Jun 27, 2006

Piggy-Backing Kansas

There is something innately beautiful with being able to take a three minute walk to get home so that you can change over laundry in the middle of a work day. Today I opted to go there for my lunch break, but since I'd already eaten at my desk, I chose to play guitar instead. The laundry can wait. There's nothing like breaking up the day with a little session like that. No computers, no emails, schedules, just music and total absorbedness. I thrive inside autonomy.

Jun 26, 2006

Far Away From Kansas

Home is definitely a factor of time and place. Part way into reading a third book in as many weeks in the genre non-ficition/rural life, this author has touched on the assertion, as the previous two have. It entails being here, now, in this moment, being molded by everything the eye can see, and all that it can't. The landscapes, the weather, the people, the times.

I remember a time, when after moving into this rustic graduate-student arrangement on campus, where I wrote about how difficult it was trying to grow accustomed the the house on my first evening there.

After making it through the month of May, the house became quiet, mostly, except for the sound of my guitar and the occasional scream aimed at the soccer match playing on TV. I was alone. Finally. This was utter liberation. First thing I did was let the place go to shit. And I thought the house couldn't have slid any worse. Oh, it did though.

When the last lightbulb in the bathroom went out with a spark, I went into one of the football assistant's room and took his last bulb. Friends have been dropping by with regularity; I smoked a few cigarettes indoors, then quickly regretted it afterward because the smoke hung in the air and left a constricted feeling like that inside of a sauna.

It's been nothing but starlight skies, moonlit nights, and solitude. Standing outside, I know that the northern wind bears a message. I just need some more time to listen to it.

Jun 25, 2006

Not to Expect Anything Spectacular

It has been quite a long time since I've had a religious experience on the Day of Rest. Ok, I can't even push it that far, but this morning was the closest I've gotten to worshipping in years.

A couple weeks back, four of my friends and I, all former members of the band Section 8 (don't Google it you'll find everyone except us), decided on a whim that we'd do a reunion show over the Fourth of July weekend. It's not that we're patriots or anything, just that our conga player is going to be back in town that week. Before any of us thought about when and where we'd practice, there was a date, a venue, and an ad in the local entertainment magazine. We were signed up to play, not literally, but the event had been published. We must go through.

So this morning was our first practice in a year, and it went surprisingly well. Absent our bassist and the conga player, the three of us--a drummer, a singer (me), and a guitarist--plugged away at the material we remembered. Amazingly enough, there wasn't all that much we'd forgotten. It's a characteristic somewhat inherent in music, I've come to find. That band was one in which I've never felt more at one with the music. It's internal now, in my wiring. Music sticks to my brain like a disease, and it is a hungry disease.

There we were, in the drummer's basement, communing together once again. Navigating scales that my voice hadn't gone over in months. The guitarist's fingers running up and down the fretboards, over songs he hadn't revisited since the band split, yet there they all were, as if he'd taken them and tucked them inside a chest to be stored away; all the while the positionings simply waited for the time of summoning. And the drummer, loud, solid, as he used to be, on the click like a tick-tocking clock.

As if through the vibrations in the concrete below, the spell of the music seeped up into my rubber soles, sending tremors and ripples throughout my bloodstream. Just close your eyes and wail.

Oh and did I. Wail might be the wrong word but I chose it because wail in the verb form is defined as to grieve or protest bitterly, or to make a long sound suggestive of a cry. As a noun it is a long, loud cry of grief or pain, as well as a bitter protest.

In essence, that's what it was. The initial exhalation, the release of the first few notes felt like a sort of weeping. The kind one has when reunited with something beautiful, once lost. All in the same it was a bitter protest. This fucking band should still be together.

But it was also a wail of celebration, if a person can have that. The three of us in that room together speaking a language that didn't require talking or eye contact or any sort of acknowledgement, just the individual and his concentration on the instrument that happens to enslave him, imposing his will upon it for those glorious moments where time seems to stall, and a quiet hum escaping even the most trained musician's ear fills every nook and cranny of the white, one story house.

