Howlings in the Void

Breathe the wind

2010-07-02T16:39:00.000-07:00

A wind wound through the desert, chilled hot sands, floated vultures on their errands, brushed baking rocks; the wind wound through this desert, uplifting the light and unburdening the heavy.

The wind quickened, even though it hung heavier from the heat of the desert, as it approached the sea; for the wind knew the sea was not dead, but needed the reminder of fire, of heat, of passion, of love; and so the wind quickened, heartened by its promise. The waves of the sea lapped up the warmth of the wind, they brought that special heat down to the depths, down to the dark, down to where it could clear the confusion.

It was this wind, now a breeze of the sea, refreshing the sands of the shore, that tranquilly swept up a craggy hill where sat thousands, a multitude, waiting to hear the wisdom pour from a man; while this sea breeze brought dew to the faltering leaves of the small plants tucked into crevices of the sandy rocks of the hill. But for all the numbers of people waiting, it was this man they waited for who saw the sea; the only one among them who heard the wind brush the rocks clean; the one who breathed in a sea breeze; the one who sat in a small boat supported by the shore and rocked to rest by the wave crests and this man breathed out these words: "Listen! A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seeds fell on the path, and the birds came and ate them up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they did not have much soil, and they sprang up quickly, since they had no depth of soil. But when the sun rose, they were scorched; and since they had no root, they withered away. Other seeds fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. Let anyone with ears to hear; Listen!"

And he heartened them all, saying: "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed goods seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, 'Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where then, did these weeds come from?' He answered, 'An enemy has done this.' The slaves said to him, 'Then do you want us to go and gather them?' But he replied, 'No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.'"

He continued: "With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth, yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade."

And: "The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened."

These multitudes marveled at his words, these seekers departed, discussing, remembering, awing at the splendor, and booned along by a brisk breeze from off the sea; soothing their spirits. They wound their way through the rocks and back to their homes.

A wind that night swept through the openings, fluttering fabrics, and flickered the fire inside the shack of the speaker of the day. A small group gathered now within, before the man as he watched the wind about the room and everyone else comforted themselves. These brought close to him asked, perplexed, "Why do you speak to them in parables?" He answered, "To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside, everything comes in parables. The reason I speak to them in parables is that 'seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.' With them indeed is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah that says: You will indeed listened, but never understand, and you will indeed look, but never perceive. For this people's heart has grown dull, and their ears are hard of hearing, and they have shut their eyes; so that they might not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and understand with their heart and turn -- and I would heal them.'

"But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear. Truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it. "Do you not understand this parable? Then how will you understand all the parables? Hear then the parable of the sower. When anyone hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart; this is what was sown on the path. As for what was sown on rocky ground, this is the one who hears the word and immediately receives it with joy; yet such a person has no root, but endures only for a while, and when trouble or persecution arises on account of the word, that person immediately falls away. As for what was sown among thorns, this is the one who hears the word, but the cares of the world and the lure of wealth choke the word, and it yields nothing. But as for what was sown on good soil, this is the one who hears the word and understands it, who indeed bears fruit and yields in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty."

But those around him that night had another query. "Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field."

"The one who sows the good seed is the Son of Man; the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil; the harvest is the end of the age, and the reapers are angels. Just as the weeds are collected and burned up with fire, so will it be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send his angels, and they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and they will throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!

"The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding a pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.

"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

"No one after lighting a lamp hides it under a jar, or puts it under a bed, but puts it on a lamp stand, so that those who enter may see the light. For nothing is hidden that will not be disclosed, nor is anything secret that will not become known and come to light. Then pay attention to how you listen; for to those who have, more will be given; and from those who do not have, even what they seem to have will be taken away."

"Have you understood all this?" And they answered, "Yes," so this man said, "Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old."

When he finished speaking, he contemplated the room and sighed. A draft arose, tousling the men's hair and garments while they searched for its source. The man they adored smiled and nodded his head goodbye. The draft slipped from that little hut on the beach becoming the shore breeze, coaxing the waters to calm; becoming the full sail exhorting the sailors toward home; becoming the still air refusing judgement on a pair of lovers; becoming the wicked tornado consuming and defiling all that is holy; becoming a dusty gust shouting out a warning; becoming a zephyr evaporating the sweat from the brow of a woman giving birth; becoming a dry wind through the desert, cooling and absorbing its decadent heat.

Point of View Exercise Again

2010-06-21T15:36:00.000-07:00

Here is another version of the Point of View Exercise.

Part 1a

It was almost midnight. Rick stood in the dark; the rain drizzled. An all night diner glowed across the street. Some kind of beacon, it was. But for what kind of traveller? Rick figured he knew. It was about to go down. And he'd be smack in the middle. Best not to get crunched this time.

He tousled his hair, undid his tie crooked, unbuttoned some buttons, and started stumbling across the street. He thumped into the large windows of the diner, scratching under his chin and letting out a groan. Three suited, strong young men sat inside. Each at a corner table. Two faced the door. The third sat where he would be behind anyone entering. The two men facing the front stared through the glass at Rick. So Rick lit up a cigarette.

Two more men, older, sat against the wall opposite the counter. The man with his back to the door was hunched and seemed to be pleading with his hands. A large briefcase sat next to his chair on the floor. His companion sat erect, hands folded in his lap, and looked unimpressed.

Rick held his cigarette with his lips and stumbled in. Conversation halted. He flopped onto a bar stool at the counter. A waitress appeared from nowhere, her eyes darting to him and the suited men. She said nothing. Rick ordered four eggs over easy. She disappeared. The biggest man stood up, left his corner, and approached Rick.

It was a nice suit, Rick thought. He felt around his suit jacket for a cigarette pack. He asked the room where his cigarettes were. The big man approaching told him he had one in his mouth. He thanked the room. The big man told Rick it was time he were leaving. Rick nodded, teetered around, reached into his inside pocket and wrapped his hand around his gun. Without removing it, he fired and the bullet struck the big man in the chest. As he fell, he shot the other man facing the front. And then shot the last as he tried to get aim. Rick pulled his gun out and said, "There's three of my eggs over easy. Anybody want to guess how to not be the fourth?"

Part 1b

This was getting old, he thought. Last time he'd let the boss take him out on a trip like this. What was this nonsense? Something about an important book. Who was this small little man and, well, who gives a rat's arse? The waitress wasn't half bad looking, but she kept hiding. Had to call her three or four times before she'd come out of the kitchen. Lucky cook. He tried looking out the windows of the diner, but there was just black. He looked at the pathetic man there, begging. He'd brought his briefcase. Was it money? Maybe they'd be getting a little bonus after tonight?

Somebody thumped against the window of the diner. He sat up straight and concentrated on the figure. Some drunk, he thought by the look of him. Out too late. On his walk home. The figure lit up a cigarette. Then the figure opened the door. That was wrong. The door should have been locked. Why didn't Granger lock the door? Who was this guy? He watched the man stumble onto a bar stool. He looked over to his boss, who stared, angry now. The intruder tried to order some eggs. The waitress just disappeared. His boss nodded to him. It was an order: get this jerk out. Now. He stood up and approached. The man asked where his cigarette went. He told him it was still in his mouth and he had better get out here quick.

It was after that he felt the burning in his chest. He was confused because he found himself laying on the ground. He thought he saw some others falling, too. But why? What was happening. Then he saw the man step over him and then he just wanted to close his eyes.

Part 2

It was dark. It was slightly drizzling. A man stood on the street. There was a cook and a waitress in the diner across the street. They were hiding. There were also three dangerous looking men with guns inside, each sitting in a corner. Two other men sat inside also, having a serious discussion. The man outside stumbled across the street, appearing to be drunk. He leaned against the diner's window and lit a cigarette. He went inside. His entry ended all conversation. The new man sat on a stool at the counter. The waitress appeared, the new man gave her an order, and she disappeared. A big man from the corner stood up and approached the new man. He said something to him. There was a loud bang. The big man fell down. There was another loud bang. A second man fell down. The third man in a corner stood, removed his gun, and was aiming when there was another loud bang and he fell down, too. The new man stood up and said something, walking towards the two remaining seated men.

Part 3

Oh, yes. I was absolutely terrified, Lucy. I had no idea what to do. They just came in, demanded to set up the tables in this very particular way and then sat there and waited. They were dangerous. I knew it. Then they wanted some food. They weren't there to be social, not at all. Not in the least. Three of them sat in corners and just stared. They just sat there staring. I mean, why would they want to do that. I knew they were dangerous.

And then Lucy, this terrified little man came in. And Bill and I were just scared out of our wits and were just hiding in the kitchen, trying not to look. But we were a little curious and tried to peak every now and then and of course, I mean, they would ask for little things something like coffee or more cream or something like that, but I tried to just stay out of their way and keep my head down because these were some seriously dangerous men, Lucy. So, then, this one boss man fellow who had this fine black suit and red shirt and I think it might have been made of silk, but he just sat there listening to this pathetic little man who kept pleading and begging and just going on about how he needed it back and I didn't know what he was talking about and it was hard to hear all the way in the kitchen, but then, oh my, Lucy, you won't believe it, but this jerk, this absolute jerk comes in and the rest of them don't like it one bit, and I'm thinking, what do i do, what do i do, so I leave the kitchen and stand there, trying to act natural, like the diner isn't full of crazy dangerous men who aren't afraid to hurt people like me and that guy ordered something and when I thought he was threw, I ran back to the kitchen. I ran back to the kitchen and stuck my head in a cupboard and wrapped my arms around my head and the next thing I hear are these shots. BANG! BANG! BANG! Three shots. And Lucy, it was terrible, but that man, I don't know, that man, he shot those men, he shot them down in my diner, in my diner he shot them dead, Lucy. I couldn't believe it!

Part 4

The rain drifted down from the sky and found Rick standing in the darkness across the street from an all night diner. The diner boasted a midnight special: bacon, eggs, toast and coffee for two dollars. Rick grumbled, "That special wouldn't draw that crowd."

Three men sat in their corners of the diner. Bored and wary. Their suits were too nice for the establishment. Their moods were too dour. And they hadn't eaten a bite.

Rick knew his game, so he tousled his hair, loosened and crooked his tie, and undid a few buttons of his shirt and undid it. He stumbled across the street, suddenly drunk. He thumped into the window of the diner when he nearly lost what balance he had. He took the opportunity to survey the scene up close before he entered the arena.

He saw his client, hunched and pleading to an unimpressed man in an expensive suit. They sat at a table against the wall opposite the counter of the diner. His client kept reaching down to check that his briefcase remained where he had left it next to his chair on the floor. The three thugs in the corners weren't polite enough to hide their stares at him through the glass. Rick didn't blink; just took out a cigarette, lit it, and puffed. As drunkenly as he could manage.

Rick knew it was time to start the game. He staggered to the door and through it, managing to open it despite his inebriated state. The three body men took offense, straightening up in their chairs, but not intervening just yet. It gave Rick a chance. He just made it to the counter, where he flopped onto a stool. The three gunmen looked around, even more attentive now, and nervous. They knew they'd goofed. They knew the boss'd be livid. They knew they'd get an ear full and maybe some punishment. Best to resolve this as quick as possible. That door wasn't supposed to be unlocked. They'd forgotten. This wasn't a part of the plan so they didn't know what course of action to take.

They watched the waitress appear out of the kitchen. Now they weren't so keen on her presence. Her eyes darted around the room, trying to garner her course of action now. Nobody told her until Rick ordered some food, slurring the words. "Four eggs, over easy," he said, pointing an index finger towards the ceiling as he swayed on the stool. He brushed his hair back with his fingers.

The lead strong man sat in the far back corner. He saw the look and the nod from his boss. He had his orders now and knew what to do: Get the hoser out of there. Fast.

He stood, approaching the drunk man who should have been at home in bed by now, but was now screwing with their late night plans. Hell, he should have been at home in bed right now.

"Anybody seen my cigarettes?" Rick asked the room, while patting himself down.

"Check your lips, son," said the wise guy walking toward Rick. "Best you should be leavin' pal. Now."

"Ahhh," Rick responded, trying to look into the man's eyes looking down on him, but not quite able to focus all the while Rick's right hand found its way inside his jacket pocket and around the gun concealed there.

The explosion of the gun caused everyone to blink. The suited man slunk to the floor, curious. Before the second man along the back wall could react he found a feverish burning feeling in his chest which he couldn't stop looking for as he fell forward, out of his chair. That second explosion caused a little squeaky scream from the waitress, holding even tighter the grill cook lying next to her in the kitchen.

The third guard had stood up, fumbled to get his gun out, and was just getting around to aiming it when the bullet ended his chances. The nervous man with the brief case, Rick's client, just stared, shocked and sweating even more now that men had died because of him.

The man in the fancy suit sat rock still, not deigning to look to the man who had just absolutely ruined his evening. He felt he would leave alive and well, but not with the merchandise he had brought, and definitely with a streak of vengeance itching his spine.

Rick stepped over the dying man under his bar stool and walked towards the pair at the table. It wasn't what he would have called sport, but he hadn't had many options. Clients will do that to you: not give you any wiggle room. He looked at the man in the sharp, expensive suit, cocked his head to one side and said casually, "There's three of my eggs over easy. Anybody want to guess how to avoid being the fourth?"

Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Violet Eyed Slap

2010-06-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

I was sitting one spring morning with my dear friend Mister Sherlock Holmes at our residence on Baker Street, when a most profoundly upsetting and strikingly singular event failed to redirect the lives of two of the most upright and upstanding of British citizens; for it was not unusual in the least for Mister Sherlock Holmes to reject instances of cases out of hand when they failed to appeal to his sense of artistry or bored him with only a common intellectual solution. That is not to say he sought out the fashionable. Mundanity always appealed to him, even from the most humblest of origins, for the simple fact of its never approaching a repetitive mundanity. Singular aspects of even the most trivial of cases would arouse his fancy and send him into the deepest concentrations of thought I have ever witnessed. But it was never, excluding this one occurrence I will soon relate, that he took to resolve a problem he deemed unworthy of his exceptionally rational mind.

We heard the bell ring while we sat in the reading room reading the news papers and soon a lady was shown into the room of exceeding beauty, fortitude, resolution, and stature as to impress the great goddess Athena herself. We, of course, rose from our soft seats to stiff postures of most respectable greeting.

The lady glided into the room, seeming to not even cast a shadow and, indeed, though the fire were blazing, for it had been a cold, wet spring, the soft violet of her eyes brought upwards the light of the room and, might I add, the temperature of its occupants.

Always with his wits about him, Holmes spoke to the lady, saying, "Greetings and well met, my laudable lady. Please have a seat by the fire and warm yourself. If there is any service at all which we can provide for you, you have never found two more willing assistants."

The lady sat on the very edge of the leather chair, knees firmly together, hands clenching a small handbag in her lap.

"What brings you upon my doorstep this day?" Holmes asked.

"I know you might judge me by my appearance;" the lady began. "I hope only that you will put aside all aesthetic significances and help me for the reason of common humanity."

