I AM STILL ALIVE

I AM STILL ALIVE

Black Gardens of Xion

"In the furthest reaches of my nightmares, the darkest bogs of the abyssal horrors of my mind, in the haunted depths I dare not admit, even to myself; nothing could prepare me for the mind-numbing terrors that faced me in that awful place. The eerie lights, the foetid mists, those hanging vines... the sublimity of its architecture and the awfulness of its purpose. Never again will I look upon the universe with veiled eyes."

-Dr. Eldridge M. Evans

Haunted Yearning

How sinister (of the left) the heart of man (male;posessor of phallus),
The darkest, most woeful longings swimming (metaphor, better: writhing) half-hazedly,
In the darkened twilight between mind and loins.
The aching throb of unfinished conversations,
Partially imagined tauntings with partially real yet ambiguous meaning,
The internal gyrations masked before an opaque humor,
The joyous terror of verbal (alas the mouth!) caress,
The tremulous, poignant moments before victory (pyrrhic) or defeat (agonizing, tantalizing),
A graying corpse, kept (imprisoned) on a burning pyre of youthful vibrance.

Ganga

I glide, smoothly along the earth. I am old, and sometimes tired. I do not weep, though, for I am strong, crushing the rocks and trees before me. There is none that can withstand my unrelenting onslaught. I feel the fish within me, they are hungry now. It has been ages since the fish swam as they did when I was smaller, but I have gained so much in grandeur. The life blooms within me like the flowers upon my banks, and the snakes and sand, silt and water course through me like the blood of Brahma. My children, Ghaghar, Yamuna and Brahmaputra are strong and healthy now. They spread like light and flood often.

12:11 AM, SOMEWHERE IN THE COSMOS

silent, black death

2:11 PM, MONTPELIER, VERMONT, USA

Danny was lost. He had been picking strawberries near his mother, and had heard her humming a bright and cheery song a few minutes before. The ground was cold and dry, and the velvetgrass had overrun the patch of berries they had found. He had wanted to find the biggest berry, and saw a beautiful group of red dots a on a low hill a few yards away. Now he stood atop the hill, and looking around, could not see his mother’s bright yellow shawl amid the pines. He listened carefully, hoping to catch her nameless tune floating on the chilly autumn breeze, but heard nothing. He called out. He tried not to panic, and remembered his father’s advice on their last outing. His father was a woodsman, and had taken him into the forest a few times. Whenever he heard the wolves howl in the distance, he stepped closer to his father, who laughed his big, hearty laugh. “Danny boy, don’t be frightened. Wolves are cowardly sorts. They will not come near while your papa is around.” He watched his father follow streams and game trails, and was certain he could find his way home if he had to. “Momma!” he cried, and felt the panic rise in his belly, even as he chided himself. “You’re not a child Danny. You’re almost twelve now, and it’s time to be a man. Just be calm, and walk back to where you saw her last. She can’t have gone far.” He murmured to himself.
But what if she has? A certain sly voice said inside his head.
Nonsense, he replied. He was certain she would notice him missing any minute, and he would hear her sweet voice calling for him a short distance away. He walked carefully down the hill, keeping his pace even if only to prove to himself that he was not afraid. He walked along the patches of velvetgrass he had just seen, and into the clearing where his mother had been picking. It had only been a few minutes.
Or was it longer? a sniggering little voice asked him.
No, it had only been a few minutes, and he looked around, sure he would see the sunny yellow shawl bobbing up and down as momma stooped to pick the ripest strawberries. She had simply wandered a bit in her hunt for good pickings, as he had done. She would soon realize he was missing, and that would be that. They would return home and enjoy some chocolate by a warm fire, and he would tell her he’d been brave, that he hadn’t been frightened at all. She would smoothe his hair with her rough hands, and coo about his courage, looking misty eyed and repeating the little poem she used for times when he showed his independence.
Little Danny Shae,
born a summer day,
grew to a man
in less than a day.
He felt better, now needing only to find the shawl to make his vision come true. “Momma!” he cried, a little more quietly now, suddenly conscious of the howling silence in the woods around him. All the birds and insects had stopped making any noise, and he wondered at that. There’s a predator nearby, said a certain voice.
That spurred him. “Momma! Momma! Where are you momma!” His cries grew frantic, and tears blurred his vision. He began to jog around a wide circle, looking right and left and breathing heavily. He caught a glimpse of color on a hill behind a stand of fir trees, and ran to it. There she is, he thought. Silly of me to be frightened when she was so nearby. He began to feel sheepish, but remembered the chocolate, and the poem, and vowed to tell his mother he hadn’t been frightened after all. He danced gingerly over the tangled underbrush, slid briefly on a pile of old leaves, and stumbled up the hill. He found a large Loosestrife bush, covered with hundreds of little yellow sunbursts. It swayed and bobbed in the chilly breeze, mocking him, as if it were nodding at him. Yes, it seemed to say, I tricked you. I wear my blooms like a shawl, and I duck and sway like a berry picker. Aren’t I clever. He kicked the bush, snapping some branches and breaking off a few flowers, but with no real damage. It seemed even more mocking now. You can’t even hurt me little boy. Your futile kicks just make me laugh. At that moment, the entire bush rustled, shaking up and down just as if the bush were laughing at him. He felt blood rise to his face. Now anger and fear mixed, and became an unbearable heat within him. He looked down and saw a small game trail, leading down the opposite side of the hill. He half-remembered his father telling him that game trails usually lead to water. Perhaps his mother had gotten thirsty and walked to a nearby stream for a drink? Without any more hesitation, he bounded down the other side of the hill, running fast and hard, stomping the ground into submission with each step. As he ran, the pine branches seemed to reach out and whack him as he passed, aiming for his eyes and ears, and stinging with their sharp little needles. Surely thirst was the answer! He and his mother had been picking berries for quite awhile, and it was thirsty work. She had simply lost track of him after her drink. Maybe she was even lost, and couldn’t find her way back to the strawberry patch. He would be a hero! He had learned from papa about the game trails and the water, and he could help her get her bearings. He plowed ahead, deftly avoiding a grouping of sharp stones that jutted from beneath wet leaves. He danced back and forth across a tangle of roots between two large pines. Soon he heard the faint sound of water running over rocks, and followed a shallow gulley to a clearing. The stream trickled steadily over rocks, following a jagged, multileveled path through the forest. He stopped beside the stream, breathing hard. He looked around him in every direction, carefully turning a complete circle and scanning the wall of green needles dappled with white sunlight, precursor to winter’s gray chill. No shawl. She wasn’t there. She had disappeared, and he was alone.

