes seem vast and endless. She still wears the pearls, still dresses up, still makes people turn their heads. She loves her husband. His normalcy is the perfect compliment to her disturbing past. She can't risk anyone learning of her secrets. If someone did, she would have to do exactly what she had seen her father do all those years ago.
11.23.2007
Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 1)
THE SOLDIER
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the left is the purest. They are truly in love and produce envy from onlookers because of their natural displays of affection. He looks off into the distance. He's the only one looking somewhere else. Ignoring the photograph being taken, he stares at a memory -- a memory of a past lover. Her face appears on another woman's body. The intriguing host of the past lover's ghost moves her hips in the same way. Her lips are soft and without lipstick. He likes that -- always has. He believes in a woman's true natural beauty.
He's been married five years and never once has been unfaithful. But he remembers. It's not uncommon for him to take mental voyages to the past. Back when he would dance and drink and watch the sunrise while holding his lover doused in sweat and champagne. Those days are now gone for him. He loves his wife but his heart is segmented. The smell of the expensive perfume on his wife's neck is not enough to make him return. The beat of her heart through her back is not enough. The sparkle of her pearl earring makes him think about the soft white flesh on his lover's hips. Her body may be dead but she lives on in the eyes of this distracted man.
Before he met his wife and even before he met his lover, he was in The War. He was a man hunter and one of the best. Upon capturing one of his enemies, his eyes would burn red as foreign blood spilled to the ground and stained his uniform that was already covered in dark brown splatters. With those piercing blue eyes, he'd slice a man's throat with a steady hand. That was his favorite method of killing. He even had his own special ritual. When the enemy was most vulnerable and looking certain death in the eye, their pleas would be silenced. The man would tell a dark secret to the enemy and then slice their throat. That way, someone would know what needed to come from his lips but they would never be able to repeat it. His secrets were varied and raw. He would tell crying soldiers that he had lusted for his mother, that he used to slowly torture and kill birds, that he had once been with a man, and that he raped a girl when he was only thirteen so that he could lose his virginity. Then he would smoothly drag his sharpened blade across the dirt-smeared skin on their neck, sending blood to the ground along with their last words and his secrets.
After the war, he came to know many women. No one, however, could compare with his lover. He was able to tell her all his secrets -- the same secrets he told dead men. She loved his clandestine past; loved that he had killed so many and made sure that his deeply guarded sins were the last thoughts in his enemy's mind. Although it pleased him to have this companion, he knew she was disturbed. She hated finer things and refused to bring herself past mediocrity. She had secrets of her own but never shared them. He would beg her and she would concoct an imaginative tale to satisfy his heart but he knew. It didn't pain her to lie and that hurt him the most.
One day, the man came home to an empty house. He called for his lover. She walked in from the kitchen, wielding a butcher's knife. He asked what she was doing. She looked him straight in the eyes and said, "I never loved you." Then she cut her own throat and fell to the ground.
He met his wife years later after a long stretch of solitary. After two months, they were married. He loved that she had an affinity for the finer things in life. She had no dirty secrets to tell. She was everything his lover was not. The past five years have been the best of his life but he is still haunted by the ghost of his lover. Even his wife's soft red hair rubbing ever so gently against his forehead is not enough to break his lover's stranglehold. For she was the last one to ever hear his secrets.
Seven faces.
Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.
The couple on the left is the purest. They are truly in love and produce envy from onlookers because of their natural displays of affection. He looks off into the distance. He's the only one looking somewhere else. Ignoring the photograph being taken, he stares at a memory -- a memory of a past lover. Her face appears on another woman's body. The intriguing host of the past lover's ghost moves her hips in the same way. Her lips are soft and without lipstick. He likes that -- always has. He believes in a woman's true natural beauty.
He's been married five years and never once has been unfaithful. But he remembers. It's not uncommon for him to take mental voyages to the past. Back when he would dance and drink and watch the sunrise while holding his lover doused in sweat and champagne. Those days are now gone for him. He loves his wife but his heart is segmented. The smell of the expensive perfume on his wife's neck is not enough to make him return. The beat of her heart through her back is not enough. The sparkle of her pearl earring makes him think about the soft white flesh on his lover's hips. Her body may be dead but she lives on in the eyes of this distracted man.
Before he met his wife and even before he met his lover, he was in The War. He was a man hunter and one of the best. Upon capturing one of his enemies, his eyes would burn red as foreign blood spilled to the ground and stained his uniform that was already covered in dark brown splatters. With those piercing blue eyes, he'd slice a man's throat with a steady hand. That was his favorite method of killing. He even had his own special ritual. When the enemy was most vulnerable and looking certain death in the eye, their pleas would be silenced. The man would tell a dark secret to the enemy and then slice their throat. That way, someone would know what needed to come from his lips but they would never be able to repeat it. His secrets were varied and raw. He would tell crying soldiers that he had lusted for his mother, that he used to slowly torture and kill birds, that he had once been with a man, and that he raped a girl when he was only thirteen so that he could lose his virginity. Then he would smoothly drag his sharpened blade across the dirt-smeared skin on their neck, sending blood to the ground along with their last words and his secrets.
After the war, he came to know many women. No one, however, could compare with his lover. He was able to tell her all his secrets -- the same secrets he told dead men. She loved his clandestine past; loved that he had killed so many and made sure that his deeply guarded sins were the last thoughts in his enemy's mind. Although it pleased him to have this companion, he knew she was disturbed. She hated finer things and refused to bring herself past mediocrity. She had secrets of her own but never shared them. He would beg her and she would concoct an imaginative tale to satisfy his heart but he knew. It didn't pain her to lie and that hurt him the most.
One day, the man came home to an empty house. He called for his lover. She walked in from the kitchen, wielding a butcher's knife. He asked what she was doing. She looked him straight in the eyes and said, "I never loved you." Then she cut her own throat and fell to the ground.
He met his wife years later after a long stretch of solitary. After two months, they were married. He loved that she had an affinity for the finer things in life. She had no dirty secrets to tell. She was everything his lover was not. The past five years have been the best of his life but he is still haunted by the ghost of his lover. Even his wife's soft red hair rubbing ever so gently against his forehead is not enough to break his lover's stranglehold. For she was the last one to ever hear his secrets.
11.19.2007
Ramble
This little, well, whatever you want to call it, was written on the back of an order ticket at a restaurant. As you'll see, I made use of the "ThankYou!" at the bottom.
Ramble
Ramblings of an old man well versed in senility and social rebellion are a slice of brilliance served best in a warm bowl.
Most see them as some sort of pointless exercises in morosity but genius is also not enjoyed by most.
That's okay.
Old men die quicker and are sooner remembered.
Most live on and are easily forgotten.
Wrinkles tell time as does the perfectly round pot belly of the old woman in the window.
She's mute.
But she still rambles -- with her hands, with her eyes, with her presence.
She tells the same story as the old man.
She is the old man.
They are the same ramble -- the same damn ramble that will never be silenced no matter how many times it's dismissed.
Thank You!
For Reading
Ramble
Ramblings of an old man well versed in senility and social rebellion are a slice of brilliance served best in a warm bowl.
Most see them as some sort of pointless exercises in morosity but genius is also not enjoyed by most.
That's okay.
Old men die quicker and are sooner remembered.
Most live on and are easily forgotten.
Wrinkles tell time as does the perfectly round pot belly of the old woman in the window.
She's mute.
But she still rambles -- with her hands, with her eyes, with her presence.
She tells the same story as the old man.
She is the old man.
They are the same ramble -- the same damn ramble that will never be silenced no matter how many times it's dismissed.
Thank You!
For Reading
11.14.2007
Green Sweatshirt
Perhaps it's because I have a strong affinity for Rod Serling or because I'm intensely odd but for whatever reason, my life consistently delivers bizarre instances that keep me guessing even as I grow older.