"My most well spoken Mademoiselle, do let us not fail you in your moment of need; and though I understand that you must hold to neither a meager income nor an immodest one, though your resources are made all the more mean by a rather stingy man, as Master of the House, and furthermore that you spend much of your time with a great many dogs, which must mean you work in, and judging by your education and status, share in the owning of, a kennel, and though all these facts I have gathered merely from the slightest of, I must confess, longing glances, upon you, nevertheless, I will strive not to allow my prejudgéd biases to sway my determination of the case you bring to my attention. You must trust me that no subjective viewpoint of my own can dissipate my substantial powers of objective observation and reasoning.

"Thank you Mister Holmes. And I have indeed come here today to press your unique abilities into my service, for you see, my mother has..."

"By Jove, my fellow Holmes, however did you come to such conclusions," I could not resist but saying, always being most intrigued by my companions astounding scrutiny.

"Well, I would hate to interrupt the lady."

"I must know," I said. "I'm sure the lady is as well fascinated by your methods."

The lady made to speak, most likely to agree to an explanation by Holmes, but my friend was already obliging her.

"Very well," Holmes said. "To start with the most obvious first: The lady's lovely dress is bedaubed in many hairs from so many varieties of dog breeds that even I have had trouble cataloguing them all in so short a period of time. With so great a diversity, there can be only one reasonable explanation: a kennel."

"Very impressible, Mister Holmes," the lady began, "but my mother..."

"And then, proceeding to the next most obvious perception of mine: the paucity of her man of the house's generosity. Now, when a woman walks out along the streets of our great city of London, there is no doubt that every other woman in the house has taken time to make sure that every bead, every jewel, every string, every button, and every line and brush of maquillage is just in its exact place and nothing strays. So, when a woman does leave the house, and, as in the case of the exquisite lady here, a single end of the lace of her corset hangs out of her dress, and there being no doubt she has not done her very best to look her very best, then it can most certainly be ascertained that said lady has no maid whatsoever to look after her, and that she dressed herself independently. The lady having no maid, and yet the status of belonging to the middle class, there can only be one reason: the man holding the purse strings is tight fisted to the extreme."

"Very impressive, Mister Holmes, and so if you'll let me tell you the details of my mother's..."

"Thank you kindly, my sweet lady. And also from that single and might I add singular detection, it can easily be concluded that your mother is at her wit's end and is suffering indeed, for even without the privilege of a maid, your mother should have been your last resort. But she must assuredly be distracted by some great calamity to forsake the appearance of her maiden daughter. And no doubt this issue revolves around finance, for it is most unfortunate that a beautiful specimen such as yourself should be subjected to the treatment of having to wear a watch fashionable two and a half years ago. And you certainly have not had the money available to update your accessory, much less to fix its slight imperfection of its mechanism noticeable only in the garbled chink of your watch's tick, all the more so you have not had the time or energy because from your hands it is quite obvious you are forced to maintain the cleanliness of the laundry and of the dishes."

The lady wrung her hands in agitation. "Thank you Mister Holmes. You have saved me at least a great deal of explanation. You must understand, my mother is no stupid, reckless woman. Her mind is as agile as a viper and so she knew, when my beloved father died two and a half years ago, the necessity of allying with an established male to assist and to represent her in our family's business affairs.

"My mother and father opened a dog breeding kennel, as you so acutely observed, for their love and keenness for man's best friends exceeded love and passed well onto devotion. They raised their dogs, raised their own reputation, and they raised me, and as you can see they were excellent breeders. We moved well into the middle class and the clients we served were of higher and higher status. One night my father was woken from slumber by an urgent mission. A dog, not of our own kennel but of a breed well known to my father, had suddenly and rapaciously taken to madness. The caller was a very well to do client and my father took great, careful discretion in the protection of their reputation. My father arrived in due haste to find the creature had destroyed the stuffings of most of the cushions in the manse and to put it delicately, had then sought to do the same to the maid who had attempted to calm its wild with a bone. It took her arm as the bone and so it was my father found them upon his entry. He coaxed the creature...."

"Please, mademoiselle, I am at your disposal, but I cannot spend my life there. Do hurry to the denouement of your story and the reason for my involvement."

"Yes, of course. I do apologize. Well, so it was that my father left us. For a better world, I have no doubt. And yet, he left us in a world all the worse for his departure. My family's business affairs were not ready for the sudden loss of my father and so it was my mother, in order simply to gain her due, succumbed to the notion that a good alliance with a man would enable her to settle my family's accounts. No doubt her best intentions were at heart, and yet there are so many coercers out there. My dear mother assumed she'd found an honest man, but even an honest man, when presented with the opportunity for control, and especially control of a higher line of finance than the man is accustomed, may succumb to the most selfish and fearful of temptations. For, you see, Mister Holmes, my step father has now taken it upon himself to consider my family's own wealth, hard worked and difficultly won, as his very own, earned through services rendered during its securement after my father's unfortunate demise. My mother is at her wits end, resorting to fits of screaming her peace and yet to no avail. And of late my loathful step father, though to issue him such a name debases me, has taken to securing his self assumed rights with physical violence. Physical violence! Against my own mother, in the house I grew up in, under the roof I was taught to respect my mother country, the rule of law, and most importantly the righteous institution of family. I have had enough sir, and come to seek your help, guidance, and advice in my very personal matter."

Holmes sat for quite some time, his fingertips firmly pressed together, while he sat in his chair, deep in concentration. The young maiden herself nervously sat very stiffly, waiting, hoping, for the help she was sure was to come.

Suddenly, Holmes spoke up, rising from his chair as he did so. "My dear lady, I can not comprehend why you have come to me in this matter. It is evident there is not any interest for me in your case. The details are common, the motives are base, there is a remarkable lack of ingenuity on the part of all parties involved, making exception for the part about the kennel, that was most charming, but that aside, there really is no reason for me personally to study or invest my considerable talents in your case, because, quite frankly, there is no case to be solved my darling dear."

I remained seated, nodding in the always sensible words of the imminent Mister Holmes when I saw the young miss stand with back straight, jaw set, and then, just when I assumed she would turn tail and politely, if absolutely upsetedly, beat retreat, she tightly drew together her radiant lips and saying nothing stalked up to the very form of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes and stared him straight in the eyes.

"Say something if you must, but I do hope you'll hurry along to your next appointment; I have important matters to attend to."

And it was then a most extra ordinary event occurred, for the young lady slapped Mister Sherlock Holmes, without his due respect, and then smugly and arrogantly told him: "Take all your capacities, my dear sir, and deign to solve out the mystery I've just given you with a sting to your cheek!" And so saying, and so leaving Holmes profoundly shaken, if not by the physical violence she so meanly resorted to, than most certainly by the deep mystery as to why she would have committed such an atrocity, she stormed out of our rooms on Baker Street.

For the next week, Holmes was out of sorts. I hardly saw him at all in my comings and goings, he never sat for meals, always taking them in his room or in his laboratory. His physical appearance grew increasingly disheveled and a real beard appeared among his features for the first time while I had known him.

At last, after a long week of this degrading behavior, I walked downstairs to breakfast to find Holmes sitting, shaved, hair combed, clothes neatly pressed reading a newspaper and enjoying a muffin.

"Good morning," said I. "It is a happy morning indeed to have you back amongst the living."

"Indeed, Mister Watson. And yet it is because I have a new case."

"Well, my good sir, what is the mission this time? Do tell."

"I fear the recent singularly tragic and remarkably enigmatic event of a soft velvet hand striking my cheek so sternly has left a certain sting my mind can not bear to release until such a time as I can say with the certainty only available through the logical processes capable by my faculties and due to undaunted practice, that I have resolved the Case of my Slapped Cheek. I should like to begin without any further delay. I shall go forth and discover where this family's kennel must be and then I shall come hither and retrieve you for a most assuredly great adventure."

And so it was I spent the morning reading papers and a few of the latest works of fiction until my friend and associate returned slightly before lunch. We ate quickly and then departed for our destination by coach.

We rode in silence as I am sure my companion was deep in introspective ponderings upon the matter at hand. We arrived in due time and exited the coach to the banter of barking dogs behind high walls. Our terminus was the house adjoined to the kennel; we rang the bell and were shown politely into the parlor by a woman of middle age, with what appeared to be growing strains on her face, her hair pulled back tightly into a bun, though rather raggedly. Grey streaked her auburn hair in parts and her eyes betrayed a burden. But she overcame whatever limitations she suffered and saw to her duties as hostess.

Her conversational abilities were sorely lacking, for distracted it was obvious she was. Holmes inquired after the state of her business only after giving our condolences for her loss of her husband and obvious mainstay of her life.

We were not long there before a guttural shout sounded from the back of the house. The Madame quickly excused herself and it was not a long period of time before we noticed over the background of dogs barking in the kennel, a deep, inarticulate screaming, a small whimpering voice pleading, and the unmistakable sound of a hard object striking soft flesh.

We rudely moved ourselves closer to the source of the commotion and found the lady of the house we had only just met standing in terror with tears streaming her face, her bodice ripped, and already black marks appearing and swelling growing across her once quite lovely, respectable cheeks. A man stood above her, sweating, hair akimbo, taut fingers gripping her throat, and fist held above his head, hanging waiting to pound down. He caught us out of the corner of his eye.

"Get out rogues! Remove yourselves! Can't you see I've got to take care of business back here? I have every right to treat my property as I see fit. Or do you gentlemen disagree?"

"Oh no, you are quite right, sir, and I am sure she is responsible for every thrash she must endure. No, we surely only came to bid the fair lady farewell, to thank her for her hospitality, and to see that she was still alive, for we shan't get far if we were to destroy all our precious womankind. And yet, you are quite right sir, we must indeed keep them in line, or all civilization would be obliterated. As it stands, we bid you adieu!"

We left the house in some rush, as our coach was still waiting. Once we settled into our seats on the slightly bumpy ride, Holmes said, "Alas, I must now return to my terrible l'état d'ennui."

"What?" I said, "have you solved the mystery."

"Why of course my dear Watson. How could I not? In any case, it was not so hard to see."

"My fine sir, then, do tell. Is it a single villian? Is it some deep conspiracy? Who is the evil mastermind? Where may we find him? And forget not the infallible logical process you used to come to your final solution."

"Sadly, Watson, we are all accomplice to the horrible crimes we have witnessed today. But Happily, I have discerned the reason, the reason for such a beautiful violet eyed figure to strike me firmly enough for the sting to still remain in my cheek at least a week, but also the reason for the strikes we were present for today.

"You see, Watson, in order for civilization, and to be specific, the civilization of Man, to birth itself, we had to domestic not cow, not sheep, not dogs, but the wildest of all the creatures of the earth: Woman. Here lies the great conspiracy of Mankind, the dark secret, hidden, obscured, and suppressed to the point where we consider it natural for a man to beat a woman, for humanity to be violent and suspicious of each other, and for us all to possess the desire to dominate in a perceived, yet imaginary contest. Previously, there was indeed a garden of Eden, a place of peace for all life, living together connected. But somewhere, somehow, there came a terrible terror over the minds of men. Some society, somewhere could no longer calm our fears, indeed, no doubt manipulated our fear into raw, aweful, violent power. Because man suddenly isolated himself from himself, from his kind, from his women, from his collaboration with life, from his garden, from his forest, from his role in the sympathy of the cycle of nature; because man detached himself, through a mysterious process lost in the mysts of foggy time, Man propelled himself to the top of a food chain through physical violence, self induced by rabid fear, and established himself as ruler over a ruled who had never needed ruling before. Man victimized himself so he could victimize and we have all suffered for that original sin ever since. But women most especially so, because we men understand that if we are to maintain the delusion that we are afraid, that we need fear to create the violence that creates the awesome power we wield to dominate the earth and the mother and each other, we must destroy the womanly divine power to heal, to grow, to birth, and to rebirth.

"It is probable that all the sinister acts of our time and of all history stem directly from the events described by my elucidation. We must promise in the future, we must endeavor to be more willing to assist the weaker and more charming sex in their fights against injustice. But that is for the future. As for now, my dear Watson, I dare say we may well have saved a life today and my mind at least is at ease; my relentless desire to discern the darkest of mysteries has been appeased by our investigation. So, now I say let us fight tiresome boredom by making our cook do her duty and make us food without getting her share of the goods while our maid cleans the clothes we have so unfortunately weathered during the escapades of our adventure to-day."

And so it was. We never discussed the matter again.

Uninterested Narrator

2010-01-04T15:26:00.000-08:00

The same story as exercise seven, but narrated by an uninvolved, distant narrator. I hope this isn't very exciting.

Mid April

Masses of men gathered not very far from each other and assembled into orderly rows and columns. One group of them wore grey and were very dirty and seemed very weary and at the same time ferocious. The other group wore blue and seemed intent but a little paranoid, like something would fall out of the skies and explode them into thousands of fragments.

In front of the grey group of men, rode another man clad in grey and wearing very clean clothes. They had gold brocades and he wore a sword. He rode haughtily and distant. He gave a salute to the men assembled with his hat in the air. Most of those men almost burst into tears. He arrived into the lines of soldiers wearing blue. They gave their own salute to him and he tipped his hat to them. He arrived by horse at a small cabin. A man came off of the porch and met him. They did not speak. The man from the porch wore blue, but no hat. The man just arrived on his horse offered his sword up to the other man, but the man from the porch would not accept it and gestured for them to enter the cabin .

Two Generals Meet in April

2010-01-03T23:24:00.000-08:00

Okay, the next exercise has many parts. The first part has two sections, which lie below. This exercise is a work in point of view and for this exercise we will be telling the same story from different characters' points of view. I probably cheated by using a real life story. It's what moved me. It's probably not completely accurate.

The General in Gray

He stood on his horse as tall as he could. He wore full dress uniform, gold brocade circling up his arms, a sword slung around his waist, a tassled hat sat on his grey hair, white gloves, and his boots polished black. He rode in front of his troops, serious, stern. He knew if he looked into their faces he would cry because he knew what their faces would say: dirty, tired, tried, worn, fragile, proud. He would never ask for his time with these men back. He prayed for their souls and wished so many of their lives had not been so violently cut so short. He asked God to give him strength for this meeting, for these men, to see his land through this abyss. He could no longer look forward, but turned his head towards his men and lifted his hat above his head in grand salute to their valor, their sacrifice, and their memory. He prayed to hold his tears in and they held their ground, as his army had always done.

The cabin approached. His line of grey clad troops ended and another stretched out before him like a blue sea. Waves of them had crashed themselves to death upon his army and here they now stood. He had never seen them so close. As he looked over them from his horse they shifted position together into perfect salute. To him. He tipped his hat in response, honored and impressed.

An attendant took his horse's reins and he stepped off in front of the cabin. His horse was led away and he stood alone in an ocean of blue. The dark bearded man stepped out of the shade of the porch of the cabin, serious, somber, with solid eyes, and nodded. The grey general undid the ties holding his sword and scabbard to his belt and held it before him with two hands. He bowed his head and presented his sword to the victorious general. The blue general shook his head and gestured that he would not accept it. With honor surviving, he was done.