Jun 19, 2006

Monday night...

...usually ends with a pizza and a beer. I need it after fourteen straight hours of work. Before leaving the station tonight I scanned a pepperoni 'za for myself. At home, I went to put it in the oven after the timer started yacking at me, signaling that it had pre-heated to the specified temperature. The sound is far more piercing and annoying than anything I've ever heard. A larger impact than the airhorn on a firetruck and more annoying than three alarm-clocks, all at different pitches, going off in unison.

Sixteen minutes later the thing beeps at me again, continuing in it's chirping, reminding me that yes, the pizza is done. It's like a nagging parent.

"Damnit," I say aloud. I've realized, or rather, I've remembered that there isn't a pizza cutter in this house. Wait. There could be one upstairs, where the other kitchen is, in this strange house where I stay alone. It's not bohemia, but it's definitely not up to what were once my standards. However that's all out of my hands now.

One of the problems with the place is that it is horribly lit. Most of the light fixtures have been covered up and painted over, creating a need for other sources. I encountered this issue face on when heading into the foyer, towards the steps leading to the second floor.

Flicking on my lighter, I saw that the door to the landing had been partially closed, and through the small crack, I could see that inside it was dark. I swore I left a light on, and that I also left the door wide. A coolness pooled in the pit of my stomach, and I thought about turning back. For the last two months I've been using a metal spatula to meticulously cut through my 'zas. A pizza cutter at this point would be an outright luxury. I'd been upstairs before to borrow other things, like their microwave, and dishes, but never at night, never when it was dark.

This is an old house, on a land that's been inhabited here by the same little community for nearly one-hundred and fifty years. And I don't know where the light-switches are up there. The idea of this house being haunted resurfaced in my mind. I'm not prepared to see a ghost. To me they are like the tornado that touched down thirty miles south of here last night and destoryed part of a town: there's both a fear and a fascination.

But I couldn't have written about this all unless I went up there in search of my prize. After finding the lights, there it was, inside the drawer where all the other silverware rested. Isn't that just proper and right and in a straight line with how things should be. I encountered no ghosts, which means that this pizza cutter is still a huge fucking luxury.

Jun 18, 2006

Pumping Gas

Storms blew into our county from the southwest. A muck-colored sky on one side, and an eerie ocean blue in the northwest, tinted slightly from the sun's reflection off the darkened sky. Though the wind lapped at the American flag posted out in the lot, an eerie calm blanketed the air.

An elderly lady pulled up to the pump furthest from the entrance doors. Slowly, ever so slowly, she emerged from her car. Monitoring her while taking care of customers inside, I noted how her semi-circle from the driver's door to the gas tank on the other side of the car took nearly two minutes. Another minute passed by before she figured out how to work the pump.

Most nights when I work the gas station, I bring a book with me. It helps to pass the time, and passing the time is something greatly needed at that job. I feel no connection to it. Always working alone, I've had no chance to get to know any co-workers. I know their names, not their lives and their stories. With customers, it's either pleasantries or a one-sided conversation that consists of me nodding with nervous affirmation and a gentleman who reeks of oil telling me about what he'd done to his car that afternoon.

Why can't they just stay home, I sometimes wonder, frustrated when a customer pulls up while I'm in the middle of an engaging part in a book.

After a while, I heard a beep which signaled that the elderly lady had finished pumping her gas. A vehicle that had since pulled up to another pump obstructed my view of her car, and I did not see her until she was a few metres from the entrance.

The reason that it had taken her so long was because she carried a cane. She walked slowly, slightly bent over, her head angled towards the ground. Immediately I thought about how I should've pumped her gas for her.

Something seemed out of place though. The station's in a small town, so I'd reckon that I recognize eighty to ninety percent of our customers. She wasn't in that hefty bunch. And, the cane. It appeared as if it were meant for someone else, someone a bit taller, and male.

She had something like twenty dollars and seven cents in fuel. She smiled at me as she came in, then we said our hello's. After paying for the gas, she walked towards the doors, but suddenly slowed down, gently turned back towards the register. This usually meant the customer had something to say outside of the normal have a nice day.

