I began my day today with a certain peace that I haven't felt in a while.
I can remember ending my day yesterday with a long meditation session just before bed, and I can't help but think that the early retiring and focused relaxation contributed to this morning's levity.
But it's more than that.
I'm tripping through memories of when I was a boy, remembering the very specific calm I experienced when I sat in a stream with only my shorts on, letting the flow of the water course over my shoulders. Laying down on the rocks in that stream was sort of a respite from the confusing, awkward time I was having as a teenager. Now that I am older, I appreciate more the value of completely forgetting the worries of the world and retreating into the mind for solace.
The true, undeniable peace I can reach through meditation and focused relaxation puts any artificial means of euphoria to shame. 20 minutes of deadening my thoughts and completely isolating my consciousness from external stimulus is equal to or better than any drug I've tried.
5-6 years ago, this kind of disciplined rest would have been impossible. I was far too concerned with ego and projected image to really be able to cut off the world and reside in my own mind.
Many things since my childhood have contributed to my current level of peace, not the least of which is music. Then there's my attention to physical health and nutrition. Also, the intentional simplicity in my life attained by not constantly adding material things to my domain and always opting for the less complex lifestyle.
I'm excited to see where else I can go with this kind of living. I'm curious about which patch will be added that elevates me to yet a higher, more transcendent way of living.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
"Hurricane Season"
Hajar walked along the arid and litter-strewn beach as he always had, at about 6am in the morning, killing time before his father picked him and his two brothers up to go work in the factory in town.
Life in Hajar's tiny town in Mauritania, north Africa, was simple. There was never any prospect of becoming rich or going anywhere beyond the 10 square miles they called 'home', and yet somehow everyone managed to stay happy.
Hajar had been carrying with him a small stick - he was using it to prod at objects of interest. There was no shortage of unique things here and there, that washed up on the beach from who knows where. One day, with his brothers, Hajar found a golden necklace that he traded for a new pair of shoes at the market.
As he was just about to head back for work, an object caught Hajar's eye, about 20 feet out from the shore, gently bobbing in the morning wake.
ما هو هذا؟
"What is that?"
It was a square piece of leather about 10 inches from corner-to-corner. It had a very strange, fluorescent orange coating to it, as if whoever discarded this had intended for it to be found again.
The underside of the object had a 1-inch thick piece of Styrofoam glued to it, presumably to ensure its buoyancy.
هناك رسال& #1577; هنا... في الوس& .
"There is a message here...in the center."
Hajar peeled back a thin piece of coating to reveal a very detailed, handwritten note. He took special care to unfold it and attempt to decipher it.
It was written in French.
La saison des ouragans est d'origine humaine. Des quantités massives de produits chimiques sont déversés dans l'Atlantique par les cargos intercontinentaux, de stimuler les conditions météorologiques catastrophiques. Les preuves peuvent être trouvés à 14.09433 latitude, longitude 31.31965. S'il vous plaît aider. Les gouvernements du monde derrière tout cela.
Hajar heard his brothers calling for him - it was time to head to the factory. Not knowing French and thus considering the message useless, he threw the object into a trash heap on his way to work.
It would never be seen again.
________________________
Hurricane season is man-made. Massive amounts of chemicals are dumped into the Atlantic by intercontinental freighters, to spur catastrophic weather patterns. Proof can be found at 14.09433 latitude, 31.31965 longitude. Please help. World governments behind this.
________________________
Life in Hajar's tiny town in Mauritania, north Africa, was simple. There was never any prospect of becoming rich or going anywhere beyond the 10 square miles they called 'home', and yet somehow everyone managed to stay happy.
Hajar had been carrying with him a small stick - he was using it to prod at objects of interest. There was no shortage of unique things here and there, that washed up on the beach from who knows where. One day, with his brothers, Hajar found a golden necklace that he traded for a new pair of shoes at the market.
As he was just about to head back for work, an object caught Hajar's eye, about 20 feet out from the shore, gently bobbing in the morning wake.
ما هو هذا؟
"What is that?"
It was a square piece of leather about 10 inches from corner-to-corner. It had a very strange, fluorescent orange coating to it, as if whoever discarded this had intended for it to be found again.
The underside of the object had a 1-inch thick piece of Styrofoam glued to it, presumably to ensure its buoyancy.
هناك رسال& #1577; هنا... في الوس& .
"There is a message here...in the center."
Hajar peeled back a thin piece of coating to reveal a very detailed, handwritten note. He took special care to unfold it and attempt to decipher it.
It was written in French.
La saison des ouragans est d'origine humaine. Des quantités massives de produits chimiques sont déversés dans l'Atlantique par les cargos intercontinentaux, de stimuler les conditions météorologiques catastrophiques. Les preuves peuvent être trouvés à 14.09433 latitude, longitude 31.31965. S'il vous plaît aider. Les gouvernements du monde derrière tout cela.
Hajar heard his brothers calling for him - it was time to head to the factory. Not knowing French and thus considering the message useless, he threw the object into a trash heap on his way to work.
It would never be seen again.
________________________
Hurricane season is man-made. Massive amounts of chemicals are dumped into the Atlantic by intercontinental freighters, to spur catastrophic weather patterns. Proof can be found at 14.09433 latitude, 31.31965 longitude. Please help. World governments behind this.
________________________
Friday, August 28, 2009
"Not Enough Gasoline"
>>>>>>> WELCOME TO THE X9-MARAUDER NAVIGATION MENU <<<<<<<
...
VERIFYING IDENTITY
...
HELLO MAJOR THOMAS JENSON D'ARCHOUS - USN #69148830XQ - DOB 04/22/2231 - SPECIES: HUMAN MALE - PLANETARY ORIGIN: EARTH - COMMAND POSITION: POINT COMMAND
...
CURRENT POSITION OF X9-MARAUDER: X = 0924429, Y = 9611049, Z = 5934440, PLANETARY PLANE 211B12 - WARNING: CURRENT LOCATION OUTSIDE OF TETHRA COMMUNICATION ZONE. NO COMMUNICATION TO TETHRA AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME. WARNING: CURRENT LOCATION OUTSIDE OF TETHRA EMERGENCY BEACON DETECTION ZONE. NO EMERGENCY BEACON DETECTION AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.
...
WHAT IS YOUR QUERY?
...
...
Thomas' sweat accumulates on his pale face as his weak fingers type commands into his Marauder's control panel. The systems controlling the Marauder's cabin environment are failing. Oxygen levels in the control pod are borderline sustainable. Carbon dioxide and nitrogen gas levels inch up by the second. The nearest Galactic Aid Station is 23,901,811 miles away.
Thomas punches in the request for an update on the rest of the starship's crew.
...
SCANNING HABITABLE ZONES...PLEASE WAIT.
...
...
...
...
...
46 ENTITIES DETECTED. SCAN FOR VITAL STATISTICS, MAJOR?
...
Thomas, his vision blurred by the enlarging veins in his eyes and his voice obfuscated by the build up of blood and mucous, manages to speak.
"Yes," he says.
...
PROCESSING
...
...
