Entries Tagged 'Misc' ↓

one’s not half two. It’s two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating,shall occur
no death and any quantity;but than
all numerable mosts the actual more

minds ignorant of stern miraculous
this every truth-beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel,they dissect a kiss;
or,sold the reason the undream a dream)

one is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt,repaying life they’re loaned;
we(by a gift called dying born)must grow

deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose,whole find

-ee cummings from “Love and Its Mysteries”

The rain has fallen for a few days. And unlike the temperate pasts, it is not so easy to predict. Is time here to bide slow expectations? In the void we were nothing. Figureless, thoughtless, nothingness. In the void we were one and none. Then the birth of life. The singular moment of tears and laughter and forgetting and remembering. A substance created, not to be created, but to be destroyed. There, in the wee moments of the beginning, it all began like a march to the nearing end. A hiccup, a sneeze, a small little incidental tone within the nothingness, and there was we. Mistakes are not made in nonreality, in nothingness. No movements of fluxes or grand orchestrated errors. A blip, nothing more…but fatal nonetheless. And man came pouring from that minuscule little thought in the void. Was it love or hate or creativity or curiosity?
It was the dusk of nightfall from a brightly shining day. From glaring lightness to complete darkness, the golden hour of existence. But what better way to celebrate the passing of one nothing to another, than the beautiful motions of man. Lit by the passing sun, so we move and twist and turn, fading quickly, finding ourselves once again, losing it all in the end. And so it passes. Too fast, too hurried, too full. The best in every possible way, existence bows to night.

Man is something that must be overcome; and therefore you shall love your virtues, for you will perish of them.
Thus spoke Zarathustra.

It’s getting to me too much.
I don’t even know how to think about it.
Kenny is dead.
The funny little kid. Obsessed with beanie babies and fishing in the fake pond at the camp.
He followed me around a lot, you know. Always kind of looking at me like I had something he could learn.
Then I quit working with those kids at the church.
Saw him a bit ago. I think I was wondering through the old skeletons in my closet and on the church campus I used to call my second home.
He saw me and waved. He stopped me.
“I’m following your footsteps, Max! I work with the kids in sunday school, it’s so much fun.” His eye lit up when he told me this, like I was some sort of person to find validation from.
I just told him it was “good,” and I cut the greetings short.

And now he’s dead. 17 years old, and the kids dead. I’ve seen too many of them die already.

And I can never tell him that I was proud. That even though I lost my sight, my vision, he had it. To carry the torch I guess. To be a better man than I am.

Poor fucking kid smiled like there was no tomorrow. And then there wasn’t.

http://www.ocregister.com/news/wilson-practice-church-1814258-football-yaqub

- excerpts from new story concept - (see 7/18 post for beginning)

Fix cranked the last few turn on the main bolt attaching the air filter to the side of the carburetor. He glanced back over at the box of his mother’s keepsakes and letters. The one letter from this “Kurt” creeped through the back of his mind. Who was this guy, and what the hell did he have to do with Fix’s mother. He gave a last few checks on the motorcycles air filter and found himself looming over the cardboard box again. Fix lit a cigarette and knelt in front of the pile of letters and souvenirs. He fingered through the tallest stack of letters, hoping to see something. Maybe Kurt’s handwriting on the cover of another letter. After a few minutes, he paused over a letter tightly shoved into a lavender envelope. It bore the name “Viv” on the front, just as Kurt had called her in the other letter, but this writing was more frantic, more raw. Fix unfolded the letter and saw the short paragraphed signed by Kurt. It read briefly:
“I am sorry, but you were right Viv. I love you. I always have. And you, you love Roman. There is nothing I can do now, but journey on into the world without you. I haven’t slept well in months. I cannot get rid of your scent on my pillow, or your smile in my heart. Forgive me for being so abusive of your memory. But I love you. And there is little left I can do but bide my time and hope to forget. -Kurt”
Fix dropped the letter back into the box. He barely moved. His eyes sank and his kness buckled a bit, setting him down completely on the garage floor. Fix knew the feeling once. And even at his ripely young age, he knew there was nothing but forgetting to look forward to.

- excerpts from new story concept - (see 7/18 post for beginning)

He wrenched his hands together, squatting there in the garage next to his beloved motorcycle. A small box on the bottom of the garage shelves caught his eye. It looked like it had his mothers name still faintly written in marker on the side. Fix pulled the little file box out from under the shelf and opened the cardboard lid. There were letters and drawings and every sort of memory one might find rummaging through the past. The paper of the letters was yellowed and obviously much older than even Fix, but the ink seemed to have bled deep enough to stay. Fix pushed a few pieces aside and found one envelope in particular that had his mothers name, Vivian, written in fine calligraphy on it’s face. He unfolded the stiff paper and revealed something he’s sure his mother had even long forgotten.

