Warring Tendencies

God, it's been a nearly a week since I last posted. I've had guests since last Friday - first hippies then family. My house was home to much boisterous merriment. But then, yesterday, after my mother and sister had gone, I felt the chill of loneliness; that or the heater wasn't working. I still can't tell. It's strange when someone you've spent a week with leaves. During their stay, near the close, there's a readiness for it to end - for the party to be over. Once they're gone though, there is a feeling of something missing, like leaving your apartment without your phone.

Companionship is a peculiar thing. It's pitted directly against our own ingrained sense of self reliance and independence, ideas that are essential to our collective notions of freedom and liberty. We value our own sovereignty, yet as social creatures we crave the feeling of togetherness. There is something mesmerizing about people working in concert, whether a complex orchestral arrangement or intricate choreography, a team of bank robbers or two people making sweet sweet love. People like to feel as though they're a part of something, but also, apart from something.

To spend a significant amount of time with a significant other produces an unveiling of sorts. There is a loss of those pleasant subtleties and softnesses, like tea made harsh and bitter from too many steeps. In time, the pretty pittances and forgivenesses you grant one another become mean and meager. Conversation becomes increasingly more tendentious; your affections, dissolute. You stare at your partner as though through a stained bathroom mirror, and in their eyes you see that yours too is tarnished. Frustration with yourself, and then with them; a reflexive movement toward the preservation of self and then the lure of unified victory - of overcoming obstacles and upholding allegiance to one another. Eventually our failures force us to cling ardently to our outrage, undoing us.

Oh, our embattled love.

We become burdened by our found follies, like old wallets stretched out and bloated by time's passing, swelling with worn plastic cards, amassing a malignant debt. Something for nothing.

Awefull

Yesterday I'd tried, foolishly, to put into words the experience I had with my hippie comrades. I posted a photo of a painting by Maxfield Parrish called Daybreak that I thought approached describing it. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a picture of a painting must be worth a few thousand more, right? But still, I find myself wanting to relay the event; even though what I write here still cannot encompass, even partially, what it was like. Here's to trying:

The day started out normally enough, with French toast drenched in maple syrup, music and sunshine. Kim, Simon and I lounged around the apartment, leisurely, considering our options for the day. Blue skies beckoned us from the world outside. I suggested that before we did anything I should take them out into the yard and hit them with the hose: to sanitize them for public consumption. I'm kidding, they aren't dirty hippies - they showered yesterday. Instead, I applied soap and hot water to my own stinking gonads and cleansed my skin for whatever the day had in store. I didn't know it at the time, but I was consecrating my epidermis for an impending religious experience.

When I exited the shower Kim had a cute mischievous look in her eye.

"Is my epididymus showing," I asked.

"I have an idea. It's a beautiful day...let's take acid," she said.

I laughed heartily and was about to dismiss the idea when I saw in her face that she was serious. Really, she said, what better time than now? A bit apprehensively, I told her that I wasn't sure if I was in the best place, emotionally, to embark on such a journey.

"Come here, lie down and let me give you a Reiki temple massage; it'll help you make a decision."

Unable to pass up a massage, I obliged. Shockingly, I felt my anxiety slowly melting away like a stick of butter left out in the sun. I think maybe I could do this, I said to myself.

"Shit! I left the butter on the counter!"

I went and saved the goopy butter from its demise and threw it in the freezer like a carbonite Han Solo. I suggested we go get ice-cream and feel out the day's energy, promising to make my decision once we returned. During our walk, I asked them what their past experiences had been like, having them compare it to other substances to get a sense of it. I got the impression it would be like walking in a waking dream; an adventure with all the childlike awe and magic returned to the world.

When we got back home I crushed up the enchanted breathmint into a fine powder and then separated it into equal pieces. We licked our fingers and pressed them into the plate. Kim revealed some protective crystals she'd had in her bag and said they'd bring us luck. She also removed a large holographic photo of Ganesha, who was to bless our travels. Then she began burning sage and asked me to lift my feet, one at a time, as she swirled the smoke around me. I went and put a condom on my flaccid penis, just for some additional protection...I felt invulnerable.

Soon, I was overtaken by a kind of silliness. I felt giggly and my mind became more fluid. I felt more inventive, like my imagination had been fortified by the rituals I'd undergone. My body was hit with waves of euphoria and a desire to stretch. All of my muscles felt alive; relaxed but ready. I suggested we venture out into Golden Gate and see what mysteries awaited us. As soon as we entered the park we were transported into a sort of fairy tale. Trees shimmered in the sun and danced in the breeze. Time slowed down and we moved carelessly, like turtles. We found a giant tree and the three of us wrapped our arms around it. I knew my transformation was complete: I'd become, quite literally, a tree hugger. A human cock-ring adorning the base of an enormous erect tree.