She started with smile and a laugh. Such a cute, little old lady.

"I couldn't get the nozzle to stop," she said, with a chuckle. "I was watching it, but it goes so fast..."

I laughed with her and assured her that many other customers went over their intended amount. She turned towards to door and slowly stepped outside.

Before she went out, she said, "Don't have a husband to do that for me anymore." The glass door swung shut, the creak of the metal hinges unusually piercing. I followed her with my eyes as long as I could, until the next customer came to the counter. She remained on my mind much longer.

Don't have a husband to do that for me anymore.

The funeral must've been recent.

Most of the people I see come in to buy beer or cigarettes. Some of them are already drunk, some stoned. Others will come in and tell racially charged jokes. And at some times, it is difficult to muster the necessary attitude to constitute customer service; sometimes I throw that whole idea out the window and act cold as stone.

But the elderly lady showed me rightly how quick I've been to judge as of late. Like patience has worn a bit thin. However, each of these people has their own story, this I know: the mother and her child, always the same item: a twelve pack of beer; the farmer with the gnarled hands who curses because he can't wry his hand open wide enough to pick money from his wallet; the third-shifter, waking up around eight to come in for smokes and lottery tickets.

The least I can do is to be more compassionate towards the people I see on a day to day basis, strangers or not, and less judgmental. Offer a genuine smile. See myself in their faces.

Jun 16, 2006

Official Transcript

Author's Note:This is an official transcript of a voicemail taken directly off of my phone. There are no typographical errors. Although there might be speculation as to who left the message, I can assure you that it was not George W. Bush, even though the language seems to point to him.


Yep. Just playing a little Ark. And, uh, when I was, uh, bouncing the little ball back and forth here it occurred to me...

(short pause)

...that, uh, you originally planned to stay over here anyway...

(short pause) ah...

(short pause)

sitting here thinkin'...

(sound of lips smacking)

...could be playing Arkanoid right now...

(short pause) were gonna stay here anyway...

(short pause)

...your car's here so you need to go back here...

(sound of plastic buttons being rapidly tapped)

...come back here...

(short pause)

...doesn't make any sense to me... here I'm playing one player Arkanoid, which is fine with me. I'm totally cool with that.

(sound of plastic buttons being rapidly tapped)

I'm totally cool with playing one player Arkanoid, and I'm fucking rocking the house. In fact, well on my way to scoring maybe 200000 tonight...I'm gonna take a picture of it uh....wondering if ah, maybe Katie could gets give you a ride back over to my place...I don't know uh if she's up for that but, uh, if you, uh, throw it out there, see what comes back maybe it'll just float...

(short pause)

...but you never know maybe you just wanna throw it out there for her. All right, man. Talk to you later i gotta...i gotta concentrate here.


All of a sudden 88 degrees with 50 percent humidity and no cloud cover.

Where the shit did this come from?

Not that I'm complaining, it's beautiful. But it brings out the bugs. Back when it was a cool 75 outside, the birds were the active ones outside. It is in this type of swelter where the insects swarm. Mosquitos, abnormal this year in both individual size and total number, as well as bees, grasshoppers, flies, even spiders.

It's like the birds are too oppressed by the heat to call, and maybe hunt insects; I can only hear intermittent cries, and all seem distant and bleak. This is pure stagnancy. The air particles must be in a slow, weightless dance, and I swear I can almost see them hanging over the plowed field just through the backyard.

It feels like everything and nothing could be happening. And I can't put my finger on what I might be missing.

Jun 15, 2006

Mid-June Laze

A silvery shadow twists up into the southeastern sky from where the land meets the horizon. Out in a field, underneath the rusty glow of a perfect moon, a farmer burns garbage in a steel drum. After countless summer nights, and countless burns, the barrel has corroded into a color not far from that of the moon.