42 ENTITIES DECEASED. 4 ENTITIES ACTIVE.
"We still have survivors..." Thomas mutters to himself. "Must...reach aid station..."
With the little energy he had left, Thomas keys in the coordinates for the aid station, then sits back in his chair and waits.
...
NEW COORDINATES RECEIVED. PROCESSING...
...
...
Thomas feels his consciousness slipping from him as he looks over his shoulder, through the cabin window, out at space...solitary, black, cold space.
There are no sounds and no light. There is no life at all.
An empty ration packet floats by his face as Thomas begins convulsing, his bloodshot eyes rolling back into his head.
...
PROCESSING
...
COORDINATES CONFIRMED. GALACTIC AID STATION #T-11EWA-TETHRA.
...
...
ATTENTION MAJOR THOMAS - INSUFFICIENT PROPULSION RESOURCES. DESTINATION UNREACHABLE.
...
Thomas' body stills. Froth from his mouth begins drifting forward into the cabin. His eyes still open, Thomas' corpse remains buckled into the cold, grey, metal command station.
...there is complete silence.
...
...
...
WHAT IS YOUR QUERY?
...
VERIFYING IDENTITY
...
HELLO MAJOR THOMAS JENSON D'ARCHOUS - USN #69148830XQ - DOB 04/22/2231 - SPECIES: HUMAN MALE - PLANETARY ORIGIN: EARTH - COMMAND POSITION: POINT COMMAND
...
CURRENT POSITION OF X9-MARAUDER: X = 0924429, Y = 9611049, Z = 5934440, PLANETARY PLANE 211B12 - WARNING: CURRENT LOCATION OUTSIDE OF TETHRA COMMUNICATION ZONE. NO COMMUNICATION TO TETHRA AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME. WARNING: CURRENT LOCATION OUTSIDE OF TETHRA EMERGENCY BEACON DETECTION ZONE. NO EMERGENCY BEACON DETECTION AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.
...
WHAT IS YOUR QUERY?
...
...
Thomas' sweat accumulates on his pale face as his weak fingers type commands into his Marauder's control panel. The systems controlling the Marauder's cabin environment are failing. Oxygen levels in the control pod are borderline sustainable. Carbon dioxide and nitrogen gas levels inch up by the second. The nearest Galactic Aid Station is 23,901,811 miles away.
Thomas punches in the request for an update on the rest of the starship's crew.
...
SCANNING HABITABLE ZONES...PLEASE WAIT.
...
...
...
...
...
46 ENTITIES DETECTED. SCAN FOR VITAL STATISTICS, MAJOR?
...
Thomas, his vision blurred by the enlarging veins in his eyes and his voice obfuscated by the build up of blood and mucous, manages to speak.
"Yes," he says.
...
PROCESSING
...
...
42 ENTITIES DECEASED. 4 ENTITIES ACTIVE.
"We still have survivors..." Thomas mutters to himself. "Must...reach aid station..."
With the little energy he had left, Thomas keys in the coordinates for the aid station, then sits back in his chair and waits.
...
NEW COORDINATES RECEIVED. PROCESSING...
...
...
Thomas feels his consciousness slipping from him as he looks over his shoulder, through the cabin window, out at space...solitary, black, cold space.
There are no sounds and no light. There is no life at all.
An empty ration packet floats by his face as Thomas begins convulsing, his bloodshot eyes rolling back into his head.
...
PROCESSING
...
COORDINATES CONFIRMED. GALACTIC AID STATION #T-11EWA-TETHRA.
...
...
ATTENTION MAJOR THOMAS - INSUFFICIENT PROPULSION RESOURCES. DESTINATION UNREACHABLE.
...
Thomas' body stills. Froth from his mouth begins drifting forward into the cabin. His eyes still open, Thomas' corpse remains buckled into the cold, grey, metal command station.
...there is complete silence.
...
...
...
WHAT IS YOUR QUERY?
Friday, August 14, 2009
Comprehending the ultra-large
Lately I've been conducting little brain exercises.
"What, you mean like doing crosswords and stuff?" you might ask.
No, I mean exercises in comprehension of large numbers and space. I have been trying to truly understand how big our galaxy and universe is, and inversely, how small I am and the rest of the world is in comparison.
NASA and the operators of the Hubble space telescope now tell us that our 'universe' contains over 100 billion galaxies, each of them themselves containing billions of stars.
What's more, the distances between the 'ends' of our universe easily breach the 10 billion light year mark - a measure of distance that is truly incomprehensible.
...but still I try.
I sit here at work at times when I have a few minutes in between phone calls or meetings, and I try to really grasp the idea of even one million. That figure - one million - is tossed around so frivolously these days; there are so many millionaires and so many people talking about the 'millions of people' who are affected by things, and the 'millions of small businesses' that are thriving/dying.
But really - do I truly understand the gravity of one million? If I do, does that mean I can just mentally multiply that by 1,000 and instantly comprehend one billion?
I don't think it's that simple.
For me at least, my mind starts to wander after about a thousand. I do believe I understand literally what a thousand means...that it is composed of 100 tens and, as far as images in my mind go, that it's a number I can work with. It's easy.
But put the number at 10,000 or more...and before long it just becomes a number. There no longer is a mental representation of tiny dots, or apples, or flowers, or whatever it is I'm trying to count in my head. The sheer volume of 10,000 becomes way too much for my feeble brain to keep track of.
Trying, however...really trying to keep track of the additions of yet more - and more still - to whatever number I'm 'comfortable' with, is a fun challenge.
The exercise goes on and on, and before long I throw my hands up and just give in to what is essentially infinity. To me, one billion might as well be infinity, for I couldn't count that high even if I dedicated my life to doing so. But still it is humbling, challenging and fun to really try and understand just how grand time and space are.
Think about it - our solar system is roughly 4.6 billion years old. Modern humans have been around on Earth for about 200,000 years. 200,000 into 4.6 billion is 23,000. So we've been 'around' for 1/23,000th of the time that our solar system has been alive.
To further bend the mind - current theory and observations suggest that the universe in sum is between 13.5 and 14 billion years old, roughly 3 times as old as our solar system is.
Do these numbers even MEAN anything to the modern layperson? CAN they mean anything? Or are we destined to be forever ignorant of the true magnitude of volumes?
We are human and inherently limited in our abilities to think. But, pushing the boundaries and trying to really understand huge numbers is time well spent. :)
"What, you mean like doing crosswords and stuff?" you might ask.
No, I mean exercises in comprehension of large numbers and space. I have been trying to truly understand how big our galaxy and universe is, and inversely, how small I am and the rest of the world is in comparison.
NASA and the operators of the Hubble space telescope now tell us that our 'universe' contains over 100 billion galaxies, each of them themselves containing billions of stars.
What's more, the distances between the 'ends' of our universe easily breach the 10 billion light year mark - a measure of distance that is truly incomprehensible.
...but still I try.
I sit here at work at times when I have a few minutes in between phone calls or meetings, and I try to really grasp the idea of even one million. That figure - one million - is tossed around so frivolously these days; there are so many millionaires and so many people talking about the 'millions of people' who are affected by things, and the 'millions of small businesses' that are thriving/dying.