We continued walking, stopping to stare at leaves and trees, flowers and plants. Kim and Simon began picking plants from the ground and eating them. I warned them to beware, the plants were liable to have been sprinkled with dog urine, or worse, bum-piss. They said it tasted peppery. Yep, it was bum-piss. Next, we moved toward the conservatory of flowers. The scene was like a painting. Little girls in dresses picked flowers in the grass and ran around laughing as they handed them out. The flowers seemed to smile and spread their petals wide, wanting to share an embrace with our eyes. When children ran past you could feel them radiating warmth and beauty; they smelled like sunshine.

We stumbled across a roller rink where a graceful transvestite glided across the pavement as though on ice. I remarked that when I'd woken up this morning if someone had told me I'd be tripping on acid in Golden Gate park watching a transvestite rollerblader, I'd have laughed in their face. Yet, there I was. Suddenly a groundhog burst up from the ground where we sat. Amazed at its boldness we began laughing. Kim and Simon started feeding it the peppery bum-piss flowers they'd picked. We named him Herman. I thought he flashed his anus at us, ready to spray like a skunk, but they told me it was his face, not his anus. I still think Ass-Face might have suited him better than Herman. We laughed and Herman never revealed his face, or ass, again.

We walked to the fountains by the Academy of Sciences and looked at the artwork. A street musician presided over the affair, seeming to orchestrate the entirety of the moment through music. It felt as though without him, all of us would've dissolved and collapsed into dust. There was an oil painting that depicted a hauntingly beautiful view of the pacific from a mud colored jetty. Though they were still, I watched the waves slowly sail into the shore. As we walked toward the stage, the symmetry of the path and pews mesmerized me. The golden sunlight streaming through the porticoes of my mind mirrored those before us and I was struck with the feeling we were inside a painting, lying on the floor of Maxfield Parrish's Daydream.

As we passed the Japanese Tea Garden we were transported to feudal Japan. We saw a reincarnated St. Francis of Assisi communing with an assortment of creatures; squirrels, bluejays, lions, tigers and bears swarmed around him as he threw feed. Then we watched the water rippling on top of Stow Lake, little ducks wading slowly across it, like little transvestite rollerbladers. I cannot relay the sense of connectedness I felt with the duck, or the water. We are water more than anything else.

Then we climbed to the top of a mountain and watched the sun get swallowed by the sea. The last 30 seconds of the sunset were so replete with splendor that I struggled to keep my breath. Awesome, I said. No, awful, Simon replied. What? Awefull. A chemical smile spread across my face. We beheld glory in full technicolor. It was like watching an HD-TV from the future. The clouds were lush and soft, glowing with an almost supernatural vibrance. We marveled at the colors in the sky until the night swept them away and then we began our descent.

A harmonica sounded out in the darkness near the fountain, like a metallic wolf howling at the waning moon. Its beautiful sound of longing drew us in like the tide. We stood rapt, wrapped in radiant awe as the guitar cried out to compliment the harmonica. The music blew on the breeze and nestled against our ears, moving through our skin and resonating in our hearts. As we passed the musician he looked up at us and smiled, his fingers danced across the fretboard creating a beautiful flourish that immortalized us in his song.

We stood and stared at the Sphinx, first at the left side of its face, and then the right. Its face was so faceted, beguilingly so. It inspired the realization that everything else is, too. One side was contemplative and vaguely pained, the other stern and resolute. In front, the two sides merged into one, breathing a lifelike subtly into the solemn stone statue.

We walked home happy in the darkness, blanketed by night's reticent stillness. In the distance we heard the sound of laughter. While traveling at a tortoise's pace, I realized the day was perfect and patient.

A plane bellowed a farewell in the sky above, the wind humming below its great metal wings.

Turtles on Turtles All the Way Down

These damned hippies got me to do acid with them.

It was...glorious.

Parrish

No Mads

Guests in town last night, today, and also the night before. They're nomads, travelers from another continent: Australia. They've spent the last month held up in Nevada City on a what sounds like a sort of artists' commune, or a hippie collective for the worn out and weary masses looking to lend a hand and get back to nature. They regaled me with tales of industrious labors; collecting firewood, digging trenches and cutting crops; mistakenly mining gold. The woman there who provides the sanctuary practices numerology, dances and sings. She walks around naked and is beautiful. I want to go.

We went for dinner at homy Indian restaurant nearby, and dined family style. We feasted on savory meats and vegetables, perfectly spiced. Lamb korma, butter chicken, sag paneer, a tandoori cheese, garlic and onion nan, red wine. The host was a warm jovial woman with a contagious smile and contented eyes. We spoke with her about someone named Amma, a guru revered as a saint. My friends had visited with her earlier in the week and received hugs from the spiritual leader. Some wait nearly a day in line to share an embrace with the woman; coincidentally so had the host's husband.

A quote from Amma:

"Attempting to change the world [completely] is like trying to straighten the curly tail of a dog. But society takes birth from people. So by affecting individuals, you can make changes in the society and, through it, in the world. You cannot change it, but you can make changes. The fight in individual minds is responsible for the wars. So if you can touch people, you can touch the world."

I think maybe that's what Michael Jackson had in mind when he did it, he just wanted to get em when they were young. There's more potential that way; children are the ones with the most time remaining to inspire change. Or maybe he just liked their little buttholes, who knows. Either way, Amma's approach isn't an unreasonable one.