1: 11 PM, DES MOINES, IOWA

I had watched him come in a few minutes ago. His hair was slick. In the dim light, it seemed blue, and shimmered a bit as he stalked along the wall. He had a wicked looking mouth, pursed in concentration. His eyes had been locked on something in the center of the room, and he circled it. Just like a shark. Determined. I watched him over a bottle of some German import, debating whether my interest was justified. Occasionally, he glanced around, scouring the place with his cold eyes. He was skittish. I figured that meant he knew he was going to be hassled.
His little predator routine continued, moving in slowly. I kept him in my peripheral vision, and followed his gaze. Now I could see why he was so damned single-minded. He was staring at a woman sitting a few tables away, and she was gorgeous. Long black hair, slick, with a few strays that kept falling into her slim face. Her lips were thick, dripping with red lipstick and red wine. She wore a little black tank top, too tight, and a pair of hip huggers. Just as I started to forget him, shark-boy moved in. He stood at the table and stared at her, muttering something. The jukebox was playing some country song, and I couldn’t hear a thing. She didn’t want any part of him, I gathered.
He was insistent, but finally gave up. He turned, and his shoulders slouched. Might have been the look of a rejected suitor, but it didn’t seem right. He wasn’t the rejection type. Seemed to me, this guy would push till he was slapped. He didn’t walk away. He looked like he was chuckling or something. I stood up, feigning a full bladder, and saw his arm shoot out at the lady. By the time my eyes focused on his hand, the gun had already fired once. The flare was an orange fan, and the beauty’s head jerked back. Square in the head.
Now the place went crazy, screaming and diving for cover. I was already on my feet, and it only took two big steps to get to him. I was the first, and I hit him hard with my shoulder. He dropped the gun, buckled in mid-air and landed, fetus position, sliding three feet under a nearby table. He wasn’t moving when I picked up his gun, a .38. The tables around me had emptied, and I pushed aside the one he was under. Somebody shut off the jukebox. He was quivering again, and in the silence of the shocked bar-crowd, I could hear his voice. He was sobbing.
I didn’t know what to make of it, but I hauled him up and tossed him onto the table. He was limp. I noticed now that he was pretty young. Early twenties, maybe even late teens. He had looked taller from across the room. That one shot had changed him from a thug to a scared kid. I pinned him down.
“You.” I pointed to a big guy by the bar. “Call the cops. Now.”
He nodded and scurried over to the payphone in back.
“Everyone, my name’s Rod Haraway, and I’m a private investigator. I currently have this man in custody, but I’d appreciate it if everyone would remain calm, and stay right where you are. There are going to be a lot of questions soon, and I don’t want to be stuck here any longer than you do. Get comfortable, and don’t touch anything near these tables. Everyone clear?”
They grumbled and nodded. I was glad I didn’t have to be a prick. Not that I normally mind, but I was tired, and I’d spilled my beer. Great day.

2:11 PM, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, USA

WRITTEN ON THE WALL OF A CRACKHOUSE ON 93RD STREET
ABOVE THE BODY OF A 16 YEAR OLD GIRL
Acrid smoke,
Burn baby.
Soul alight,
Burn baby.
Fingernails broken,
Burn baby.
Cement smile,
Burn baby.
Street life,
Burn baby.
Soul afire,
Burn baby.
Come inside,
Burn baby.
Butane dreams,
Burn baby.
The pipe's the thing,
Burn baby.
Losing weight,
Burn baby.
Soul a'smolder,
Burn baby.
Ashen face,
Burn baby.
Lies to sell,
Burn baby.
Out of gas,
Burn baby.
Soul is out,
Burn baby, burn.

2:11 PM, DETROIT, MICHIGAN, USA

Lucas Blakes, 87, lay quietly in his bed at Detroit Receiving. He was very tired, but was able to turn his head enough to get a glimpse of Lenora, his daughter, snoring softly in the leather armchair by the window. Cool winter clouds obscured the sky, but let a kind of grey light into the room. Reflecting off of her smooth brown face, the light made her look almost white. Lucas remembered the white girl he had a crush on when he was little. Her name was… Ruth, Ruthie he thinks. Back in ’28, he wasn’t even supposed to look at a girl like that. But she was so pretty with her white-blond hair with those red ribbons in it. She always wore the finest dresses, and was very careful not to get her shoes dirty on the old county road. At that time his father, Dwight Blakes Jr. had been the Sunquist family’s housekeeper, and had been given a small bedroom in the unused North wing of their massive estate. Lucas had spent his days helping with household chores, then, his father gave him that soft look of sympathy, the one he knew meant he was about to be released to go play, and he ran into the woods behind the house to go and battle indians on the frontier, or join the buffalo soldiers on a march. He had learned about indian fighters and buffalo soldiers from his father, who taught him every evening from three old textbooks; one grammar, one history of the west, and one primer on greek. Dwight Blakes hadn’t been a particularly educated man, but he knew how to read, and he worked very hard to make sure that his son had the best he could provide. Unfortunately, the times being what they were, it wasn’t really very much. Then again, he had a bed to sleep in, a couple of books that he was learning to read, and they ate meat once a week. And occasionally, he was able to sit in the fancy garden in the center of the roundabout driveway in the house and stare at the Sundquist’s beautiful Buick. It was a scintillating shade of turqoise, with a brass front grill and shiny silver bumpers. He had snuck up to it once and stood on the running boards to peek into the interior, but Mr. Sundquist had caught him before he could get a good look, and he received a belt whipping that he never forgot. Still, it had almost been worth it, if he could have just glimpsed the interior of that incredible car.
Things were different now. Cars didn’t have the kind of mystique they once did; everyone had a car it seemed, and no one took as much pride in it as the Sunquists had of their new Buick. Lucas coughed roughly, and felt the pressure in his chest. He turned his head back and looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. He knew it wouldn’t be long now. He thought of Ruthie, and wondered what ever had become of her. He and his father had moved to Detroit when he was seven, and he’d never seen her again. He never really understood the move, but the moment they arrived in Detroit he had been entranced by the city’s spirited enthusiasm for baseball. He had even gotten to see a game at Tiger stadium. They had been playing the Philadelphia Athletics, and the Tigers had a real shot at winning the American League that year. Hughie Wise had hit a triple that sent two runners home, tying the score in the seventh inning. His father had even managed to sneak him a hot dog as he stood in the dirt next to the stairway leading to the seats that all the white folks had paid for. He hadn’t seen the end of the game after being chased out of the stadium, but he’d managed to finish his hot dog. The Tigers ended up losing that game, and came in fifth place overall in the League. Everyone in Detroit celebrated despite the lackluster finish. It was that kind of place, a place you were proud of; it didn’t matter if it was measurably the best, just that it was the best for the people who lived there. His father had found a job as a mechanic’s assistant in an old shop off of 14th street, and he and his father had lived in the loft above the shop. The fumes were pretty awful, but at least he got to see loads of cars, and this time, he was allowed to get on the running boards and even get inside them once in awhile. He wished Ruthie could have been there to see all of the cars he’d gotten to sit in. The hospital room began to grow dim, and his breathing became labored. From somewhere in the distance, he heard Lenora’s tiny, frail sounding voice. She was calling him, but he was too tired to answer. Lenora was a good girl, and had really made a name for herself. She was a librarian, and knew more than he or his father did, put together. He’d taught her greek, just as his father had taught him, although the books he used were newer and better. She was very smart, and he’d eventually had to give her the book, since she learned faster just by reading it than by having him hovering over her, puzzling out the phrases he had never learned when he was younger. He’d been a good student, as far as it went, and he had become fairly successful as a mechanic, and had opened his own shop. Blakes Auto had fourteen employees at the height of its success, and he had been able to afford to buy his own house, along with his wife Anita. Anita had passed years ago, and he missed her every day. He knew that he’d see her soon, and he welcomed it. He heard some sort of beeping noise, and a commotion of people in his room. For some reason, they all seemed to be saying his name. He smiled weakly, as he’d always liked his name. For all that had changed over the years, he still liked his name.