But really - do I truly understand the gravity of one million? If I do, does that mean I can just mentally multiply that by 1,000 and instantly comprehend one billion?
I don't think it's that simple.
For me at least, my mind starts to wander after about a thousand. I do believe I understand literally what a thousand means...that it is composed of 100 tens and, as far as images in my mind go, that it's a number I can work with. It's easy.
But put the number at 10,000 or more...and before long it just becomes a number. There no longer is a mental representation of tiny dots, or apples, or flowers, or whatever it is I'm trying to count in my head. The sheer volume of 10,000 becomes way too much for my feeble brain to keep track of.
Trying, however...really trying to keep track of the additions of yet more - and more still - to whatever number I'm 'comfortable' with, is a fun challenge.
The exercise goes on and on, and before long I throw my hands up and just give in to what is essentially infinity. To me, one billion might as well be infinity, for I couldn't count that high even if I dedicated my life to doing so. But still it is humbling, challenging and fun to really try and understand just how grand time and space are.
Think about it - our solar system is roughly 4.6 billion years old. Modern humans have been around on Earth for about 200,000 years. 200,000 into 4.6 billion is 23,000. So we've been 'around' for 1/23,000th of the time that our solar system has been alive.
To further bend the mind - current theory and observations suggest that the universe in sum is between 13.5 and 14 billion years old, roughly 3 times as old as our solar system is.
Do these numbers even MEAN anything to the modern layperson? CAN they mean anything? Or are we destined to be forever ignorant of the true magnitude of volumes?
We are human and inherently limited in our abilities to think. But, pushing the boundaries and trying to really understand huge numbers is time well spent. :)
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
What ever became of William Ward?
While most other teenagers were attending prom, going on dates, getting high after school and being, in general, average 'teenagers', I was suffering through 5 years at an Army-based military academy in rural Alabama.
It's not that I was a bad kid - I needed no reform and had no criminal intent beyond perhaps finding ways to get an extra credit on the pinball machine using a slug and some thread. No, it's not that I belonged at military school, but the memories that place gave me, I would discover later in life, would prove to be the most unique and resourceful of any others from my childhood.
There is one memory in particular that I have, which has stayed with me throughout the years since graduation in the summer of 1997. This memory constantly reminds me of the importance of compassion and respect; as well it reminds me that the people in this world who appear to be the most cruel, uncaring and soulless of us are just as human as anyone else who has ever walked the earth. They simply suffer more than most.
This memory is of a young man by the name of William Ward.
When I entered the academy, I was in the 8th grade. I was an awkward, chubby little redheaded kid and I didn't know a thing about drilling with a rifle, shining shoes or taking orders barked at me by someone my age. Needless to say, I was in great need of some sort of guidance - some sort of beacon to help ease my transition from a life of video games and fishing to one of regimented days, sleep deprived nights and egregious amounts of violence.
I found that guidance from many of the other cadets, many of whom had been at the academy for years prior to my arrival. They knew the ropes and they knew what to tell a new cadet (also called a 'scrub') in order to have the new recruit 'on their side'. It was very akin to prison in the way that social hierarchies sprouted.
Atop one such social hierarchy stood William Ward. He was a boy of average height and build, and he was quite ugly. His mouth was much larger, proportionately, than the other features of his face. He had large, clumsy feet and goofy ears. When I first met him I thought I was looking at Alfred E. Neuman from the MAD magazines I had so loved.
The very first thing William Ward said to me when I met him was, "I bet my dick is bigger than yours."
I am dead serious. That was the first sentence that came out of his (large) mouth, and he was being very sincere. This wasn't a joke, and at the academy penis size meant a LOT. I didn't know this at the time. His comment sort of threw me off, and I'm not sure exactly how I responded. I just remember him saying that firstly.
William Ward apparently came from a family with a lot of money. Incidentally, the Ward family had VERY tight connections to the administration of the school, and so this ugly, foul-mouthed young man was lauded by his peers for really only two reasons: he had a very large penis, and he was favored by those in command of the school thanks to generous financial contributions from his family.
This made for a perfect storm.
William Ward became a ruler of us. It didn't matter that he was ugly, stupid or, as I would find out later, completely illiterate. He had connections, money, and a big dick. He could do whatever he wanted. And so he did.
William Ward became a platoon sergeant in Charlie company, where he was basically given free reign to control a group of about 15 cadets, bending them to do as he wished and using them as pawns to further his after-school exploits often times involving hazing, drug use and other debauchery. He could do no wrong - the amount of power that William Ward had was unreal, especially considering his young age and puny amount of life experience.
When it is said that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, it rings truest with me, because I have seen it. I saw it in William Ward.
For 3 years I endured the constant berating of this young man. At every opportunity, William Ward would seek to prove his superiority by either whipping out his penis or punching someone bigger than he was, because he knew there would be no ramifications. He wouldn't have to answer to anyone. It didn't matter that he was an ugly runt who couldn't read and failed just about all his classes. He had street cred at the academy.
When William Ward graduated, I watched as this young man left the school and entered the real world, failing out of college and resorting to a life of blue collar servitude in a completely foreign and, I'm sure for him, scary environment. I can only imaging the shock when he realized that he actually had to be able to read in order to get a job...in order to go shopping, balance his checkbook or really just function as a human being in civilized society.
Looking back on it all, I can only feel compassion and sorrow for that guy. William Ward was probably the most callous, mean and disrespectful young man to ever exist in 1995, but it wasn't his fault. The corruptions of a military system instilled into the life of someone who had been born ugly and who never learned to read - these things would create a monster who would eventually be tamed into becoming, I'm sure, an insufferable, miserable peon with infinite regrets and no love in his life.
Wherever you are, William Ward, I hope things turned around for you. I hope you look back on your life at Lyman Ward Military Academy and I hope you see it as a period of serious confusion for you - and I hope by now you have learned that penis size and money mean absolutely nothing compared to respect, dignity and love for one another.
It's not that I was a bad kid - I needed no reform and had no criminal intent beyond perhaps finding ways to get an extra credit on the pinball machine using a slug and some thread. No, it's not that I belonged at military school, but the memories that place gave me, I would discover later in life, would prove to be the most unique and resourceful of any others from my childhood.
There is one memory in particular that I have, which has stayed with me throughout the years since graduation in the summer of 1997. This memory constantly reminds me of the importance of compassion and respect; as well it reminds me that the people in this world who appear to be the most cruel, uncaring and soulless of us are just as human as anyone else who has ever walked the earth. They simply suffer more than most.
This memory is of a young man by the name of William Ward.
When I entered the academy, I was in the 8th grade. I was an awkward, chubby little redheaded kid and I didn't know a thing about drilling with a rifle, shining shoes or taking orders barked at me by someone my age. Needless to say, I was in great need of some sort of guidance - some sort of beacon to help ease my transition from a life of video games and fishing to one of regimented days, sleep deprived nights and egregious amounts of violence.