At dinner we spoke of the importance of pushing outward against the world to avoid feeling overburdened by its weight. Its mass takes a toll after the years accumulate and it's easy to fall victim to depression. Depression is a kind of slow collapse, a falling inward. It's necessary to push back against the forces that seek to tame us, in order to retain some feral puissance. It's essential for any sort of semblance of happiness. But it is not anger. It's more of a leaning forward to prevent yourself from being toppled by the mammoth force pressing itself against you.

All the earth wants is a hug.

----

The Aussies have woken, I'll need to end this now. More on hugs later.

Over Easy

The world suckles at
Our hearts like a newborn's tongue -
White curious teeth.

We beat our chopped meat
Fists, sometimes fast oftener slow;
Collapsed ventricles.

Gnawing, racing, creeping
Mosaics of motions, and emotion;
Drops, smears and sprays adorning
Grey ridged canvases
Encased inside strangely shaped eggs.

----------------------

Putting down her clipboard, nurse Lamb took a fresh sample of blood from Jane while she slept. After she'd finished she quietly left the room to deposit the vials. As she was walking to the lab she'd realized she absentmindedly left the clipboard in Jane's room and headed back to retrieve it. On her way, the head nurse at the desk called out to her: "Lamb, check the patient in 3; I'm getting a disconnect alert." On da way dearie, left me clipboard in da room, she replied. Upon entering, nurse Lamb discovered the man from earlier had returned to the room and disconnected Jane's respirator. He stood facing the door as if waiting for her arrival. Smiling, he revealed a gun.

Shut the door.

She complied and said, God help you if you hurt Miss Jane.

--

Thanks, I appreciate you helping me out with my phone; one less thing for me to worry about, Sarah said to Peter as they turned the corner back to her sister's corridor. Smirking, Peter said: No problem at all; it's the least I could do after all the trouble I've caused, right?

Madeline stood at the nurses' desk waiting for Peter. She had asked if she could come by and pick up the necklace she'd left at his apartment the last time she was there, before they decided they should no longer speak. He wouldn't be home in time to meet her so he'd told her to stop by the hospital. The desk stood a few doors down from Jane's room, and spotting Madeline, Peter asked Sarah to excuse him. A gunshot rang out, followed by screams and loud silence. With his head ringing and his hands clasped tightly against his ears, his eyes moved frantically as he searched for a gunman. Sarah, running toward Jane's room began screaming when she found the door locked. Oh my God - it came from inside her room! The door is locked! Sarah pounded on the door calling her sister's name. Jane! Jane! Peter grabbed the keys from the nurses' desk and started toward the door. Madeline grabbed his arm and asked, what are you doing? Trying to get yourself killed? Madeline, there's someone with a weapon inside that room who may have shot someone and who probably intends to hurt someone else; Im trying to prevent another person from getting killed.

Peter ran toward the door and opened it. Nurse Lamb lie dead on the floor, her white shirt stained red with blood. The room stank of sulphur. The old man stood beside Jane, her respirator unplugged and knocked over. She struggled to breathe, lying in the bed red and sweating, unaware of the calamity around her. The man held the gun on Peter, then on Sarah before deciding on Madeline, who'd followed them in thinking she'd be able to stop them from entering. For Madeline, time seemed to thicken and become sticky. Peter slowly put his hands in the air signifying he was unarmed, as he tried to talk the man down. Sarah's body contorted and bent with emotional exhaustion as tears streamed from her eyes, and pleading with the man she sobbed: please don't hurt my sister. The man, still smiling, locked his eyes on Madeline and pointed the gun at her decidedly. She put her hands out in front of her to shield herself from the bullet. She heard Peter scream in slow motion and then there was the sound of thunder. The shot fired - the bullet ripped through her palms and then into her chest as she was knocked backwards onto the floor next to nurse Lamb.

Her mind bled out like a yolk, yellow and running.

I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

The sun, rising into a cloud-filled sky, looked like a giant glowing pearl. Jane leaned against a tree to catch her breath after the sheep had run off ahead, spooked or excited by what was behind or in front of them. Her legs ached and her chest was made hot with blood while her heart beat hard in her head. She was now on the outskirts of the forest close to the water, her hair whipping around like streamers tussled by the wind, cool against her hot face. Mist from the ocean below hid just inside her nose, making it wet and cold like a dog's and she wondered how far down the ocean was. The waves crashed against the cliff's base yelling up at her but the meaning was rendered senseless by the relentless sounding of the sea, an army of waves tirelessly pummeling the great piece of rock that rose out of the water as though in defiance. Maybe that's why Poseidon never liked traveling to Mount Olympus, she thought.

The sky's light was still and muted. The clouds functioned as a mammoth lampshade diffusing the sun and Jane couldn't make out how much further she would have to climb to catch the sheep, or how far she'd come. It felt almost as though she were on some cloud-covered mountain side. There were even little drops of liquid that hung in the air floating like bubbles. They made everything around her dewy and moist, especially her dress, which stuck to her back.

