Remember when I used to blog more than once a month? That was great. It's not that I don't have important things to say, it's just that life makes the rules, not me. Perhaps, I shall try to say something noteworthy once a week and set a realistic bar.
So, I've come to a conclusion: I hate my generation. I've commonly said that I belong in another decade, another century, another millennium. I don't know what it is but for the most part, I'm highly disappointed and sometimes even disgusted with my peers. Maybe things have always been this way. Maybe people in their early 20s have always been dismal specks on the earth. Who knows. All I know is that I find it hard to relate to a bunch of neanderthals. It does not make sense to me how those around me are unable to see what kind of state our society is in and where it is heading. Apathy, check. Stupidity, check. Failure to say something sensical without my foot in their ass, check.
I want to talk to people but they just want to speak diarrhea. I don't speak that language so it's hard to relate. Maybe if I defecate in their ear, we will understand each other. Why not talk about religion, politics, and philosophy? Why are these such taboo topics? Ask someone my age and they won't be able to answer with anything other than, "It's not polite" or "I don't want to offend anyone." Anyone who gets seriously offended by intellectual and stimulating conversation deserves to be offended and hung upside down on a pogo stick. We wonder why people are getting dumber by the day. If you're one of the brainwashed believing that we're in this facade of uber itelligence, you're dumber than the average idiot.
Perhaps I just don't understand the weakened minds of my peers. Or maybe I understand them all too well. Either way, I obviously don't belong. I'm moving to a different century. Adieu, twats.
2.05.2008
On a Political Note
Yes, it's Super Tuesday -- a day that has more emphasis than Christmas. Unfortunately, this year, 2008, brings many lumps of coal rather than desired gifts. And no, that was not a racial shot at Senator Obama.
As dissatisfied as I am with the candidates of both parties, I am extremely disenchanted by the American people at large. What happened to the revolutionaries that framed this once beautiful country and provided human liberty for the oppressed and just retaliation against man's tyranny? What happened to the logical men and women that used to cast their votes? They're dead, dead and in the ground. Today we have a bunch of flighty ignoramuses who can hardly spell their names. I've never heard so many uninformed people speak about their political views on both radio and television. Take me now, God because if you don't take me, I'm probably moving to Costa Rica in January of 2009. Either that, or I'm taking a nice trip to the Bermuda Triangle.
To be upfront and fair, I am a strong supporter of Congressman Ron Paul. I'm not going to spend time explaining his ideas and qualifications because I'm not a parent and I'm not going to feed babies. You're grownups and you know how to read so you don't need my help. The only thing I will say about Ron Paul is: take ten minutes and research why you don't hear that much about him, why he is left out of the papers, why he is cut off, why he was ignored in the California Republican Debate, why no one knows he took second place in Nevada, why no one knows that Louisiana belongs to him in the primaries, why he has the most military support over any other candidate, why he has raised the most money without corporate endorsements, and why he is the only candidate that sounds like a goddamn constitutional founding father. Look at the media block he has had even though he has outlasted Rudy and Edwards and ask yourself who is really voting in this election. That's it. His name will not come up anymore.
Right now, I am going to either offend or inform a great many people. I'm not looking to do either. I'm looking to make you think. People, especially Americans, don't use their minds much anymore so I'm trying to light a fire under your ass.
John McCain blatantly lies on the air. He says that he has never supported amnesty, which he overwhelmingly has if you research his voting record in the Senate and publicly expressed ideas. Check www.voterguide.org to see how any candidate has voted in the past. Besides that, he is willing to be in Iraq for a hundred years and probably more. Do we really need another lying warmonger in the White House? And can you really trust someone who earlier today swung his West Virginia Primary votes to Huckabee in order to thwart Romney? Is that how we want our country controlled, like a conniving ten year-old who will do whatever he can to win because he knows that he couldn't win the popular vote otherwise? And why did McCain suddenly pop into a race that he was not supposed to even be recognized in? Look at the history book timelines and look at how coincidentally he rose to the status of a "leading" candidate.