The General in Blue

He leaned against the post of the porch on his elbow, with his hand over his head, looking out over his troops. Most of them had cleaned their uniforms for today. He had sent them through the meat grinder, but these boys had survived, and they wouldn't get killed by war now. Not after today. He was ready for a rest, ready to write his memoirs, to record and reflect on the moments he hadn't let himself think about because danger was ever present and each moment was more painful than the last. He couldn't forget these men. And he couldn't forget the man he fought against. He would finally meet that man today.

His aid handed him his gloves and began buttoning his dress coat. It was first time he had worn gloves the whole war. He watched his great foe ride up. He saw the boys' impromptu salute as if he expected it. He was the grey bearded man step off his horse and face him. He saw poise itself in that man before him. The blue general walked forward somber and serious, impressed by this man who had resisted him so long and so valiantly. He nodded his respect.

The great grey general removed his sword and presented it to him. The blue general felt like it was all finally over at last, that this was a man one could converse with even when both disagreed, that this was a man fit for the task at hand and he would not let him down. The blue general could not accept the sword; his opponent was too honorable, too valorous, too respectful and too much a part of bringing back together these people. No, he could not take his sword, this was not a conquering was, it was a war of union. He motioned for them to enter the cabin. The business was at hand.

A Long Two Part Exercise

2009-12-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Here is exercise six. It has been a very difficult exercise for me because one of the requirements was to write a story about an old woman. Apparently, I don't know old women well enough and also, I wanted to take the story a little deeper than I was capable. So, below is the best I can do. The rest of the exercise, which was the point of the exercise, not actually learning about what it is to be an old woman, but telling the story of an old woman who is living in the present while having thoughts and memories of a time past by. And then telling her reflections and her doings in either the first person, with her narrating, or in a third person narrator. And then using either all past tense, all present tense, or changing the tense used when the time being discussed changes. I focused more on what kinds of different things are discussed when telling a story from first or from third person perspectives. Can you tell I'm starting classes tomorrow?!?

Third person, completely in past tense:

For Establishing Less

She stormed out of the coven. She raged, screaming, sobbing, shaking, cursing those stupid witches. Her emotions overwhelmed her. She had no thoughts, just feelings of remorse, regret, rage, loss. She tripped through the moonlit midnight.

The dark had never bothered her. Not that night she first forced her presence on the coven, not any night since nor before. They had gathered in their circle like always, surrounding a bonfire of cedar. She remembered having gone there every full moon for two years, in secret and unknown to anyone, she watched and longed to join them. She worked up her courage and entered their circle to all their shock. They delayed her admittance. They stalled. They let her come but dallied around the idea of her full initiation into the coven. They said she had had no teacher. They said she was too wild, too out of control, not sensible enough. and tonight they threw all those same allegations at her. Threw at her refuse and curses stinging and paining her. She had lived for the coven. She would die for the coven, for their secrets for the rites. But they rejected her after twenty six years of service, they rejected and exiled her.

She tripped over roots and vines, despite the bright moon. She stumbled through the underbrush, lashing out at branches and leaves with her hands and twigs and rocks she would pick up after having fallen. Her hands bled and her lip swelled. Her forehead already had bruises and her elbows were scrapped raw and covered with dirt. Dried leaves clung to her wool clothes. She cried, she sobbed, she moaned for her loss, for the life she had always dreamed was taken from her, stolen, robbed. She had nothing left. She knew so much and wanted so much to help, to play some part, to join in to raise up the sisterpact. But why had they cast her into oblivion? Why had they declared her forbidden? Why did they do that? Why did they do that?

How could they?

She slipped on leaves and crashed into the ground. She covered her face in her elbows and sobbed. She sobbed there for hours. Squirrels came and went. Ants investigated and moved on.

She felt empty. She stood up slowly and realized she knew where she was and how to get to her shack. It didn't take her long to get back. Her head was empty now, not wanting more grief from her memories. She approached the her shack. Vines had long ago replaced the walls. Anda tree now supported the roof it had once counted on for protection. Moss reflected the moon back in a bright green light all around the shack. She opened the door and shuffled inside and risking a conflagration of emotions, slammed the door. They didn't come back. Instead she remembered one of her young pupils, just the other day having stormed off in frustration from her lesson. The girl had called her a hag, had said the old hag couldn't teach because she didn't know a broom from a forkroot. The girl had shouted that she wanted a new teacher, someone who could actually make a potion that worked, someone who could actually start a bonfire, actually lead to completion a group spell. The old woman, remembered the dumb brat and wondered if that was why she'd lost her place. Or was it before the girl storming out, when she filled the head mistresses house with scorpions?

She reached her tinctures and potions shelves. She grabbed a jar labeled wanderlust. Dust shifted on the lid and fell as she yanked it off the shelf. She read the label, then lifted the bottle high in the air, as high as her stout arms could reach, and looked at the ground, she crashed it into the packed dirt floor of her shack. It shattered, glass covered the floor and stuck in her woolens. She reached up to the shelf again. She grabbed a jar labeled Vengeance Procured. She didn't read this one, she just shattered it against the floor. Her foot began bleeding from a sharp glass piece.

She stood, panting over the broken jars. She noticed a large, long, pointed piece of broken glass. She knew what she had to do. She reached for it, picking it up while it sliced a red line across her fingers. She didn't notice the red flow down her newly made weapon. Her eyes were distant, looking out the walls of the shack, towards the glen where under the moonlight no doubt were still gathered the witches of her old coven. She would teach them all she knew tonight. She would hear their howls and call them banshees.

And now we move on to the second part. First person, present tense shifting to the past tense:

A Darkness Disclosed

Ahhhhhhh! Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What were they thinking? What could they possibly be thinking? Mother of life, how could they be so stupid! How dare they! How could they? Oh nooo.

I've fallen. My mouth is full of dirt. How could they? What have they done to me? I am nothing now. I am lost. All I can do is wander through this forest forever. I can haunt them and their children and their children's children. Ohhh, nooo. There is nothing left for me.

I've got to get away from here. I've got to get away from their glen. I've got to find a way to get far away. These trees. Curse these trees. They hate me. I hate these trees. I punish these trees. Ahhhhh! Stupid trees. Stupid leaves. Stupid branches. Stupid vines. Ahhh. Curse you dirt. Dirt in my mouth is better than they have treated me. They never liked me. They never wanted me. I always wanted them. I loved them. I love the coven. Those abysmal scoundrels. They exiled me? How could they? Why would they? I gave them everything I am. I watched their meetings for so long before I could ask them to help me learn, before I could ask them for help. And then they wanted nothing to do with me. They hoped I would go away, but they wouldn't send me away then! Why do they send me away now! Noooooo. How can it be?

It took me so long to get up the courage to ask for their help, to approach their fireside. I wanted to learn. I wanted to know. I wanted to help them for helping me and now they turn on me. They throw me out into the abyss. They forbid me from returning. What did I do wrong? Why?

No, I fell again, I can't bare this. I can't go on. Ooooh, nonoooononooonooo. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Hmmmm. Where am I? I know this place. I must get to my house. I must get home. Home will help me. It's not far now. I know the way. There it is. I see it through the thicket. Almost there. Home will help. But why would they? Here's the door. And here I am and why would they? I needed them so much. Unlike that little brat. That little child monster, shouting and yelling at me. Telling me I knew nothing of the craft. Threatening me like that. How could she? Didn't she know what I have been through? Didn't she know my loss? I just want to help, doesn't she know? My baby, my baby, my poor little baby. I just wanted her to live. I just wanted her to be here. She's gone. She's gone, my baby. Forever. And now I have nothing again. Now, I am alone again. They cast me out. They threw me out and I have nothing. NOTHING!

Oh, I've broken my jar. My tincture shelves are here, but I've broken one of them. There are more. I don't need them anymore. I don't need anyone anymore. I can't need anyone anymore. I've got nothing left. There is no one to need anymore. They can all disappear! They can all die now because I don't need them anymore. No MORE!

I broke another one. I broke another one. There it is. They have broken me. Why did they break me. Why did they destroy my life? Why choose me to punish when I was already being punished? Didn't they know? Didn't they see my loss? Didn't they care? No, they didn't care. They always hated me. They never wanted me. They never knew my pain. I'll show them my pain. I'll teach them so they learn real good why I hurt. Oh, she'll learn now. They'll all learn now. I'll write their lessons on their bodies so they can't forget. I'll make sure it sinks in all the way to their bones.

Hunting Flowers

2009-12-26T09:48:00.000-08:00

Here is exercise five. Absolutely no adjectives or adverbs allowed. Brutal.

Hunting Flowers

The moon lifted. The sun set. The grass grew. The flowers bloomed. Their blossoms released their fragrances. The bees searched. The ants dug. The hills felt the cascading light. The wind played with the grasses and flowers of the meadow. The trees sat. The birds sang. The shadows grew. And the lovers meandered. They talked. They smiled. They saw squirrels and laughed. They touched the bark of the trees. They would take a moment to stop and gaze at each other. They saw hanging pine needles and leaves. They saw the flowers. They smelled the flowers. They picked the flowers and adorned them on each other. They held hands, intertwining fingers. They wandered. They whispered of marriage. They dazzled each other. They heard the howl. They froze. They saw the moon. They knew what it circle meant. They knew the stories. They ran. It ran. They sprinted. It sprinted. Their breathing hurt. They didn't care. But they slowed. It stalked them. They wondered if they wronged in running. They doubted their instinct. They could not hear it. They could not see it. They looked and saw only the shadows. And then they heard it. They heard its charging. They turned and saw its fangs. They saw its snarl. They saw its fur. They saw its jaws. But all they could see while they screamed, while they were torn apart, forever, was its eyes.

Putting on Heirs

2009-12-25T15:03:00.000-08:00

Here is the third part of the fourth exercise. Again with the repetition. Only now, it is repetition of the structure, which is to say, some part of the story itself, rather than the words or rhythm is repeated, such as an action or event. I accidentally already accomplished this exercise in the story Raven. I anticipated the repetition technique. But, here is what I hope is another example of the repetition technique.

Heir

The wind blew off the sea. It was a cooling breeze, the man thought as he reached the top of a hill. The sea stretched out before him. he was unafraid. He carried with him a satchel for his belongings. He scanned the horizon, seeing no ships masts or sails. His eyes reached the shore again and saw across a green valley another hill. On top sat a town behind a tall wall, with watch towers. He adjusted the spear he carried in his hand. He had no fear. He would soon be vaulting walls much bigger than those, with sentries much more sinister, and foes much more dangerous. He noticed next to him an altar. Taking a few steps towards it, he saw it was an altar to Zeus. The could not even scare him.

He walked away, down the hill and into a gathering of people. Everyone craned their necks to see and hear and the little ones tugged at togas to get to know what the fuss was all about. he strode through the crowd till he reached a comfortable spot.

A bard danced about before them all. He sang a ridiculous and raucous song while throwing things in the air and catching them while all the people laughed. The act ended to shouts of pleasure, but then the man of everyone's attention became quite grave. He looked about , not menacingly, but worried that those within his confidence lacked something mortally important.

"Do you know?" His voice was slightly more than a whisper. Everyone hushed. "Do you know?" he asked again pleading from face to face all around him. Louder now, he asked them all again, "Do you know the beginning?" And the people looked around slightly confused. He said so all could clearly hear him now: "Do you know how ruled the great gods and whence they came and how majestic their power became? Do you know the truth of the matter of the immortal deities? Well, what are we teaching our young these days. Leave it to this old bard then.

From against a rock, he too up his lyre and with a chord strummed shook the revelry from everyone and brought worry and doubt. Another discord strummed and his hand continued in grand gesture pointing to the Olympians high upon their thrones.

"As many stories begin, so does this one: not where one might think. Not on the snowy clearness of Olympus, but everywhere and nowhere. Chasm ruled al and was it all. For none could chaos but Chasm. Chasm wrought the Earth in all her random holy mess and brought forth Earth's mothering wisdom. And Mother Earth then ruled the world in Chasm's place for now there was order from the abyss. And Earth's rule was fair of face and firm of figure and flowers grew in meadows made for maidens, while mountains crashed up and up and over it all Earth bore Heaven to worship her and she him, for without passionate Eros, all would be lost and potential would not be. And earth's equal, Heaven, gave to earth his seed and she then in her mighty wisdom she created children of power and of light. Many stories do her children have but only her own struggle concerns us now. For it is there where we find the fate of our own predicament.

"The youngest of all Earth's children, the most brave, the most clever, the most exacting; the one who was not afraid. It was he who stood up to the invincibility of his astral father.

"As for Heaven, he remained frightened of his children and so once each was born, he hid them deep in the caverns of earth. He could not bear their birth. And when Mother Earth could bear such suffering no longer, she riled her children. 'Who among you is not afraid? Who among you is mighty enough to wield this weapon of my creation, Who has the power to slice with my sharp sickle at the power of Father Heaven?' And only one among the many children of Earth, whether of her own making or from the loins of Heaven, stood forth and raised their voice in courage.

"'I shall,' stated bold Kronos. The strong-handed Titan took up the sickle and waited.

"And the time came when Heaven came down upon Earth, revealed himself and filled her deepest inner reaches and at that moment, hard hearted Kronos swung his blade, scattering Heaven's power across the Earth and sea and over the wide width of the world. And from them arose more tales of power, beauty, and love, which we must forsake for our most important of tales concerning us now. For from that strike onwards, Kronos ruled the world from the distant high mantles of the sky to the lowest, darkest crags beneath the land. With his power, he took fair eyed Rhea, his sister, to wife and showed his power through his divine offspring.

"But it was just those offspring who he feared. He grew timid when he heard, and remembered, the children of the mighty are also the greatest threat to the mighty. And so, not trusting his wife's dark recesses, he swallowed each offspring as its mother bore them. In a gulp each, he assured his place atop the world.

"And lo, how beautiful eyed Rhea suffered and tor at her hair and garments and grew weary and sad giving up her children to the mighty mouth of Kronos. She sought the wisdom of her mother and father, Earth and Heaven and they divined the future. When her broad shouldered son approached, heralded by floods and lightning strikes of pain, she snuck through darkness, hiding herself away from even the most penetrating vision. There she bore thunder wielding Zeus, in secret and safety. To her mighty husband she handed a rock, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and named him son, Zeus, and bold Kronos, he took the boulder up and right away devoured it whole, knowing his food sustained him in his power.

"But in great secret in the caves and gardens of Crete, there grew a boy who would challenge the mighty Kronos. The son of Heaven's son brought forth his rival power and with his mother's aid and knowledge he overthrew the tyrant Kronos and forced out each sibling in turn to be free and roam the land and sea and skies in freedom, pronouncing their own glory. Kronos could not stop allmighty Zeus. Coming to Kronos' aid were the rest of his siblings, the Titans, but they could only compete with these overpowering Olympians.

"After ten long years of suffering and strife, the immortal gods of Olympus prevailed, overthrowing their Titan forebears and tossing them forever into the abyss of Tartaros.