As most people do, I often rehash memories at random times. There is one that has seemed to find its way back in my life by unexpected osmosis. It comes from the time of which Daze of Yor began. It was before I was overly into drugs but still heavily drinking. And now for the setup.
I was a junior in high school. It was in either 2001 or 2002. Pretty sure it was 2002. Actually, yeah because I think it was when my dad was on his honeymoon. Hmmm. I'm not totally sure. I was pretty drunk. Don't know why I couldn't just edit that up and save your retinas but oh well. So either my dad was on his honeymoon or I had a single papa. Now, while my old man was single, he went out all the time so the Carlson home was also known in the seedy underground of Southern Orange County as THE PARTY MACHINE. It was not uncommon for me to have weekend long parties complete with full bars, a cover charge, excessive immature fornication, light drug use, and smiles across the board.
One particular party was so rocking that there wasn’t even a chain to be off of. What? I had a buddy of mine bartending. We setup a couch blocking off the kitchen. We bought three hundred dollars worth of alcohol. As most dumb teens do, we decided that some good old-fashioned irresponsibility would be best to indulge in before the party started. We had a shot contest. Don't remember how many I took but I do know that we tallied them up on a posted piece of computer paper. To be brief, I was passed out in my bedroom -- fully dressed, wearing sunglasses, and cradling a vomit filled Scooby-Doo trash can. My house could have caught fire or been destroyed by time traveling dinosaurs and I would have never known.
I finally came to and my how things had changed. The house was filled with young men and women, the music was bouncing like fat not sexy boobs, and the night had descended upon THE PARTY MACHINE. I got up and had a drink. I talked to some girls and some boys. I squeezed buns. Something had brought me back into my room and I was shortly followed by a person who, for the life of me, I cannot remember -- not their face, not their sex, nothing. So Androgynous Hermaphrodite Person told me that the cops were in my living room. No problem. I was Superman.
Literally falling down the stairs, I crashed into the living room and introduced myself to the police officers as the owner of the fine establishment that they were not welcome at. They had no invitations and were just plain rude. They made two of my friends empty the keg and made hot men and women leave. Somehow I slurred a story to keep my one friend from going to jail and I promised that things were under control. They left and the party went on, only now it was a little less crowded.
Later on, a few friends and I sat in my room drinking beers and enjoying a nice late night low-key time. To my surprise, I saw some all too familiar coppers walk into my room with an unidentified white male most likely in his forties. My local law enforcement was very polite and ignored all of the underage drinking and the fact that I was shirtless. They just said that this mystery man needed to ask me something. I sat back, swigged some brew, and opened my ears. This cat asked if I knew his daughter and whether or not she had frequented THE PARTY MACHINE at any point in the evening. She was missing. I didn't know the name or the description. But honestly, would I really remember a young girl in a green sweatshirt? I wished the man good luck on his venture and told him and the officers that I would keep an eye out. Then they blew that joint. Cops are the biggest party hoppers in the world. And it's always funny when the cops know you by name and have no reservations about just walking into your room and not taking you in for a nice little corn holing.
The night rolled on and everyone passed out. Morning came-a-knocking and the remaining true believers reminisced about the night previous. However, something was wrong. I was wearing a green sweatshirt. I didn't own a green sweatshirt. No one still there owned a green sweatshirt. No one remembered ever seeing a green sweatshirt. What in sweet Pete's name was going on? Someone had even slept with me that night (not in the Biblical sense) and said that I didn't go to bed with it on. Also, they said they didn't hear me get up at any point in the night. So either I killed some girl, and did such a good job that even I couldn't solve the mystery, or I had visited the Twilight Zone. I'm cool with either.
Moral of the story: missing persons earn you a new sweatshirt.
As most people do, I often rehash memories at random times. There is one that has seemed to find its way back in my life by unexpected osmosis. It comes from the time of which Daze of Yor began. It was before I was overly into drugs but still heavily drinking. And now for the setup.
I was a junior in high school. It was in either 2001 or 2002. Pretty sure it was 2002. Actually, yeah because I think it was when my dad was on his honeymoon. Hmmm. I'm not totally sure. I was pretty drunk. Don't know why I couldn't just edit that up and save your retinas but oh well. So either my dad was on his honeymoon or I had a single papa. Now, while my old man was single, he went out all the time so the Carlson home was also known in the seedy underground of Southern Orange County as THE PARTY MACHINE. It was not uncommon for me to have weekend long parties complete with full bars, a cover charge, excessive immature fornication, light drug use, and smiles across the board.
One particular party was so rocking that there wasn’t even a chain to be off of. What? I had a buddy of mine bartending. We setup a couch blocking off the kitchen. We bought three hundred dollars worth of alcohol. As most dumb teens do, we decided that some good old-fashioned irresponsibility would be best to indulge in before the party started. We had a shot contest. Don't remember how many I took but I do know that we tallied them up on a posted piece of computer paper. To be brief, I was passed out in my bedroom -- fully dressed, wearing sunglasses, and cradling a vomit filled Scooby-Doo trash can. My house could have caught fire or been destroyed by time traveling dinosaurs and I would have never known.
I finally came to and my how things had changed. The house was filled with young men and women, the music was bouncing like fat not sexy boobs, and the night had descended upon THE PARTY MACHINE. I got up and had a drink. I talked to some girls and some boys. I squeezed buns. Something had brought me back into my room and I was shortly followed by a person who, for the life of me, I cannot remember -- not their face, not their sex, nothing. So Androgynous Hermaphrodite Person told me that the cops were in my living room. No problem. I was Superman.
Literally falling down the stairs, I crashed into the living room and introduced myself to the police officers as the owner of the fine establishment that they were not welcome at. They had no invitations and were just plain rude. They made two of my friends empty the keg and made hot men and women leave. Somehow I slurred a story to keep my one friend from going to jail and I promised that things were under control. They left and the party went on, only now it was a little less crowded.
Later on, a few friends and I sat in my room drinking beers and enjoying a nice late night low-key time. To my surprise, I saw some all too familiar coppers walk into my room with an unidentified white male most likely in his forties. My local law enforcement was very polite and ignored all of the underage drinking and the fact that I was shirtless. They just said that this mystery man needed to ask me something. I sat back, swigged some brew, and opened my ears. This cat asked if I knew his daughter and whether or not she had frequented THE PARTY MACHINE at any point in the evening. She was missing. I didn't know the name or the description. But honestly, would I really remember a young girl in a green sweatshirt? I wished the man good luck on his venture and told him and the officers that I would keep an eye out. Then they blew that joint. Cops are the biggest party hoppers in the world. And it's always funny when the cops know you by name and have no reservations about just walking into your room and not taking you in for a nice little corn holing.
The night rolled on and everyone passed out. Morning came-a-knocking and the remaining true believers reminisced about the night previous. However, something was wrong. I was wearing a green sweatshirt. I didn't own a green sweatshirt. No one still there owned a green sweatshirt. No one remembered ever seeing a green sweatshirt. What in sweet Pete's name was going on? Someone had even slept with me that night (not in the Biblical sense) and said that I didn't go to bed with it on. Also, they said they didn't hear me get up at any point in the night. So either I killed some girl, and did such a good job that even I couldn't solve the mystery, or I had visited the Twilight Zone. I'm cool with either.
Moral of the story: missing persons earn you a new sweatshirt.
11.12.2007
Sorry, Fella
A public restroom is a hell of an awkward place.
For women, it's not too bad. You urinate, you sing, you dance, you smile, you hangout on the couch, you primp in the mirror, you engage in some casual ass cheek cusps, and you bolt. Men don't have an equally as comfortable situation. We have sanitation hockey pucks to try and melt, uncontrollable flatulence, wrinkled newspapers, grunts, and the dreaded occasional salami sighting. And that's not even counting the awkward interactions with the fellows next to you holding their Rolo packs.