I found that guidance from many of the other cadets, many of whom had been at the academy for years prior to my arrival. They knew the ropes and they knew what to tell a new cadet (also called a 'scrub') in order to have the new recruit 'on their side'. It was very akin to prison in the way that social hierarchies sprouted.
Atop one such social hierarchy stood William Ward. He was a boy of average height and build, and he was quite ugly. His mouth was much larger, proportionately, than the other features of his face. He had large, clumsy feet and goofy ears. When I first met him I thought I was looking at Alfred E. Neuman from the MAD magazines I had so loved.
The very first thing William Ward said to me when I met him was, "I bet my dick is bigger than yours."
I am dead serious. That was the first sentence that came out of his (large) mouth, and he was being very sincere. This wasn't a joke, and at the academy penis size meant a LOT. I didn't know this at the time. His comment sort of threw me off, and I'm not sure exactly how I responded. I just remember him saying that firstly.
William Ward apparently came from a family with a lot of money. Incidentally, the Ward family had VERY tight connections to the administration of the school, and so this ugly, foul-mouthed young man was lauded by his peers for really only two reasons: he had a very large penis, and he was favored by those in command of the school thanks to generous financial contributions from his family.
This made for a perfect storm.
William Ward became a ruler of us. It didn't matter that he was ugly, stupid or, as I would find out later, completely illiterate. He had connections, money, and a big dick. He could do whatever he wanted. And so he did.
William Ward became a platoon sergeant in Charlie company, where he was basically given free reign to control a group of about 15 cadets, bending them to do as he wished and using them as pawns to further his after-school exploits often times involving hazing, drug use and other debauchery. He could do no wrong - the amount of power that William Ward had was unreal, especially considering his young age and puny amount of life experience.
When it is said that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, it rings truest with me, because I have seen it. I saw it in William Ward.
For 3 years I endured the constant berating of this young man. At every opportunity, William Ward would seek to prove his superiority by either whipping out his penis or punching someone bigger than he was, because he knew there would be no ramifications. He wouldn't have to answer to anyone. It didn't matter that he was an ugly runt who couldn't read and failed just about all his classes. He had street cred at the academy.
When William Ward graduated, I watched as this young man left the school and entered the real world, failing out of college and resorting to a life of blue collar servitude in a completely foreign and, I'm sure for him, scary environment. I can only imaging the shock when he realized that he actually had to be able to read in order to get a job...in order to go shopping, balance his checkbook or really just function as a human being in civilized society.
Looking back on it all, I can only feel compassion and sorrow for that guy. William Ward was probably the most callous, mean and disrespectful young man to ever exist in 1995, but it wasn't his fault. The corruptions of a military system instilled into the life of someone who had been born ugly and who never learned to read - these things would create a monster who would eventually be tamed into becoming, I'm sure, an insufferable, miserable peon with infinite regrets and no love in his life.
Wherever you are, William Ward, I hope things turned around for you. I hope you look back on your life at Lyman Ward Military Academy and I hope you see it as a period of serious confusion for you - and I hope by now you have learned that penis size and money mean absolutely nothing compared to respect, dignity and love for one another.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Life a Million Miles Away (Part 2)
Nerboo has his hands in his lap and is sitting indian-style in the pagoda, discussing the unfolding development involving two of the villages children: Eleran and Amaryu.
Seated around him are the other elders, each of them listening intently to Nerboo's voice.
"It is written that this day would come. It should not be a surprise to any one of you - our village's destiny has been outlined well in the scrolls of Kharthlan," he said. A few of the elders nod in agreement.
Then, reciting from memory, Nerboo calls out the parts of the scroll that foretell the events that took place earlier that day. The volume of his voice increases and his words carry the authority of his 89 years as a member of his village:
"Before the turn of the 300th year, warriors will be selected from the youth by chance. You will know these warriors for the findings they will bring you: 5 stones of the Ancients, bound by the sigils of the Gods, each stone part of the Wheel of Souls."
The elders knew the scrolls well. They documented the origins of their village and contained immaculate prophecies each of which had come to pass exactly as described. Some involved famine; some involved warring with opposing village-tribes. In any event, the scrolls of Kharthlan were the source of all wisdom passed down by Nerboo's ancestors who were the founders of his village and of Pfan'Khet, the practice of traveling to heaven while still on earth.
Pfan'Khet is the villages sacred, closely held treasure. If the practice of heaven-travel were to be released to the rest of the world, total chaos would ensue. The scrolls warned of this.
Nerboo continues.
"These warriors must be escorted to the marshes of the east within 7 nights of their selection by chance. On the 8th night they are to be left at the base of the Yeurng Temple with provisions for 20 days. Do not provide anything but your wishes of hope for them both. Though they are young, they will survive. This is decreed by Kharthlan and so it shall be."
Nerboo glances around the group of elders.
"Who will take these warriors to the marshes?" he asks, "If not one of you, decide amongst yourselves who will escort them. Be sure he is able-bodied and reliable. I will arrange for mule and pack-horse to leave by the 7th day. Are there questions?"
Cervins speaks.
"Nerboo, we are sacrificing two of our young boys to the land, to become warriors as foretold by the Kharthlanic. The scrolls tell us they will heaven-travel on their own, without our help. Should we leave the stones with them, then?"
Nerboo ponders the question and finishes the stale remainder of his tea.
"No. It is written. 20 days of provisions," he replies.
Cervins immediately responds, "That's murder! They'll surely DIE out there! The Yeurng will hang them by their entrails and feed their hearts to the wolves!"
Nerboo patiently waits for Cervins to finish speaking. His eyes stare deeply into Cervins' as he responds.
"Cervins, do you doubt the prophecies of the Kharthlanic?" Nerboo asks.
"Exalted Nerboo, I do not. I merely mean to suggest that..."
"THEN SILENCE," commands Nerboo.
"The fate of our people hangs on these two young men. They are but children now - when they return to us from the east they will be warriors. They will be our saviors, and for us to meddle in this destiny is to seal our own fates."
Silence befalls everyone.
Nerboo clears his throat.
"Meet back here with the designated escort in 6 days. I will take care of explaining to the boys families what will be happening to them. Kharthlanic blessings be with you," Nerboo finishes.
Mumbling softly amongst themselves, the elders meander off and return to their duties.
Nerboo sequesters the stones in his hand and retreats to his quarters, where he begins to pray.
Seated around him are the other elders, each of them listening intently to Nerboo's voice.
"It is written that this day would come. It should not be a surprise to any one of you - our village's destiny has been outlined well in the scrolls of Kharthlan," he said. A few of the elders nod in agreement.
Then, reciting from memory, Nerboo calls out the parts of the scroll that foretell the events that took place earlier that day. The volume of his voice increases and his words carry the authority of his 89 years as a member of his village:
"Before the turn of the 300th year, warriors will be selected from the youth by chance. You will know these warriors for the findings they will bring you: 5 stones of the Ancients, bound by the sigils of the Gods, each stone part of the Wheel of Souls."