"And thus it comes to reality the Thunder bearing god became father of all and ruled if not beneficently or mercifully, than most certainly, justly over the wide earth. Remember forever that what we have can be taken away and give unto he whose plans never fail, whose all knowing and cunning have yet to miss their mark, the mighty, the powerful -"

"Bard!" came a shout from the audience. "Silver tongued Bard! the traveling man with the spears and satchel said, stepping forward. "Bard! Answer a searching man a question! In what direction did you say lies mighty Olympus? Remind me where I might find this thunder bearing Zeus!"

The bard faltered, began to speak, and then, just stood pointing in the direction of Mount Olympus, home of the gods.

"Thanks from a stranger, fair Bard," the man said and turned in that direction.

"Wait! Wait fine sir! What awaits you on the Olympic mountain? Do you travel to pray? To sacrifice? To divine your future? Surely you must have some purpose to your journey?"

The traveling man stopped, turned his head, and said over his shoulder, "I pray none to no one. I sacrifice to no one and so never sacrifice in vain. My future, I know already, Bard of sweet words. I lay claim to Olympus. I challenge the might of those gods. I am the heir to Zeus and I got to take my rightful throne. He can not stop me," he said facing forward. "I am not afraid."

What They Found

2009-12-21T15:25:00.000-08:00

Here is the second part of the fourth exercise. The goal of the exercise was to repeat the syntactic structure of a sentence several times, which is to say, the rhythm of a sentence. See if you can find which rhythm I used. I repeated it quite a few times. There is actually a lot of repetition I used. A lot of repetition all over the story. I mean, its all over the place.

What They Found

A red light hung above the street, flashing its warning. A stop sign shot its red glare, seeking a ceasing. The smallish, rotund man kept walking through the night; not fast since he continued glancing to his left and right and even back from where he had come, but jittery, twitching forward towards a meeting he could not halt. He reached the alley where his business was. The black lane sunk into the dar, hiding its secrets. It perturbed him that the flashing red above gave him no greater vision beyond the darkness of the alley. He stared down the alley, his fingertips chattering their nervousness against each other. His sweat steamed in the cool night air. His left eye twitched. He slunk down the alley. He called out, "I'm here. I'm here as you directed." The red light pounded behind him, casting his red haloed figure before him.

"Stop," came a dire voice from the dark.

He froze.

The voice continued, "Tell me." The little round man flinched, looked up and down the black walls flanking him, glanced back towards the red light and up then at the midnight sky.

"I," he began. "I thought," he started.

"Tell me," threatened the voice in the dark.

The little man leaned forward, "The tall man took it already, saying it was his. He told me he would find you soon," but the rotund man was interrupted. A bright white flash lit up the alley, halting the small man. The dark quickly returned, while his thick knees sunk to the ground. His head leaned back, towards the heavens, his lips quivering. His chest and chin then fell, pounding the paved ground of the alley. A puddle grew around his girth. The tall man stood behind the corpse, laughing to himself. The long gun pointed at the dark, leaching its death smoke.

"... signaling your doom," the tall man finished what the small man had started.

The voice said from the dark, "I've got a gun on you."

The tall man shrugged and simply said, "You're dead already."

The voice behind the dark pleaded, "You seem a devil before that infernal red flashing. I can make a deal. I have much I can offer you."

The tall man answered quickly with a pulled trigger. The lightening flash revealed the dark location of his foe. The tall man flung himself towards a wall while spotting his target in the sudden light. Without a thought he killed the man, hiding in the dark. Two quick hot bullets found their way, screaming out their pain. The tall man turned and walked out of the alley, under the flashing red light, past the stop sign, and back up the street.

Cashier

2009-12-17T14:15:00.000-08:00

Exercise four in the series and boy is it repetitive.

Cashier

"And here's your change," he told the lady behind his counter. She grabbed her few packed up groceries and disappeared from his world.

He turned to the face next in line. "Hello and how are you today?" he asked scanning the twelve items or less waiting on the belt. "Oh, good enough," came the response. Quickly, the bag was ready and the bill paid. "All righty. Here's your change and have a great day." He wondered if his smile came off as bullshit.

The next customer approached with only a container of eggs. "Doing some cooking?" he asked. "Oh, no, not really. I just like eggs. I might have change here," he checked his pockets. "No, no change. Just take it out of that." "Farewell."

"Hello and how are you today?" he said to the lady moving up. She was dour. "Fine," she said. He gave her her change with a simple, "Goodbye." Brusque people didn't bother him so much. He was brusque himself. But over and over again with not two seconds of connection wore him out. Just another reason this job sucks.

"Hello and how are you?" "Thanks for shopping, have a good day." "And hello to you. How are you doing today?" "Here's your change and have a great day." "Hi." "Hey there." "Greetings." "Good bye." He saw so many people in a day and knew none of them. "Hello today. How are you?" he said for the quadromillionthle time. The man stood still for a moment, looking thoughtfully at the lit up register number. "You know, I sucked today. I messed up a deal and it fell through. My boss is pissed. The company is pissed. And that's why I'm getting the ice cream. I hope it will smooth over the day's lumps." "Well be careful. We all know ice cream is a gateway drug." The man smiled and said, "How much is it?" "Three seventy nine." "I've got change," said the man and gathered it and handed it over. "Thanks." he said as he threw the change in the drawer. "Good luck to you. And thanks for the change."

Raven

2009-12-15T15:50:00.000-08:00

Here is the second part of the third exercise. The point is to write a short narrative that is all one sentence. There are a few places where my sentence below slips. I'll save editing for later.

Raven

The attendants attired the priest slowly and carefully beginning with the ceremonial cotton undergarments hanging loosely from his aging, sagging body, then taking great pains to anoint him with the holy water that was brought thousands of thousands of footsteps by hundreds of young people from high in the mountains of the rising sun; liberally they soaked him in the sacred water and once purified they placed over his shoulders three robes, one of white, one of red, and one of black, all tied on with a deep purple sash, under which they slid a long, sharp black feather and over all of these they hung about his shoulers a gown of exquisite embroidery detailed and flowing of a scene of once upon a time and always when the great Raven brought forth the gushing blood of life from the two sided clay form of humanity with Raven's great knife of a beak; upon this great priest's head they sat the Raven's headdress: dark black feather covered the head, glistening river rocks black as night sat as eyes overlooking the massive curved, sharp, and bladed beak of this manraven creature all the while lay in supplication and prayer a nake man and woman on a high holy platform in front of all the people, these two, lasted together with crude ropes of stalks of grains and vines with fruit and vegetables surrounding where they exalted in their testament, but suddenly there the god appeared and approached and exhortations to the great host sounded and then thunderers roared at the coming of new blood for the new creation and Raven gathered its might and drew closer to the honored pair and Raven raised its beak high for all to see and the duo sucked in their breathe in ecstasy as Raven crashed its razored beak into the chests of first one then the other drawing blood and slinging it across space and time and into creation and with the destruction of these two clay forms, life is birthed again.

Hounded through the midnight fog

2009-12-02T15:30:00.000-08:00

The following is from Part One of Exercise Three. The object was to tell a story using only sentences with less than seven words.

Hounded through the midnight fog, he ran. Roots, thorns, and slippery grass delayed him. Was there safety to be found? Could he unearth his haven? All he knew was to speed on. With every little trip, he languished. For every caught cloth, he cursed. Insufferable delays tensed his cheeks. His left eye soon began twitching. He paid it no mind. There was no time to dally. Yet his legs could move no faster. His thighs burned. His mind raced. No time, there was no time. His legs would not obey him. Faster, he shouted, futilely. If anything, they seemed more constrained. There was nothing now except the fear. He knew his once speedy legs. He knew their top speed. He felt their terrible suffering. He knew his cause lost. Lost, but not forsaken. For he strove onwards. But oh the burning thighs. Oh, the tortuous straining for rapidity. Acceleration intended only resulted in hindered sluggishness. There was no time. His fear mounted. His afflictions escalated. And a sudden pause. A blackness descended. The silence echoed his fearful throbbing. The running finished, terror clung to him. Or perhaps, him to it. He could move his legs, almost freely. The sensation of running through glue remained. The feeling stuck to his stretched nerves. In the blackness, he felt his sweat. Through the stress, he felt a pillow. Among his strained limbs, there were blankets. He dare not open his eyes. He managed a thought: Is it over? The broiling pain hung in the blackness. Yet he opened his eyes. The horror of the moment bound him. Though still enchained, he saw his room. Though stricken with panic, he knew now. Though enveloped, he now saw the day. The dark feelings continue. But now his dream is finished.

high noon gun fight

2009-11-24T15:36:00.000-08:00

Here is the Second Exercise, which forced me into committing the terrible crime of abandoning all punctuation. God be with you.

high noon gun fight

breakfast brief bath and got last night's lady to rub down massage but my hands still too tense not much sleep for all that night the dark in bed no stars out window ready too ready scared stiff hard to rest knowing what tomorrow brought with all the thoughts of people known of people past i wondered where they might be i thought of them anyhow and lay awake maybe drifted off lonely in the dusty hot dark waiting for later but now this bright morning i have something to do ease cool metal click and part and grease and polish my side arm my shield my future my life with clean worn hands cleaning smooth glinting steel checking rechecking assembling for sure my life to live the reasons i have are the decision my choice to carry through window and out and freedom from the task and freedom but with fear no freedom from fear fear for my life fear for wondering if i couldnt have done it anyway got to take my chance to face my face to face what could be brought to rest either way brought to peace no doubt now doubt is done and gun is polished and working bullets loaded pants on tight and shirt on loose with belt slung skantly cross hips forgot to shave but can do later either me or the undertaker shake hands loose here i am and out in hallway clunking through the hall down stairs and through bar the heat is up now the sun is high the door swings free with a push and eyes need to squint to catch the glare not long now my hat i forgot my hat but no time now here he is across the street not far now got to stand tall gotta be big gotta move fast but steady now and steps down into dust street dont fall with bright sun high above but him there across the way hes gonna get it hes gonna be mine bastard take whats mine will he never again not no more and here my place in the center of this street with him in my sights and good as dead and he looks twitchy and nervous but steady i am and true my aim and nothing he can do now and hair blows in dirty wind and i cant believe i left hand he moved and i move and his gun flashes heart tears gun shot but where cant see cant hear feel rip sharp dark ache which him tear where fear lonely curse ache keen stab dark down pierce throb dark harsh dark chill cut dark ache dark dark dark dark

The People of Wak Wak

2009-11-23T12:33:00.000-08:00

Author's note: The exercise here was to write something meant to be read out loud. So, you should read the bit below out loud. Preferably, performing with a growing crescendo until the end and of course, beyond.

The People of Wak Wak

Welcome to the wonderful island of Wak Wak! To escape our weekly wailings, we come to the wonderful world of Wak Wak. We awake to the constant paradise of soothing comforts and continuous cool from the swimming pools to jakuzis to walks in wet sands to crawfish, brewskis, and kiwis at the Badwkin Hotel. We can can can with tucans whatever wheather confronts the fantastically wakfabulous island of Wak Wak.

But oh! Oh kindly woe! How fare the fine people of Wak Wak? Oh the wretched people of Wak Wak! The glorious glared upon glouts. Oh, abhorred and abandoned aborigines. Blinded by blusterous blunderers. Like living life luxuriously while wackos wack their waking wives. Oh the lamentable people of Wak Wak! Head strong and hardy, the people of Wak Wak. Charitable and amiable. Righteous and fortuitous. Capable yet unbendable. Now marketable and expendable. The unforgetable people of Wak Wak! They lived their days in the sun, under palms, with fresh coconuts and yawns. Dreaming day dreams and feasting for pheasants. Taboos forever fostered festered becoming shattered. A barrage of boring bureaucrats bring wickedness and weakened kin. Whatever happened to the wonderful people of Wak Wak? Wicked they grew. While coconuts died and tucans wondered, the crazed people of Wak Wak they worked. They worked for the white conquerers. They worked constantly for the whites. They cut wood for the whites. They would cook for the whites. Wouldn't come home until they cleaned all the clothes of the whites. They never wielded no weapons to kill no whites. They caved to the whites. They withered with the whites. Oh the despicable weaklings of Wak Wak! Crow about kiwis and coconut wine but I have no welcome for the wreck caused by the wake of the coming of those wicked whites.

But lo! What wonder! What luck! What yonder cleaver breeches our catastrophe? Through what cleverness and wile will our willing savior come? Can it be oh so clear? We can construct our weapons of community. We can awaken our latent power to play. We can shock the world of Wak Wak with our great calm in the face of calamity. We can love. We can create. We can take back through a new story what cracked and broke oh so long ago. Through our infinite relaxation we beckon our limbs to heal and make again our wonderful island of Wak Wak. After destruction comes growth. The mythos is the trick. Our great tranquility within is the sword we wield. With love for all and empathy eternal we kindle in our kind the awareness of the connection of all life. The tale we tell spreads the knowledge of the constants of the world, forging creatures wise without heartache and wretchedness. Oh, the wonderful, fantastically wakfabulous people of Wak Wak! Crawl out of your caves and confines and crown yourselves kings and queens, now and forever, of the wonderful, fantastically wakfabulous island paradise of Wak Wak!

Aback

2009-09-06T15:34:00.000-07:00

mesmerizing myriads of michael's muscle

milking meandering mendicants more magnificently

A priori

2009-09-04T12:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I take out loans of chocolate. I take them into the my mouth, just to spit them back out again. With interest.

Detective Story Beginnings

2008-07-29T22:33:00.000-07:00

A Detective Story. Begun.

There is the beginning of a detective story below, as you perhaps garnered already. Unlike my other writings, the following piece is fallible and looking forward to an editing process, so please leave any commentary, questions, confusions, concerns, or kafkaesque corrections.

Okay, shoot:

Yep, smack in the middle. That's where I'm stuck. Smack in the middle, and if I don't keep my wits steady I'm liable to get smacked myself. With something much worse than a velvet glove.

I have the safety of the home, which is really simply an apartment, where I abandon the loads of the day at the doormat. Mat, that's what he goes by in my presence, greets everyone including me, every time, with a STOP, in white letters on a red background. I listen to him only long enough to get the door open.

There is also the security of the office. My partner Rick, what a powerhouse that fellow, I don't know how he gets away with wearing all that yellow, all the time, I shake my head in wonder. He more or less runs the place. I've got my own office. Just as big as the secretary's. I have more furnishings in my office than in my apartment and all I have in my office is a hat rack, a desk, and a chair. I greet Betsy at her desk every morning by smelling the flowers she brings in to spruce up the place. Sometimes I ask her if that task would more easily be accomplished bringing in an actual Spruce.

Rick escorts the pearled, sparkling, furred ladies into his luscious office and sends the twitchy, bespectacled, skinny, balding men worried over their wives or their cars or their cats to me. Yet Rick sees fit to split the profits fifty-fifty. He bought a brand new, yellow, bullet proof shiny, Packard Standard Eight. He drives it to work.