I've commented on the essence of public bathroom etiquette before but tonight I endured an entertaining situation that begs exploitation. It was classic.
So, I enter the men's bathroom to take a squirt and nearly miss the urinals because they are so close to the door. I notice there's a huskier gentleman already occupying one of them so I do the courteous thing and set up shop two urinals away. For one thing, I couldn't wait to get my penis out of my pants so the relief brought joy to my heart. But the poor bloke on the other side of the open urinal seemed to have finally gotten started. He seemed flustered as he started to release. It was a dribbler. I felt incredibly bad. Had I just walked in and ruined this dude's long awaited urine operation?
If that wasn't bad enough, I started spraying like R. Kelly. I pee loudly -- it's a well-known fact. There I was, juicing out a nice one while this perfectly innocent wiener returned to its home after shedding just a few pathetic tears. He must have really been bummed after he finished washing his hands and realized I was still letting loose. It's not my fault that I take world famous never-ending urinations that Zeus could only dream of.
Karma made sure that I got mine though. I walked to the sink and looked directly at the closed bathroom door. I don't know why, I just did. After finishing up the OCD washing ritual, I made for the door with some gusto -- arm up and ready to fly out of that latrine a pound or two lighter and glowing like Rainbow Brite at Chippendale's. To my surprise, the door was not there. Some little tan skinned man was where I had looked just moments before. I either almost face-pushed the fella or kissed him. It was awkward and I started laughing. His expression was dull and ugly. He must have had to drop a deuce. Or maybe he just naturally looks like he has to crap.
And there it is. One of many awkward experiences that men have to deal with. Granted, we don't have tampons and pregnancy tests, but we got stage fright and random acts of almost love or violence. That's why the public restroom is, and always will be, a magical place filled with awe and wonder.
For women, it's not too bad. You urinate, you sing, you dance, you smile, you hangout on the couch, you primp in the mirror, you engage in some casual ass cheek cusps, and you bolt. Men don't have an equally as comfortable situation. We have sanitation hockey pucks to try and melt, uncontrollable flatulence, wrinkled newspapers, grunts, and the dreaded occasional salami sighting. And that's not even counting the awkward interactions with the fellows next to you holding their Rolo packs.
I've commented on the essence of public bathroom etiquette before but tonight I endured an entertaining situation that begs exploitation. It was classic.
So, I enter the men's bathroom to take a squirt and nearly miss the urinals because they are so close to the door. I notice there's a huskier gentleman already occupying one of them so I do the courteous thing and set up shop two urinals away. For one thing, I couldn't wait to get my penis out of my pants so the relief brought joy to my heart. But the poor bloke on the other side of the open urinal seemed to have finally gotten started. He seemed flustered as he started to release. It was a dribbler. I felt incredibly bad. Had I just walked in and ruined this dude's long awaited urine operation?
If that wasn't bad enough, I started spraying like R. Kelly. I pee loudly -- it's a well-known fact. There I was, juicing out a nice one while this perfectly innocent wiener returned to its home after shedding just a few pathetic tears. He must have really been bummed after he finished washing his hands and realized I was still letting loose. It's not my fault that I take world famous never-ending urinations that Zeus could only dream of.
Karma made sure that I got mine though. I walked to the sink and looked directly at the closed bathroom door. I don't know why, I just did. After finishing up the OCD washing ritual, I made for the door with some gusto -- arm up and ready to fly out of that latrine a pound or two lighter and glowing like Rainbow Brite at Chippendale's. To my surprise, the door was not there. Some little tan skinned man was where I had looked just moments before. I either almost face-pushed the fella or kissed him. It was awkward and I started laughing. His expression was dull and ugly. He must have had to drop a deuce. Or maybe he just naturally looks like he has to crap.
And there it is. One of many awkward experiences that men have to deal with. Granted, we don't have tampons and pregnancy tests, but we got stage fright and random acts of almost love or violence. That's why the public restroom is, and always will be, a magical place filled with awe and wonder.
11.09.2007
The Peanut Butter Jelly and the Boxer
Dogs.
They're great.
A few canines have been there for me at select times in my life and an entire host of others have wandered in here and there. Call me a dog lover, dog's best friend, or what have you. However you decide to dice it, I have a natural affection for the furry hunks of meat and they have an instinctual love for me. Could be my scent because I am rather musky,
There's a story I know of a dog -- a dog and a boy. This particular young male loved his family dog. It was a beautiful Boxer with floppy ears and a face that could melt Genghis Khan's cold heart. His majesty required a name of mammoth proportions. Hercules? Zeus? Big Sweet Dog? No. He was destined to be named Samson.
Samson and the boy got along like gambling and debt. Since the boy was too young to attend school, and his family had other things to attend to, he spent most of his time with that beloved dog. They would lie next to each other and talk for hours about sports, news, and other typical conversation topics inlcluding funny places to defecate. Before anyone knew it, Samson and the boy were best friends. They would take turns seeing who could scoot across the carpet the furthest on their anus, pee all over the place when they were excited, eat cats, clean themselves -- you name it. Gambling and debt, I tell you. Gambling and debt.
Of course, that's not to say that their relationship was never tested. I mean, come on. There's an unimaginable amount of problems with relationships between humans. Now imagine an inter-species relationship. Don't mess your pants trying to think about it but get a good mental picture.
One time, the boy was walking his four-legged friend around the block as per usual. However, on the home stretch back to base camp, Samson spotted a feline. Now the boy was smaller in stature than said boxer. So when Samson took off, the boy, who had the leash wrapped multiple times around his small wrist, had no choice but to follow. Bouncing outstretched on the asphalt like a skipping stone, the boy cried out as Samson picked up the pace. He finally gave up and stopped in front of their home. After slowly standing up with tears streaming, the boy solemnly walked the dog to the house. The boy's parents ran outside, for they had heard the cries. Father took the dog while Mother brought the boy inside. After finishing washing up the boy in a hot bath and plucking out bits of asphalt and gravel embedded in the boy's young skin, Father took the boy to the garage. He said that Samson had done something terrible and needed to learn a lesson; needed to be disciplined. The boy did not want to hit his friend or enforce any other kind of punishment because he knew it wasn't Samson's fault. With even more tears than before, the boy reluctantly spanked Samson with the lightest of taps. The boy felt terrible.
A time later, the boy sat in the backyard enjoying the summer's late morning sun and an ideal meal: one peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a serving of potato chips, and a cold glass of apple juice. Pure Heaven. While dawning a content smile and focusing his attention somewhere else, Samson silently approached. The boy was enjoying "the perfect bite" with eyes half closed and pointed in the opposite direction of the fulfilling sandwich. He went to take another bite but found his sandwich gone. What? The boy heard a munching behind him. There stood Samson, swallowing the remains of the peanut butter jelly. Had the boy sat the sandwich on the table? Had the dog been so sly as to snag the sandwich right out of the boy's hand? Either way, the delicious early lunch had perished. The boy was angry because he was a chubby boy and he found great joy in the art of consuming food -- particularly sandwiches. He yelled at Samson, saying dreadful things. But he couldn't control his fat rage. After the verbal abuse, he ventured inside and ordered a replacement entree from Mother. It was bigger, better, and unforgettable. The boy forced the dog to watch him enjoy every last bite. That would show the thief.
The boy felt terrible a few hours later and apologized to Samson, explaining how he had not meant the loud insults and that he would never consciously and maliciously titillate the dog again. Friends again. Best friends.
The dog got older and you can guess what happened. He got creamed by a speeding automobile. Utter macabre. The boy was devastated. He grieved for times, time, and a half a time. What? He reflected on the abundance of good times that the two had experienced. The world they shared, the one that no one else knew, was forever gone. It was a good run but the boy knew that nothing in this world is forever.