Mitt Romney is the flip-flop artist of the decade. When running for governor of Massachusetts, he ran with a pro-choice banner on his head. Soon as he got into office, he was pro-life. He can't even get his answers right about his religion, which is irrelevant. I agree that his Mormonism should be ignored but one should be stable and certain in what they believe whatever it may be. And let's see, we have a businessman in office right now. Is Romney magically going to be a better one? If he could get his story straight, I'm sure he'd give us an answer. Perhaps if he and McCain could stop arguing with each other, they could discuss the issues.
Mike Huckabee is probably the biggest tool in the Republican Party. He obviously is trying to keep peace with McCain in order to seek a seat as his running mate. The man refuses to confront McCain on his insanity and has a hard time speaking about the issues. He also has pardoned 12 convicted murderers. When this got brought up in a debate, all he could do was hang his head and wait for it to be over. He is all for staying in Iraq. What good is a slippery former Governor in the White House? No one should stand for someone who can't stand strongly alone. America doesn't need a pastor who is solely relying on the Bible Belt vote, we need a presidential leader. Your nametag says Christian but your face says something different, Mr. Huckabee.
Onward to the Democrats. I affiliate with neither party but Democrats tend to annoy me on a different level than Republicans. They are generally very smug seemingly unhappy people. All they do is constantly rag on Republicans with the same old grievances. I agree that the Republican candidates, and the current President, for the most part are less than desirable but there are so many other things to talk about. They dwell on it so much that it seems as if they don’t know what is really going on Grow up, kiddies.
Barack Hussein Obama is a liar. He constantly states that he voted against the war, misleading listeners. He was not in the Senate and was not able to vote for the war. Granted, he has voted against war support in some circumstances since he was sworn in. But he has also voted against bringing the troops home and voted for giving more money to the Iraq effort. So, what the hell? His inexperience and inability to show a substantial track record leaves only his pretty words that focus on simple ideas like "hope" and "change." Yes, these are nice words but they mean nothing if you have no plan and spend more time tickling people's ears rather than telling them the truth and where you stand. His "Si Se Puede" campaign is a perfect example of him banking on some simple words. What in God's good name does "Yes, We Can" in Spanish have to do with anything rather than trying to pry support out of Mexican voters. Stop worrying about identifying with the blacks, stop trying to identify with the Mexicans, stop lying to us. If Obama would pull off his political mask and prove that he can't be corrupted by the corporate system, which he already has if you check his history with a certain hospital in Illinois, we would be able to see what he is really made of.
Hillary Clinton is something else. She constantly criticizes Bush yet she voted for the war and is quite buddy-buddy with him. And for Christ's sake, she has cried twice on her campaign. I'm not against emotion but what is there to cry about on the campaign trail unless you're looking to attract female voters? Yet, she can throw smug snide remarks out two seconds later. Are we going to replace a retard in the White House with a basketcase? She can shed a tear but partial-birth abortion doesn't seem to faze her. In 2005, she had no problem voting to make sure there were future funds set for Afghanistan and Iraq. Not to mention, she's all for granting legal status to certain illegal aliens who have broken the law. Also, she voted against denying legal status to immigrants that have been convicted of certain crimes. Here's the thing about Hillary: she's just as big business/big government as any Republican or any other corrupt politician. I have a question for all of the Bill Clinton supporters: if Bill was so great and he cheated on Hillary, there must have been something that provoked him. If you trust his judgment so much, why would you now trust someone that he holds in such low esteem? All that's irrelevant though. If you look at Hillary closely, you'll see who she really is. Unfortunately, it looks as though she will be the next president, causing even more citizens to continue living in an America that has been dominated by the Bush-Clinton regime. There are people out there who have never lived without a Bush or Clinton in office. If you don't think they're in cahoots, you're out of your mind and as blind as a Scientologist's faith.
Try and keep your heads up during the rest of the election. I know it's hard because you are being forced to choose between idiots and morons but we can do it, we can pull through. I'll see you all in Costa Rica in January.