There is something sketchy about the detective business. What's sketchy about it is the mundanity of following some poor sap around till he does something stupid and clicking away his happiness with a few pictures. What's patchy about this nonsense is surviving as a detective. The main threat to my existence is starvation. The other is boredom. My cousin offered me a gig stamping documents down at the courthouse. Regular, everyday work with an actual rhythm. I turned him down. I'm not interested in learning a second ho-hum driveling tune. One is too much.

And then today, same melody, different ditty. I stepped into the office after a late lunch. A dame was crying behind Rick's door.

"Who's the dame?" I asked, with a pointed thumb.

"Good morning," Betsy responded.

"That's fine, none of my business. Nice flowers." I stalked through my door. It hadn't rained on me on the way in so I put my purple trench coat on the hat rack and my lilac fedora on my desk. I rested myself on the windowsill. The sobs continued. My window looked out on an alley, a pile of trash, a family of rats I hadn't gotten to know yet, and the fire escape. Also, some windows of the buildings across the way, always unfortunately curtained. Not that there were any secrets on the other side of them.

A door shut, a series of farewells and reassurances, and then another door shutting. I could hear Rick saying something to Betsy and then the knock on my door. I turned my head from the window to the door. It was already open and Rick was saying, "I'm going to need your help, of course."

Bear Rug

2008-06-02T23:00:00.000-07:00

He was much like a dwarf in stature. Thick around the chest, arms, and shoulders. A ruddiness at the ready. Curling hair cut short. Stout, with a beer in his hand. And yet for all of this evident muscle, he lacked for something. The physical was just a counter balance to an emptiness. Missing confidence, he dug into the tropes of strength drawn up into the magical images of swordsmen and pirate flags. A big puppy dog, with a sadness trying to hide behind his eyes.

Who Cares

2008-06-02T22:50:00.000-07:00

I see it a lot these days. I see it more and more in everyone I meet. Whether they've got purpose or are drifting their way through the days without direction. It's in everyone. Nobody really seems to know how to make meaning for themselves and even when we think we've managed a motive, it's the empty, echoing antechamber of our tomb. Nihilism. Nihilism annihilates who we think we are. And then there we are, a body, a being, a soul, suddenly without any of those traditional notions of what Self is, left grasping for something, left gasping for an air we don't know how to breathe anymore. What's it all mean, Jack? We want someone to tell us. We want a sign post and a map and a generous gas station attendant to point the way with street names and colorful landmark descriptions.

Who doesn't have pain to express? How do we feel our sufferings? Drinkings? Distractions? Moving images? Violence? Day dreams? Ramblings? Success? How do we tell the difference between self medication as an alleviation of our pain and the honest creation communicating identity? What if they are the same? We are so terribly pained in these our modern times. In everything we do, in all the art we create, we seek the terrible release of our pain. In the times we reside within, art is pain, cried out.

What path shall we tread? We hurt while we no longer have anything to hang onto anymore. And so where are we to go? There is death. The ultimate escape. There is dissipation. The escape of those without courage or consciousness. And there is healing. I know my direction. Would you care to tag along for awhile?

a grey scene set forth

2008-05-11T14:49:00.000-07:00

Pink shoes on her feet surrounded by a grey, heavy on the shoulders day. Clouds pressing overhead. Not quite a mysty fogginess closing in all around. The train wasn't coming yet. On a railing she sat on the platform, pink shoes hanging on loose feet. Some shopping done, a bag wrapped around an ankle. She sat comfortable, reading, retreating from the grey, yet not surrendered. A train passed. Ho-hum. It wasn't hers. The grey smothered. The commuters dingy around. Someone approaches. Where is the mall from here? Dull answers for tired questions. Her sigh joined the insipid atmosphere. Compared, the black type on the white page was actually colorful. Another shape of someone appeared in her vision. "Here," he says. Looking up, a rose glowing pink slips into her hand. Lightened, she regards his eyes. "Thank you," he says. And is gone. Down the platform and across the tracks. The radiant rose reflects on her cheeks. Warmth blooming inside her, she dips her nose between the incandescent petals.

The Ideology of the German Ideology

2008-04-09T14:33:00.000-07:00

The following is the original text of an essay or perhaps it was just a series of notes put together by Mike's Shingles. It was never published. Nobody ever mentions it anywhere in the historical record. We don't have the money to carbon date it. We made up the title. Isn't it good? We did find a quote which might be a reference to the writing of this text from S. J. W., when he wrote in a letter to Shingles, "We are not waiting for the cavalry of the revolution. We are the Revel of the Revelution!" But, really, this whole document just kind of showed up in our offices one day. We don't know where it came from. We don't know where it will go. We don't know how it got here. But our team of investigators, librarians, and researchers is hard at work on these questions, those being the most important questions pertaining to this document. We're pretty sure Mike's Shingles wrote it anyway. I mean, it looks like his handwriting, don't you think? And there's absolutely no doubt that any potential holes in their arguments are found in the destroyed segments of the text. No doubt whatsoever. None. Oh, and one point more: Is your Questioning Quickening?

my words

2008-03-06T16:50:00.000-08:00

play movement infinity joy crisp opening self eternal magic now moment here sharper relax life focus calm revolution power supersession

Spider's Searchings

2008-03-04T18:53:00.000-08:00

a boy walks through the door to the outside, singing a little song. "Spiiider! Spiiider! carve me a shawl! Spiiider! Spiiider! knit me an awl!" and he steps into the grass, singing, "Spiiider! Spiiider! pick me a fight! Spiider! Spiiider! lick me a bite!" and he kneels and sits under a tree, singing, "Spiider! Spiiider! catch me a whale. Spiiider! Spiiider! tell me a tale." and he stops singing because his eyes have to narrow their focus onto a black dot suddenly itching his nose. "I think I will," the Spider says. "once upon a time, there was a princess who found a spider on her bedroom floor. she didn't love spiders, but she wasn't going to kill them either. she shuffled it out of the window with a piece of paper. a little while later, there was the spider again, scooting across her wall. she scooped it up and out it went again. it wasn't long until it was dangling from her ceiling. she took her pencil, caught up its thread and tugged it once again outside. As soon as she had put her pencil away, though, there it was again, sitting on her writing desk. flabbergasted, she put a glass over the spider, slipped paper underneath, slid on her shoes, and headed out. she walked through the palace, through the park, down into the streets, through the row houses, and found her way to the market. she wound her way through the people, through the stalls of fruit and socks and paintings until she found her way to the stall she was in need of. "Hello Mr. Spider Master, sir," she said. "Hello Princess," he said. "why does this spider keep following me?" she asked. "push it near," he said. he leaned in, squinting. "ah, of course," he said, straightening. "what is it?" the princess asked. "this spider only wants to achieve what it sees as it's identity. "so," he said, "what is it?" "It's a spider," said the princess. "Exactly, but what of hers does it spy? you see, it couldn't understand either until it one day found a mirror and then it knew." the princess looked into the glass, stared at the spider, scratched her neck, shut her eyes, tilted her head to the side, rubbed her eyes, and said, "so, i think, ah. yes, it's that the spider's sole meaning and purpose in life is to have spied 'er red 'ips." "Quite right," said the Spider Master. "But," the princess said, " i don't have red hips." "yeah," he said, "it's pretty much hopeless then, ain't it?"" "Cool," announces the boy. The Spider looks at him and says, "Do you grasp the meaning?" "Sure," answers the boy, "spiders can't say h's."

Always Hallways

2008-03-02T22:31:00.000-08:00

reverberating through the halls, there came a small child singing. his hair short, standing on end. he sings and shouts and runs his fingers along the wall as he passes. he has pants and socks and shoes and a shirt. his fingers reach an open door and he pushes off and spins, finding the wall again on the other side with his opposite hand and walks backwards. now he's looking up at the ceiling, his hair pointing the way. his mouth open on a long note, on and on. he arrives at the main hall, but does not stop, just turns and continues his promenade, not taking in the posters strewn upon the walls or the livery done up in high style promoting games and functions and teams and clubs. nope, he's walking backwards, ending this particular note and moving on after taking in a breath. he shouts. once. twice. sharp and crisp and filling this empty hall. there's no one around. he reaches another side hall, he lets the wall go its own way. he stands planting his feet, with hands on hips, staring down the center of this new hall. he drops down into a sprint start and he's off, flaring down the hall, a little breeze following, enjoying. he rounds the turn at full speed, leaning into it. he grunts because he's shifting gears and a face appears from a door ahead. the boy tucks his chin and launches forward. 'oh no you don't,' says the face, now a full body present in the hallway. the boy aims for his chance at freedom, but there's a grunt from the face and suddenly, the boy's held up in this man's arms, caught and fairly stuck. 'come on, come on,' says the face, 'we're almost done with your brother's teacher conference.' the little boy grimaces.

Jaded Emeralds

2008-02-27T23:50:00.000-08:00

her eyes flame. no longer the green embers usually glowing dull in her face. something stokes those eyes now. she had been accustomed to damper herself. there was never any reason to burn. nothing could kindle her. it was all boring or painful. why bother. she did what made her feel comfortable. she chilled out. but those embers she could not extinguish. they are her. and they ignite now. she walks over to the counter. her eyes most typically lit up for her devilish tricks on people. a sneaky trip as i would walk past and her eyes flicker. a laser pointer to the eye of a passerby and a glint would twinkle. a match lit and tossed into a lap and there blinked a quick spark. but now, the conflagration in her eyes overwhelms these brief distractions. her inferno reveals herself. the fire too much for her shadings to conceal. she smiles at me and burns. no distraction as good as this. no light more brilliant. the passion for her life is there, on fire within her. she warms herself for that moment. she shakes her head. the room cools. she picks up a rag. it can't go on. there can't possibly be enough fuel. she wipes crumbs from the counter. she's smothered. she turns toward me. doused, her eyes fade back toward a shimmering jade. she smiles with a reminiscence and says to me, "You are so strange."

to the Thor!!!

2008-02-26T23:12:00.000-08:00

authorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthorauthor

starlight and sunlight

2008-02-26T00:42:00.000-08:00

a boy walked through a field. the grass was short. the cows weren't around. it was the middle of the night. he was far from home. he moved the farthest he could from the trees. his mouth opened as he looked up into the black. twinkles glittered across the sky. he blinked, lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. there wasn't anything to see here. there wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. it was all ordinary. he was bored. the world had nothing to offer him. he was looking for the next big thing. it wasn't happening. it was all the same. the stars didn't do anything for him. there was no feeling there. they just sparkled the same way the neighbors didn't look at him as they passed on the street. where was the something? parents didn't have any answers, they just wanted schooling and education for the future. teachers didn't offer anything but tests and grades of past performance. always more to learn and yet all of it the same. his peers made games. he sometimes joined along. they were transient, lost in their own deception of the roles they played actually giving them strength. all the adults played roles. they had no strength, nothing to give him. the sky couldn't answer. the stars had no signs. the trees bark and yet say not a thing helpful. the cows moo and speak nothing. what the fuck? a nihilism is born. and who is to teach this boy the next step? who is to say, damn fine work! you've seen through the bullshit. now, let's make something real.

the boy went through the window and into the covers of his bed. he tucked in and stared at the ceiling. the glow in the dark stars shown. he saw them as useless. they reflected himself. how does one overcome the meaningless? he fell into sleep.

he woke and the sun falls in through the window and onto his bed. there isn't much he can do. he lays there, letting the warmth reach out to him. he's stuck under the covers as the shadows fail to defend him. the glare off the blankets gains ground toward his face. he pulls up the blanket and sheet over his head. he bakes. the orange glow covers his whole bed now and his blankets toast him. the dark has left him. the bright even sneaks in through the blankets, casting patchwork colors across the sheets. he will not run anymore. the heat wins. he has to make it all himself. he gets to create everything. he is his to express. he gets up and blinks. he stretches. he opens the door.

one hundred years of solitude

2008-02-24T21:43:00.000-08:00

a book:

"... and he began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering it as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror." - Gabriel García Márquez

reviewed:

solitude. because we necessarily can only relate to the world in isolation. solitude. because only we can choose for ourselves what the Meaning of our life is. solitude. because pain drives us there. solitude. because all life ends. solitude. because we distract ourselves with this Self, with this Identity, with this separation till we can't relate any other way. solitude. details are irrelevant and flexible, up to the individual. solitude. drawing it all into one moment, a solitary instant. solitude. all the tales are from one place, all the episodes are of a single kind. solitude. an eternal epoch, the same theme played over and over and over and over. solitude. this moment lasts forever while this idea constantly becomes us. solitude. it breathes and dies. solitude. it is a single moment. solitude. there is no escape, only the will to individual meaning. solitude. i have only myself with which to relate to the world. solitude. all persons are unique. solitude. and so i arrive not at a climax, not at a denouement, but at the comprehension of Now as my only chance, as my only method of expressing the solitary singleness of my essence. solitude. and only now do i know the solitude of us all. only now do i know my own story. only now i discover the coded key deshrouding so much lonely mist. only now i say i am because i create myself every instant. only now am i my speaking mirror.

Paralyzed Gesture

2008-02-23T11:17:00.000-08:00

Greetings!

A new Tack. I will be polishing gems less perfectly from now on in order to practice my craft. Here is my most recent exercise.

who knows where these words, these sound bite souls may go. dancing. atwirly whirlagig. withering those stale gorgons, stuck in their stone stalls. those halted stopped themselves. those halted only held themselves from freedom. look at me. i dare you. look at me and we shall see. frozen are these times trying to be. it wants to keep you here. to call off the chase. don't bother. don't react. you are the sun. they can not end you. they need your warmth, but you need not their cold. fire will not stop moving. always questing. heat the void. beat the frozen. don't stop. never give up flux. look at me. watch me smile. you want me, but i am mine. i burn your glare. your eyes judge, they transfix me. i burst them aflame. they are no match. i am. choke on my smoke. blinded by my blaze. your candle flame incinerates the static frost of violent eyes.

In the year of the Lord, God our Savior

2007-07-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

A Review of
1984
by George Orwell

In the year 2525,
If man is still alive,
If woman can survive, they may find
In the year 3535
Ain't gonna need to tell no truth, tell no lies
Everything you think, do, and say
Is in the pill you took today...

Cleverness abounds in simple puns and radical redactions of thought. It's like simplifying an individual multifaceted human being into his or her or maybe one simplistic statement of An Idea no doubt involving Doing and or Liking. He likes to Golf, for instance. Or perhaps, she enjoys bird watching. And of course the reverse. He hates her. These statements consume and construct the individual, creating an Image reflected off the minds viewing them. Similarly, book reviews construct such arbitrary determinants for the Identity of a work of creation. And of course the most oft asked question of a person having finished a book or novel or story is, 'Do you like it?' Liking and doing are overrated and oversimplified notions of Identity. Images are unavoidable, but how they are imagined we can completely control. And also, since the best is to create your own image of the work, the review, for me, is more an exercise in stating my interpretation, my understanding, my image which will, as is my hope, provide us both with a greater understanding. Mine through the expression of my thought and our future dialogue and you with the mingling of two images in your mind, both used to construct, hopefully, a more fulfilled, helpful image. Human individuals and works of creation all interact with the world through vague, transient images of their Selves.