1:11 PM, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA

ENGLEWOOD. EXT. SMOGGY RUNDOWN PARKING LOT.
YOUNG BLACK MAN IN HOODIE WALKS UNDER BEHIND DILAPIDATED OLD GROCERY STORE. CAMERA PANS AROUND TO SEE HIM SURROUNDED BY THREE OTHER MEN, TWO BLACK, ONE WHITE.
DRE: Nah, man…. You got it all wrong. I ain’t touch her, man.
BEAT (shoving DRE roughly): She told me you did, son. You best just tell me what happened, and maybe I’ll just let it be. But I best start hearing a good, god damn explanation.
DRE: It ain’t like that cuz! Seriously, I just talk to her…
BEAT: Where’d she get that bruise then, home?
DRE: What? Oh shit cuz, she fell man, I swear I didn’t do it, I swear!
THE THREE MEN CLOSE IN ON DRE. THE WHITE ONE PUNCHES HIM IN THE GUT ROUGHLY.
DRE (coughing): Come on man! Okay, okay, okay. So I shoved her. She owed me three dimes man!
BEAT (calmly pulling out a large pistol): It’s alright Dre. It’s cool. I know it goes sometimes. You make mistakes. We all make mistakes.
DRE: Aww shit Beat, come on. I didn’t know she was your bitch, I swear.
WIDE ANGLE OF DESOLATE PARKING LOT. GUNSHOTS RING OUT. A PLASTIC SHOPPING BAG TUMBLES BY SILENTLY.

9:11 PM, SONON DE LA BRETECHE, FRANCE

Gentile Baillieu sat outside the tiny café, sipping her bitter coffee and reading in the dim candle light. Her eyes ran over the passage over and over again.
“"The greatest mystery is not that we have been flung at random between the profusion of matter and of the stars, but that within this prison we can draw from ourselves images powerful enough to deny our nothingness."

4:11 AM, KYOTO, JAPAN

Ryunosuke enjoyed the cool mornings. He had awoken upright, just as he’d slept. His small closet was just big enough to fit his legs when crossed. It helped him to stay upright, to maintain a lightness of consciousness even in dreams. The wheel of luminosity turned, day and night within him, and he continued that consciousness as he rose, slowly and carefully donning his robes. He stepped from his closet into the main hall area, then out into the garden. He found his simple wooden rake, and carefully walked to the large square garden of rocks. His mind was focused and serene, and he felt the pressure changes on each part of his foot as he walked over the uneven terrain. He watched the world move by him with each carefully measured step, and began to think on the nature of that world.
There were many strange distractions, both pleasurable and painful, to be had throughout the world. He knew there were delicious foods he had not eaten, technologies he had not seen nor would he understand, people he had not met that would broaden his view of things in ways he certainly could not predict. He knew there were forbidden pleasures as well, things he must avoid even thinking about for the damage they could cause to his quest for ceaseless mindful attention. The human condition provided many of the best circumstances necessary to find enlightenment, but it was easily distracted by sensation or imagination. He thought about enlightenment. Intellectually, he knew what it should be like. Suzuki roshi had said that it was not a goal to be sought after, and yet he did not know how he would find it if he could not seek it.
His steps brought him to the garden and he began to rake the gravel slowly, ensuring that each stroke lined up properly with the last, and that the lines created by the rake were smooth and uniform as they meandered between the larger rocks jutting from the center of the rectangular garden. Long ago he had stopped wondering what the purpose of this raking was, and accepted it as the wisdom of his teachers. He had become focused on the rake, yet was dimly aware of his body posture, his breathing, the sensation of cloth against his skin, light, cold breezes upon his face. The tines of the rake were an inch apart, each one like a large pillar in comparison with the pebbles in the garden. These pillars ploughed slowly through mountains of pebbles, pushing each one in an unpredictable direction. There was no way to control the flow of pebbles, but only to move the rake very carefully, mindfully through them, like a sailboat cutting through the ocean. The pebbles themselves were nearly indistinguishable from each other at this distance, although if looked at closely, one could see an infinite variety of shapes and textures, as well as subtle variations in the grey and white shading found on each one. Some had a hint of sparkle to them, some were flat and dull, many had pock marks and ground spots from years of being moved by the wooden pillar’s of Ryunosuke’s rake.
This tiny sea of pebbles seemed to flow itself. The changes were slow, and without the monks’ interference it might take thousands of years, but there was a certain movement to the stones, waves and eddies that broke upon each other, and dashed themselves against the larger central rocks of the garden. They swirled and tumbled about each other in a completely unpredictable and chaotic pattern. And yet, there was a certain beauty about the rocks, a smooth, rhythmic migration that Ryunosuke contemplated. He felt a connection in all of this. The rocks of the garden, the trees surrounding the monastery grounds, the breezes flowing through them, and even the people; there was motion, and chaos, but it all had a flow, a rhythm, like the breathing in and out of a child. The world was breathing somehow, with births and deaths, with wars and summits, storms and growth and blood and decay. Somehow, it was all as it should be, and all of the strange temptations, unexpected upheavals and broad strokes of human history, geologic changes over immeasurable years; all of these movements had the rhythm of breath. They were confusing to the human mind, impossible to organize and label, and yet the vast panoply of events and instances were, as a whole, exactly as they needed to be. The suchness of things was beautiful, blemishes and all.