From above her in the tree a raven called out, dropping a damp piece of paper from its mouth. It had something written on it. It said: you're almost there. As she folded the page it began to play a song - like one of those expensive birthday cards her mom would play when she was a kid - I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire. The black feathered face looked down at her as the song played, its head turning at those crooked angles bestowed to birds, and the clouds began to take on the color of its wings. Alarmed, Jane stepped back just as a bolt of lightning struck the tree, engulfing it in a crown of flames and billowy black smoke. The paper falling from her hands now read: run.

The smoke began to coalesce into inky droplets rising out from the tree. She turned and ran upwards toward where the sheep had disappeared, hoping it would find her, or she it. The clouds around her seemed to sizzle and pop, the hairs on her arms lifted toward them as she ran, seeming to spark. This is bad she thought, I'm either going to get electrocuted or caught by whatever that thing is. This has to be a bad dream, nothing has really made sense since...since...

She saw the summit up ahead, and she could see what looked like a lamb, but she couldn't be sure. Was there someone else there beside it? She had little time to think so she continued to run, seeing as she couldn't turn around. The burning in her legs was excruciating; the kind of pain that radiates outward eager to greet the still unaffected parts of the body. It pulsed through her whole being, electrically, wrenching her eyes shut as she forced her feet forward toward the summit.

Before her was the sheep, tethered to a wooden stake with a halo around its neck, and next to it Madeline, who wore a crown of thorns upon her head. Rain burst from the clouds above them in great torrents - sounding out like static. The lamb stared past Jane and she turned to see the gathering darkness before her. Her dress was aglow with light as the dark tentacles spasmed and flailed about like cracking whips. Behind Jane, Madeline raised her hands as if to signify surrender, revealing large bullet shaped wounds in her hands. The light from Jane's dress began collecting in Madeline's outstretched hands, pulling Jane toward her, the darkness still in pursuit.

What's happening, Jane asked; what is that? Her dressed flared and set Madeline's crown alight. Smiling, she looked at Jane and said: you're being saved.

Then the lamb looked at Jane, and without speaking, told her what she needed to do.

Aborted

I'd begun writing something else but I felt dissatisfied with it. It felt dry and empty; little tumbleweed rolled by between the lines. Maybe I'll rework it and post it at a later time. Maybe not.

It's funny how even words on a page can suffer a death.

Reveries of a Ruined Reveille

Author Unknown

I have to avoid posting song lyrics when I have nothing to write. It's a nasty habit I've picked up from that vagabond Q. That's not to say that a song can't summarize a sentiment, it's just that there's something nicer about the act of creating than the act of pasting. Paste. It sounds dirty. It's almost a four letter word. Paste.

Today I started my day off with everything in its right place, literally; Radiohead's Everything In Its Right Place is my alarm tone. It has a powerful symbolic weight. And wait, too, since the alarm spends 24 hours a day in a state of suspended anticipation 5 days a week, sometimes 6, just waiting to fire. It's a kind of time-bomb that detonates my dreams, destroying my unconsciousness with screeching shrapnel sounds. They are a horrid thing, alarms. Unnatural. Always disturbing nature's rhythm, finding us when we're lost, even to ourselves.

Alarm-clocks are the only piece of machinery I've ever seen savagely destroyed by another human being, as though it were...another human being. Let's tell the tale:

The morning was dawning and the alarm clock was counting down the seconds before it would begin blaring. It was a Nickelodeon alarm clock that trumpeted with a militant resoluteness, in a rapid staccato. This particular morning I had been in a especially deep sleep; the kind of sleep where gunshots could be fired from your pillow and you wouldn't wake. The alarm, relentlessly playing fast brass - with a fiery ardor - finally roused me from my slumber. I woke weary, heavy and disoriented, the sound of a faint and maddened screaming whispered in from an adjacent room. A sound I was sure was the relic of a dream. Try as I might I was unable to get up and silence the alarm, so thorough was my exhaustion. Then, a rapid pounding of footsteps hard against the floor. My father, shirtless, wearing tube socks and tighty-whities, burst into the room bug-eyed, teeth gnashing.

"WHERE IS IT?!" he screamed, rage wrenching his voice into a falsetto.

His eyes darted around the room with a depraved desperation. Pivoting on his feet and looking frantically around the room he repeated his query, adding "GIMME IT!" Exhausted and amused I motioned toward the unwittingly truculent clock. He lunged for it with an animal ferocity and yanked it up off the floor, twisting his body with it in his arms like an athlete protecting an intercepted pass. The force of his movements caused the cord to spasm and kick violently - knocking down CDs, cards and empty bottles it came into contact with - but didn't actually free it from the wall-socket. With a rabid scream he hurled the clock down against the floor, shattering it to pieces. Looking at the broken clock, still not satisfied by its demise, he screamed the word "MOTHERFUCKER" at it; froth and spittle flaring from his lips as he sounded the F with clenched teeth. Without looking at me he turned toward the door revealing a muddy smudge in his underwear and calmly walked off.