As dissatisfied as I am with the candidates of both parties, I am extremely disenchanted by the American people at large. What happened to the revolutionaries that framed this once beautiful country and provided human liberty for the oppressed and just retaliation against man's tyranny? What happened to the logical men and women that used to cast their votes? They're dead, dead and in the ground. Today we have a bunch of flighty ignoramuses who can hardly spell their names. I've never heard so many uninformed people speak about their political views on both radio and television. Take me now, God because if you don't take me, I'm probably moving to Costa Rica in January of 2009. Either that, or I'm taking a nice trip to the Bermuda Triangle.
To be upfront and fair, I am a strong supporter of Congressman Ron Paul. I'm not going to spend time explaining his ideas and qualifications because I'm not a parent and I'm not going to feed babies. You're grownups and you know how to read so you don't need my help. The only thing I will say about Ron Paul is: take ten minutes and research why you don't hear that much about him, why he is left out of the papers, why he is cut off, why he was ignored in the California Republican Debate, why no one knows he took second place in Nevada, why no one knows that Louisiana belongs to him in the primaries, why he has the most military support over any other candidate, why he has raised the most money without corporate endorsements, and why he is the only candidate that sounds like a goddamn constitutional founding father. Look at the media block he has had even though he has outlasted Rudy and Edwards and ask yourself who is really voting in this election. That's it. His name will not come up anymore.
Right now, I am going to either offend or inform a great many people. I'm not looking to do either. I'm looking to make you think. People, especially Americans, don't use their minds much anymore so I'm trying to light a fire under your ass.
John McCain blatantly lies on the air. He says that he has never supported amnesty, which he overwhelmingly has if you research his voting record in the Senate and publicly expressed ideas. Check www.voterguide.org to see how any candidate has voted in the past. Besides that, he is willing to be in Iraq for a hundred years and probably more. Do we really need another lying warmonger in the White House? And can you really trust someone who earlier today swung his West Virginia Primary votes to Huckabee in order to thwart Romney? Is that how we want our country controlled, like a conniving ten year-old who will do whatever he can to win because he knows that he couldn't win the popular vote otherwise? And why did McCain suddenly pop into a race that he was not supposed to even be recognized in? Look at the history book timelines and look at how coincidentally he rose to the status of a "leading" candidate.
Mitt Romney is the flip-flop artist of the decade. When running for governor of Massachusetts, he ran with a pro-choice banner on his head. Soon as he got into office, he was pro-life. He can't even get his answers right about his religion, which is irrelevant. I agree that his Mormonism should be ignored but one should be stable and certain in what they believe whatever it may be. And let's see, we have a businessman in office right now. Is Romney magically going to be a better one? If he could get his story straight, I'm sure he'd give us an answer. Perhaps if he and McCain could stop arguing with each other, they could discuss the issues.
Mike Huckabee is probably the biggest tool in the Republican Party. He obviously is trying to keep peace with McCain in order to seek a seat as his running mate. The man refuses to confront McCain on his insanity and has a hard time speaking about the issues. He also has pardoned 12 convicted murderers. When this got brought up in a debate, all he could do was hang his head and wait for it to be over. He is all for staying in Iraq. What good is a slippery former Governor in the White House? No one should stand for someone who can't stand strongly alone. America doesn't need a pastor who is solely relying on the Bible Belt vote, we need a presidential leader. Your nametag says Christian but your face says something different, Mr. Huckabee.
Onward to the Democrats. I affiliate with neither party but Democrats tend to annoy me on a different level than Republicans. They are generally very smug seemingly unhappy people. All they do is constantly rag on Republicans with the same old grievances. I agree that the Republican candidates, and the current President, for the most part are less than desirable but there are so many other things to talk about. They dwell on it so much that it seems as if they don’t know what is really going on Grow up, kiddies.
Barack Hussein Obama is a liar. He constantly states that he voted against the war, misleading listeners. He was not in the Senate and was not able to vote for the war. Granted, he has voted against war support in some circumstances since he was sworn in. But he has also voted against bringing the troops home and voted for giving more money to the Iraq effort. So, what the hell? His inexperience and inability to show a substantial track record leaves only his pretty words that focus on simple ideas like "hope" and "change." Yes, these are nice words but they mean nothing if you have no plan and spend more time tickling people's ears rather than telling them the truth and where you stand. His "Si Se Puede" campaign is a perfect example of him banking on some simple words. What in God's good name does "Yes, We Can" in Spanish have to do with anything rather than trying to pry support out of Mexican voters. Stop worrying about identifying with the blacks, stop trying to identify with the Mexicans, stop lying to us. If Obama would pull off his political mask and prove that he can't be corrupted by the corporate system, which he already has if you check his history with a certain hospital in Illinois, we would be able to see what he is really made of.