The elders knew the scrolls well. They documented the origins of their village and contained immaculate prophecies each of which had come to pass exactly as described. Some involved famine; some involved warring with opposing village-tribes. In any event, the scrolls of Kharthlan were the source of all wisdom passed down by Nerboo's ancestors who were the founders of his village and of Pfan'Khet, the practice of traveling to heaven while still on earth.
Pfan'Khet is the villages sacred, closely held treasure. If the practice of heaven-travel were to be released to the rest of the world, total chaos would ensue. The scrolls warned of this.
Nerboo continues.
"These warriors must be escorted to the marshes of the east within 7 nights of their selection by chance. On the 8th night they are to be left at the base of the Yeurng Temple with provisions for 20 days. Do not provide anything but your wishes of hope for them both. Though they are young, they will survive. This is decreed by Kharthlan and so it shall be."
Nerboo glances around the group of elders.
"Who will take these warriors to the marshes?" he asks, "If not one of you, decide amongst yourselves who will escort them. Be sure he is able-bodied and reliable. I will arrange for mule and pack-horse to leave by the 7th day. Are there questions?"
Cervins speaks.
"Nerboo, we are sacrificing two of our young boys to the land, to become warriors as foretold by the Kharthlanic. The scrolls tell us they will heaven-travel on their own, without our help. Should we leave the stones with them, then?"
Nerboo ponders the question and finishes the stale remainder of his tea.
"No. It is written. 20 days of provisions," he replies.
Cervins immediately responds, "That's murder! They'll surely DIE out there! The Yeurng will hang them by their entrails and feed their hearts to the wolves!"
Nerboo patiently waits for Cervins to finish speaking. His eyes stare deeply into Cervins' as he responds.
"Cervins, do you doubt the prophecies of the Kharthlanic?" Nerboo asks.
"Exalted Nerboo, I do not. I merely mean to suggest that..."
"THEN SILENCE," commands Nerboo.
"The fate of our people hangs on these two young men. They are but children now - when they return to us from the east they will be warriors. They will be our saviors, and for us to meddle in this destiny is to seal our own fates."
Silence befalls everyone.
Nerboo clears his throat.
"Meet back here with the designated escort in 6 days. I will take care of explaining to the boys families what will be happening to them. Kharthlanic blessings be with you," Nerboo finishes.
Mumbling softly amongst themselves, the elders meander off and return to their duties.
Nerboo sequesters the stones in his hand and retreats to his quarters, where he begins to pray.
Monday, May 18, 2009
A Life a Million Miles Away (part 1)
This morning a young child awakens from his slumber and blinks his eyes into a powerful yet kind sun, greeting the world with a yawn and eager ambition.
The hovel from which the boy arises isn't anything to speak of. Nothing about it distinguishes it from the other hundreds of poorly constructed homes stuffed into the commune.
The air is dry and filled with the smells of hot tea and vegetables frying on an old skillet a few yards down from the child's home. A wisp of dust greets the boy's sandaled feet as he steps into the day.
"Amaryu! Are you ready!?" comes a voice from afar.
Amaryu starts walking briskly towards Eleran, who is anxiously waiting for him.
"Today's the day! Do you have the stones?" Eleran asks.
Amaryu reaches into his pocket and confirms that they are still there - the 5 small, rust-colored stones that the two boys had found last week in a pouch sitting inconspicuously on the shore of a nearby river.
Eleran was the one who first spotted the pouch. It seemed a bit out of place, and upon investigating it's contents further, the two young boys discovered these strange stones, each of them with a small engraving which neither of them could make sense of.
Amaryu agreed to bring the stones to the village elders who would certainly know what to do with them. Eleran suggested waiting until today, the day of the month when the elders convened, to present them with their find.
"Yup, got them right here," replies Amaryu, "Can I give them to the elders?"
"No I wanna! I saw them first!" contends Eleran.
"Too bad!" replied Amaryu, and the two of them run off into the direction of the Temple, where the elders are just sitting down to tea, ready to begin their proceedings for the day.
There is much to discuss this day, at the meeting of the 10 most tenured and knowledgeable members of the village. As they take their seats in a large circle, they greet each other with kind salutations.
Eleran and Amaryu rush to the side of Nerboo, the exalted chief elder who is responsible for archiving the collected discoveries and intellectual works of the village.
"Nerboo! We have something to show you!" the boys say, almost in unison.
Nerboo looks down at the boys standing near the pagoda. He strokes his beard and sets aside his tea to give them his attention.
"We begin our meetings in short order. What have you that warrants our focus?" inquires Nerboo.
Amaryu reaches into his pocket and fishes out the 5 stones. He walks up to Nerboo and raises his cupped hands to him, smiling broadly.
Nerboo's eyes widen with immediate interest.
"Amaryu, where did you get these?" Nerboo asks.
"Eleran and I found them near the river. He saw them first but I picked them up. Are they worth anything?" inquires Amaryu.
"Hand them to me, boy," commands Nerboo, "you know not what you hold."
And with that, Nerboo takes the 5 stones from the small hands of Amaryu and immediately stands to summon the others. A small circle forms around Nerboo as the elders take stock of this new discovery.
Mumbling and whispered discussion emanates from the small gathering.
Amaryu and Eleran watch intently as Nerboo stoops to his haunches and arranges the stones in a circle. He raises a hand and motions for one of the elders.
Cervins, another high-ranking member amongst them, brings Nerboo a small handful of gold shavings, their source unknown to the boys.
Nerboo places the gold shavings in the center of the circle of stones.
What happens then confirms what Nerboo suspected about the stones.
A column of purple light immediately forms where the gold sits. This column reaches up through each level of the pagoda and straight through to the sky, with no end. It appears to rise completely up to the heavens, and it slowly turns as it radiates a very warm, pleasing light.
Each stone in the circle vibrates softly.
Nerboo immediately breaks the ritual by removing one of the stones. He has seen what he needed to see. The stones are in fact what he suspected they are.
"Boys, return to your homes. In one week's time I will call for you to leave with me. We will not be returning to our village and your lives will soon be changed forever. Say your goodbyes, and be prepared to venture in 7 days."
Amaryu and Eleran are dumbfounded.
As instructed, they each walk back to their hovels and explain to their families what had just happened.
From that day forth the two boys would be inseparable - bound by a common cause, their destinies foretold for decades by the lore of their ancestors.
The hovel from which the boy arises isn't anything to speak of. Nothing about it distinguishes it from the other hundreds of poorly constructed homes stuffed into the commune.
The air is dry and filled with the smells of hot tea and vegetables frying on an old skillet a few yards down from the child's home. A wisp of dust greets the boy's sandaled feet as he steps into the day.
"Amaryu! Are you ready!?" comes a voice from afar.
Amaryu starts walking briskly towards Eleran, who is anxiously waiting for him.
"Today's the day! Do you have the stones?" Eleran asks.
Amaryu reaches into his pocket and confirms that they are still there - the 5 small, rust-colored stones that the two boys had found last week in a pouch sitting inconspicuously on the shore of a nearby river.