Smoke rising up from the drum spirals and turns, snaking up to veil the moon. The only cloud in the sky, it looks like the shed skin of a giant serpent. But it is only from this vantage, miles away, that this masterpiece can be seen. The farmer stands silently, gazing towards the nearby woods which because of the flames, he can no longer see clearly; instead, only shadows while the moist night dampens his clothes, his skin, his bones. He remains unaware of tricks his smoke plays against the light of the moon.

The farmer doesn't notice the heat of the burn until he steps away from it when walking back into the house. His mind, already set on the tasks for tomorrow, wanders across the acreage he's toiled on for years. He shivers slightly.

Now inside, boots shuffle quietly across the hardwood floors; creaks and groans leap up with each step. He feels old, like the the farmhouse, which has around before his father's father farmed the land, owned by his family for generations. So long that their laughter, their scents, their very atoms have been absorbed into the walls.

The kids have been in bed for a couple of hours. From his bedroom door, slightly ajar, spills a column of white light, announcing the presence of his wife. His haven. His place to laze.

He cups his entire right hand around the loose, metal knob, pulling up slightly so as to prevent the hinges from squealing. A failed attempt, but still he finds his wife asleep, a romance novel spread open across her breasts. The farmer does not mind. He's too tired to make love. Tomorrow he rises because he has to; because he wants to; because that is exactly what the world needs.

Jun 14, 2006

Waist Deep

Down in the lowlands, on a snaking, snow-dusted trail, we walked, a few of my friends and I, the eldest of us having seen only eight winters. None of us were too concerned with what went into the process of turning maple sap into syrup, which is what brought most of the other people to the maple valley at Maywood Park on that chilly, March morning.

We boys were simply in a Scout troop that volunteered extra hands for the annual event. Up by the wooden lodge was where we were supposed to be, but as young boys, we would rather explore, and search for whatever adventures we could find in the wilderness.

A thin snow covered most of the shriveled, triangular maple leaves across entire the valley, and there wasn’t much see for wildlife on account of the humans everywhere. Various people, bundled comfortably in thick jackets, moved from tree to tree with their metal taps, hammers and buckets. They’d go to work, then hang the large, metal pail from the thick trunk, directly underneath the tap, and the sap would drip on out in a lazy, golden river.

After a walking for a few minutes, the group of us approached a bend in the path that guided us closer towards the Pigeon River, which was still mostly frozen over at that time of the year.

“Andrew,” yelled one of the boys, “look at the bobber in the ice.”

A freckled young boy pointed out into the middle of a river which was no more than twenty feet wide. Then, out from the middle of the pack ran a lanky kid with sandy hair. He strode up to the water’s edge, his black rubber boots crunching loudly through the snow and rigid grass.

“Where?” he asked, eagerly looking over the ice.

From the matted-down path where the rest of us stood, I could see a red and white fishing lure protruding from the ice.

It had been a mild winter that year, and temperatures tended to hover just below freezing. From my vantage, the ice surrounding the bobber didn’t appear thick at all. Nonetheless, I took part in encouraging Andrew to hustle out onto the ice. We all eagerly anticipated the danger that awaited. Nevermind that it would come at the expense of one of our friends.

He shuffled to and fro, trying to maneuver as close as possible to the water, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the suspended, spherical lure.

This excitement was a normal occurrence with Andrew. It was easy to get him worked up about things. He was a hyperactive kid to begin with, but as kind as they came, known as much for his wide smile as for his gullibility. As soon as we were able to direct his interest onto something, like the bobber, we’d take it as far as we could.

“Go get it,” one of us said, “there might be a fish on it yet!”

Each of us managed to conjure up images of grandeur in Andrew’s brain so that we soon had him tip-toeing out to the center of the ice in the direction of the lure. We’d all helped set the bait, then watched in excitement as he slowly took it. The group of us stood back and attempted to muffle our maniacal laughter, but the crisp air was shattered when his left leg cracked through the thin layer of ice, causing him to tumble waist-deep into the water.