“Dear Viv,
I’m sorry it ended like this. You know I love you in so many complex ways. But I can’t stop you from loving some one else. The time we spent together is something I will never let go. You are a part of me, of who I have become, and that is the one thing he can never have. I want you to be happy and I tire of seeing you so upset all the time. If only Roman could understand what we have, that its not in his way. But I know why you have to go. I’m sorry we couldn’t say goodbye, but you know we were never good at that. Write me one day. Just so I know you made it and that you have the incredible life I always knew you would. I’m sorry for tearing you in two for this long. Be happy Viv. I hope you find that with Roman. -Kurt”

Fix finished reading the letter and saw the ending signature. “I wonder who Kurt was,” he stood up from the small box of memories, “cause he sounds like a real pussy.” Fix laughed subtly at his own remarks and walked off to the other side of the garage to grab his oil rag and the socket wrench.

- excerpts from new story concept - (see 7/18 post for beginning)

Fix straightened his head, and Roman walked around to his backside again.
“You’re such a twerp,” Roman said softly.
Fix fought a small laugh, what the hell is a twerp anyway?
“You think something is funny?” Roman asked as he poured himself a vodka from the wet bar. “You think this is all a game?”
Fix didn’t move or even motion in the slightest. He just peered down into his knees, filthy with motor oil and garage soot. Roman took a good sip on his drink, and straightened himself like the rigid prick he was at a full five foot, six inches. He walked around Fix, to his opposite side, both now staring straight at the western wall of the living room. Roman dug into his back pocket and retrieved a pompous Louis Vuitton wallet, bursting with contents.
“If you mother were alive…”
“She would have rather been dead than be near you, I know the feeling.” Fix uttered with a low, grisly whisper, almost below audible. But in a manner of speaking, it was the loudest words yet. He lifted his scowl up to his left, right into Roman’s face only a few feet away. Roman didn’t flinch, he stared forward at the western wall, like there was something besides books staring back at him. His eyes pooled with the last juice he could squeeze from his tear ducts, and hiw jaw locked like a bulldogs. Fix immediatley regretted his words, not doubting thier honesty, but fearing thier consequence. Roman pulled a wad of cash from the ugly designer wallet and tossed it in Fix’s direction like a post-coitus prostitute now serving no purpose. Fix’s arms moved like a piece of stone might, given the animus to do so. He moved slowly, reaching for the money on the ground in front of him. His father, with a single tear drooping from his chin, turned and stepped softly up the eastern staircase. He paused a third of the way, now pivoting his shiloutte of a face from behind his back, as Fix had done to him. “It’s a grand….do whatever you want with it.” His voice dropped down to a subtle rumble, “But don’t come back,” his voice faded more, “not ever.” And Roman disappeared into the upstairs hallway.
Fix scooped up the bills and shoved them into the front pocket of his dirty jeans. He stood up and smirked in the direction of the upstairs master bedroom. “Stupid fuck,” he spoke into the empty room. Just as Fix crossed the living room towards the garage, his other front pocket started emitting, “so fergielicious..fergilicious.” Fix pulled his cell phone out of the pocket and filled it open with one fluid motion. “Nothing but,” he spoke again before answering.
“Hey babe,” his voice now vibrant and fresh, “no, I couldn’t get any money from Roman.”
“Yea, I know…” his voice primed a bit more strength, “look, just see if your sister can help.” His jaw tightened up a bit. “No, I can’t go, I have to fly to New York. I told you that before.” His voice got vicious, “just take care of it, I don’t care how, it’s your fucking body…Well fine, just fucking do it Jill, I don’t care, I-DON’T-CARE!” Fix threw the phone across the room into the bookshelf. It landed snugly between his father’s copy of “Reagan” and his mother’s own book of poems, “The Dragonflies’ Call.” No one ever saw the humor in their mismatch of tastes in literature. Not even Fix.