7:11 AM, ANADYR, RUSSIA

Little Pearl strolled lazily through the den into the dining room. She stopped, looked up and around the room, then began to knead her pink paws on the rich oriental rug that smelled like those old people who used to visit. Suitably softened, the carpet felt warm under Pearl’s belly as she stretched onto it, revelling in the large squares of golden light coming from the bay window. She rubbed her cheek and ear on the rough carpet, first one side, then the other. She turned and circled the leg of the old mahogany dining table a few times, rubbing her sides on the wood that used to shine enough to see her reflection in it, but, after years of wear, now had just a dull, old-lacquer finish. Then she sprawled out, rolled over onto her back and pulled up her paws to warm her belly in the sunlight. She slept quietly, dreaming simple dreams.

12:11 PM, DUBLIN, IRELAND

H3Y $4R4h, Wh4T J00 UP +0? m4n my MoM'$ pHUcK1n +0uCh3D. 1 WoulD 5o LIKe T0 PUNCH H3R pH@CE. B+w DaD 90T To+4LLY L4Ng3R5 @94iN L4s+ N1+E. 3v3r 5INC3 H3 lO5+ h15 jOb H3$ B3en TO+4Lly 0Ff hIS NU+. PhUcKIN L00$ER. pLu5 1 pH1nK iM 9OnNA B3 ExpelL3D. TH4t b1TCH w4$ @sKIN9 +o 93+ HEr @5s kICK3d aNd 1 JU5T h@PpEN3D +0 BE The ONE @R0UND +O D0 1+ pHoR HEr. 1 jU$t c@NT +@KE ThI5 5H1t @NyM0re. 1TS L1k3 iM 4Ll ALonE, y@ kN0W? N0B0Dy C4R35. 1 W4Lk @R0UNd, 4Nd 4LL I C@N $E3 1$ d3@d P3OPl3 W4lk1N9. i sAw 4 D34D guY w4LK1nG 4 dE@D DOG +eH OvER day. j00 R3m3mBeR +H@+ P@Rt iN +eRmiN4+OR 2 wh3R3 +hE nUCul3r bl45+ bL0w5 eVERYbodY5 5KiN opHph 4Nd eVERy0nE5 l1KE 4 5K3L3t0N? i+'$ LIke +H@T. I MEAN PHuCk. 5o @nyW4Y, 1 $wIP3d my 8rOvVER5 9un PHr0m hIS niGH+ TABl3, ANd 1M f1N4Lly 9onnA dO 1+. i dON'T w4nN4 B3 AROUND 4NYm0R3. I c@n+ BR34v3 iN +H1$ PhUcK3d UP wOrLD Wh3r3 4ll 3VerY0n3 c4rE5 Ab0U+ i5 M0NeY. 1 ME4n, I Kn0W j00 H@Ve To L1VE S0M3How, But wHY c4N+ 50mE Oph +H3 R1Ch P3OplE sPrE@D +EH wELF, J00 KN0W? D0 J00 R34lly NE3d 4 M1Ll1On kWiD? 4H W3ll, 1'M D0nE w1F iT. K3EP My CD$, 4Nd GoOD lucK. bY3 Ph0rEV3r.

10:11 PM, MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

Dear Leann,
God I miss you. The guys are all sick of hearing that story about us at the Roosevelt that New Year’s. I just wish I could touch your face and kiss you all over. It’s dark now. The fighting was light today. Sergeant Boyland got hit in the leg this afternoon, but he’s okay. I guess I owe him a case of Bud, since he was the first to catch lead. It was a stupid bet anyway, and when I looked in his eyes when they carted him off, I knew he wished he hadn’t won. This new body armor they’ve got us wearing is pretty good, but it’s hot as hell. You can tell the new guys because they wear every damn piece of it. Still, if it saves you, it’s probably worth it. I just hope I don’t die of heat stroke before I can get out of here. Somalia is crazy, hon. It’s like those after the bomb movies we saw in high school, where there’s nothing but rubble and ash everywhere. Seriously, I saw a kid jump on a stray rat the other day like it was filet mignon. Kinda sad, actually. I don’t even really understand what we’re doing here, since none of the natives want us here, and it’s not like there’s a bunch of oil we’re trying to get or something. Freedom and democracy for everyone, I guess. Anyway, how are Lizzy and Tyler? What ever happened with that bully at Tyler’s school? I wish I could be there. I could show Tyler a couple of strikes we learned in basic that would take care of that bully pretty quick. Oh well, it’s probably better if he doesn’t learn that stuff just yet anyway. He’s in what, fourth grade now? Probably best not to become a combat veteran at nine years old. LOL. God I miss you. I miss your laugh more than anything. The guys in the barracks here like to cut up, sure, but it’s not the same. Your laughter was so light and spontaneous, I really felt like it was just for me. Like my own little prize. I miss Lizzy too. Her little chubby cheeks just made my day. Oh, and thanks for the pics. I can’t believe how big they’ve gotten! The little flowers in her pigtails almost made me cry. Almost. So, how’ve you been? I notice there weren’t any pics of you in the batch. What, you don’t want to pose for the ones I asked for? Hahaha. I promise, I won’t show a soul. Yeah, you know THAT’S not true. Every guy here is already jealous of how hot you are. I actually had one guy ask me if you were real. He saw those poster pics I made of you from your modelling ones, and he thought I just cut you out of a magazine. I told him, no, you were real and you were all mine. God you look good in those pics. Well, I guess I better go now. They have some kind of offensive planned for tonight. I’m not supposed to talk about it, it’s all TOP SECRET. Course, I don’t know shit, so I’m not sure what they’re afraid I’m gonna tell anybody. Well, I love you I love you I love you. Give Lizzy a big kiss for me, and Tyler a kick in the ass. As for you, I have a few ideas of what you can do to yourself for me, but only if you send me pics! LOL. Anyway, I love you. I miss you. I’ll email you sometime tomorrow again. Bye.
Last email from Corporal Nathan Gill, U.S. Army. KIA 23:00hrs, 11/12/11