They aren't entirely without the power of prophesy, alarms, but they're of a very self fulfilling kind. If only they knew which sound would be their last; the clash of a symbol or the crash to the floor.

Come on, Come on, Come on, Come on

"I'm sick and tired of the way that I feel,
I'm sick of dreaming and its never for real.
I'm all alone with my deep thoughts.
I'm all alone with my heartache and my good intentions.

I work to eat and drink and sleep just to live,
Feels like I'm never getting back what I give.
Ive got a sad song in my sweet heart.
And all I really ever need is some love and attention

And I don't want to cry my whole life through,
I want to do some laughing too.
So come on, come on, come on, come on, laugh with me.
And I don't want to die without shaking up a leg or two,
Yeah, I want to do some dancing too.
So come on, come on, come on, come on, dance with me.

Sometimes you've just gotta make it for yourself.
Sometimes sugar, it just takes someone else.
Sometimes you've just gotta make it for yourself.
Sometimes baby, you just need someone else.

And I don't want to cry my whole life through
I want to do some laughing too
So come on, come on, come on, come on, laugh with me.
And I don't want to die without shaking up a leg or two
Yeah, I want to do some dancing too
So come on, come on, come on, come on, dance with me."

Hellhole Ratrace - Girls

Of Lovers Estranged

How mendicant the memory that
Haunts the hearts
Of lovers estranged.

Their love,
Lost and funereal-
Lain in the back of a luckless hearse.

Fears take flight like frightened birds,
Hanging shadows circling the sky;
A mobile above a mausoleum.

An empty room
Holds lonely hands
Fingers broken and bent
Gray-haired bristles on a broom.

An Argument

Honestly, I'm not sure what I want, Peter said. I want you...but I don't get the sense you feel the same. It's not that I don't want to be with you Peter, I do. It's just that I don't see how it can work; we aren't together right now for a reason. Peter looked pained and said: so this isn't a break, it's a break. I'm not sure what this is, Madeline said.

Jane stood with the sheep watching the scene unfold thinking the same thing. What is this? Who are they? Why can't they see me, and why did it seem she could see me for a moment? Where the hell are we? The sheep looked at her blithely and followed Peter and Madeline down the street. Why did I even expect an answer, Jane asked aloud. As she walked she couldn't shake the feeling there was something familiar about all of this. The license plates on the parked cars told her she was in Pennsylvania. She realized she was now a few blocks ahead of where she'd stood just a second ago, but she hadn’t moved. There was a sense of jumping in time, like listening to a skipping CD.

Jane felt like she was trespassing inside a place without physical locality; inside a memory or a dream. She began to notice things in the background were out of focus and incomplete. The faces of homes were without windows or doors, and the few people that passed were translucent and featureless.

Then they were at a bench. Madeline and Peter were seated and silent. The sadness in Peter's eyes shined and became liquid. There had been a miscommunication and an argument that had robbed them of their voices; tactless tongues unsheathed like swords instead of plowshares. Jane watched as a twisted tree started to sprout behind them, growing darker and more ominous as they sat. Like the minutes that kept jerking past, the tree too moved like a video dropping frames, like an affront to time. Certain seconds were stripped continuously from its existence. It spasmed and twisted and darkened in odd intervals until it seemed to leech the color out of everything that surrounded it. Madeline said she thought it best to go home and she got up and left. Peter remained on the bench a while longer looking more like a statue than a man. He sat seeming hardened and grey, motionless. The sudden squealing sound of metal told Jane she'd be changing venues, and she squinted as a bright light flared and she became weightless.

----------------

Is dere anytin you need help wit, nurse Lamb asked authoritatively. The man in the doorway cooly turned to look at her and said, no, I was just leaving. Are you a relative of the patient, nurse Lamb asked. No, an old friend. His boots hissed loudly off the linoleum as he left. Nurse Lamb entered the room, her face twisting slightly at the smell of tar and tobacco in the man's wake. She turned to see which way he'd gone but he was nowhere in sight. She checked Jane's vitals and changed her fluids, updating the chart as she completed the items. Hey nurse Lamb, Sarah said as she reentered the room. Miss Sarah, do ya know if your sistah has any older acquaintances, nurse Lamb asked. No, not that I can think of, why? Dere was a man here a minute ago, standin in da doorway; he struck me funny...smelled like a chimney. Sarah remembered a few nights ago when it had rained and she stood outside in the smoking area. It had to be a coincidence she thought, as a vague fear hissed about her ears. I'll have to call mom and see if Jane knows anyone that fits this guy's description, Sarah thought, a wave of worry cascading down her spine. Excuse me a minute nurse Lamb, I need to make a call.