Eleran was the one who first spotted the pouch. It seemed a bit out of place, and upon investigating it's contents further, the two young boys discovered these strange stones, each of them with a small engraving which neither of them could make sense of.
Amaryu agreed to bring the stones to the village elders who would certainly know what to do with them. Eleran suggested waiting until today, the day of the month when the elders convened, to present them with their find.
"Yup, got them right here," replies Amaryu, "Can I give them to the elders?"
"No I wanna! I saw them first!" contends Eleran.
"Too bad!" replied Amaryu, and the two of them run off into the direction of the Temple, where the elders are just sitting down to tea, ready to begin their proceedings for the day.
There is much to discuss this day, at the meeting of the 10 most tenured and knowledgeable members of the village. As they take their seats in a large circle, they greet each other with kind salutations.
Eleran and Amaryu rush to the side of Nerboo, the exalted chief elder who is responsible for archiving the collected discoveries and intellectual works of the village.
"Nerboo! We have something to show you!" the boys say, almost in unison.
Nerboo looks down at the boys standing near the pagoda. He strokes his beard and sets aside his tea to give them his attention.
"We begin our meetings in short order. What have you that warrants our focus?" inquires Nerboo.
Amaryu reaches into his pocket and fishes out the 5 stones. He walks up to Nerboo and raises his cupped hands to him, smiling broadly.
Nerboo's eyes widen with immediate interest.
"Amaryu, where did you get these?" Nerboo asks.
"Eleran and I found them near the river. He saw them first but I picked them up. Are they worth anything?" inquires Amaryu.
"Hand them to me, boy," commands Nerboo, "you know not what you hold."
And with that, Nerboo takes the 5 stones from the small hands of Amaryu and immediately stands to summon the others. A small circle forms around Nerboo as the elders take stock of this new discovery.
Mumbling and whispered discussion emanates from the small gathering.
Amaryu and Eleran watch intently as Nerboo stoops to his haunches and arranges the stones in a circle. He raises a hand and motions for one of the elders.
Cervins, another high-ranking member amongst them, brings Nerboo a small handful of gold shavings, their source unknown to the boys.
Nerboo places the gold shavings in the center of the circle of stones.
What happens then confirms what Nerboo suspected about the stones.
A column of purple light immediately forms where the gold sits. This column reaches up through each level of the pagoda and straight through to the sky, with no end. It appears to rise completely up to the heavens, and it slowly turns as it radiates a very warm, pleasing light.
Each stone in the circle vibrates softly.
Nerboo immediately breaks the ritual by removing one of the stones. He has seen what he needed to see. The stones are in fact what he suspected they are.
"Boys, return to your homes. In one week's time I will call for you to leave with me. We will not be returning to our village and your lives will soon be changed forever. Say your goodbyes, and be prepared to venture in 7 days."
Amaryu and Eleran are dumbfounded.
As instructed, they each walk back to their hovels and explain to their families what had just happened.
From that day forth the two boys would be inseparable - bound by a common cause, their destinies foretold for decades by the lore of their ancestors.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A letter to Mom
Dear Mom,
Life is really tough for me right now and I wish I had you here to give me guidance and support.
I can remember seeing you go through some very difficult times in your own life while you were still alive, and though you're not here anymore, I still draw on those experiences for strength when I need it.
Mom, I turn 30 in a few weeks and it looks like my job is on the rocks. Also, the woman I was in love with has now moved on to someone else, and I am left to deal with all of these things alone, with only my internal resources as assistance.
Sure, there have been times in the past where I've had to 'man up' and dig deep for the motivation I needed to press on, to get out of bed and to face another day. But for some reason it just gets harder and harder as the time passes and the anxiety in my life mounts.
There are very few things surrounding me that I can look to and appreciate. I have difficulty in seeing the positive in things when most of what my eyes take in is gray and shadowy. It's as if all I perceive is painted in malaise; even the most beautiful rose would not please my eyes like it once did.
Anyway, I hope you're well wherever you are. Know that I am thinking of you, and that I love you, and that I will continue to live on through this regardless of how heavy my heart feels or how much my soul weeps.
Give Buster a kiss on the nose for me. :)
Forever Your Son,
Bret
Life is really tough for me right now and I wish I had you here to give me guidance and support.
I can remember seeing you go through some very difficult times in your own life while you were still alive, and though you're not here anymore, I still draw on those experiences for strength when I need it.
Mom, I turn 30 in a few weeks and it looks like my job is on the rocks. Also, the woman I was in love with has now moved on to someone else, and I am left to deal with all of these things alone, with only my internal resources as assistance.
Sure, there have been times in the past where I've had to 'man up' and dig deep for the motivation I needed to press on, to get out of bed and to face another day. But for some reason it just gets harder and harder as the time passes and the anxiety in my life mounts.
There are very few things surrounding me that I can look to and appreciate. I have difficulty in seeing the positive in things when most of what my eyes take in is gray and shadowy. It's as if all I perceive is painted in malaise; even the most beautiful rose would not please my eyes like it once did.
Anyway, I hope you're well wherever you are. Know that I am thinking of you, and that I love you, and that I will continue to live on through this regardless of how heavy my heart feels or how much my soul weeps.
Give Buster a kiss on the nose for me. :)
Forever Your Son,
Bret
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
'Hot redheaded man' is NOT an oxymoron!
Prepare for 29 years of ginger RAGE to all spill out onto one post. You have been warned.
________________________________________
I HAVE HAD IT.
For the past 20+ years I have been thought of as a human anomaly based solely on the fact that my hair is an orange/auburn color and I have freckles on my skin.
You name it, I have heard it:
- "Red on the head like a #$^& on a dog"
- "Firecrotch"
- "Ginger"
- "Carrot Top" (This one always amused me because the tops of carrots are GREEN)
- "Big Red" (began after I started lifting weights )
- "Fanta pants"
- "Red-headed stepchild"
- ...at least a dozen others.
I am here now making my proclamation that I am an AWESOME redheaded guy who is not only good-looking, but who can also rip your damn phone book in half. Twice. That is, if you needed your phone book ripped in half for whatever reason. I don't just go around ripping phone books in half.
I also happen to be very intelligent. Don't believe me? Ok, then. Fine. I challenge to you to find a grammatical, syntactical or spelling error ANYWHERE on this post. Don't even try, because I got a 750 score on the verbal part of my SAT. So THERE. What did YOU get? And if your score WAS higher than mine, is your hair red? I didn't think so.
Look - less than 3% of the population in sum here on earth has red hair. That includes hot chicks from Ireland. And, that number is shrinking. Current estimates point to the year 2250 for the general time when there will no longer be identifiable redheads in existence.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?
That means you really have only about 241 years to enjoy the company of this dying species. We are a hallmark archetype of the Human Instance and so WHAT if we burn easy or have near-transparent body hair. That just means we're solar-sensitive and less chromatic when it comes to the hue of our bodies. SO SUE US.
Let's consider some very popular redheaded men:
- Ron Howard
- Conan O'Brian
- Me
I guess my point in posting this is to engage the general Denver public in a discussion about the merits of redheads. We are an unstoppable force of ginger power and we will continue to be prominent anthropological beacons for ALL cultures to admire. Well, at least for the next 241 years.