Andrew’s mouth opened in horror at the sting of the freezing water, which numbed his toes up to his belly button as it seeped through his blue jeans and long underwear. Most of us were rolling on the ground. I cannot remember my actions at that point, but I’m sure tears of joy were streaking down my face. Our boisterous laughter cut right through the air, louder than the thrashing from the water, and from a distant bluff, the sound might’ve been confused with the cackle of crows.

Andrew nearly jumped out of the hole he’d fallen into, but the force caused him to break through again in a different place. Finally, he reached the riverbank and lunged for the shore, pulling in one of the other boys in the frigid waters before dragging himself out.

As soon as he reached land, he bolted for the campfire which was near the maple valley, back where we were supposed to be.

At the fire, each of us, in a muddled, eight-year-old confusion, explained to our scoutmaster what had happened. Somehow, Andrew ended up taking most of the heat. I remember white wisps of steam rising off of Andrew’s pants as we all sat around the jumping flames, his jaw chattering. Not one of us offered him our own jacket to gather warmth, and he wouldn’t look any of us in the eye.

We then draped a couple of blankets around him, and shortly he began to complain about being too hot. Though he shivered as we all sat around the crackling flames that day, it may have been our laughter that stung him the coldest.

author's note: for more about the setting and history of Maywood Enviromental Park, see A Walk in the Park.

Jun 12, 2006

Taking It All In

This blank page right here is one of the most intimidating things I've seen in the last couple of days. Mind's in no shape for a wrestling match, so this evening I may simply just settle. I surrender. Truce.

Writing: this art, this gift, this curse requires more than I can amount to. Sometimes I need to shut the brain off for a while. Quit spending all that time inside my head. Slow down and look around, see the blue and red glow of the southwestern horizon just after the sun's descent from view; notice how jet streams leave the winds to scatter intricate cloud patterns across the blazing sky. Let it go. Quiet the mouth, the mind, sit, and just be.

Jun 9, 2006

Lead Head

an update to This is an Alarm...

It is a grey day, as the writer Tom Montag suggests. So these flat, grey puffs are the 20% rain clouds they've called for today. Back at the office there is some relief.

"There's definitely something there," said the doctor as he gently prodded the lump behind my left nipple. "If you came in here to see me because you hurt your ankle, then mentioned to me that you had this going on in your chest, I might tell you not to worry about it. But this is the reason for your visit, so you should probably check it out."

He went onto explain how in most cases the growth in the breast for men and women alike is simply diseased cells that mass together, forming a cyst. Out of all cases of breast cancer, men amount to about 10% of it. All facts I'm well aware of. He then left me with two options: waiting on it to go away, or having it removed regardless of its nature.

"If I waited on it," I asked, "what sorts of symptoms would I encounter that would tell me this is a bad thing?"

He shook his head and smiled slightly, and gave me an answer I dreaded, but expected.

"There's nothing."

That is, there's nothing until it's too late.

He went on, "I can't say one way or another if it's something bad."

"Do you think I should have it checked out?"

"What I usually tell patients is that it all depends upon how heavy it weighs on the mind.'"

That's not a very good thing to tell a writer, a contemplater, someone who's constantly moved to take lessons from the little things in life. Is this something I should really be worried about, I ask myself? Or is this simply my overactive mind? Is there an intuition I have that has brought me in, worried, stressed? Or simply nothing?

The doctor was more than happy to arrange an appointment for me with the surgeon. Not a definite biopsy, just a second opinion, maybe some x-rays and/or ultrasounds. The nurse who set up the appointment announced to the surgeon that she "had a fellow here with a lump in his left breast."

She forgot about the one in my throat.

Jun 8, 2006

What Has It Painted for You Today?

When looking out my office window, I am graced with one of the most beautiful scenes yet this summer; there is something akin to electricity in the air, more excitement. The blue sky sharpens, fades, from a brilliant oceanic blue to a soft gray at the horizon. This is something to be truly greatful for, as the summer is still in its infancy; more is to come.