Making use of the untimely death, the boy learned a few things. He learned that the ones you love will hurt you. It could be unintentionally, physically, or in some other way. The boy learned that those you love may be responsible for taking things that belong to you: food, money, your heart. But most of all, the relationship with Samson taught the boy that true love means being able to forgive wrongs, apologize, reconcile, and make it work at any cost -- even if it means ditching one's pride and taking the blame. This boy went went on to experience a much fuller life while finding intense satisfaction in his truly meaningful relationships. And he owes it all to Samson -- the dog that was more than a pet and more than a friend.
They're great.
A few canines have been there for me at select times in my life and an entire host of others have wandered in here and there. Call me a dog lover, dog's best friend, or what have you. However you decide to dice it, I have a natural affection for the furry hunks of meat and they have an instinctual love for me. Could be my scent because I am rather musky,
There's a story I know of a dog -- a dog and a boy. This particular young male loved his family dog. It was a beautiful Boxer with floppy ears and a face that could melt Genghis Khan's cold heart. His majesty required a name of mammoth proportions. Hercules? Zeus? Big Sweet Dog? No. He was destined to be named Samson.
Samson and the boy got along like gambling and debt. Since the boy was too young to attend school, and his family had other things to attend to, he spent most of his time with that beloved dog. They would lie next to each other and talk for hours about sports, news, and other typical conversation topics inlcluding funny places to defecate. Before anyone knew it, Samson and the boy were best friends. They would take turns seeing who could scoot across the carpet the furthest on their anus, pee all over the place when they were excited, eat cats, clean themselves -- you name it. Gambling and debt, I tell you. Gambling and debt.
Of course, that's not to say that their relationship was never tested. I mean, come on. There's an unimaginable amount of problems with relationships between humans. Now imagine an inter-species relationship. Don't mess your pants trying to think about it but get a good mental picture.
One time, the boy was walking his four-legged friend around the block as per usual. However, on the home stretch back to base camp, Samson spotted a feline. Now the boy was smaller in stature than said boxer. So when Samson took off, the boy, who had the leash wrapped multiple times around his small wrist, had no choice but to follow. Bouncing outstretched on the asphalt like a skipping stone, the boy cried out as Samson picked up the pace. He finally gave up and stopped in front of their home. After slowly standing up with tears streaming, the boy solemnly walked the dog to the house. The boy's parents ran outside, for they had heard the cries. Father took the dog while Mother brought the boy inside. After finishing washing up the boy in a hot bath and plucking out bits of asphalt and gravel embedded in the boy's young skin, Father took the boy to the garage. He said that Samson had done something terrible and needed to learn a lesson; needed to be disciplined. The boy did not want to hit his friend or enforce any other kind of punishment because he knew it wasn't Samson's fault. With even more tears than before, the boy reluctantly spanked Samson with the lightest of taps. The boy felt terrible.
A time later, the boy sat in the backyard enjoying the summer's late morning sun and an ideal meal: one peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a serving of potato chips, and a cold glass of apple juice. Pure Heaven. While dawning a content smile and focusing his attention somewhere else, Samson silently approached. The boy was enjoying "the perfect bite" with eyes half closed and pointed in the opposite direction of the fulfilling sandwich. He went to take another bite but found his sandwich gone. What? The boy heard a munching behind him. There stood Samson, swallowing the remains of the peanut butter jelly. Had the boy sat the sandwich on the table? Had the dog been so sly as to snag the sandwich right out of the boy's hand? Either way, the delicious early lunch had perished. The boy was angry because he was a chubby boy and he found great joy in the art of consuming food -- particularly sandwiches. He yelled at Samson, saying dreadful things. But he couldn't control his fat rage. After the verbal abuse, he ventured inside and ordered a replacement entree from Mother. It was bigger, better, and unforgettable. The boy forced the dog to watch him enjoy every last bite. That would show the thief.
The boy felt terrible a few hours later and apologized to Samson, explaining how he had not meant the loud insults and that he would never consciously and maliciously titillate the dog again. Friends again. Best friends.
The dog got older and you can guess what happened. He got creamed by a speeding automobile. Utter macabre. The boy was devastated. He grieved for times, time, and a half a time. What? He reflected on the abundance of good times that the two had experienced. The world they shared, the one that no one else knew, was forever gone. It was a good run but the boy knew that nothing in this world is forever.
Making use of the untimely death, the boy learned a few things. He learned that the ones you love will hurt you. It could be unintentionally, physically, or in some other way. The boy learned that those you love may be responsible for taking things that belong to you: food, money, your heart. But most of all, the relationship with Samson taught the boy that true love means being able to forgive wrongs, apologize, reconcile, and make it work at any cost -- even if it means ditching one's pride and taking the blame. This boy went went on to experience a much fuller life while finding intense satisfaction in his truly meaningful relationships. And he owes it all to Samson -- the dog that was more than a pet and more than a friend.
11.05.2007
Consumer Nation
As much as I'd love to comment more on the obesity of America and their fat, fat, fat belly folds, I've chosen to dwell on a finer sense of consumption. The kind that involves a purchase or in some cases, theft.
The holiday season is approaching quickly and despite whatever economic problems this country may be in, or headed towards, people are going to buy hams, yams, Christmas and Chanukah presents, and a whole host of other products that will serve as vessels for the spirit of giving. Or the spirit of greed. Or the spirit of mindless buying instigated by advertisers, marketeers, and corporate scum. That took a little turn, now didn't it?
It's not that I have anything against purchasing this or that but I can't help but feel like today's society is definitely in an unstoppable whirlwind of unnecessary spending. Granted, we need to buy certain items: food, shelter, toilet paper, concert tickets. But what about excessive clothes, rhinestone studded thong underwear, tattoos, belly dances, pleather, electronic doodads -- the list goes on. I know it's fun to buy things and all that jazz but why are countless people running up behemoth amounts of credit card debt, buying things they can't afford, taking loans they can't pay back, and allowing more and more houses to fall into foreclosure? Why can't people stop wasting money? What is this unstoppable urge to continuously spend beyond our means?
Before the monetary system, people still worked hard but they relied on barter between products and services. In my opinion, it was a more simplistic time where people were more involved with each other rather than this overly separated culture that we've fallen into. Now everyone has a "thing" to work for rather than someone to work for. With barter, there's more of a relationship and it feels more like you're working for a person. With the current system, you may work for someone but in reality, you're working for that paycheck. Why do we work so hard for that piece of paper? So we can spend it. Why do we care so much about this piece of paper? Because we're selfish.
In the eyes of this corporate society, we are nothing more than dancing lemmings trapped in a consumer nation. The focus of everything is to try and get us to buy this, or rent that, or lease this, or layaway that. I feel like a common whore except I'm not getting paid. Whatever happened to the true essence of living? How did it become this disarray of clustered buyers wandering around stores and online shops like mindless zombies? I like zombies but sooner or later, they have to get shot in the head.
The funny thing is that there's nothing we can really do about it. Sure, we can come to some conclusion and step outside the box but eventually, we'll be back in the store, buying chocolate covered banana chips and leg warmers. We don't need all that much but it takes serious dedication to revert to an older and simpler style of life and let's face it, we're lazy and comfortable. That's why today I'll buy something I think I need and tomorrow you'll convince yourself that that one thing you want more than anything else will complete you. Lie to yourself all you want. I don't mind. It's just nice to step outside the box every so often and see how manipulated we as humans can be.
Work, get paid, consume, repeat.
The holiday season is approaching quickly and despite whatever economic problems this country may be in, or headed towards, people are going to buy hams, yams, Christmas and Chanukah presents, and a whole host of other products that will serve as vessels for the spirit of giving. Or the spirit of greed. Or the spirit of mindless buying instigated by advertisers, marketeers, and corporate scum. That took a little turn, now didn't it?