You want to know what is even more awesome about this post? I am actually SINGLE and RELATIVELY YOUNG (29 is the new 24).
I also have a few freckles in unmentionable places which I believe also makes me pretty awesome. Those few freckles actually emanate a ginger-specific power that only redheads know about. It's true. I'll show you sometime if we get to know each other REALLY well. I have one freckle that is shaped like a butterfly. Swear to god.
ASK A BLOND DUDE IF HE HAS A FRECKLE IN THE SHAPE OF A BUTTERFLY. I BET YOU HE WILL SAY 'NO'.
He will probably also look at you funny and walk away.
However, I will not. I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice, redheaded, sincere, slightly neurotic guy, actually.
________________________________________
I HAVE HAD IT.
For the past 20+ years I have been thought of as a human anomaly based solely on the fact that my hair is an orange/auburn color and I have freckles on my skin.
You name it, I have heard it:
- "Red on the head like a #$^& on a dog"
- "Firecrotch"
- "Ginger"
- "Carrot Top" (This one always amused me because the tops of carrots are GREEN)
- "Big Red" (began after I started lifting weights )
- "Fanta pants"
- "Red-headed stepchild"
- ...at least a dozen others.
I am here now making my proclamation that I am an AWESOME redheaded guy who is not only good-looking, but who can also rip your damn phone book in half. Twice. That is, if you needed your phone book ripped in half for whatever reason. I don't just go around ripping phone books in half.
I also happen to be very intelligent. Don't believe me? Ok, then. Fine. I challenge to you to find a grammatical, syntactical or spelling error ANYWHERE on this post. Don't even try, because I got a 750 score on the verbal part of my SAT. So THERE. What did YOU get? And if your score WAS higher than mine, is your hair red? I didn't think so.
Look - less than 3% of the population in sum here on earth has red hair. That includes hot chicks from Ireland. And, that number is shrinking. Current estimates point to the year 2250 for the general time when there will no longer be identifiable redheads in existence.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?
That means you really have only about 241 years to enjoy the company of this dying species. We are a hallmark archetype of the Human Instance and so WHAT if we burn easy or have near-transparent body hair. That just means we're solar-sensitive and less chromatic when it comes to the hue of our bodies. SO SUE US.
Let's consider some very popular redheaded men:
- Ron Howard
- Conan O'Brian
- Me
I guess my point in posting this is to engage the general Denver public in a discussion about the merits of redheads. We are an unstoppable force of ginger power and we will continue to be prominent anthropological beacons for ALL cultures to admire. Well, at least for the next 241 years.
You want to know what is even more awesome about this post? I am actually SINGLE and RELATIVELY YOUNG (29 is the new 24).
I also have a few freckles in unmentionable places which I believe also makes me pretty awesome. Those few freckles actually emanate a ginger-specific power that only redheads know about. It's true. I'll show you sometime if we get to know each other REALLY well. I have one freckle that is shaped like a butterfly. Swear to god.
ASK A BLOND DUDE IF HE HAS A FRECKLE IN THE SHAPE OF A BUTTERFLY. I BET YOU HE WILL SAY 'NO'.
He will probably also look at you funny and walk away.
However, I will not. I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice, redheaded, sincere, slightly neurotic guy, actually.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monica Fell
A brown styrofoam cup time has chipped at the rim
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark
Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing
Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears
So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page
"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black
The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly
She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack
"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down
Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can
"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"
And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town
Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten
"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is
"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears
Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark
Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing
Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears
So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page
"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black
The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly
She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack
"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down
Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can
"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"
And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town
Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten
"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is
"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears
Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Road to Home
Now 35 in dog years, Luger's adventures had only begun.
He trotted along the side of the road not noticing much as he went, aside from the occasional dead squirrel or spent food container that happened to pass. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer afternoon in Tennessee and the 5 year-old black Labrador Retriever hadn't a care in the world.
At times the wind would bring a peculiar scent to his nose that would spark some curiosity, but Luger's focus was on the road. He had left that strange, confining place where he was picked at by young children and deprived of food for sometimes days at a time. Back home, the rain fell hard through the chicken wire 'roof' and happiness amongst the litter was rare. Finally, Luger had had enough of the sleepless nights spent along side his brethren and took to breaking out, via a chain link vulnerability near his sleeping pad. It had been 10 days or so since his emancipation.
So now...there was nothing to do but venture forth. It was sort of like Luger's coming of age, since he hadn't ever seen land outside of the 10 acres his prior masters owned in Chattanooga. Even as dusk fell and he felt his tender paws ache for rest, as the setting country sun shone pink and orange down on his snout, thinking back to the family he left behind evoked no remorse - Luger was a free dog.
Cresting a long, slow hill in anticipation of a night's sleep perhaps in a tree hollow somewhere, Luger spotted something interesting off in the distance. It appeared to be a rustling of sorts, in a thicket of brush that bordered the dirt road. From his position about 100 yards away, Luger could make out two human figures; one of them was much, much larger than the other and the two were engaged in some sort of struggle. Luger decided to investigate.
"yell yell yell yell yell yell yell!!" heard Luger, as he broached the scene.
"Yell? YELL YELL!! Yell yell yell yell!," came the reply from the other human.
The larger human wrestled the smaller one to the ground and knelt atop him. Luger kept his distance, though his presence was noticed by both of the humans.
"Yell? Yell!! YELL YELL!!," came more cacophony from the humans.
Soon the larger human began hitting the smaller one, bringing his arms and hands down with such force that the sounds of impact made Luger cringe. Soon his instincts got the best of him and Luger felt the hair on his back rise like it did when the boys back home got too rough with him. Setting his sights on the larger human, Luger sprang forth and launched himself at the attacker, barreling towards the two of them at full speed.
Teeth bared and eyes wide, Luger leaped at the taller man and caught his left arm between his jaws, clamping down hard and mashing his eyelids shut. The feeling of flesh being pierced by his teeth and the resulting cry from the man only fueled Luger's rage. Soon the two humans were separated, with the larger one now trying his best to fend off this wild, attacking animal.
Luger shook his head violently while still gripping at the man's upper arm. His tooth hold was lost when the man shook him off, sending Luger to the ground with a mouthful of flannel from the human's shirt, and a good amount of blood on his teeth. The coppery taste was familiar.
For a moment there was silence.
The two humans looked at each other, the smaller of them still on the ground, about 10 feet away from the larger one.
"Yell! Yell yell yell, yell yell yell yell yell. Yell, yell yell. YELL!!" screamed the larger human to the smaller one.
Then, the larger human pushed a hand against his injured arm, turned and began jogging briskly away.
Luger turned and glanced over at the small human laying in the dirt. It was a young boy...blond hair, dirty face, wearing overalls and a backpack.
"Say there, buddy...what's your name?" the boy inquired.
Luger sat and wagged his tail. For a moment the boy was at a loss for words.
He looked into the dogs eyes; Luger looked back.