George Orwell itself is an Image of a human individual also naming himself Eric Blair. And the image he posits of the future state of humanity is frightening, depressing, and so exactly pinpoints those methods human society has used at least since civilization began to manipulate and cajole individuals into serving its needs over the needs of the individual. The Party carries all these logics, extant in all human societies to some degree, to a logical conclusion so complete and total as to appear as a grey concrete, monolithic Party skyscraper casting its dark shadow over human historical development, past, present, and future.

The power of the Party lies in their development of Conscious Ideology. While most powerful elites throughout human historical record have received political institutions, cultural traits, and societal norms, the Party has essentially destroyed or is in the process of destroying all these, replacing them with a total, consciously designed system producing Complete Power in a single, eternal Idea. While all civilizations have had as their intent Power, not a single one has accomplished power without also developing in the other areas of human interest. The Party would be the first and the last.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of heaven
You can justify it in the end.
There won't be any trumpets blowin'
Come the judgement day
On the bloody morning after
One tin soldier rides away.

Sometimes, I lack cleverness, so I draw on the ideas of others. Ideas abound in this world of ours today. Everyone is so distracted by Ideas. From Capitalism to Communism, from Nationalism to Primitivism, from watching the newest television show to science, from peace in our time to acting on the golden screen, from Class consciousness to iPods, from Revolution to physical fitness, from Literary Theory to the Tao, from the Vedic tradition to Zietgeist, from You to Me, we are far too wrapped up in Ideas. We consider them to be so important they become Ideals. And with Ideals comes Judgement. Do I live up to these criteria? No, invariably, you do not, whatever the fact of the matter, whatever the truth of the self. The only consistent Good coming from the manipulation of human individuals into contorted beings of twisted Identity is greater societal power. Everyone takes Ideals voluntarily into their hearts and makes them a part of their Selves so that they choose the Life of this Ideal over the Life of who they Are to the point where decimation of their own bodies and minds is a worthy trade for the survival of some soon to be archaic, stupid, asinine Idea. Ridiculous! Ideas as Ideals crown random Criteria into Kings over the serfs of True Self Identity. Just as we now favor democracy of the people over Monarchy of the few, so too should we prefer the healthier democracy of the Individual Identity over the Tyranny of the Ideal. Yes, this is all word play, word play to show you the twists and turns of logic and Ideology. I'm using words to tell you words can be arranged however I want them. I'm using logic to tell you logic can be arranged however you want it to be. Thus we can imagine a future based on the logics and happenings of our world today. Thus we can become conscious of how our world operates. Thus we can figure out how to intentionally manipulate our existence towards a more beautiful path.

Ideas are never bad, it is how they are used which can be harmful or helpful. 1984 provides us one intentional use of ideas to effect a truth in reality. Indeed, one of the first arguments I picked up on in the book is its attack on the Marxist Ideal of a Proletariat Revolution. No Proletariat anywhere will ever rise up, according to The Party, through Goldstein, through George Orwell, through Eric Blair. No uneducated, downtrodden, pest ridden, oppressed, depressed, used group of people anywhere is going to rise up in an organized, sustainable fashion to resist the powers that be with the very weapons the powers that are have been amassing since they took power. No. If any group is going to consciously understand themselves as a class with the same interest, it is going to be an educated one from somewhere in between the Elites and the Miserables. And I pretty much agree. The way it was conceived, there will be no proletariat revolution with stones and sticks thrown into creating a worldwide utopian workers' owned collective. At least not until our conception of what Power is and how we wield it is annihilated and We Compose.

The entire composition of 1984 is in three parts. In the first, we are introduced to Winston's world. In the second, we are given great hope of a possible escape, and we can't even enjoy that all the way through because just before the beginning of the third part every hope we and Winston have begins to be decimated one by one until the finale of part three where nothing stands but the overwhelming Logic of the Party. Through every step, Winston retains hope, however small, of some infinitesimal victory, and in the end the Party is the only hope Winston has. Self here is completely exterminated and replaced with an Idea. It is the Idea of our times. Identity as Idea. Self as a thing we can express completely and solely in words. 1984 is the imposition of this single Theory into the totality of a human individual's truth. Impossible, you say? Stop, now, what's that sound? Everybody look what's goin' down. There's battle lines being drawn. Nobody's right, if everybody's wrong...

Every news program I have ever watched concerning whether we are living 1984 has only been concerned with cameras everywhere watching us and the catch phrase, Big Brother is Watching you. What they fail to grasp is that Big Brother is You. You are watching yourself. The power of doublethink commands it. None of these news programs concern themselves with pondering over the question of how little thought we put into how we think or how easily we unchallengingly accept those big Ideas as good and even necessary. The Party is Good. Now replace, the party, with My Country, or my Anarchism, or my Company, or my God, et cetera, et cetera et cetera. Tell me, what are your thoughts and feelings?

Tell me, tell me. Is one Outrage? Is one pure blind fury at such a challenge? Are you left speechless from such an Attack on your Person, on the very Ideas you hold to be Important? Or have you calmly considered the implications. Every aspect of the Party exists now, as they did in Eric Blair's time, in these Ideals we hold to be so self evident. So self evident, we feel they are Fact and unalterable. The Party compels the same obedience in its subjects minds. The only difference is the Party consciously creates the obedience. The difference is the same as a gatherer picking berries and fruits throughout the forest and the agriculturalist tilling the soil in order to sow seeds for future harvest. Greater power comes from conscious manipulation rather than happening into. Please, look at the world around us, compare the elements used by the Party to propel its Power unceasingly with what is happening now and throughout history. Everywhere we will find manipulation of human individuals by fear, love and the rest of human emotions for the benefit of power, the alienation of human individuals from themselves, their community, and their methods of survival allowing the succeeding Power of the time to act as the medium for all relations, and education in the Proper Way leading to an internalization of the accepted modes of conduct and thought.

Eric Blair saw clearly the methods of acquiring Power by human civilization from its People. He laid them out for us in terrifying fashion to drive home the point that we must act now and that we can act now to consciously create the world we desire. Ideas are useful to achieve our purpose, but they are no replacement for real human relationships allowing for the expression and communication of true human emotions. We have Ideas. Ideas do not have Us.

In the year 9595
I'm kinda wonderin' if man is gonna be alive
He's taken everything this old Earth can give.
And he ain't put back nothing. Whooooa ooh.
Now it's been 10,000 years.
Man has cried a billion tears.
For what he never knew,
Now man's reign is through.
But through eternal night.
The twinkling of starlight.
So very far away.
Maybe it's only yesterday.
In the year 2525
If man is still alive,
If woman can survive,
they may find...

How to Catch Twenty Too

2007-05-22T21:11:00.000-07:00

It took me two tries to read Catch 22 through to the end. I found it brilliant when I did succeed in finishing it and as I reflected upon it for the following essay, I found it ever more brilliant. So, here goes, an excercise in reflection.

HOW TO CATCH 22

Welcome. You're listening to KWTF and this is Our Hour Conversation.

Duuuuum, didda didda duuuum dum dum ba dooooo didda didda dooooo dooooo doooo da duuuuummm ba duuuuuuuuuuum.

Good evening. I'm Mark McGently and my very special guest tonight is Yossarian. A Hello to you sir.

Thanks Mark, it's great to be here and not dead.

Ha ha, yes, of course. It's not often we get the famous literary characters into the studio for a sit down in front of the mic, but here we have you. Tell us, how did you get here?

Well, Mark, as I hope many of your listeners already know,
I come straight from the imagination of Joseph Heller
and really only came alive on the pages of his novel Catch 22 and subsequently
its follow up, Closing Time, though I haven't quite gotten
the time to read that one through, though, it is on my list.

Excellent. Now, Yossarian, take us through the war, your feelings, your thoughts. What was it like being bamboozled? What was it like getting strafed?

Those certainly are interesting questions,
Mark and you'll find them pretty much answered through Catch 22.
Joseph Heller pretty much spells it out for all of us there in black and white.

Of course, of course. Now, what's it like living the life of a literary celebrity?

There's not as much liberty as people think, actually.
Pretty much it's by the book and I mean that literally of course.
I don't have a lot of freedom.
I can't go to the movies, can't go to the grocery store
without it being part of some writers fantasy.
I mean, it makes for a pretty limiting existence. I often feel violated.

Tell me, did you make it to Sweden?

Ha, well yes, funny story there Mark.

I believe it.

With Nately's whore on my heels, it was the harrowing journey of a lifetime.

I learned to stay calm and relaxed and I could easily handle each new attack
Nately's whore managed to deliver. I went through Europe, learned Aikido,
read Chaucer and Shakespeare and of course finally got around to Irving Washing,
I mean Washington Irving and he's not all he's supposed to be y'know.
But, I got through Marseillle and Paris and Amsterdam and Brussels
and Prague and Vienna and Kiev, in that order and
got into Holstein and Schleiswigg, though I could never spell them
and through Denmark and arrived in Sweden fending off Nately's whore in a raft I'd
constructed from the skinny little trees they grow in Denmark. I took a look around and
in most ways it wasn't really any place special. I mean, Sweden is just another ideology,
just another way of looking at the world.
Though they weren't snooty or forcing it down my throat or trying to kill me for it.
And I guess that's why Sweden is special, no one lets ideology rule them,
it's just another tool to help understand the world.
For Joseph Heller Sweden was where we
could escape our "protective rationalization," (372) -
that special ability we all have to use rational thought to logical prove
who we are and what we do is Correct and incontrovertible. It's a remarkably
special ability we use to justify in perfect reasonableness any thought or action from the
greatest creations of beauty to the most terrifying pain causing destructions.
Joseph Heller put a lot of work into Catch 22 to dispel the strength of this "protective
rationalization," mocking it constantly at every scene, with every character. Yet it still
continues, though not so much in Sweden. I mean, it's a neutral country, they don't need a New
Trull, which is, I think, why they threw out Nately's whore.

Fascinating. How did you feel about the Mysogeny of Catch 22?

Well, it was an Age of Misogyny, aren't they all? But, yes,
there are no truly positive female characters. And they are always,
or maybe even almost always portrayed as Sexual Objects
to be coveted or obtained either as whores or sexual partners,
very rarely, if at all shown outside of a bedroom situation and if they
are they're trying to marry doctors, or kill me or get you to pay for sex,
or very naïvely declaring the God they don't believe in is good and just and kind.
Yes, women are portrayed badly. But, how do men fare?
Better, certainly, and it does help their cause that the protagonists are male.
Was Joseph Heller a Misogynist? I don't know, I've never had an opportunity
to speak with him. Was he just a man of his Times? I don't know. I do know
the story, however, and what I know is that the whole point of Catch 22 is for the
reader to Catch him or herself in the act of "protective rationalization" and begin to
comprehend it all around us. The point of Catch 22 is to Question this world.
The point is to drive us to skepticism of all these received ideas given to us as the great
Gifts of Civilization, but which are often detrimental
to who we could become. And so perhaps he is not the misogynist his treatment
of female characters makes him out to be, if he is asking us to go ahead and challenge
our received notions of femininity and ask what is the woman's role in society and
why are women acting and thinking in the manner they do and how can we, together,
create a new, healthy feminine identity. Joseph Heller is a skeptic, sometimes
septic and he rarely gives Answers to his annihilations of moronic Ideologies. He can question
through challenging our expectations with word play and irony. He can teach us
to start questioning. But the solutions he can't quite come to.
Sweden is his answer for me. That is, Running Away from all the issues.
Sweden is escape. It's all he could muster as an answer. But, through a twist of mine own logic,
I find it somewhat sensical. If you wouldn't mind hearing it...

Do tell.

This world is fucked up. The way people live is painful, limiting, and
threatening the existence of all Life. Sweden is where we can all go,
metaphorically. The other place we'll probably all end up going is hell, one way or another.
Sweden exists as an outside shot, as a candidate with slim odds.
Sweden is the realization, the comprehension that how we think,
the very basics of how we see the world, interact, operate, live in it are
the base of our ills. The ills aren't the problem, it is our "protective rationalization"
of those parts of us we don't even consider because they're so engrained,
so assumed to be Truth, when really they are just one of an infinite number of possibilties.
We Rationalize their existence as a part of our identity, as a necessary part of our
identity and Protect the existence of what we think is ourselves and to save that
self from the pain Growth brings. Sweden is where we accept our responsibility
and voice our desire for change, change in our very essences, because it is who we are
and how we live creating this world and not the bourgeoisie or the Man
or the gov'ment or the God or even a pen. But, like I said, Joseph Heller can't really help us
get there, just start us off on the journey, like he did me. I mean, he had Orr sail in a
blow up raft through the pillars of Hercules, around the Iberian peninsula,
through the worst the North Sea and English Channel could offer
and he still had aways to go to Sweden, so he doesn't really know the way.
But, the important thing is that someone has been there.
Someone has made it. And me makes sometwo. And of course,
Nately's whore brings the sum up to somethree. So, that should be quite inspirational.

Most wellly
spoken, my excellency.

Who are you exactly?

I, good sir,
am the propitious
prose ghost.
A ghost abiding
and residing
in the pages
of the Great Works.
And who might you be?

Yossarian. Pleasure.

The pleasure, sir,
is all mine.

Welcome. I am Mark McGently. Do you have a name, spirit?

I refuse to abide
by such labels and no,
I shall not spear it.

Ah. And what brings you here to this radio studio?

Apparently, out of the
comfort of my slumber,
out of the moments
of my bliss,
I have been summoned.

Ooops.

And how, apparition, did a summoning take place?

Graciously, no doubt,
judging by the company.

Without doubt.

Well, did you perhaps,
tear off the fleshy covers
of any adorning books and
then attempt to sell them at profit?

No.

Very well, that is most pleasant,
indeed,
for I shall not have to
Smite thee.

I would like to avoid such extremes.

Perchance have you spoken
the ancient and sagacious
Assyrian tongue in the past fortnight?

I shy away from it.

Drunken any
mystical, bubbling potions?

Not today.

Taken any baths
with three virgin roosters and
Chrysanthemum petals?

Sounds relaxing. No. But we did say an author's name several times.

How many?

Several.

Several, you say.
Yes, yes, that would have
done it. It only takes several
to sever
all
ghosts from their prose.

You seem to possess certain immortal qualities. What do you do with all the time you live within prose?

Well, allow me a moment of ponderage, ah
yes, now, have you ever
been enjoying a good novel
in your chair at home
and could swear you
hear chains clanking?

No.

Ah, well, It is a dying profession.

Ah.

But, mostly
we add considerably
to the pages of books
growing to be brittle, dusty
and a certain musty color of yellow.

Tell us more about yourself. Say, what are the pros and cons of apparitionhood?

Now, wait a moment, no disrespect or anything,
but I thought this was my interview?

This is breaking news, you heard it here first stuff. We can't ignore it.

Boy, the pros are really proving to be
overly professional this evening.

The beneficence in
my station as a spirit
inhabiting the works
of certain prose masters
allows me the occasion
to become au fait
with their grand ideas
and epic postulations.