Hillary Clinton is something else. She constantly criticizes Bush yet she voted for the war and is quite buddy-buddy with him. And for Christ's sake, she has cried twice on her campaign. I'm not against emotion but what is there to cry about on the campaign trail unless you're looking to attract female voters? Yet, she can throw smug snide remarks out two seconds later. Are we going to replace a retard in the White House with a basketcase? She can shed a tear but partial-birth abortion doesn't seem to faze her. In 2005, she had no problem voting to make sure there were future funds set for Afghanistan and Iraq. Not to mention, she's all for granting legal status to certain illegal aliens who have broken the law. Also, she voted against denying legal status to immigrants that have been convicted of certain crimes. Here's the thing about Hillary: she's just as big business/big government as any Republican or any other corrupt politician. I have a question for all of the Bill Clinton supporters: if Bill was so great and he cheated on Hillary, there must have been something that provoked him. If you trust his judgment so much, why would you now trust someone that he holds in such low esteem? All that's irrelevant though. If you look at Hillary closely, you'll see who she really is. Unfortunately, it looks as though she will be the next president, causing even more citizens to continue living in an America that has been dominated by the Bush-Clinton regime. There are people out there who have never lived without a Bush or Clinton in office. If you don't think they're in cahoots, you're out of your mind and as blind as a Scientologist's faith.
Try and keep your heads up during the rest of the election. I know it's hard because you are being forced to choose between idiots and morons but we can do it, we can pull through. I'll see you all in Costa Rica in January.
1.14.2008
The New Ten Commandments
Oh dear sweet Lord.
I love people but I hate them at the same time. And I use "people" in the truest sense of the word -- human beings of the earth.
Twice, that's right twice, was I out today and had the unfortunate luck of coming into contact with other homo sapiens. This morning I was walking to the store to purchase some breakfast for me and my better half. I was well rested and in a great mood. A man in a cap was walking in the opposite direction, sipping his coffee. I smile and gave the generic but friendly "Morning." In return, I got nothing. This ass of a man took the great amount of negative energy it takes to avert his eyes although they were locked on mine and turn his head straight as if a panhandler had just groped him for change. I laughed and let out a completely reactionary "What a tool." It might have been too loud but I hope he heard. No matter, I got my breakfast and the morning kept on going in a stellar direction.
Fast-forward to what is now known as forty minutes ago and a similar incident took place. I was walking back from Starbucks with a delicious venti unsweetened passion iced tea lemonade and a warm chocolate old-fashioned donut. Walking in the opposite direction was a young female Asian adult. I smiled as we passed because she was looking at me but then she quickly turned her head straight at forced herself not to humor my friendly notion. Naturally, I laughed and continued on.
What in God's good green earth is wrong with these people? They live and/or work close to the beach in weather that is in the top five percent of the world and yet they have something to complain about. Why so smug? Even the obnoxious Jersey barista at Starbucks had a smile on.
What is this position that our society has fallen into? Apparently, there's a new ten commandments in session:
Thou shalt not smile.
Thou shalt be smug.
Thou shalt not make eye contact with any other person.
Thou shalt be a douche.
Thou shalt spread an epidemic of thine misery.
Thou shalt be humanly incapable of loving thine self.
Thou shalt ignore everyone and wonder why children who need attention are murdering people.
Thou shalt be a robot.
Thou shalt wonder why they are depressed and have no friends.
Thou shalt live like a turd and die like a turd.