1:11 PM HAYES APARTMENTS, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

In her second floor efficiency, Saundra’s bed was made neatly with worn sheets and an old patchwork quilt, a gift from her grandmother. Scattered on the bed, and some on the floor, were dozens of scratch-off lottery tickets. She had won seven free tickets, plus a total of six dollars, all unclaimed and some crumpled and torn in frustration. The carpet was a dirty tan, with deeper black smudges on the walkway from the bed to the tiny kitchen. The linoleum in the kitchen peeled in all the corners, and was scuffed in several places, but its yellowing cream color was clean, as were the faux marble counters and the pockmarked plaster walls. A hand towel with an embroidered snowman hung on the oven door handle. On the counter lay an old cookbook, this one her mother’s, open to a page on baking chocolate chip cookies, the source of the recipe for the plate of three cookies (all that were left from the batch) that was carefully wrapped in cellophane and placed in the refridgerator. Oddly, there were no chocolate chips in the cookies; Saundra preferred just the plain cookies. They weren’t sugar cookies, no they tasted different. Just chocolate chip cookies without the chips. No nuts, either. The bathroom was opposite the kitchen, a simple toilet, sink, and cast iron bathtub on top of spotty teal and cream tiles. Everything was well kept, though older than Saundra herself. The tiles were getting older every day, but Saundra wasn’t. Her body sat upright in the grimy recliner facing away from the window beside the bed. The window heater was silent, the shades were closed; the room was icy cold. Her right hand held a twenty-two gauge pistol limply, dangling over the edge of the seat and nearly falling to the floor. Her face was peaceful, and, without the pistol in her hand, would have been mistaken for someone taking a quick afternoon nap. There was no blood. Eleven tenants had heard the gunshot, but no one had called the police. This wasn’t that kind of neighborhood. You minded your own business here.
On the nightstand by the bed, a small paperback lie open, its spine cracked, and one passage was underlined. The paperback was Titus Andronicus. There were no other marks in it:
"Here lurks no Treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned grudges, here are no storms,
No noise, but silence and Eternal sleep"

2:11 PM, MILDRED HELMS PARK, NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, USA

Darryl and Tyrone studied the board carefully. There seemed to be a bubble of concentration around them amid the cacophony of playing children, squeaking tennis shoes, hollering teenagers and chattering families. None of the noises disturbed the comfortoble silence between them. Then, Darryl sat back, looking up from the chessboard. Tyrone was several years older then he was, and he studied the lines on his face.
“What do you think it’s all about, T?”
“Don’t call me that. You know my name.” Tyrone didn’t look up from the board.
“Seriously, though. Why are we here?”
“You always talk like that when you’re losing.”
“What, you don’t got an answer?”
“Nobody’s got an answer, Darryl. We’re here because we’re here. We’re free to make choices once we get here, but nobody gives us a choice to be born or not.”
“Yeah, but you could just off yourself, if you don’t like it.”
Now Tyrone looked up. “What, you gonna kill yourself?”
“No, no. I mean, isn’t it a choice to live?”
“Sure, yeah, that’s a choice. And we choose what we do with life too. But we don’t choose to be born. That’s God’s doing.” He paused briefly. “You gonna play, or what?”
“I don’t get the whole God thing.” Darryl moved a knight. Tyrone frowned at the board.
“Nothing to get. God is what we call what we don’t understand. Call it the Force, the Truth, Love, whatever. It’s whatever’s out of our control.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of a God to me.” Darryl looked at the kids on the swings.
“You haven’t seen enough of the world yet, son. Finish college, then talk about this stuff. Trust me; more you see, more you see God.”
Darryl shrugged, closed his eyes, and basked in a cool easterly breeze blowing through the small park.
“Seems to me, God is everywhere. Sure feels pretty good right now.”
Tyrone looked up again, chuckling to himself.
“Maybe you have seen enough at that young man. Maybe you have.”

8:10 PM, RIJKSMUSEUM, AMSTERDAM

The Model for the Tomb of Maarten Harpertsz Tromp sat quietly. Its rich maple wood frame dried atom by atom in the slightly incorrect humidity of the storage room. The reclining figure, at the bottom of the central terracotta plate, looked to be sleeping, lying comfortably on a bed of pine. Above him floated aging cherubs, singing and playing the trumpet in a timeless celebration of a spirit raised to the heavens. But the sculpture was mundane, left on earth, made of earthly materials and once carried by living hands. It sat quietly, undisturbed in the darkened room, surrounded by other pieces of wood, cloth, plaster and stone. Each had a different shape, many were from wildly different times. Somehow, the Model felt the presence of these others, the displaced atmosphere around them, the molecular particles that would be described as “smell” if the Model were human and had the sensory instruments to detect them. Instead, they were more of an infinitely delicate tactile sensation, as these stray particles and air molecules caromed off of its wooden edges and terracotta face, slowly etching away the features of the original artist, replacing those features with a smoother, more rhythmic carving of their own. The Model could feel the most pressure upon the cherubs’ noses. Centuries from now, the movements and chemical interactions of the atmosphere would alter its fine cherubs in ways a human might detect. Just then, it felt a light upon its face, and a vibration through the ground. It could not see the old man shuffling into the room, carrying a large vase from a collection of chinese burial decorations, but it felt the steps leading toward it. A much stronger pressure, the texture of hardened boot leather, shattered the terracotta plate in its center, splintered the pine plank that held the sleeping man, and broke he and his guardian cherubs into over a dozen pieces. The delicately carved crown of king and queen in its center were separated, and the highest cherub’s face shattered beyond repair. The maple frame splintered badly as the old man stumbled to right himself, barely holding onto the large chinese pottery that had obscured his vision. The pieces of the Model did not hear the gentle curse on the old man’s breath, or see him set the vase down on beside its own shattered remains and look sadly at his accidental destruction. The cherubs faced downward from their fall, and many of their noses were crushed to powder by the stone floor of the storeroom. They would not require centuries of air molecules to wear down, nor would any human see the subtle carvings made upon them by the elements. The contiguous sentience of the model, if that is what one calls the feelings of a sculpture, faded away, replaced by individual and separate identities that called themselves “pieces”.