So you must have spent some time with Yossarian's exploits. Any thoughts?

Through the great amount
of time I have acquainted
myself with this Catch 22,
I have found that Catch 22 is
Ideology.
Allow me to recite a certain passage
of interest, intending to achieve
elucidation:
""Yossarian left money in the old woman's lap-
it was odd how many wrongs
leaving money seemed to right-
and strode out of the apartment,
cursing Catch-22 even though he knew
there was no such thing.
Catch-22 did not exist,
he was positive of that,
but it made no difference.
What did matter was
that everyone thought it existed,
and that was much worse,
for there was no object or text to ridicule or refute,
to accuse,
criticise,
attack,
amend,
hate,
revile,
spit at,
rip to shreds,
trample upon
or burn up."
(418).
As you no doubt now grasp,
when Ideology is granted freedom
by humanity to dictate
to humanity
who we are and
how we live,
ideology then arrives
at the status of slave driver
and we allow ourselves to be
swindled into a Catch 22 situation
instead of Ideology being extant as a human tool
used to comprehend and better our
existence.
The Catch 22 humanity suckers itself into
is to get out of Ideology, you only have to become conscious
of its massive influence over you.
But once you are aware of the power
of ideology,
there you find yourself in
a novel ideology.
People constantly fall prey to this jaw-trap
in actually trying to escape from ideology.
In attempting to escape
they only find themselves
locked in to the jaws
of "the Free Market" or "Pacificism"
or "Revolution" or "Philosophy"
or "Primitivism" or "Anarchism"
or "Language" or "Escapism,"
which is to say,
Ideology.

We can also help explain it by breaking down the word
Ideological.
We all have Ideas and their Logic dominates All
of our mind's vision of the world.

This really is fascinating stuff, really. I'm gripped, folks. I hope all of you out there are listening as intently as I am because this is quite the show we've brought for you today. I do have just one more question, since we're running out of time, Mr. Prose Ghost. And that is, how did you come to physical form in this radio studio after so long as a haunter of written words?

Uh oh.

It has to do with
this being a slightly,
shall we say,
unnatural
environment.

I, um, don't follow you.

Yeah. Fake. Staged. Put on.

This radio studio
is the fabrication
of an outside power.

Sure, some construction company, no doubt.

In a sense.

Yes, in the sense
that we are all constructed creatures.
All we are, we owe to another,
existing outside what we perceive
as our environment.

Now, I'm a reasonable man, but this seems a bit too much. And I'm reasonably confident there is no such thing as God.

Yes, God. Well this
most definitely brings us
to an interesting juncture.
I believe it was Nietzsche who said
beings who are capable
of creation want to project
their ability onto the world
they discover themselves
to be in. This world is amazing
they say,
someone such as ourselves
must have created it.
Nietzsche's object here
is to say that We are the Gods
because we can consciously
create.

So, I'm a God?

No, sir. Because you are incapable
of conscious creation.

Yes I am.

Try.

Arrrrrrrrrrggggghhh. Hrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmrmrmmmmrm. Nothing happened.

Nope.

Okay, I'll pick up this pen and just do a little doodle on my notepad here. Okay and...
my God, what is that?

Exactly.

There is an enormous
Pumpkin of the orange
persuasion on your desk.

I'm a natural artist.

Not exactly.

Then who put it there?

The Author.

What?

Who have you been talking to this entire time?
A "prose ghost" and a literary character. What do you expect?

Well, then, is there nothing more to my life than to serve at the whimsy of an unrelatable being?

Well, maybe if you shut up about it, you'll get into the sequel.
Trust me, I know about these things.

It arrives.

Yep. The Void.

What? Where?

It's not so much something one sees, and by the way,
I'm glad we've gotten back to my interview,
as, let's say, a feeling.

This is outrageous. This is it? This is all there is to it? Are there not even to be any puns, any word plays, any cleverness in order to wrap any of this up succinctly and neatly so that we can all feel that we've got some closure or a laugh or something out of this?

Sorry, not so much in the mood.

It's rather
reminiscent of a
sunset.

I abstain. I refuse to participate.

Repetition has no power here.

Uh oh, this seems to be the end,
the author seems to be possessing me,
and I must say that even abstention is granted only
at the discretion of Him or Her. And who is to say that She or He is not just sick

of having to create this world and wants to make something else now? Sick of himself and herself because Ideology is just the story we tell ourselves. But though this Creationist seems so powerful, ruling us and our every action, even greater authority is granted to this Creationor, empowered to deliver whatever word he desires to the page promptly and elegiacally, but then so too is this Creationizer bound to each word laid out, a slave to the words, a slave to the flow of sentence structure, a slave to the language used, a slave to the characters created, a slave to the tale, so that the story is no longer his or hers alone, but everyone's. This Creationista is stuck to us just as we are bound to s(he). What escape is there without the universe of will spinning out of control? The only path is escape, to let the world alone, to stop creating, to cut off contact, to end it and say, The End, but what happens when there is such momentum the world continues, unheedful of its creator's insight, then anything is possible, then we become the creators, then there are no limits because the limit can never be reached. Is it madness? How can we compare? A Dialogue becomes a monologue, a creator, enslaved. Where is the escape from that which binds, how can we Sever All our identities from this powerful language? Can we ever control another's version of the story we tell? How do we make sure one lonely story does Not become our total vision of our reality, but just another story, one of many we like to experience? Is it only through radical reperformance of self? Is it only through Self-negation slash annihilation? Is it only through Deconstruction? I don't know, I haven't read about so much of that stuff yet?

The Terrible Parable of the Parable of the Tribes: Dr. Schmookler or: How I Learned to Quit Worrying and Love the Power

2007-03-24T17:58:00.001-07:00

There was a moderately sized Schmookler tree standing in the outskirts of the wood. It was one of a kind. There weren't any other Schmookler trees standing about yet. A tall, fiery, and mighty Jeffersonian Fir stood not too far away and sometimes cast its shadow over the Schmookler. Rows of colonnaded Madison Oaks passed by the Schmookler, sometimes acknowledging. And the smaller, but thick and veiled Rawls' Cedar could still be smelled from where the Schmookler stood. Absolutely none of da Boar trees were anywhere near it, though the Schmookler sometimes mentioned how it once had a view of A Neach Rich Fried Ginkgo. The Schmookler wasn't the tallest in this part of the wood, looking up to much of the surrounding vegetation, and so could also not see out of the wood, but was still content where it was.

The Schmookler stood like a singer on performance, though few paid it much mind. Its leaves were carefully arranged, it's branches taking many pains to grow straight and sound and not give any doubt what position the tree held. There was no curling, no twisting, no notoriety, no infamousness in those logical limbs. And very little whimsy. But the Schmookler was comfortable and easy to look at. Its bark was easy to grasp and the trunk quick to climb with high possibilities. It liked to talk about other trees a lot, mentioning trees it had seen before from far off and trees it had heard tales of. It held firm to received ideas. It refused to provide a critique of those ideologs which it held in high esteem and this gave the tree a slight ironic twist for in its critique of power, it still allowed power to turn its branches and sap its potential. It had even allowed itself to keep a couple of grafted branches, which seemed to hold sway in certain situations. The branch of the National American Elm blocked the Schmookler's view of certain parts of the wood, while it often had to gaze through a heavy layer of the leaves of a redemptive apple tree branch.

One day, the Schmookler looked down and noticed a sapling where it had not seen one before. The Schmookler looked down and said, Greetings. The little sapling shook its few branches in startlement and looked up to say, greetings to you, too. The Schmookler said, Welcome. Let me introduce myself, I am the Schmookler, a big tree, yet tidy and comfortable. And the little sapling whose leaves were yet small and its branches mere twigs, but reaching up towards the possibilities of the sun, with not too deep roots, though they were trying to delve the depths of the mysterious and wonderful earth said, I haven't been here long, and I was just wondering if you could introduce me to this place as you were so kind to introduce me to yourself.

The Schmookler bowed its boughs and began. In a time long past, humanity crawled the earth in a quest for power. No rock was left ungnarled, no swamp left sticky, no mountain left unplumbed, no cloud left quenched, no toad not licked, no day left pass without a conquering, no animal left wild, no plant untamed, no tree unmutilated. Yet no thing could quench their fire. the desire for power. The Schmookler paused, and then continued. From the dawn of civilization they relentlessly lived a life manipulated by a drive for more and more control over the world around them. They hurt people. They hurt themselves. They found causing agony within those they loved created a more powerful society and a more powerful society meant a better chance at survival. They were just trying to survive. And even their most beautiful creations all revolved around the sun of power and it burnt their skins. The rise of civilization gave us a choice between entering the struggle on terms other than our own or dying. To choose death is not an instinctual choice and so they chose survival, by whatever means necessary. Thus humanity entered the Parable of the Tribes, where every tribe must sacrifice themselves at the throne of Death or at the Temple of Power. The relations among human beings were unregulated and the consequence of this anarchy is that power ruled. Though the core of our ills lied in our unprecedented circumstance, not in the evil of our natures, much of the power men wield is the force of nature which they have harnessed. And harnessing nature means manipulating it into some other usable thing. and nature was threatened and our power grew to still more unquenchable heights till we could destroy ourselves and even all the life and world supporting our derangement. There were a few who realized and spoke out. They knew something must be done. Many experiments were conducted through the course of many lives. Most failed as power saw fit. Slowly, humanity realized its power as destructive, as harmful to life, as harmful to humanity's being and the most apparently successful consideration was undertaken: to limit our power, to hold us back because we could not be trusted. We named ourselves Odysseus and asked ourselves to tie us to the post and block all our senses because any one of them could betray us to the seductive songs of power's sirens. The final solution was ultimately to change the very nature of who we are. To once and for all prevent us from seeking further power. We rooted ourselves to the ground, we threw up our arms in surrender, and sacrificed who we were to avoid the destruction of the world and thus entered the realm of trees. We manipulated our existence to allow our world's continued existence. This wood stands as a testimony to the power of man and as a memorial and celebration of the greatest show of restraint ever achieved throughout the universe.

The Schmookler finished as a breeze blew through the wood, slight and chill, but cutting to the bone. The young sapling shivered at it and took a moment to examine the Schmookler with a questioning, yet excited and respectful eye. Then it began in response. Wise Schmookler, you have taught me much. You have given such an excellent introduction, such a tremendously insightful beginning. Perhaps you are used to the notion of holding yourself back. Perhaps you are accustomed to restraint since you do not apply your own logics to their own conclusions. As i first breached the final layer of topsoil, I heard you speak such: What is viable in a world beset by the struggle for power is what can prevail. Power therefore rules human destiny. And a moment or so later, as i could first see your trunk: Power can only be resisted by power. And still later, when I could first look down upon the small ground greens: My vision is that we realize but a shadow of our own potential. Our life energy moves through us as if we... had atherosclerosis of the soul. The life we were born to is much more deeply nourishing than we have. It is also my perception that we are profoundly incapable of grasping the severity of our sickness of the soul... Chronic injury produces numbness, and chronic numbness creates amnesia of the natural strength of our life force. Conventional consciousness therefore, regards as deluded utopians those whose voices cry out that our growth as human beings is stunted. Our day to day mundane existence is regarded simply as the way life is. Oh wise Schmookler, you blame the birth of civilization for creating the situation of chaos in human society which creates the necessity for the quest for power. But when has life Not faced chaos? When has life Not been face to face with it's own annihilation? The quest for power begins when Life is born. Life is something more than a rock. It can't continue without Doing, without manipulating its environment to produce more of itself, without Power. Civilization is not a transition from a contented humanity to a driven humanity. Civilization is another example of Life's quest for power because the more power a creature has over the world around it, the better are its chances of survival. The reason humanity would give away its idyllic pastoral existence is for greater power over continuing their own survival. The domesticated animal is a more reliable, safer form of food than the wild one. You celebrate the balance of power of the ecosystem as some sort of judicial structure of mythical verdicts to control and limit the power from the creatures to the amoebas. Perhaps you were anticipating your own hope for humanity's organization. No, the ecosystem is the balance of power attained through the testing of any particular organism's power in its environment. The wolf's population grows with the growth of its predatee population. The wolf's power is completely reliant on the animals it hunts. When its source of power dissipates as its own power increases, so inevitably will its own power. There is a balance of power because there is not a Life form who has more power than the rest of the ecosystem. Humanity has much greater power. As you have also said, The core of our ills lies in our unprecedented circumstances, not in the evil of our natures. If any other creature had an opportunity to so dominate its environment, it would, even if it meant its own possible destruction. Life is its own parasite. The quest for power is natural and instinctual for every human being, as it is for all life. You Feel the pain, you see the destruction of human power and you want to hold us back, you want to limit our power. But you yourself, sir, realize but a shadow of our own potential and forget the natural strength of our life force. Your conventional consciousness and experience believe what they see is all the possibility existing for humanity. As if every possibility has already been discovered. How, sir, could a humanity so manipulated and blinded and limited by the ideologies it has hung over its own eyes discover All that is possible? How could a humanity so hurtfully disconnected from our deeply nourishing natures contemplate an irresistible force full of health and love? Perhaps in all the creations of humanity where power was not the complete influence, we find the search for and expression of healing, love, unity. Your justice holds us back. Your justice is a negative reaction against. Your justice is an afterthought to the fait-accompli. Justice is always trumped eventually by those with power and then used against those without. Your justice is Just as unrealistic and idealistic as any anarchist woods you've seen. Your justice takes no positive action. Your justice can not encourage activity. Your justice can not love. Your justice is inhuman. Your justice places the center of humanity outside of itself. Your justice alienates humanity from itself just as civilization, telling us all with a pointed limb, You're bad little boys and girls and you need to be taught how to be Appropriate. I'm not interested in this appropriation of humanity for a purpose outside of humanity, outside of Life. Your justice is coldhearted manipulation. Is that the kind of relations you want to encourage in human society? The quest for Power is human, it is natural to all life, it is a part of who we are. How can we restrain ourselves in one area and expect to be completely free in the rest? Humanity must come to terms with what it has done, with the pain it has created, but this is most easily accomplished with our realization of our irresistible natural power and not by restricting how we think about the world, what we know about the world, what we know about ourselves. Justice does not Encourage, it Discourages and at this moment I'm not interested in dissing my courage. It's weak enough as it is. In courage we can find an ally to help us attain a power built upon Love and Life and Creation and a connection with all. A human power hidden away by pain, by the alienating strength of violent power. The power of Love has yet to be comprehended fully. And if you find this some dried leaf notion of a sapling who has yet to really learn about the world, well, maybe you should listen a little more. Listen a little more to your own leaves and what they're telling you, listen a little more to your trunk and what it says, listen a little more to the wind and the little birds diving through your boughs. Perhaps you've discounted for too long what has been with you all along. I may be a little sapling in a great big wood, but I have seen the possibility of real human power Unleashed and it is good. It will be easy for you to dismiss my words as youthful indiscretion, but why have you so lost your hope? Where have you misplaced your gullibility? Where does your faith lie? I do not ask you to only believe my words. I would show you, if you would only ask. No, well, Allusion will have to be the extent here. But in the meantime, I wish you much water and pleasant sunshine. I must be off, for there is still so much of this wood for me to learn of. I've heard A Neach Rich Fried Ginkgo is around here somewhere I would like to visit with.