It's not that I have anything against purchasing this or that but I can't help but feel like today's society is definitely in an unstoppable whirlwind of unnecessary spending. Granted, we need to buy certain items: food, shelter, toilet paper, concert tickets. But what about excessive clothes, rhinestone studded thong underwear, tattoos, belly dances, pleather, electronic doodads -- the list goes on. I know it's fun to buy things and all that jazz but why are countless people running up behemoth amounts of credit card debt, buying things they can't afford, taking loans they can't pay back, and allowing more and more houses to fall into foreclosure? Why can't people stop wasting money? What is this unstoppable urge to continuously spend beyond our means?
Before the monetary system, people still worked hard but they relied on barter between products and services. In my opinion, it was a more simplistic time where people were more involved with each other rather than this overly separated culture that we've fallen into. Now everyone has a "thing" to work for rather than someone to work for. With barter, there's more of a relationship and it feels more like you're working for a person. With the current system, you may work for someone but in reality, you're working for that paycheck. Why do we work so hard for that piece of paper? So we can spend it. Why do we care so much about this piece of paper? Because we're selfish.
In the eyes of this corporate society, we are nothing more than dancing lemmings trapped in a consumer nation. The focus of everything is to try and get us to buy this, or rent that, or lease this, or layaway that. I feel like a common whore except I'm not getting paid. Whatever happened to the true essence of living? How did it become this disarray of clustered buyers wandering around stores and online shops like mindless zombies? I like zombies but sooner or later, they have to get shot in the head.
The funny thing is that there's nothing we can really do about it. Sure, we can come to some conclusion and step outside the box but eventually, we'll be back in the store, buying chocolate covered banana chips and leg warmers. We don't need all that much but it takes serious dedication to revert to an older and simpler style of life and let's face it, we're lazy and comfortable. That's why today I'll buy something I think I need and tomorrow you'll convince yourself that that one thing you want more than anything else will complete you. Lie to yourself all you want. I don't mind. It's just nice to step outside the box every so often and see how manipulated we as humans can be.
Work, get paid, consume, repeat.
11.03.2007
Daze of Yor (Part II)
...but that wasn't the end.
By the time Spring Break had come around, I had reached a crossroads in my life -- my second "trip out." During a trip to Santa Barbara, I had picked up some highly powerful mushrooms. Now, the only reason I considered mushrooms after my LSD experience was because I had eaten the hallucinogen before and it wasn't that intense of a high. These little power caps were a whole different story though. After about an hour or so, the high came on. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The air had texture, music was playing that wasn't on (sounded like Led Zeppelin), and complete euphoria surrounded my body. There was a rug that I thought was an animal. The bed was playing games with me. Then I needed to be alone and think about something really quick.
As soon as I alienated myself from the others participating in this drug adventure, I freaked out. Hyper spiritual sensitivity took over again and euphoria quickly transformed into a nightmare. Dirt and darkness was crawling on the ground, working its way up my body. My friend's face had gone fat and pig-like. Everything everyone said had multiple layered meanings and the entire world seemed to be acting out the thoughts in my head. Long story short, I contemplated suicide as my only solution and by some miracle was able to call my dad and explain to him that I was strung out on hallucinogens and needed him to pick me up. He had to stay on the phone with me the entire way so that he could fill my ears with uplifting conversation so that I wouldn't kill myself. He finally got me and I was a mess. Besides hallucinating that the devil was talking to me through my father, I questioned jerking the wheel while on the freeway and vomited the most intense vomit I had ever been exposed to. My dad said it sounded like an exorcism. I made my dad drop me off right outside of my neighborhood so that I could puke more and walk the rest of the way. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't be comforted by any man, and at some point hours later, I was able to fall asleep on the couch.
Upon waking up, I was faced with a huge decision. I made the right one.
The dorms weren't the best environment for me. Besides having a nice little collection of paraphernalia pieces with humorous names like Rainbow Warrior and Bloody Mary, I was prone to getting caught for things. Thank the good Lord I wasn’t selling. I was on residence life probation before the semester had started. I got caught three times by public safety on St. Patrick's Day night. One of which, I was wearing a girl's bikini and holding a duffle bag full of beer. Needless to say, they sent me a notice, after I had talked my way out of things through meetings and letters, and said I needed to leave my Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd decorated room. What a bummer. Of course, me being as adamant as I often am, I scheduled a hearing with the residence life board and told them a tale and struck a deal. I was off campus every weekend and if I had one more violation, I was out for good. In addition, I was not allowed to consider living in the dorms for two years and was not allowed to even set foot on the dorms for a year after the completion of my freshman year. Luckily by this time, I had cooled off on the drugs. Although, I still drank. Mostly though, while all my friends were coming and going and getting wasted, I was sitting in my room reading the Good Book. It's pretty strange holding a Bible while druggies are popping their heads in and trying to persuade you to go on a journey.
Drugs were done and I turned a new leaf. Although I did mess up with partying and got in trouble at the dorms, I was doing better than before. I couldn't smoke pot for a long time because it tripped me out. Then I found a way to somewhat enjoy it. However, I've since stopped. I'll still have a couple drinks here and there but nothing like the days of yor. Although they were excessive, destructive, and painful times, it's what I needed to go through in order to get where I am today.
I hurt many people along the way and led many friends and strangers astray. It's over now. My hands are clean. What's done is done and there's no turning back. Yesterday is gone forever and we can't depend on tomorrow. Today, right now, this moment -- this is all we have and all we'll ever know.
Drugs. Huh. Good God, y’all. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing.
By the time Spring Break had come around, I had reached a crossroads in my life -- my second "trip out." During a trip to Santa Barbara, I had picked up some highly powerful mushrooms. Now, the only reason I considered mushrooms after my LSD experience was because I had eaten the hallucinogen before and it wasn't that intense of a high. These little power caps were a whole different story though. After about an hour or so, the high came on. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The air had texture, music was playing that wasn't on (sounded like Led Zeppelin), and complete euphoria surrounded my body. There was a rug that I thought was an animal. The bed was playing games with me. Then I needed to be alone and think about something really quick.
As soon as I alienated myself from the others participating in this drug adventure, I freaked out. Hyper spiritual sensitivity took over again and euphoria quickly transformed into a nightmare. Dirt and darkness was crawling on the ground, working its way up my body. My friend's face had gone fat and pig-like. Everything everyone said had multiple layered meanings and the entire world seemed to be acting out the thoughts in my head. Long story short, I contemplated suicide as my only solution and by some miracle was able to call my dad and explain to him that I was strung out on hallucinogens and needed him to pick me up. He had to stay on the phone with me the entire way so that he could fill my ears with uplifting conversation so that I wouldn't kill myself. He finally got me and I was a mess. Besides hallucinating that the devil was talking to me through my father, I questioned jerking the wheel while on the freeway and vomited the most intense vomit I had ever been exposed to. My dad said it sounded like an exorcism. I made my dad drop me off right outside of my neighborhood so that I could puke more and walk the rest of the way. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't be comforted by any man, and at some point hours later, I was able to fall asleep on the couch.
Upon waking up, I was faced with a huge decision. I made the right one.
The dorms weren't the best environment for me. Besides having a nice little collection of paraphernalia pieces with humorous names like Rainbow Warrior and Bloody Mary, I was prone to getting caught for things. Thank the good Lord I wasn’t selling. I was on residence life probation before the semester had started. I got caught three times by public safety on St. Patrick's Day night. One of which, I was wearing a girl's bikini and holding a duffle bag full of beer. Needless to say, they sent me a notice, after I had talked my way out of things through meetings and letters, and said I needed to leave my Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd decorated room. What a bummer. Of course, me being as adamant as I often am, I scheduled a hearing with the residence life board and told them a tale and struck a deal. I was off campus every weekend and if I had one more violation, I was out for good. In addition, I was not allowed to consider living in the dorms for two years and was not allowed to even set foot on the dorms for a year after the completion of my freshman year. Luckily by this time, I had cooled off on the drugs. Although, I still drank. Mostly though, while all my friends were coming and going and getting wasted, I was sitting in my room reading the Good Book. It's pretty strange holding a Bible while druggies are popping their heads in and trying to persuade you to go on a journey.