9:11 PM, KYKKOS MONASTERY, CYPRUS

Nikos leaned against the stone pillar, looking out past the bell tower to the stars. A certain ominous silence filled the stone courtyard, like a palpable presence. Nikos rolled this impression over in his mind, like he was mulling over the flavor of a rare wine. He smelled the air, and it smelled fresh, even with the familiar stone and wood and herb garden smells he was accustomed to mingling before his nose, the air smelled clean and fresh, as if it came from the rich, black sky at which he was looking. There were few sounds, as the other monks had all retired for the night. There was a presence here, though, and he was sure it was a holy presence. His faith had always been strong, even when he was a child, but lately it had seemed a bit stale. He had performed his duties adequately, but that sense of the numenous was missing. This feeling, this strange fresh air and empty sky, the outlines of the angled stairways and rooftops, the mountains behind them dim shapes against an infinite sky; this was something. It felt rich, and deep, like the purest holy oils. Some sort of grandness was here, an eternal feeling, as if he were a tiny bug standing on a page of the holy scriptures, unable to read even a single word, but feeling the import, the vast message of truth before him. He could not decipher a purpose for such a message, nothing tangible to do or to think. He felt it was simply a sign; something for him to understand that a Holy God was with him. It was scary, too. The terror of standing before a living God was more than the human mind or soul could bear, and even this silent message, the terrible, jagged edges of the tower raised into the sky, the shining and awful beauty of the perfect stones he stood upon, there was a certain horror in it all. Holiness, terror, love and fear; the forces of the universe were here, before him, around him, within him. And he felt it all and it overcame him, and he fell, prostrate, before the Lord.

2:11 AM, HO CHI MINH, VIET NAM

Huong squeezes her eyes shut.
Tightly.
He climbs off of her.
Walks to the bathroom.
She hears running water, silence, then a flush.
She pretends to sleep.
The balcony door slides open.
He lights a cigarette on the midnight balcony.
She peeks, he’s still naked.
Why won’t he leave?
He smokes in silence, staring into the night sky.

2:11 PM, DETROIT, MICHIGAN, USA

Letitia Friendly sits at the breakfast table, sipping coffee and staring at the television, without really watching it. She’s bone tired. She’s worked eight days straight, twelve-hour shifts for most of them, sixteen hours for one and twenty hours for two others. She tries to calculate in her head the average amount of sleep she’s managed after coming home, but she’s too addled without it to count it. This is her third cup of coffee this morning, and she knows she’s going to guzzle Starbucks mochas all night just to hang on. She’s had ten patients every night. <> are the worst. Nancy, the charge nurse has always been pretty decent to her, but hasn’t been around much lately. This young prick named Andrew has been charge nurse the last two nights, and if she has to hear that snotty little rich kid voice of his one more time she’s going to punch him. Fucker never does a damn thing and gets praised for it when the big wigs come through, because he’s clean cut and white. Even some of the younger nurses fall for it, calling him “cute”, knowing full well that he’s not but that he drives an Audi and wears expensive clothes when he’s not working. Tonya bounces in, and Letitia smiles brightly, even if the tiredness in her eyes shows a bit.
“Hey mom. Workin’ again tonight?”
“Yep. Gotta keep up the car note.”
“I know, mom. It sucks I haven’t gotten to see you much though.” Tonya flops onto a chair beside her mother.
“I know, baby.” She puts her arm around Tonya, looking over the top of her head at the clock. “I promise I’ll take a few days off, maybe even a week, once everyone at the hospital gets better. Had another two girls call out last night. Or night before, I can’t remember. You’d think hospital folks would be the healthiest.”
“It’s okay, mom, I understand. I just want you to know how much I love you, and how I know how hard you have to work to keep us going. I promise I’m gonna get a job as soon as I’m old enough.” Tonya snuggles in for a hug.
Letitia kisses the top of her head, squeezing her tightly. “You’re a good kid. Focus on school, and make me proud with your grades. Let me worry about the money.”
They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the drone of passing cars and playing kids.

1:10 PM, DES MOINES, IOWA, USA

James tensed his arms and legs, preparing. The darkness shuddered. A train raging through the cellar, louder than hell. The children were under a matress, mother’s arms draped over it with only a blanket for herself. He took two deep breaths. Insulin. Insulin. Can’t let her slip. Be hours before anyone can get to a hospital. She could be dead before then. “I’m going!” He shouted. Stepping up toward the roaring cellar door, he reached up and unlatched the door. Another step, pressing both hands against it and pushing upward. Strain, strain, strain, free as the door rips from his hands, off the hinges, whipping into the air. He grabs the frame to keep from flying with it. Crawls on his belly into the storm.
The roar nearly drowned out little Josie’s screaming. No sound of mom comforting her, of Danny whining. Crawling along the muddy track, an old horseshoe banged his leg on its tumble past him, searing pain then deep numbness. He kept crawling toward the front porch. Wind began to pull him up, no, can’t lose the ground, never get back down. He slid hard and slammed into the passenger door of the Toyota, denting it. He shook his head, eyes squinting in the blistering wind, rain like little knives driving into his face. The back of his head felt hot. He crawled past the car and touched the first step. Up, onto the porch and through the front door. It took all his strength to close it behind him.
An uncanny silence hung in the house like mist. The creaking of the frame the only noise, drowning out his own creaking footfalls as he ran, dancing over toys to the stairs leading onto the second floor balcony. Into the master bedroom, then the master bath, he fumbled with the medicine cabinet and grabbed the insulin bottle. He grabbed a handful of syringes and stuck everything in his pocket. He took the stairs back down four at a time, twisting his ankle at the bottom. The front door. He knew he’d never be able to pull it shut against the howling wind. A little rain damage. Shouldn’t be too bad. He stood to one side, allowing the door to bang against the other the instant he turned the knob. Three deep breaths and he ran out, into the maelstrom, determinedly facing the storm cellar. Less than forty feet between him and safety. He tried running at first, then had to duck, then crawl to hold against the wind. It still wasn’t enough. He felt his body stiffen as he rose into the air, tumbling end over end, then his head hit the roof of the car, spinning him madly as he continued to tumble. A swirl of dirt, wood panels, grass, black. Jeanie would not get her insulin. When the storm passed, mommy was sleeping and daddy was gone.