Sarah stepped out into the hall and pulled her phone out from her jacket-pocket. It had no service so she began moving further down the hall, hoping to find reception. Looking down at her phone, not paying careful attention to where she was walking, she caught the shoulder of a passerby, sending her phone out of her hands and across the floor. Sorry, Peter said as he turned in the direction of the escaping phone. Looking up Sarah said, no it's my fau...you! She recognized him from earlier in the week when she'd gotten lost and almost hit him with her car. Me, Peter said, bending down to pick up her phone. It seems I'm always helping you get back on course, he said with a smile. No, you're always getting in my way, Sarah said, taking the phone from him. Well, glad to see you found the hospital alright; hope everything is okay. Wait, I'm sorry, Sarah said. I didn't mean to be rude just now, my humor can be an acquired taste. I'm sorry about almost hitting you with the car too, I had a rough day by the time I'd seen you. I didn't mean to take it out on you. No worries, Peter said, is your phone alright? The glass is cracked but it looks like it still works. Here, come with me, my dad's a surgeon here, we can fill out a report and they'll reimburse you for the damages.

Wait, so your father actually is a doctor?

Keep Moving

Sarah sat beside her sleeping sister, idly flipping through channels in the hospital room. A gray haired unkempt man wearing a wrinkled suit and smudged spectacles appeared on the television:

"...and yet I have heard complaints from some 'discerning' critics that today's music is too fickle, that it lacks consistency. Should an art form that is to encompass the breadth and depth of human emotion and experience not be dynamic? Should it not be able to turn on a dime and entertain a multitude of whims as we do? It would seem these 'music lovers' make appraisals based on what they feel we want as humans; not what we are. They urge us to trample upon and stamp out chaos for the grand illusion of order - in the name of control and consistency - to quiet the deep insecurity looming in the mortality of their hearts. It's fitting that they who need art most are most vehemently opposed to its truest expression. Instead they resort to the comfort and safety of routine's pacifier while rocking to sleep in a cradle.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. A desperate consistency is the folly of the vapid and the quotidian. Orthodoxy has no place in art or in thought; it is a macabre display of death, of putrefied corpses masquerading as marionettes. The proliferation of pablum pervading current discourse is a blight on progress and a signifier of intellectual decay. The restoration of a fecund imagination should be the sole pursuit of any thinker, artist, engineer, doctor or philosopher. Eschew what is customary. Throw away the moth-eaten heirlooms that pass preserved through time. Create something new and quickly destroy it.

Then, do it again."

Sarah changed the channel, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the man's brio. There's truth in that, she thought. But not all conventions are bad, they can't be. Some endure because they promote goodness or help to eradicate ignorance. Some uphold virtue and protect inalienable human rights; rules against torture, murder and rape; the benefits of altruism, education and empathy. When outdated beliefs fade into obsolescence they're replaced with new ideas built upon - or in response to - the old ones. Ideas are largely derivative, it's science. Then is science just another variation of our attempt to control the chaos? There is great power in being able to explain something away. It is a kind of dismantling. To learn how a thing works is to conquer it, to take away its power to mystify; to rob it of its secrecy. But are we just exercising a petty desire to dominate? To flex our intellect at the universe's mysteries in the hopes that we prove ourselves worthy of being spared our oblivion?

I've had too much coffee, I'm beginning to sound like Jane.

Sarah placed the remote down on the hospital-tray and stood up. She bent down and kissed her sister on the forehead before walking out of the room to go to the bathroom. Exiting the room she turned right and walked down the corridor with the shiny linoleum floor. As she did, a man wearing ugly pointed shoes approached the room from the left. He stood in the doorway and stared.

-----------------

Jane, in response to a low hissing behind her, quickly turned but only found dirt scattering in the breeze. It was eerily windy - like she was standing near the edge of a cliff close to a shore - but she didn't feel cold. The long arms of the trees bent and swayed as though trying to shoo her away, and then all at once, as though in terror, they threw their limbs up to the sky revealing a bundle of sticks resting against the trunk of one of the trees. Again she heard that scraping hissing sound. It seemed to stop right behind her, for the second time. When she turned around she saw a thick wall of clouds creeping in. Slowly encroaching the smoke smelled faintly of tobacco and tar. It began to choke her. Where was the sheep, she thought, as she stumbled away from the fog coughing. She neared the sticks leaning against the tree and noticed they looked skeletal slender and knobby. Her dress began to pulse and shimmer, making them rattle. They levitated and assembled in the shape of a hand and tore a blank leaflet from the limb of a tree overhead. Dipping into the muddy earth the pointer finger of the wooden hand scrawled: he's watching, keep moving.

Jane asked who's watching, and turned to see. Standing in the foul smelling smoke she saw a dark shadow dripping like ink. She remembered those pointy boots from the last time, when she'd seen them up close. She followed the hand that beckoned her and moved deeper into the forest, the trees dropping their arms to conceal her. The squeal of screeching brakes and grinding metal pierced the silence and with a white flash she was no longer in the woods. She saw a couple walking on a quiet street soon after the sun had risen. The sheep stood beside her with a sign around its neck that said invisible.

Really though Peter, what do you want out of this, the woman asked. She was passing Jane as she finished her sentence and her hand brushed against Jane's. She stopped and stared.

What, Peter asked. What's wrong? Madeline continued to stare through Jane and said, I don't...I'm not sure...I felt like...never mind.