Drugs were done and I turned a new leaf. Although I did mess up with partying and got in trouble at the dorms, I was doing better than before. I couldn't smoke pot for a long time because it tripped me out. Then I found a way to somewhat enjoy it. However, I've since stopped. I'll still have a couple drinks here and there but nothing like the days of yor. Although they were excessive, destructive, and painful times, it's what I needed to go through in order to get where I am today.
I hurt many people along the way and led many friends and strangers astray. It's over now. My hands are clean. What's done is done and there's no turning back. Yesterday is gone forever and we can't depend on tomorrow. Today, right now, this moment -- this is all we have and all we'll ever know.
Drugs. Huh. Good God, y’all. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing.
11.02.2007
Daze of Yor
Drugs. Huh. Yeah. What are they good for? Eating Lays and Puffins.
Although glamorized by redundant portrayals of humorous and "cool" characters in cinema and other media formats, drugs are nothing more than a great way to waste time, alienate yourself, and steal your drive and ambition. That is, except for your ambition to consume more drugs.
I've had first hand experience with the dark side of the force and let me tell you, it was a party at first but in the end, it was no picnic.
Age was of no concern to me. I smoked grass for my first time when I was thirteen. Didn't get high the first time actually. But the second time, I thought I was literally flying. Phases were the name of the game for the next few years. I'd get as stoned as a Hebrew whore for months on end and then I'd write marijuana off and just stick to getting soused. Of course when I was in full "go get 'em" mode, I would drink while smoking and end up singing mysteriously intelligible made up song lyrics in Spanish. Also, I would cackle like a witch -- typical of any adolescent really.
It wasn't until my last year and a half of high school that I really began to hit my prime. By the end of my junior year, I was getting glassy eyed at least two or three times a week -- depending on the weather and my cash flow. Finally, in my senior year, I was wasting so much money on pot that I needed to come up with a plan. Bingo. Sell that junk. And sell that junk I did.
Selling drugs is pretty easy if you're in the right circles. I never could understand how people could fail at it but then I found that most low level drug dealers are not only stupid, but they're more focused on intoxication rather than business. It came naturally to me. I found a guy through a friend. He'd front me some pot and I would pay him back in no later than two days. I didn't have to but that's good business. Who cares if I put some of my own money in initially, I could make it back easy. Before long, he couldn't keep up with my pick ups so I got in contact with another guy, who happened to be a buddy of mine that I had no idea sold the sweet leaf. He was my bread and butter. Not only did he have great stuff, he introduced me to some more people and filled me in on the local scene. I put my same business ethic to work and he really appreciated that. I was getting quarter pounds of high-end bud for between fifty and two hundred dollars cheaper than the average retail price. Being quick was my secret and it paid off -- I was a mover and a shaker. I even ended up selling to my original supplier up until my disbandment.
Never getting caught was the most important thing I ever did. I've now come to find out that after I quit the game, my supplier did some hard time after a raid. The closest I ever came was unforgettable. I was at a party that I didn't drive to and I was smoking, drinking, selling, and doing what dumb little late teens do. My friend came and picked me and a buddy up and we were on our way to a KFC so that I could make an exchange. Of course, the driver was hammered and we were taking hits from the bong on the open road. Long story short, after an illegal turn, we got pulled over. I was sitting shotgun with about an ounce under my thigh (enough to go to jail) and a six pack behind my feet, wedged up against my seat. My buddy in the back had the bong in between his legs. After this cop walked the perimeter of the car, noted a busted head light, ran the driver's I.D., and shined a Maglite in my face, he let us go. We drove away and the car was silent for twenty seconds. Then unstoppable deep laughter ensued. Retarded.
Yes, I made the transaction but the twenty dollars from someone I didn't really care for that much wasn't at all worth it. Through that wild and crazy senior year where the calls came in like wildfire, I got into mushrooms. Sold some because I could and tried it out. It was pretty fun. I'm not going to lie. It was a strong body high that was the next level from pot. In this stage of my life, I did some strange things. I smoked some kind of leaf bug out of a gravity bong. Didn't do anything for me. A couple of girls with a Dustbuster noses started hanging out because they were all about getting high as well. They were trying to kick the dandruff and had the remainder of an eight ball left. They didn't want to snort it so we made a deal where we would use it solely for smoking with marijuana and doing "gummies," which if you're unfamiliar, is when you rub some blow on your gums until they go numb. So basically, I was a bona fide crack head for a week or so. Never snorted cocaine though. Glad I didn't. I don't like things up my nose so it would have been a bad relationship from the get go. I freak out if I get sand in there.
As college approached, I had to make a decision. Keep selling or quit. I had elaborate plans to start selling in my new college town while keeping someone back home to handle business and working out a deal with a friend going up to Santa Barbara. After a bunch of useless stony planning. I decided I was out. I still got calls from dealers and users, which was hard because it made me feel like I was missing out on business but I got over it and focused on just being a stoner. The night before my first day of college, I did mushrooms with my roommate and was up until the sun doth shine. The first day I moved in, my roommate and I smoked a Bob Marley sized joint on a bus stop bench. Real smart. We were something else. We found all of the druggies on campus and made friends so that we had people to smoke, pop pills, or whatever with and so that we had a place to go if our resources were dry.
We had an awesome Asian drug dealer in the dorms that would always smoke with us free of charge as long as we either bought something or played some video games with him. He had these mushrooms candies that didn't make you want to throw up like normal shrooms and they were concise and potent. I did those everyday for a week at one point. Did a ton of strange thinking and though I came to some revelations. Turns out, I was just high.
After getting my hands on some LSD, my roommate and I walked what seemed to be the entire town at night, finding all kinds of weird things going on. My second experience with acid was on Halloween of my freshman year. It was wild. Everything was moving and had personality and it was a whole different world. When I was walking in, I didn't know if I was coming back out. I sat on a log with two buddies and we smoked some pot. We got up and looked at this heap of cut grass or something like that. However, we had no idea whether we had really gotten up or just hallucinated the entire endeavor. To this day, it's a mystery.
This particular event also marked the date that I had my first official "trip out." I didn't know if I was ever going to be the same, felt like I was slipping toward the dark side, and had all kinds of intense spiritual feelings I could not control. It was pretty bad. I sat on a log for God knows how long and had a good cry while engaging in what passersby would consider "talking to myself." The rest of the weekend was strange and tainted by that experience and I then decided that LSD was something that would never enter my system again...
Although glamorized by redundant portrayals of humorous and "cool" characters in cinema and other media formats, drugs are nothing more than a great way to waste time, alienate yourself, and steal your drive and ambition. That is, except for your ambition to consume more drugs.
I've had first hand experience with the dark side of the force and let me tell you, it was a party at first but in the end, it was no picnic.
Age was of no concern to me. I smoked grass for my first time when I was thirteen. Didn't get high the first time actually. But the second time, I thought I was literally flying. Phases were the name of the game for the next few years. I'd get as stoned as a Hebrew whore for months on end and then I'd write marijuana off and just stick to getting soused. Of course when I was in full "go get 'em" mode, I would drink while smoking and end up singing mysteriously intelligible made up song lyrics in Spanish. Also, I would cackle like a witch -- typical of any adolescent really.
It wasn't until my last year and a half of high school that I really began to hit my prime. By the end of my junior year, I was getting glassy eyed at least two or three times a week -- depending on the weather and my cash flow. Finally, in my senior year, I was wasting so much money on pot that I needed to come up with a plan. Bingo. Sell that junk. And sell that junk I did.