Why is it that I am so intruiged with nature, and want to sit with it, watch it, listen to it? There has to be a sort of innate connection to it all that we as humans are born with; along the road, some people might lose it while other connect to and embrace it. I try to describe, explain, make sense of nature with words; others do it with paintings, singing, dancing, all possibly trying to find and capture the vibrant energy that seems to be pervasive throughout nature.

Across the county road, a farmer begins to till his acres of cornfield. A slow, green tractor edging its way around the feel, from the outer rings to the inside, spiraling in on itself like a spider's web. The remaining stalks from last year's harvest are churned up with the auburn earth, and the vision takes me straight to autumn.

A slight wind whispers through the roadside reeds. Out there is the air of contentment. Neither coming, nor going, waiting for everything and nothing all the same. Lazy, like the sun in its descent in these warm, summer dusks.


The sun seems to lounge high up in the eastern sky, above the cloud-rimmed horizon, its glow casting shadows on any object that faces it, an art of nature: trees, lightpoles, the farmer's fence, cars. Shadows offering cool ground for a large family of Canadian geese to take shelter in. Shadows, these fingerprints without substance, dictated by the sun, decimated and obscured by clouds.

In the evening hours under the guidance of starlight shadows play greater tricks with the mind's eye; when this section of the shared earth sits underneath a great shadow; where there is a shadow within a shadow, when I stand clothed but naked under the moonlight. Through the rickety bow of a great oak tree where the branches hadn't yet filled in, I can see grey cigarette-smoke clouds swim and trance around the moon.

"Looking back over my shoulder wondering how I made it here,
for all the smoking and the beer I couldn't tell ya." - YMSB

Such a good song that is there, resonating in my ear. Sets off a myriad of emotions, the feeling of a good time coming to a close. Time to get serious now. No longer finding shelter within the shadows, I look again towards the eastern sky, the great ball of fire coaxing life into that persistent motion, where everything has a tendency to grow towards the light.

Jun 7, 2006

The Failure

Out from a worn oak drawer I pulled
the first pen I could grasp

the muse held strong and sacred
in my mind like a chalice
in the hands of Christ
where in an instant
water turned to wine

The first lick gave
one black letter
the second and third
only tiny transparent
clawings that glistened
faintly when the paper was
tilted to the light

The fourth stroke produced
half a letter and
I yearned for a better tongue

My next effort inside the drawer
offered more of the same
only this pen's tip was sharper
like the fat head on the needle
doctor's used to draw blood
from the thumb

It left behind larger divots
in the white
between two blue

Tally-scratchings marking
ounces of patience worn off

I dug inside
the drawer like a dog

a pencil!
but by then
the cup was dry

so this must be
the poem
I was supposed
to write

On Failing

Taken from my journal, April 2005.

It is a difficult thing. I think of these corporate cons, the Enron group, and I strangely relate. With all of them having invested so much time and energy into their work, no one wanted to let go, and lies were whispered, secrets withheld. Was the guilt killing them too? The company couldn’t be resuscitated by their tongued, shadowy methods. And someone broke, blew a whistle. Then hearts broke.

Nearly four years, nearly all in the shadows. Shadows cast by this writer on the glossy pages of these innocent souls’ memories. Shadows conjured by this liar. I wonder if I need difficulty in order to learn. Could I still learn in better times? Will better times inevitably spawn from this pain? These hands must again learn to write, as my tongue must learn again to tell the truth.

A heavy hand of guilt covers this house, holds the walls together. But it is all stained. Bile in the walls, seeping down from the guilt-roof that stays the rain. It has leaked down the walls, into the floor boards, into the water. I have stained this house. The silence weighs heavy like guilt, like cold lead. I hate it, but carry it where I go.

There are no drums here, only silence, as I will not leave anymore echoes to plague the widening cracks in these walls. There comes a strong need for silent repair.

Jun 6, 2006

Midwestern Lightning

Weather forecasters put us and six counties directly to the west on a tornado watch for four hours, which meant the conditions were right for the formation of the destructive funnel clouds. We've passed cleanly through that time window with barely a breeze, some light rain, and blinding, cloud-to-ground lightning that was trailed by a low, rumbling thunder. A soothing thunder, like being underwater in a pool fed by a waterfall.