Marathoner

With escape there is always the inevitable return; truth's officers patrol the perimeter plotting your apprehension, posting wanted flyers and setting up road-blocks. Often it's when you don't expect it, when you think you've lost them for good - the sweet smell of freedom spreading quickly through the air - that they appear. Wearing silver sunglasses, impenetrable as mirrors, reflecting the fear and loathing and desperation on your face straight back into your eyes, with all the harshness of the sun.

Then your pleas fall like leaves on their deaf and intractable ears. Muffled whimpers and ardent bargains miscarried in obstinacy. The painful realization sinks in like needles as you're seated on a pin-cushion inside an interrogation room. Then the photos cataloging your crimes are laid out before you. Pictures of you on all fours, your feckless silhouette scrambling through shadows, crawling through thin tunnels looking more rat than man. That smug look of success and satisfaction as you thought you'd finally found a way out.

"How long did you think you could run?"

Until I couldn't.

Falling of the Leaves

Each season has its own distinct quality, but there is something particularly striking about fall. The air becomes light, crisp, caffeinated. Perfumed by firewood, the breeze blows by briskly, tickling scarves and springing through girls' hair. Made vibrant by the color of the falling leaves, death's hand wears painted nails; yellow, red and orange.

It is a season that invites intimacy and closeness through cooling. Lovers hold each other closer; chilled elbows reunite with that area just below the ribs; muscles hug the bones a bit tighter as they shiver in a trembling embrace. It's rarely cold enough to be uncomfortable, but it's significant enough to incite change; in dress and drink, manner and motivation. Hot buttered rum and extra layers. Hot chocolate and pumpkin pie. A faint bouquet of cinnamon and spice carried past on a gusty wind.

There is a sense of saying goodbye, an escape from summer's hot breath. There is a cutting away of excess: an abscission. One can feel a congealing, things ethereal taking shape. Hidden messages lie buried in the fallen leaves, sheared from the heads of bald trees. Pigeons and squirrels rummage dutifully through the brittle husks searching for treasures to harvest for the coming winter. All creatures seem to move purposefully, with ardor and prescience, tying up the last of their loose ends before winter hangs its icy chrysalises off the limbs of frozen elms.

And so do we, stuffing our pantries with warm sundries for those cold, lonesome nights when we'll sit beside the fire and look out glass windows, watching fall's invisible scissors cut down the last bits of yellow.

Lord Jesus Cruise Byron

Madeline. Madeline. Wake up. Wake up Madeline. There's someone here. You need to hear this. He's reciting poems - sonnets, ballads and quatrains - dedicated to you and I think he hopes you'll see him. He says he's 'braved Hades to beseech the dark lord for safe return of his lady, Eurydice.' He called me the dark lord; do you fucking believe that?! A languid smile spread across Madeline's waking face. She stretched and yawned like a cat as she slowly slid the blankets off and leapt to her feet. The skin of her well muscled legs, from the chill of the cold air, acquired the texture of a basketball's leather as she walked across the wood floor and picked up a pair of jeans, pulling them up over her green briefs while shaking her hips from side to side; great denim snakes rising up to devour her legs. She walked back across the room to her dresser and grabbed a white tank-top, quickly pulling it over her head before glancing into the mirror and wiping the crust from the corners of her eyes. She pulled down a beige sweatshirt hanging from the door of her room and headed to the stairs.

A haiku for you, tempestuous mean maidens, if you'll allow me. Pay attention now, you've already missed the first. Lo! Eurydice!

Madeline emerged, she stood in the doorway there, her hands on her hips.

Thine green eyes bait my
Enamored heart's damned beating.
Bear-trap irises.

Oh he's a clever one, Madeline's roommate Aalison whispered. Can you ask him to do one about me? Madeline smiled and stepped out from the doorway to the head of the stairs. Below her, at the foot of the stairs Peter stood smiling and bowed in supplication. Another gesture of grandiosity to add to the cartoonish display he was making. What, do you think you're Byron? Peter raised his pointer finger to signify a clarification and quietly said 'Lord.' You're unbelievable. You called Monica the dark lord? That's unnecessary and borderline racist. Interrupting, with raised finger, Peter said: I was referring to Hades. I'd considered quoting Sophocles but thought the reference would be lost on her. I'm not racist, she's xenophobic and doesn't like to read. Look, I'm sorry; I'll apologize to her if you want. She isn't the reason I came here though. I came to see you. I know you said you needed some time, but every inch of me writhes and reaches out for you. I feel like Tantalus. You're the apple and the serpent, the curse and the cure.

Your literary references aren't funny or impressive, they're pedantic and attention seeking. I know you think you're being clever and cute but you really need to wake up.

I've tried waking, but it's only when I'm asleep that I'm wrapped in the warm blankets of my dream's illusion. So I'd prefer to just go on sleepwalking, wandering deaf and blind into oncoming traffic; car horns blaring and lights flashing while I go on dreaming, made invulnerable by my ignorance. If I'm struck dead I'll be catapulted into a still deeper sleep.

Still with the theatrics. Why do you do this, Madeline asked. Where's your head at?