The little sapling nodded and then uprooted itself and strolled along, waving goodbye and giving much thanks to the Schmookler for all its thoughts and efforts and it hoped they would meet again somewhere along their journeys.

A Waking of A Revolution: A Tale of A Manifestation

2007-01-18T15:10:00.000-08:00

Ahh, Revolution. How sweet the sound. So deserving of that capital R. Are you well these days? We do hear oh so much gossip of you. In the ads. bUy thIS next gReat rEVOLuTionary thING. it WIll chaNge yOur life FoREvER! GuaRentEED. In the Radicals. Revolt Now! Rise up against the Oppressors. Throw a Rock. In the songs. I'm talkin' 'bout a Revolution. In the Philosophies. proletariat uprising, baby. Unh, double up, Unh Unh!

We hear your name and people trying to lay claim to you but not the story of who you are. Let us not take any understanding for granted. Revolution, we ask you, who is the concept randomly connected to your signifier?

Now, young one, I am many parts, all made one. I am like teak after a backwards turk. I am like shiva. in a couple of ways at least. I play with the children in the school yard. I Live, truly and freely and constantly and now and I'm aware all the while. I am the question of how to free humanity without also enslaving it in some other dilemma. I do not stand preaching on the hill top. I mingle amongst. I sit alongside. Anyone can operate me. And anyone can operate on me. i am the hint at the future.

I see. So, what does all this imply we have to do? What is our course of action?

Oh, questions, questions, questions, questions. so many questions. you know, Questioning doesn't need language, it implies it(which is language for you). Language allows us the ability to more greatly connect disparate elements. Hmm, What if i take a flint stone with a stick and tie it all together with some horsehair? Hmm, What if I take a medium of exchange, valuing commodities independently of one another and a supply of useless products and tie it all together with some invisible hands? oh, right, and i think there's supposed to be a demand in there too somewhere. These Objects have no connection, except in the human mind. These Concepts have no existence outside from the human mind. questioning has given humanity great power. when those questions are not asked, that development Ends. hmm, I wonder what the relationship is between the most powerful groups in human history and the proportion of Questioning happening within their society? Language allows for great power, but maintains even greater limitations. It is ideology manifested. Though you don't have to take my word for it. i am so funny, also, by the way. Luckily, somehow along the path, someone asked what is this path we're walking, where does it go, does it actually exist? And I was born with the question: Is this the way things have to be? Suddenly, the possibilities are endless. suddenly humanity has an opportunity to create how they want to live, instead of living like tribes of Secretaries. silly image, isn't it? so why do it? Suddenly, humanity can truly venture forth to discover their Selves. To discover me, Ask. i am Critique. i am the blooms of Questioning of all concepts. i am the booms from the explosion of ideology by enormous Critique bombs. Bombs away.

All of that seems like a good start, but what is it that we should do after all that?

ahh, so now you just want to go ahead and Do, is it? but are you ready? is it best to leap in to the waters before studying their nature, before studying their currents, before learning how to float or swim, before any sort of preparation? well, it's actually a moot question. because we are already in those waters and for most of us, they are over our heads and all around us. how can we understand land or solid ground, when all we've experienced is the seething maelstrom of aqueous human conception? bodily contorted and dragged in so many directions at once, we find ourselves in a difficult place, just trying to survive. the solution is dissolution. dissolve the waters overwhelming us. take control of your mind. after all, you are the only one able to have control of your mind. we have all learned to hold our breath by swimming under ideology. we have all adapted to the constant pressure on our bodies from being deep under someone else's vision of the world. only ideology does not exist outside of our bodies. In our mind is where ideology lies. and makes us lie to ourselves. only by deconstructing what's resting on our being, our essence, can we get a hint at who we really are, deep down inside. Only by tearing down the superficialities can we begin to approach our true identity. of course, who we are, even deep down inside, is ideology. we contain within ourselves a vision of the world which draws lines on the universe. a strawberry, to us, is tasty. a strawberry to a strawberry plant is progeny. so, you ask in desperation, what are We left with? if ideology is bad and we can't escape it, where is our hope? ideology is not bad, just as knives or guns or knowledge or combustion engines are not bad. it is how humanity uses these instruments which is revealing. mostly these instruments are used harmfully. i am the process of discovering how to use them healthily, to help rather than to hinder or hurt We will probably find many instruments popular in our world now will not be popular in a scrutinized world. ideology is yet another Tool. allowing us to understand the world in radically different ways, thus providing us with myriad ways to connect things and concepts previously unconnectable. the power of destruction and creation opens manifold universes, each one looking at the same world in different ways, looking at our selves in different ways. this text destroys itself by opening itself up to interpretation at the same time it creates by allowing these interpretations to become. destruction and creation are one. thought and action are the same. they allconnect and are indistinguishable. only through destru ction and creation can we carry ideas to their logical conclusion, back to their origin.

Okay, okay. And after we've destroyed and created and questioned, where do we go from there?

Humanity knows power through consciousness. humanity knows itself through consciousness. we all know ourselves through consciousness. ideology often restrains thought rather than enlightening. ideology often predefines who we are, before we ever have the opportunity to explore our identity. consciousness is knowing the power ofideology and how to bre ak it into submission to its creator to the human mind. consciousness takes questioning to critique. consciousness unites creation and destruction. consciousness annihilates propaganda and obliterates manipulation. consciousness allows humanity to finally create how it will live instead of living with how they've been instructed. consciousnessunifies thought and action. consciousness clears the mind of hollow ideology, ideology which deceives and restricts the acceptance and growth of Self consciousness frees humanity from restrictions of the fulfillment of healthy activities and from the enforcement of harm ful ones. consciousness is how we intentionallyconnect and combine and intertwine and play and live. we are aware of our power and our limitations. we understand our hone sty to ourselves and our relations. consciousness lights the dark we once thought unilluminable

Well, all right. Now how is it that we go about gaining our consciousness?

These words are nothing without your comprehension. language is ideology when language becomesFixed that is stationary neuteredstuck into one definition of a concept human thought freezes regarding thatconcept webegin to believethere can be no other wayand so Wemust play playisimagination playispretend pretendingtobe something other thanyouare pretending toseethe world inadifferentway to understandtheworldbetter to under standyourselfbetter playpretend. play dressup look around everyoneisalreadydoingit only way too seriously with fatalconseq uences with play ideologybecomesthecostume We wear forthemoment and not our eternalessence confusedly ouridentityis of course also ideo logy a way of looking at the world but play lets us see through the magicians illusions and still enjoy them for what they are and who we are playisconsciouside ology and thus theenemyofallideology it is the enemy of that ideology which stressesrepresses and limits theindividualand society while the ideology ofplay strengthensemboldensand facilitates the growth ofthe individual andof society play reveals ideology tobeatool of humanity's understandingandnotour slave driver

I trust you Revolution, but why should we commit to these courses of action and thought?

lifeisagame a game where the playersareconstantlyre makingthe rulesmost of the time We thinkWe have to followthe rulesmost ofthe timeour own survivaliscontingentupon following those rules somerulesallowustoexpressour selvessatisfactorilyotherrulesoppresspartsofourselvestwistingand manipulating and cursing themintosubmissiontotheruleisfollowingruleslife?isobeisancetotherulefullandmagicandglow ingandhappy andrewardingandultimately satisfyingofwhoweareashu manbeingsjudgingbytheconditionoftheworldourenvironmenttheindividualsresiding thereineverythingweseearoundusiwouldventureanottoohesitantnomaybeimwrongmypositionallowsforthatpossibilitylookwithinyourselfandaskisyourwh olebeingsatiatedandfullyexpressedoraretherepartsofyo urselflyingtoyourselftryingtocoverpainorunhappinessLifedoesntneedtolietoitselflivinglifeisnotacquiringobjectsitisanexpre ssionofidentityitisthejourneytowardsselfdiscoveryandselffulfillmentplayanWdewilltrulyliveplayandiwillsucceepdlayandrealpowerwilblemadeirresistiblyapparentteoveryone

Revolution, what is happening to you? Where are you going? What's going on?!?!?!?

NoiwRsevolutioni!Ksritiki!DsestructioannCdre ationa!rPelayi!Lsifei!Nsoww!aeroeneI.havneame mdnyamaenydoaulplossesmsneow Iamyourtsdoefinaenhdavl eosmtySelbfuwtitmhdyestructiobnec omeysoucrreatiownitmhycritiqubeecomeysoujrou rnenyopwlawyitmhaenWdewillall Live.

Splendid Ways

2006-12-12T11:04:00.000-08:00

A change of pace. A story I wrote a long time ago. A simple, lovely little piece. Such is what follows:

Splendid Ways

Socks aren't always red, but hers were. And people don't usually wear straw hats in the winter time, but she did. And people rarely wear tulips in their hats when they do wear them, let alone the purple tulips covering her hat. One day she went to the grocery. She looked for avocados.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hair doesn't stick up like his did. And people regularly don't appreciate clothes made out of crayons, like he wanted them to. And everyone knows that permanent marker takes a long time to come off, especially when he covered his body in it. That same day, he went to the grocery. He wanted chips.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Hello," he said to her in aisle three. She was looking at chiles. "You dropped this." He handed her a purple tulip. "Oh, keep it," she said. "They're really easy to come by this time of year." He put the shortened stem in his mouth. She said, "I don't usually see people with permanent marker on their face in such quantities here." She put a chile in her basket, then put it back, and walked down the aisle. He walked the other way.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Hello," she said while he poked each bag of chips. "Looking for the ripest one?" she asked. "I'm looking for the crispest," he said around the tulip. "The poking's just for fun." He stretched up to the top shelf and poked a bag there. "You dropped your permanent marker." "Keep it," he answered, "they're not so tough to come by this time of year." She stuck it in her hat. She went to get avocados.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Hello," he said as she prodded avocados. "I know a recipe for guacamole." "So do I," she said. "I have chips." "I can get them," she said. "I have a pattern for a dress made out of crayons." "Does it go, 'frog green, apple red, amber brown?" she asked. "Actually," he said, "it starts with sock red and goes on to permanent marker black and then to heart pink and then to tulip purple." "How long does your guacamole take to make?" "It takes all night." "Then we better get started." And eyes don't usually sparkle as brilliantly as theirs.

Theses on Theses on Feuerbach

2006-12-11T12:09:00.000-08:00

Hello Again! Not the most exciting second post Ever in the history of the world, but the post I'm working on isn't quite finished yet and this one builds up to it, well, let's say humorously. It will be all the more humorous if you go ahead and enlighten yourself by reading pages 143 to 145 in The Marx-Engels Reader, Second Edition. Edited by Robert C. Tucker, though I don't know why Robert needs to see Tucker or for what. W.W. Norton and Company, publisher, New York and oh baby, London. If of course, you have failed to do so thus far. And without further Ado:

Theses on Theses on Feuerbach

Mikes wrote this little thing late one night sitting in a hostel, in his own room mind you and only for 15 euros a night, in Marseille, France, wondering would it have been possible to gain so much understand for more cheaper a price. Mikes lifelong companion, Schengels, who spent the night with him that night, and on most nights left to come, would eventually find these notes scratched into the walls of the hostel the next morning after Mikes had suddenly taken off without him. Despite being off ended, Schengels published the notes to rave reviews and sell out crowds in 1888. The last thesis, in which Mikes realized Nirvana, was destined, without a doubt, to be one of the most overrated statements EVER made by a human being playing pretend with revolution. Before resorting to commentaries, however, the reader should apply himself to Mikes' own amplification of the "Theses" in Part I of Star Wars: The Ideology of the German Ideology. Schengels made a few changes. All of which were for the better, really, and which I've left in (even though it was some other dude translated this thing from the original english). That's how bad a writer this Mikes fellow was.

I. Wow, I should really go ahead and read Feuerbach. Hahahahahahahahahaha.

II. There are two approaches necessary to the Dialectic. Theory, thought and praxis, practice, action.

III. The philosophers, trapped in their own ages, could only produce Theory, being restricted by their times from testing their theory in practice. Thought could then develop independent upon reality, which both allowed it to proceed ahead of the reality of its situation but which also restricted it from attaining its truthful goal.

IV. Marx begins the project of introducing theory and praxis to each other and the world, so we all know the importance of both. His work consists of integrating the two approaches, for only in their unification can humanity discover first what it desires and then how to achieve it. He overlooks the fact that after completing this work the chief thing still remains to be done. To Live. To Love. To be Free, immediately and without pause for the rest of eternity.

V. Marx, not satisfied with sitting around in dankness, thinking all night, appeals for action in the real world in order to test all the thoughts he does have, but he does not conceive of action as being a State of Mind.

VI. The human essence is for Marx how people interact in society. But human society should not be understood as an homogenous mass of powerless role players. And so human essence has to be a combination of the individual affecting society and the society affecting the individual. but because marx gives short shrift to the individual, seeing the social relations of individuals as Most important, he is consequently compelled:
1) to forget the individual
2) And thus the human essence is understood solely in the individual's relations to others (or perhaps his relation to an economic system), and so the individual is reduced to a dumb pawn, unable to effect and only able to accept the identity dished and the role assigned to her by society. And so Marx was led towards a revolutionary strategy aimed at masses of people.

VII. Marx ignores the power of the individual over her own thinking and over the world around her. He ignores that it is individuals who create society while remembering that it is society that creates individuals.

VIII. It is not enough to tell society, 'be free.' It is with the individual that revolution begins because true freedom can not be granted, it can necessarily Not be Given by anyone outside the Individual. It has to be Realized, understood by each individual as a consciousness, as an awareness of the power each individual has over how he lives his own life, over his own ways of thinking, and over his own modes of survival.

IX. it is the role of the revolutionary to arose in others the consciousness she has already gained. This is exactly what Marx wanted to do. He couldn't do it because he failed to understand what Revolution truly is.

X. Marx knows well the importance of consciousness. He knows the importance of action, of carrying out theories in practice. He fails to bring the two together, and he fails to bring them together immediately. Right Now. The true Revolution is not the overthrowing of government, it is not the workers' gaining control over the modes of production. The True Revolution is Living at this moment without bourgeois consciousness and constructing a community of truly free humans unrestrained by the limits placed upon us by the bourgeois mindset.

XI. The revolutionaries have only ever interpreted revolution as Revolt, in various ways; the point of Revolution, however, is to LIVE it.

2006-12-03T13:57:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm officially on the bandwagon and ready to make some noise! Although if a Revolutionary falls for freedom in the woods with nobody else around to hear, does this Revolutionary really make any noise?

We'll immolate these words and maybe the gods will hear. That's a big word I just learned. This is me learning. This place is mine. I stake the claim. These ideas are already everywhere, but the words are my own. By speaking, I plant my flag. In speech, I become. Even if it's only howlings in the void.