1:10 PM, PENSACOLA, FLORIDA, USA

He sat in the old leather armchair, the one his father used to use all the time until he couldn’t remain upright anymore without a lot of pain. He puffed a cigarette and blew the smoke through the screen door onto the patio, leaving a strange cloud of white cotton floating in the humid air outside and a faint outline of a small circle of smokey water droplets on the rain-moist screen. He was looking out the screen at the lush green lawn and the oaks drooping under the weight of heavy rain. He liked the lawn; had worked hard to get rid of the chinch bugs and had fertilized it with carefully measured amounts, watering thoroughly just before sunset every day. The trees looked good; as good as when he’d bought the house, back when dad was alive. His father had been proud of the house, and he’d been proud that his dad was proud. He never had felt like he’d pleased him, like he’d made enough of himself to justify his existence to the old man. But that’s what sons were like, he supposed. You were supposed to try and please your parents, do better than they did, show them that they raised you right. The power was out. No TV. The silence blanketed the room, and made the constant rain sound fuller, louder. These were actually very nice times, when everything was off. He sometimes forgot his reliance on electricity, and went to turn on the radio since TV was off. Or decided he should take advantage of the quiet and read in the den with his overhead lamp on. But no, no power. So he sat, and smoked, and watched the rain. Some kids ran by the back fence, splashing each other in the puddles, then cursing loudly. He remembered when he didn’t even know those words, and he’d been plenty older than those kids when he’d learned them. But they were kids, and no matter how rough and worldly they acted, they were as scared and proud, and full of themselves as he’d been. They probably hadn’t lost a parent yet, not for some years, but maybe. Probably divorce first. The generation where parents stayed together was long gone. Might be where they heard all the cursing. Or TV. Nice to have the TV off. Listen to the rain.

11:11 AM, BALI, INDONESIA

Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch.
Thud.
SANTOSO: Get him up, Chahaya.
CHAHAYA: Ugh. C’mon, get up. You have to walk. Be a man.
Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch, Crunch, crunch.
Zzzik. Swit, swit, swit, swit, swit, zzzik.
SANTOSO (whispering): Get the apron, Chahaya.
CHAHAYA: Yes sir.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. CA CAW. CA CAW CAW CAW CAW. Tik tik tik.
Tik tik tik.
CHAHAYA (whispering): It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be alright. Just be brave. Be brave. You are a man! Be brave and be a man. That is all we have.
FAROOK: Snnf. No no no no no. I cannot. It is not time. I am sorry. Can you tell them I am sorry.
CA CAW. CA CAW CAW CAW CAW. Shukashukashukashukashuka. Tik tik tik.
Tik tik tik.
SANTOSO (whispering): Chahaya, have the men choose. Don’t look at me. Do your duty.
CHAHAYA: Men, choose your weapons.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
SANTOSO: Do you want a cigarette?
FAROOK: No.
SANTOSO: We will not make this dreadful. Your family will see your face. Do not be ashamed. Do not fear. Be at peace when it comes. A peaceful face will be better. Your family will be better with your peaceful face. Remember, calm and peace. Got it?
FAROOK: Yes. Thank you.
SANTOSO: We have family. We know.
Shhhhk. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
SANTOSO: Line up men, line up. Are you all ready?
SEVERAL (quietly): Yes sir.
SANTOSO: Mr. Farook Abadi, you are charged with acts of terrorism against the state of Indonesia. You have been found guilty and sentenced to death, carried out by the Mobile Brigade here, on this beach, before the sun and the sky and the jungle creatures. Do you wish to make a statement?
CA CAW. CA CAW CAW CAW CAW.
Tik tik tik. Tik tik tik.
Tik tik tik.
SANTOSO: You must answer. Do you wish to make a statement?
FAROOK: No.
SANTOSO: Men at ready! Aim your weapon. All shots at the circle. Fire.
CRAKAK CRAK KAK CRAK KAK KA KA KA KA KAK KAK
Fwip pip wip fip wip. CA CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW.
FAROOK: Ugh… nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh. Snnnuuuff. Shnufff.
SANTOSO: Give him a minute. Give him a minute. It takes time sometimes. Give him a few minutes.
FAROOK: Ughhhh…uuunnnggggggg…..
Cheedeep. Cheedeep.
Cheedeep. Cheedeep.
SANTOSO: Okay. Okay, he is gone. Chahaya, cut him down. Gently. Keep the apron on. Tidy him up for his family’s arrival. Thank you men. You have done well.

7:11 PM, LONDON, ENGLAND

Sometimes, I think of when I was a child. Poetry was magical then, and the magic of some of those times makes me weep. That beauty seems remote now, ground to powder beneath the crushing weights of doubt, debt, and division. But oh, when I was young! Nostalgia! Notice the suffix which means pain. The pain of not returning to the idyllic past.
The postman can fly,
I saw him do it once,
Running from a weiner dog.
I used to play in nature. The freedom to run and breathe as fast and as free as I could was intoxicating in its simplicity. I sat at the feet of ancient masters, the trees, teaching me in their swaying silence the ways of growth and harmony and protection of those beneath you.
From the center,
Radial expansion layers strength,
In a black night.
I don’t get to see trees much anymore. I wish there were more trees.

12:11 AM, DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN

Afsana slept, but not soundly. Inside her were uncomfortable, slithery horrors, and she moaned as she faced them. She had been in the classroom, silently signing to the children about the poet Firdausi, when everything had shattered around her. It wasn’t like any sort of explosion, or even an accident, nor was it simply the weathered blackboard behind her or any of the rickety wooden school-desks in the small classroom. It was everything. The children’s faces, the pale tiled floor, her own body, all split, cracked and shattered as if they’d been painted on glass. She felt her body reform in an oily black sky, falling and falling and falling. Her arms brushed something, it rustled like leaves but felt hairy and soft. A sharp, ragged pain slashed at her cheek, and she tumbled away from the pain. Her eyes were open, but all she could see was blackness, and all she could hear was a distant, haunting scream. She realized that it was her own scream, and that her mouth was open so wide that her jaw hurt. But the sound was not coming from her throat, which was constricted with fear. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open, but she was disgorging her terrified scream from the pores on her skin. A million tiny screams from a million tiny mouths that she now saw had gnashing teeth and flicking tongues. The screams changed to a cacophony of indecipherable gibbering, tiny maws all incanting prayers, blasphemies, profanities and poetry in unison. The din wrapped around her, thicker than the blanket of blackness, and she felt suffocated, strangled. She choked and tasted bile, tried to breathe and couldn’t. Bright plumes of color appeared in the darkness, and hot blood rushed to her face as she failed to inhale. She squirmed in her noise-prison, and the blackness around her grayed, as if a strange, white sun were dawning somewhere in the distance. She heard birdsong, then a faint chorus of heavenly angels, all in harmony but a few, who were dreadfully off-key and created a disharmony that grated upon her somewhere deep inside. It was the disharmony that saved her, as she awoke gasping in her bed, tangled in bedclothes and sweating profusely.