Well, given you're standing at the head of the stairs, I'd say the symbolism is rife.

Funny. You know what I don't understand about all of this? Where were you when you had the chance to fix things? When I came to you. Three times you denied me. Tell me about the symbolism there Peter. What was it that happened to Jesus again?

Jesus Christ! Are you comparing yourself to Jesus? You always did have a knack for painting yourself as the victim, but this...and anyway, Jesus came back; he didn't stay entombed in his room burning incense and listening to sad songs while his apostles went mad with grief.

There we go, now I've got you to give up the charade and be honest with me. And really, if anyone is Jesus, it's you - you're asking for miracles over here.

C'mon Madeline, let me walk on water. Then we'll turn it to wine and drink up the red sea; see what I did there? Peter moved toward her, placing his left foot on the bottom step before pausing and gazing up at her. You complete me, he said.

Madeline fought hard to suppress the smirk forcing a bend in her lips. A chuckle broke free from behind her teeth like prison bars pealed by an empty metal cup. Soon it bloomed into a sweet laughter that rang from her throat like a bell. Jerry Maguire?! Jesus!

Which one is it, Peter asked laughing, Jerry or Jesus. They looked at one another smiling and Peter said: I thought you might like that one. Everything else was just filler leading up to it. I knew coming here would be Risky Business, an impossible mission.

Ok, Madeline said laughing, this is deplorable, even for you. Your desperation is shameful. You're trying to win me back with Tom Cruise jokes. Oh, I feel such pity for you that I might just have to agree to your demands; to spare you the mortification you're willing to endure. It's almost Christian in severity.

A baptism then, to save me from my sins. Good old religious terrorism; a kind of holy-waterboarding. He rose another two steps to the middle and extended his hand. Just a walk, I only want to talk.

Okay, Madeline said, walking past Peter's outstretched hand.

Let's walk.

3.141 and so on

Shut your fucking...hole, etc.

Erasure

Myriad are the memories that torture tired minds. Happiness always like a fast decaying fruit, attracting flies full of sick sorrow.

A perennially growing sense of loss can be felt as the years flash past, putrefying what was once ripe. A creeping fog always moving in, erasing the landscapes of our lives.

Yesterday I received news an old friend died; a reminder of life's precariousness. I haven't seen or spoken to him in years - regretfully so, given the circumstances - and I won't be able to see or speak to him again, ever. Old memories stick to my mind, saccharine and sweet, attracting ants. High school wouldn't have been the same without him, nor would the mischief or the mayhem. Or I. 

But growing old is not solely about loss. It is about learning and the accumulation of experience. When done well, there is an unveiling of illusion. Decades are spent building elaborately decorated houses of cards upon which fortunes are built and futures are told, only finally freeing ourselves from the vicissitudes of the clubs and diamonds - the hearts and spades - by letting it all fall down. 

What remains is not you or I, but what we mean to those we hold closest.

He will be missed. 

Jökulhlaup

The wind rushed over the streets sweeping away litter and leaves that had gathered during the day, sanitizing loss with the whims of change. What is change if not a rustling? Peter didn't know why he chose to walk to work so early in the morning everyday. It had become a habit to him. He wondered if anyone recognized the formation of a habit before it became one. That's the thing about habits, he thought, they're invisible; until they're not. Existing on your periphery like stalking raccoons, wearing masks, small gloved hands and striped tails. It's only when a garbage can is knocked over or a strange shape scurries across the darkened road that you finally see it.

The sun rose like a giant glowing jack-o-lantern. It cast strange shadows on the clouds, coloring them brown and burnt orange. They took the inauspicious shape of a garish hollow mouth with crooked teeth. The dirt, made brave by the silence, crunched loudly under his feet and he wondered what was more quintessentially earthy than dirt. Water maybe, or rain. There was a bad storm two nights ago that had taken out power-lines and flooded streets - a reminder that nature reigns over man's mendacious dominion. We try to grasp it, pulling at wet and slippery reins. Never whetting our imperious desire to control, to impose our reality upon reality; to make the objective subjectively objective. 

Any objection to abject objectification? Okay, then onto the next subject. Peter mused that he has too much fun with the sound of words and their juxtapositions. Is that strange, he asked himself. No stranger than a deranged ranger on a range driving a Range Rover. He probably did have a problem.  

Walking along he thought of Madeline and he cursed himself for his mind's return to her. Round and round that cerebral carousel he spun, repeatedly greeted by her visage. A frenetic whirring oppressed him and he felt unsteady from the centrifugal force. He thought of the peculiarity of feeling such frenzied dizziness. On a merry-go-round, the reason you feel dizzy isn't because you're moving, it's because you're standing still. If you could move along the inner circle at the same speed it moved, there would be no sense of disorientation. Stillness then, is that which is to be feared. It is when we dwell that the world whirls around us, looping and repeating, inspiring a rolling nausea.

The ice of her memory was rapidly thawing, unleashing a gushing stream of feeling. A deluge of dysphoria and euphoria drowned him as he was carried away on a cold sea of memory, adrift. 

He missed her. Still.