Selling drugs is pretty easy if you're in the right circles. I never could understand how people could fail at it but then I found that most low level drug dealers are not only stupid, but they're more focused on intoxication rather than business. It came naturally to me. I found a guy through a friend. He'd front me some pot and I would pay him back in no later than two days. I didn't have to but that's good business. Who cares if I put some of my own money in initially, I could make it back easy. Before long, he couldn't keep up with my pick ups so I got in contact with another guy, who happened to be a buddy of mine that I had no idea sold the sweet leaf. He was my bread and butter. Not only did he have great stuff, he introduced me to some more people and filled me in on the local scene. I put my same business ethic to work and he really appreciated that. I was getting quarter pounds of high-end bud for between fifty and two hundred dollars cheaper than the average retail price. Being quick was my secret and it paid off -- I was a mover and a shaker. I even ended up selling to my original supplier up until my disbandment.
Never getting caught was the most important thing I ever did. I've now come to find out that after I quit the game, my supplier did some hard time after a raid. The closest I ever came was unforgettable. I was at a party that I didn't drive to and I was smoking, drinking, selling, and doing what dumb little late teens do. My friend came and picked me and a buddy up and we were on our way to a KFC so that I could make an exchange. Of course, the driver was hammered and we were taking hits from the bong on the open road. Long story short, after an illegal turn, we got pulled over. I was sitting shotgun with about an ounce under my thigh (enough to go to jail) and a six pack behind my feet, wedged up against my seat. My buddy in the back had the bong in between his legs. After this cop walked the perimeter of the car, noted a busted head light, ran the driver's I.D., and shined a Maglite in my face, he let us go. We drove away and the car was silent for twenty seconds. Then unstoppable deep laughter ensued. Retarded.
Yes, I made the transaction but the twenty dollars from someone I didn't really care for that much wasn't at all worth it. Through that wild and crazy senior year where the calls came in like wildfire, I got into mushrooms. Sold some because I could and tried it out. It was pretty fun. I'm not going to lie. It was a strong body high that was the next level from pot. In this stage of my life, I did some strange things. I smoked some kind of leaf bug out of a gravity bong. Didn't do anything for me. A couple of girls with a Dustbuster noses started hanging out because they were all about getting high as well. They were trying to kick the dandruff and had the remainder of an eight ball left. They didn't want to snort it so we made a deal where we would use it solely for smoking with marijuana and doing "gummies," which if you're unfamiliar, is when you rub some blow on your gums until they go numb. So basically, I was a bona fide crack head for a week or so. Never snorted cocaine though. Glad I didn't. I don't like things up my nose so it would have been a bad relationship from the get go. I freak out if I get sand in there.
As college approached, I had to make a decision. Keep selling or quit. I had elaborate plans to start selling in my new college town while keeping someone back home to handle business and working out a deal with a friend going up to Santa Barbara. After a bunch of useless stony planning. I decided I was out. I still got calls from dealers and users, which was hard because it made me feel like I was missing out on business but I got over it and focused on just being a stoner. The night before my first day of college, I did mushrooms with my roommate and was up until the sun doth shine. The first day I moved in, my roommate and I smoked a Bob Marley sized joint on a bus stop bench. Real smart. We were something else. We found all of the druggies on campus and made friends so that we had people to smoke, pop pills, or whatever with and so that we had a place to go if our resources were dry.
We had an awesome Asian drug dealer in the dorms that would always smoke with us free of charge as long as we either bought something or played some video games with him. He had these mushrooms candies that didn't make you want to throw up like normal shrooms and they were concise and potent. I did those everyday for a week at one point. Did a ton of strange thinking and though I came to some revelations. Turns out, I was just high.
After getting my hands on some LSD, my roommate and I walked what seemed to be the entire town at night, finding all kinds of weird things going on. My second experience with acid was on Halloween of my freshman year. It was wild. Everything was moving and had personality and it was a whole different world. When I was walking in, I didn't know if I was coming back out. I sat on a log with two buddies and we smoked some pot. We got up and looked at this heap of cut grass or something like that. However, we had no idea whether we had really gotten up or just hallucinated the entire endeavor. To this day, it's a mystery.
This particular event also marked the date that I had my first official "trip out." I didn't know if I was ever going to be the same, felt like I was slipping toward the dark side, and had all kinds of intense spiritual feelings I could not control. It was pretty bad. I sat on a log for God knows how long and had a good cry while engaging in what passersby would consider "talking to myself." The rest of the weekend was strange and tainted by that experience and I then decided that LSD was something that would never enter my system again...
10.31.2007
Chubby Little Pumpkins
What kind of music do mummies listen to?
Wrap.
This is probably the most entertaining part of Halloween -- the horribly obvious jokes. That and the fact that I can snag bite sized candies anywhere my fat face happens to wander. But in all honesty, this supposed holiday boggles my mind. It doesn't make any sense, hardly anyone really knows of its origin or historical implications, and in my humble opinion, it's just another forced piece of retardation directed at our ever increasingly dumbed down culture.
Doesn't it at all seem the slightest bit askew that there's one day out of the whole year that we're expected to dress up in costume and regress to a glorified state of peasantry? No matter what you or your child dresses up as, you're giving off the strong impression of a mindless beggar. Either you're begging for candy, or begging for attention with your costume. If you're so mentally poor, act like it everyday so I don't have to guess whether or not you're really a classless pawn. It's not that I have a problem with dressing up, eating candy, talking to strangers, or having a good time being a silly goose. What I do have a problem with is someone telling me that it's only acceptable for me to do these things on this one specific day. If you tried to pull off Halloween shenanigans on any other day of the year, you'd wind up in jail. So, what the eff is so special about some day that people have turned into a mindless way to control the masses?
First of all, trick or treating is a perfect example of what a paradox our society has become. This isn't the 1950s anymore. People don't talk to each other on the streets. Everyone's in their little bubbles and refuse to reach out to their fellow man on any given day. Yet on one stupid day in Fall, when people are told to interact with other drones, everyone drops what they are doing and come in contact with more strangers than an inner city harlot. And by the way, if it's trick or treat and I had something to say about it, I would prefer your insufferable ass try and trick me every time. Not because I don't like you and I don't want to give you sweets but because you're expecting something on a night just like any other and yet you can't even look me in the eye when you walk by to get your mail. How about I come to your door and trick you into thinking you aren't as dumb as you look?
Another thing. I'm convinced that Halloween is a leading cause to the increasing child obesity epidemic that is plaguing our chubby little pumpkin youths throughout the country. It's like waving cigarettes or booze in front of a "trying to quit" smoker or a recovering alcoholic. We know that there's a problem in this country with lard butt, turkey neck, back neck roles, man boobs, golf ball thighs, jiggly jowels, and a whole host of other ways to say that someone is too fat to let that last piece of greasy bacon go to waste. What a culture. Let's cash in on the gluttony and lack of self control of the populus. Let's just bet against the handicapped in cage matches while we're at it. Fat, fat, fat. And it's all because of the candy companies, costume companies, and corporate ghouls.
Who did Frankenstein take to the prom?
His ghoul friend.
So why do people accept people dressed as ghoulish creepers on October first but completely reject gothic teens with scarred wrists? It's okay one day but not the other? Use your brain, World. I don't know. I guess I'll never understand Halloween and I don't have a problem with that. The burden of making just a little bit of sense isn't upon me. It's upon the shoulders of all of the dumb dumb kooks who don't understand what they're doing on All Saint's Day Eve while thus misguiding their soon to be dumb dumb kook kids.
Shame, shame, I know your name.
Wrap.
This is probably the most entertaining part of Halloween -- the horribly obvious jokes. That and the fact that I can snag bite sized candies anywhere my fat face happens to wander. But in all honesty, this supposed holiday boggles my mind. It doesn't make any sense, hardly anyone really knows of its origin or historical implications, and in my humble opinion, it's just another forced piece of retardation directed at our ever increasingly dumbed down culture.