5:41 AM, QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

Colin’s eyes watered from the yawn he held back, to keep his eye on the car ahead of him. Not that it would move. It never moved. Some sort of bingle had backed everyone up for miles, as always happened here. He was one of a hundred thousand people in Redcliffe who thought the city should have widened the bridge years ago, but no one ever seemed to do anything. He sat silently, trying to settle himself into the soft leather seats of his Mercedes. The smooth sounds of jazz wrapped him in a protective blanket, away from the honks and jeers of the thousands of commuters outside his window. It made him feel alone. He leaned upward, trying to get a glimpse of the Swan River over the side of the bridge, but all he saw was dark windows and vehicle roofs. The sky was still dark this early in the morning, but he knew he’d see a cold, relentless sun in a few hours, and probably still be in the same place. He slumped back into his seat and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

10:11 PM, DJIBOUTI, DJIBOUTI

Bouh loved to run. He felt like he was flying when he did it, and moved like wind as well. So fast. He was running through a dark alley now, ducking behind a battered fence, and it was fun no longer. The dogs wouldn’t be tricked by his move, and would come for him. He knew he would be dragged down, bitten fiercely on the calves and ankles. He knew he was going to die, end up in the bellies of some wandering curs with distended bellies and matted fur. He strained, his legs beginning to writhe beneath him like limpid snakes as he tired. Only a matter of time now, before they caught him. No sense in shouting, for no one would help. It was a dark time in Djibouti. But he hadn’t expected to die so soon. At thirteen, he hadn’t really gotten to do all of the things he wanted yet. He wanted to go to high school. He wanted to run track. He thought he could do it, maybe even try for the Olympics one day. He did everything fast, everyone said so. He flashed his hand right, then bolted left around some old houses. He had learned that trick in american football, which he sometimes played with theolder boys in the dusty field around where he slept. Somewhere, he knew that it would not fool his pursuers, that they wouldn’t even understand such a move, that his finesse and skill were wasted on their relentless, predatory menace. It was at that moment that his step faltered. He slid on the sand and gravel, skinning his legs and losing precious time. Too fast. He’d been running so fast and distracted and he slipped. He did everything fast, everyone said so. This time, he would die too fast. But with three wild dogs gnawing at his arms and belly, wrestling to reach his throat, he realized it wouldn’t be fast enough.

NOVEMBER 11, 2011

Tonie Never sat uncomfortably in the pleather booth of the dingy roadside diner, wincing at her bitter coffee while reading yesterday’s newspaper, which she’d found stuffed behind the toilet paper dispenser in the restroom. President Burke had just attended a National Security conference at Georgetown university on computer espionage and terrorism. Her thoughts swirled lightly around the paper, very much like the swirling coffee in her cup after the most recent stir. She felt sticky, soft and buttery inside, unable to concentrate on the content of the article even as her eyes moved blankly across the page. She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up at this particular moment of her life. She had planned on being married by now, maybe working on a kid. She’d always thought thirty was old, but she was finding her concept of ‘old’ shifting beneath her as she approached it, receding into the horizon like a mirage. Thirty, Forty, even Fifty suddenly didn’t seem that old. Andy had picked up his last personal things last night. She hadn’t been able to look him in the eye, afraid to see the pity in his eyes, the secret gloating of having gotten over on her. She drank more coffee to keep the tears down. She wanted to hate the bitch from his office, but knew that distance had been growing between them for longer than he’d had the job.
Her booth squeaked and groaned as she shifted, which made her look up to see if she had disturbed anyone. There was no one to disturb. The waitress was sitting on the opposite side of the counter, feet on a step-ladder and holding a mop, watching some strange German television show on the tiny television above the service window. A large MUTE showed in the top left corner of the picture, obscuring some sort of score. No one else was here, nor would they have cared had they been. The place was old, and served greasy food that was unpopular in the health-crazed modern world. Plus, everyone who lived in Vegas was at work, and those here vacationing weren’t up yet. She was somewhat surprised to find it open when she’d arrived, but was happy to have someplace quiet with her thoughts. She tossed the paper onto her table. Everything in it was blurry and incomprehensible to her right now anyway. Her head descended slowly, as if moving through clear syrup, and met her arms on the table as she folded up into a softly sobbing package.

Tiki Invasion

Simmering Fred

I read a really good book about writing short stories once, and the author referred to "Fred" as the name for his subconscious mind. He called his contemplative periods "feeding Fred", and seemed to think they were healthy and useful to an artist. I've been wondering lately if my Fred is dead. I'm afraid I've spent so much time feeding him, that now I'm just throwing food on a corpse. Maybe his stomach burst like that guy in Seven. Fred's just lying there at the table with his face planted in a bowl of spaghetti.

I've been reading, watching TV, sleeping (alot - I think I have some sort of condition...seriously), and generally avoiding much responsibility for over a year now. I've written a few abortive novel attempts, a few poems, even drew a few pictures, but to no avail. I have this inner creative urge, this constant thrumming in my head. It's not explicit, but the words I might associate with it are "Get going. Do something. You need to express yourself. You need to get the message out." Unfortunately, somewhere during the transmission, the actual "message" is lost, or jumbled, or not included at all. Who the hell am I to have anything to say? I live a middle-class life in a mundane world, my imagination is blurry, unkempt and maudlin at best.

I am fascinated by everything, though. I go on these weird tangents where I get totally obsessed with something, jones on it for a month or two, then drop it like it's radioactive. This year, my kicks have included - Dungeons & Dragons (the old school one), poetry, drawing, comic books, time travel, native americans, Deadwood, horror fiction, Doctor Who, X-files, soccer, Conan fiction, avant-garde art, Chris Cornell, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, wuxia, Disney pins, surrealism, sweatpants, tiki and oceanic myths, and a lot of other stuff I probably have forgotten.

I can't tell whether I'm quirky and strange, and therefore cool, or just a lazy, worthless slob. And the worst part? I'm not sure I care.