Before the front came in, I stepped out on the back porch, looked towards the northwestern horizon. Something heavy seemed to hang in the evening light, stagnant and unmoving. Surprised at the audible activity of the wildlife, I strained my ear, trying to count up the different birds, their choruses echoing, weaving in and out of eachother: Morning doves, sparrows, barn swallows, and I could not name the other four by sound.

Out from the tall weeds next to the garage crept a bunny no larger than a softball; tentatively it munched at the grass, eyeing me curiously as I smoked a cigarette. A slight twist at the hips sent it quietly scampering into the bush, and out of my sight. From under a tree in the yard I could hear the sharp, staccato chirps of a chipmunk. In the distance, cows mooed, dogs barked and howled, calling and answering eachother.

The evening rain would surely renew the earth again, coax the hewn grass into frenzied growth. Long after I'd finished my cigarette, the chatter persisted around me. Such an excitement there is, the kind surrounding the prospect, the promise of renewed and refreshed life.

Looking for a Superstition? How 'bout Six, Six......Two-thousand Six?

As far as I can tell the devil hasn't had his day. And why would the world end on my watch, when as I write this it is already 6-7-06 in some parts of this green earth. Australia. Japan. If the word I get from friends is right, things are still spinning there, out east, down under. It seems that at times that some Christians, people in general, need something to worry about, as they need something to complain about.

So much hype in the approach to this day with the imagined events that could take place. Would fire rain from heaven, or would Christ part the skies and fly down to rescue the faithful? Seems a better scene out of Hollywood than reality. The Book of Revelation, which some argue wasn't written by the Apostle John, was surely written while under the influence of a mind-altering substance. I'd simply be pissed if that were the way God would reveal himself to me.

Some women who were to give birth on or near today's date dreaded having their child stamped with a creation date of 6-6-06 (nevermind the zero). Will the world's populace, or maybe only the world's faithful, feel it deep in their bones if a devil child is brought into this world today? And what if that devil child was born in Australia, or Japan, have we already passed through one day of our descent towards hell?

No man will know the day or the hour. Somewhere in the scripture it deals with that. As the child of a parent who believed in the Rapture, "The End" was a frightening thing. I reasoned as a child that if I woke up every morning with the belief in my head that "this will be the day," God couldn't possibly bring life to a close that day, for I had guessed the date of dismantling. This was my pre-teen philosophy, one I'd soon abandon and give no more thought.

Just the other day as I thought about the different ways I could sum up my life to this point, I settled on one that's escaped me, that's been hiding on the fringes for quite some time: this has been an ongoing search for a god, a being, a power, or an ultimate truth. I've seen the handprint of the devil more often than I've seen God's, but would it be fair to tie these residual images to something greater, or just the natural fluctuation of good and bad that randomly spreads across humanity?

It's an aching wish that I have, that is, to be smacked upside the head by something I cannot deny. Something that hasn't happened yet, and possibly never will, though that thought itself is not dismaying. As the world has a tendency towards rotation at thousands of miles per hour, so will my search keep on spinning, uncontrollably, with the earth. The journey continues...

Jun 4, 2006

Gently into the Night

Once again I sit here, wanting to write...waiting to write, but the internet does not allow. God damnit. Having to rely on the inventions of men can be a pain in the ass at certain times. I am a stickler in that regard: I want to write this, and I want to post it immediately. It's like I am without my oxygen supply right now, and the feeling I am left with once it's up, once it's out there, knowing that a piece of myself has been laid bare for any random pair of scrutinous eyes to mind over.

Came to the table tonight with an incoherent myriad of topics in the head. When nights like that happen, I tend to write about everything and nothing at all. Like tonight, four minutes before it turns to Monday, knowing that I should be in bed, settling upon the notion that it is favorable that the internet is down, so that the beauty sleep I require can be attained.

Rest for the body. Rest for the soul. Tomorrow morning I'm coming out, guns blazing.