I saw her emerging through the bussel of souls at the corner of Salmon and 2nd. She was smiling, the glistening smile she always had. My knees felt like jelly and my stomach shot into my throat. Four years now, and I was never given the chance to say goodbye. Every thing I packed deep in my heart to give her.. words not small enough to speak or big enough to write. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, pure concentrate of my regrets and apologies, she pushed me like no one else. But she was gone. When I turned there was nothing…nothing but the homeless woman who shared her smile.
Goodbye Marjorie.
I didn’t love you because of our blood, I loved you because of your heart, your determination, your ingenious spirit…and your smile. And just so you know, I may have Alberts hands, but I have your eyes. They make the world beautiful in ways only you would have seen it.
Goodbye grandma.

- excerpts from new story concept -

He revved the engine twice more, pumping fuel through the heart of the beast, trying not to flood her too much. Motorcycles weren’t meant to stand still, and neither was Fix. Three years without running out of road, in one manner or another, so the thought of stopping now was little more than a joke. The Guzzi 750 straddled between his legs roared into the intersection and died with a whimper in less than thirty feet. Fix sank a little on the back of his bike, disappointed more than embarrased. He dismounted, and pushed her to the edge of the curb at Broadway and Alder///
——————————————
WRONG, ALL WRONG!–
Fix isn’t a fucking cowboy, he’s no god damn hero. We need to go backwards in this stupid little story. Reverse the narrative, now! C’mon, this kid is just some rich piece of trash, living in the most privaledged time and the most privaledged place in the world. Let’s go back. Talk about his father, eh? Let’s talk about the older, more rancid piece of trash. That man, Fix’s father Roman, he would have been face-down in the gutter from the beginning. Of course, he suffered from such creative despotism, and no one in the world with such moral deficiency could ever suffer the gutter or poverty. So yea, go back a few years, let’s talk about Roman and the life he made of things.
——————————————–
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?!” Roman stared down the back of Fix’s head. “If your mother were alive, she’d have nuetered you herself!…Is that what you want Fix?!”
——————————————–
Yea, his mom’s dead. Been dead since he was 14. Don’t pity him. Losing her, does’t make him a hero. It makes him a guy with a dead mother. There’s lots of them. And most of them aren’t heros.
——————————————–
“How about after they gut that little cunt you knocked-up you go get your own balls cinched off for good measure. God forbid I have to support your progeny as well as you…” Roman stomped to the window and looked over the smoggy city skyline. “Are you even fucking listening to ME?!?!”
Fix tilted his head slightly, his face’s profile peaking from behind his back to Roman. “If you were only so creative twenty years ago.”
“You fucking baby, how about I give you an extra two hundred. You can go buy a few bullets and be the man you always threaten you are?!…huh?” Roman changed his tone like he was talking to a new-born, “Is that what we’re waiting for wittle man? Do yew want to end it awl?” He walked around to Fix’s front-side, staring him down like a mis-behaving dog. “Grow the fuck up, you little child!”

An earlier entry, now published:

The world as I know it will never be the same. I’ve been in Portland for four days now and I am unsure if the gravity of my choice will ever fully manifest. To say that things are much different here would be a lie. It is not the change of a new city that a man seeks, it is a change in the man from leaving his home. The realization of his own will to power, his will to character, and if strong enough, his will to creation. The synthesis of who he was into who he will become. A test of his very fabric, being fruned from all his history. There is nothing that holds a man to his character in a new city, nothing but his own will of virtue. To remain in his home is to do right by circumstance, finding good actions in the comfort of what has been. To leave and still perform virtuously is to make all places your home and all people your family. Because, beyond that cusp of all the things we desire most, all the cravings of a starving soul, there in the heart of man is a seed of virtue.
So here now in a new city I pursue my own wandering self. Not just who I was, but who I am to become. Who I am to be to all people in all places. The core of my selves that I have been granted the will to create. And so I set out here in Portland, to test the fabric of my sails against new winds and strong currents. To see the me that only appears among a canvas of unknown places. And the greatest of trials is ahead of me. Not to battle selfishness or self-righteousness, but to look over my shoulder in the dark realization that my home, the place of my loves and my origins, my home is no longer within sight. That I must push forward now, carrying all that I am upon my shoulders.

Drink beer, smoke cigarettes, and laugh until my stomach hurts: these will be the best of days though. To be a real man, both floating with levity and anchored with awareness. To bleed dark red blood, thick and full of flavor.

goodbye.

the abstraction of self
across a boulevard of things to come.
finding me, finding myself,
sitting in the graces of of here and now.
spewing out letters i wrote,
things ive said in silence and without place.

break it down, i said,
break it down to a level of intimate hate.
i run in a circle of myself,
i walk and run and fall onto the beginnings.
the start of it all,
the end to which we find ourselves tangled.