Doesn't it at all seem the slightest bit askew that there's one day out of the whole year that we're expected to dress up in costume and regress to a glorified state of peasantry? No matter what you or your child dresses up as, you're giving off the strong impression of a mindless beggar. Either you're begging for candy, or begging for attention with your costume. If you're so mentally poor, act like it everyday so I don't have to guess whether or not you're really a classless pawn. It's not that I have a problem with dressing up, eating candy, talking to strangers, or having a good time being a silly goose. What I do have a problem with is someone telling me that it's only acceptable for me to do these things on this one specific day. If you tried to pull off Halloween shenanigans on any other day of the year, you'd wind up in jail. So, what the eff is so special about some day that people have turned into a mindless way to control the masses?
First of all, trick or treating is a perfect example of what a paradox our society has become. This isn't the 1950s anymore. People don't talk to each other on the streets. Everyone's in their little bubbles and refuse to reach out to their fellow man on any given day. Yet on one stupid day in Fall, when people are told to interact with other drones, everyone drops what they are doing and come in contact with more strangers than an inner city harlot. And by the way, if it's trick or treat and I had something to say about it, I would prefer your insufferable ass try and trick me every time. Not because I don't like you and I don't want to give you sweets but because you're expecting something on a night just like any other and yet you can't even look me in the eye when you walk by to get your mail. How about I come to your door and trick you into thinking you aren't as dumb as you look?
Another thing. I'm convinced that Halloween is a leading cause to the increasing child obesity epidemic that is plaguing our chubby little pumpkin youths throughout the country. It's like waving cigarettes or booze in front of a "trying to quit" smoker or a recovering alcoholic. We know that there's a problem in this country with lard butt, turkey neck, back neck roles, man boobs, golf ball thighs, jiggly jowels, and a whole host of other ways to say that someone is too fat to let that last piece of greasy bacon go to waste. What a culture. Let's cash in on the gluttony and lack of self control of the populus. Let's just bet against the handicapped in cage matches while we're at it. Fat, fat, fat. And it's all because of the candy companies, costume companies, and corporate ghouls.
Who did Frankenstein take to the prom?
His ghoul friend.
So why do people accept people dressed as ghoulish creepers on October first but completely reject gothic teens with scarred wrists? It's okay one day but not the other? Use your brain, World. I don't know. I guess I'll never understand Halloween and I don't have a problem with that. The burden of making just a little bit of sense isn't upon me. It's upon the shoulders of all of the dumb dumb kooks who don't understand what they're doing on All Saint's Day Eve while thus misguiding their soon to be dumb dumb kook kids.
Shame, shame, I know your name.
10.29.2007
Monday
Unlike the ominous glowing orb that rises in the east each morning with its two scoops of boulder sized raisins, I do have a choice of whether or not to get up and show my face to the world. Yes, I know, it feels like we have things we must disrupt our natural process of rest for but in reality, we don't. It's all choice: work, leisure, sex (which can be considered leisure I suppose), school, interpretive dance class, housekeeping, gardening, driving, gratuitous violence, spying, creating artificial accidents, and what have you. The only things we have to do are consume fuel and defecate. Although we can starve ourselves, sooner or later we will let loose in our pants. But rest assured, you don't "have to" clean up after yourself. But I digress.
Today is Monday and I find myself at work, wondering why in God's good name I am subjecting myself to this unholy occupation of time. My job has one hundred percent nothing to do with what I love, my dreams and ambitions, or what I ultimately want to do with my life. I don't have to go in. But then again, I don't need a cell phone, or a car, or those one point five ounce each calf implants that are guaranteed to get me laid. What a conundrum. For some reason I continually show up -- Monday after Monday. And I never fail to question my true motivation. It's simple really.
Monetary Satisfaction. Self Indulgence. Retardation.
It's my own fault. It's my inherent wanting of eternally useless material and product that direct how I experience the majority of my life and where I choose to do the majority of my daydreaming while practicing the art of escapism. Unfortunately, when I snap back to reality, it's always the same disappointment.
"But what am I doing this for?" I say.
"Money, you dolt."
"But I don't need it."
"You're right."
I vainly add, "But I want it."
"But you're not seeing the big picture."
"But what is the big picture?" I ask.
"The fact that you can't say anything without using 'but' as a preface. That's your problem."
"Not-uh."
"You're an excuse machine. You make excuses to obtain what you want rather than what you need. Your tunnel vision is blinding you. All these sentences have one common problem. You."
"But why are we fighting now?"
I rest my case.
Here's the thing -- gold will only get you so far but at the end of the road, it's a worthless piece of metal on a giant rock floating in the middle of what is mostly incomprehensibly vast empty space. Think about how matter is mostly empty space. Every "thing" you see is made of mostly nothing. I'm talking about the atomic level if critical thinking isn't your strong suit.
Everything is mostly nothing.
That's profound and that's the conclusion I come to when I'm at work. All this work is for nothing in the end. But I show up and I suffer physical pain, mental disturbance, and emotional feelings I wouldn’t feel otherwise if I were sitting my the pool, sipping mojitos while getting an oily foot rub from an illegal immigrant.
So I keep in mind that I am weak and constantly let myself succumb to the ridiculous social order that we have come to. It's rather amazing to think that out of all the possibilities for society to turn out, this is what we got. There's a reason for that. This is obviously not what we wanted. It's what we needed.
We need everything made up of mostly nothing because if we had been given nothing, we would have everything and crave nothing, and life just wouldn't be as fun.
Today is Monday and I find myself at work, wondering why in God's good name I am subjecting myself to this unholy occupation of time. My job has one hundred percent nothing to do with what I love, my dreams and ambitions, or what I ultimately want to do with my life. I don't have to go in. But then again, I don't need a cell phone, or a car, or those one point five ounce each calf implants that are guaranteed to get me laid. What a conundrum. For some reason I continually show up -- Monday after Monday. And I never fail to question my true motivation. It's simple really.
Monetary Satisfaction. Self Indulgence. Retardation.
It's my own fault. It's my inherent wanting of eternally useless material and product that direct how I experience the majority of my life and where I choose to do the majority of my daydreaming while practicing the art of escapism. Unfortunately, when I snap back to reality, it's always the same disappointment.
"But what am I doing this for?" I say.
"Money, you dolt."
"But I don't need it."
"You're right."
I vainly add, "But I want it."
"But you're not seeing the big picture."
"But what is the big picture?" I ask.
"The fact that you can't say anything without using 'but' as a preface. That's your problem."
"Not-uh."
"You're an excuse machine. You make excuses to obtain what you want rather than what you need. Your tunnel vision is blinding you. All these sentences have one common problem. You."
"But why are we fighting now?"
I rest my case.
Here's the thing -- gold will only get you so far but at the end of the road, it's a worthless piece of metal on a giant rock floating in the middle of what is mostly incomprehensibly vast empty space. Think about how matter is mostly empty space. Every "thing" you see is made of mostly nothing. I'm talking about the atomic level if critical thinking isn't your strong suit.
Everything is mostly nothing.
That's profound and that's the conclusion I come to when I'm at work. All this work is for nothing in the end. But I show up and I suffer physical pain, mental disturbance, and emotional feelings I wouldn’t feel otherwise if I were sitting my the pool, sipping mojitos while getting an oily foot rub from an illegal immigrant.
So I keep in mind that I am weak and constantly let myself succumb to the ridiculous social order that we have come to. It's rather amazing to think that out of all the possibilities for society to turn out, this is what we got. There's a reason for that. This is obviously not what we wanted. It's what we needed.
We need everything made up of mostly nothing because if we had been given nothing, we would have everything and crave nothing, and life just wouldn't be as fun.
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