Listen, people. I don't care if you're gayer than semen on a moustache, smarter than a mad scientist on aderol, or fatter than Oprah. You're a human being -- nothing more and nothing less. We're all in the same boat and there's no reason, absolutely no reason, why we shouldn't be conversing on the streets. I'd give one of my kidneys to live in the fifties when people still liked each other. All this "bubble" syndrome crap is getting old. You want to be an ass in private, in your own home? Fine. But when you're out in the world and you walk by a good and honest man who goes out of his way to reach out to the human race by offering salutation, you better damn well respond, sir or madam. For all you know, that was the first words out of that person's mouth in years and you denied them a proper reply. Now they're scarred for life, there name is Ned, and they taste Mr. Jenkins' cat food before they put it in his bowl every night before Matlock.
You're the problem on this earth. Not TV, not video games, not music, not Bush (well, maybe a little) -- You. You're helping create a generation of intolerant sons of bitches that feel that they are magically entitled to something outside of humanity. Newsflash, dumb-dumb -- you're a human just like the rest of us. So wipe that smug face off your head and go say hello to every person you see on the street even if they are deaf. You're turning into Bill O'Reilly and when fools turn into Bill O'Reilly, someone's got to get stabbed.
I love people but I hate them at the same time. And I use "people" in the truest sense of the word -- human beings of the earth.
Twice, that's right twice, was I out today and had the unfortunate luck of coming into contact with other homo sapiens. This morning I was walking to the store to purchase some breakfast for me and my better half. I was well rested and in a great mood. A man in a cap was walking in the opposite direction, sipping his coffee. I smile and gave the generic but friendly "Morning." In return, I got nothing. This ass of a man took the great amount of negative energy it takes to avert his eyes although they were locked on mine and turn his head straight as if a panhandler had just groped him for change. I laughed and let out a completely reactionary "What a tool." It might have been too loud but I hope he heard. No matter, I got my breakfast and the morning kept on going in a stellar direction.
Fast-forward to what is now known as forty minutes ago and a similar incident took place. I was walking back from Starbucks with a delicious venti unsweetened passion iced tea lemonade and a warm chocolate old-fashioned donut. Walking in the opposite direction was a young female Asian adult. I smiled as we passed because she was looking at me but then she quickly turned her head straight at forced herself not to humor my friendly notion. Naturally, I laughed and continued on.
What in God's good green earth is wrong with these people? They live and/or work close to the beach in weather that is in the top five percent of the world and yet they have something to complain about. Why so smug? Even the obnoxious Jersey barista at Starbucks had a smile on.
What is this position that our society has fallen into? Apparently, there's a new ten commandments in session:
Thou shalt not smile.
Thou shalt be smug.
Thou shalt not make eye contact with any other person.
Thou shalt be a douche.
Thou shalt spread an epidemic of thine misery.
Thou shalt be humanly incapable of loving thine self.
Thou shalt ignore everyone and wonder why children who need attention are murdering people.
Thou shalt be a robot.
Thou shalt wonder why they are depressed and have no friends.
Thou shalt live like a turd and die like a turd.
Listen, people. I don't care if you're gayer than semen on a moustache, smarter than a mad scientist on aderol, or fatter than Oprah. You're a human being -- nothing more and nothing less. We're all in the same boat and there's no reason, absolutely no reason, why we shouldn't be conversing on the streets. I'd give one of my kidneys to live in the fifties when people still liked each other. All this "bubble" syndrome crap is getting old. You want to be an ass in private, in your own home? Fine. But when you're out in the world and you walk by a good and honest man who goes out of his way to reach out to the human race by offering salutation, you better damn well respond, sir or madam. For all you know, that was the first words out of that person's mouth in years and you denied them a proper reply. Now they're scarred for life, there name is Ned, and they taste Mr. Jenkins' cat food before they put it in his bowl every night before Matlock.
You're the problem on this earth. Not TV, not video games, not music, not Bush (well, maybe a little) -- You. You're helping create a generation of intolerant sons of bitches that feel that they are magically entitled to something outside of humanity. Newsflash, dumb-dumb -- you're a human just like the rest of us. So wipe that smug face off your head and go say hello to every person you see on the street even if they are deaf. You're turning into Bill O'Reilly and when fools turn into Bill O'Reilly, someone's got to get stabbed.
12.28.2007
Deep, Dark & Gorgeous
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.
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.
12.27.2007
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
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