"Come on. Let's go," he said, "We're late for supper."
And with that, Luger and his new master trotted off to begin their lives together.
He trotted along the side of the road not noticing much as he went, aside from the occasional dead squirrel or spent food container that happened to pass. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer afternoon in Tennessee and the 5 year-old black Labrador Retriever hadn't a care in the world.
At times the wind would bring a peculiar scent to his nose that would spark some curiosity, but Luger's focus was on the road. He had left that strange, confining place where he was picked at by young children and deprived of food for sometimes days at a time. Back home, the rain fell hard through the chicken wire 'roof' and happiness amongst the litter was rare. Finally, Luger had had enough of the sleepless nights spent along side his brethren and took to breaking out, via a chain link vulnerability near his sleeping pad. It had been 10 days or so since his emancipation.
So now...there was nothing to do but venture forth. It was sort of like Luger's coming of age, since he hadn't ever seen land outside of the 10 acres his prior masters owned in Chattanooga. Even as dusk fell and he felt his tender paws ache for rest, as the setting country sun shone pink and orange down on his snout, thinking back to the family he left behind evoked no remorse - Luger was a free dog.
Cresting a long, slow hill in anticipation of a night's sleep perhaps in a tree hollow somewhere, Luger spotted something interesting off in the distance. It appeared to be a rustling of sorts, in a thicket of brush that bordered the dirt road. From his position about 100 yards away, Luger could make out two human figures; one of them was much, much larger than the other and the two were engaged in some sort of struggle. Luger decided to investigate.
"yell yell yell yell yell yell yell!!" heard Luger, as he broached the scene.
"Yell? YELL YELL!! Yell yell yell yell!," came the reply from the other human.
The larger human wrestled the smaller one to the ground and knelt atop him. Luger kept his distance, though his presence was noticed by both of the humans.
"Yell? Yell!! YELL YELL!!," came more cacophony from the humans.
Soon the larger human began hitting the smaller one, bringing his arms and hands down with such force that the sounds of impact made Luger cringe. Soon his instincts got the best of him and Luger felt the hair on his back rise like it did when the boys back home got too rough with him. Setting his sights on the larger human, Luger sprang forth and launched himself at the attacker, barreling towards the two of them at full speed.
Teeth bared and eyes wide, Luger leaped at the taller man and caught his left arm between his jaws, clamping down hard and mashing his eyelids shut. The feeling of flesh being pierced by his teeth and the resulting cry from the man only fueled Luger's rage. Soon the two humans were separated, with the larger one now trying his best to fend off this wild, attacking animal.
Luger shook his head violently while still gripping at the man's upper arm. His tooth hold was lost when the man shook him off, sending Luger to the ground with a mouthful of flannel from the human's shirt, and a good amount of blood on his teeth. The coppery taste was familiar.
For a moment there was silence.
The two humans looked at each other, the smaller of them still on the ground, about 10 feet away from the larger one.
"Yell! Yell yell yell, yell yell yell yell yell. Yell, yell yell. YELL!!" screamed the larger human to the smaller one.
Then, the larger human pushed a hand against his injured arm, turned and began jogging briskly away.
Luger turned and glanced over at the small human laying in the dirt. It was a young boy...blond hair, dirty face, wearing overalls and a backpack.
"Say there, buddy...what's your name?" the boy inquired.
Luger sat and wagged his tail. For a moment the boy was at a loss for words.
He looked into the dogs eyes; Luger looked back.
"Come on. Let's go," he said, "We're late for supper."
And with that, Luger and his new master trotted off to begin their lives together.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
To the Woman Who Threw Hot Coffee in my Face Yesterday
I am equal parts confused and frustrated.
You didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!
My day started simply enough; I wasn't expecting to be following you into work on I-25, obliviously sipping on my grande Chai latte (2%) and listening to some program on NPR about gays in the military. In case you were wondering I am not gay.
Anyway, why did you have to have a bumper sticker on your '99 Honda Civic that read: "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair"? I mean, is that not an invitation for a guy like me, brimming with testosterone and foolishly acting on my instincts, to want to drive up beside you, just to see if you're hot or not?
I mean, COME ON! Can you say 'INVITATION'?
Well, once I did manage to get a look at you, I realized you were pretty smokin'. I guess I didn't think you worked in the same building I did. You had both hands on the wheel, at 10 and 2 exactly, with your gorgeous eyes focused keenly on the road. God...safe drivers are SO sexy.
When we both showed up to work at the same time, I wasn't sure if you knew who I was. I mean, I work in sales and you're probably an HR person or something (though that would certainly be interesting considering your taste in bumper stickers).
I thought that when I caught up to you and said "Hey!" that I'd then be able to come up with some witty comment about the traffic that morning but NOOOOO. I had to totally fuck up and say what I did: "If I was riding your ass, I know *I'd* pull your hair!!"
My big, toothy grin following that comment was, I thought, sure to win you over. Plus, wasn't what I said at least somewhat funny?
Apparently NOT as you proceeded to dump your 20 ounces of piping hot hazelnut coffee right on my face! I mean, OW!!
After dealing with the indescribable pain I experienced as your boiling brown beverage coursed down my face and all over my pressed outfit, I found myself feeling sorry for you because now, you didn't have any coffee to drink. Not one drop.
You didn't even look back as you made your way up the stairs and into the building.
Now, aside from being busy nursing my second degree burns, I'm sad.
The people in the ER were very nice to me. And, as tempted as I was to comment on the nurses excellent choice of perfume, I did realize that she had a tray of syringes next to her, and I didn't want THOSE thrown in my face, too.
Oh well.
I hope you got a refill and had a good day.
:)
You didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!
My day started simply enough; I wasn't expecting to be following you into work on I-25, obliviously sipping on my grande Chai latte (2%) and listening to some program on NPR about gays in the military. In case you were wondering I am not gay.
Anyway, why did you have to have a bumper sticker on your '99 Honda Civic that read: "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair"? I mean, is that not an invitation for a guy like me, brimming with testosterone and foolishly acting on my instincts, to want to drive up beside you, just to see if you're hot or not?
I mean, COME ON! Can you say 'INVITATION'?
Well, once I did manage to get a look at you, I realized you were pretty smokin'. I guess I didn't think you worked in the same building I did. You had both hands on the wheel, at 10 and 2 exactly, with your gorgeous eyes focused keenly on the road. God...safe drivers are SO sexy.
When we both showed up to work at the same time, I wasn't sure if you knew who I was. I mean, I work in sales and you're probably an HR person or something (though that would certainly be interesting considering your taste in bumper stickers).
I thought that when I caught up to you and said "Hey!" that I'd then be able to come up with some witty comment about the traffic that morning but NOOOOO. I had to totally fuck up and say what I did: "If I was riding your ass, I know *I'd* pull your hair!!"
My big, toothy grin following that comment was, I thought, sure to win you over. Plus, wasn't what I said at least somewhat funny?
Apparently NOT as you proceeded to dump your 20 ounces of piping hot hazelnut coffee right on my face! I mean, OW!!
After dealing with the indescribable pain I experienced as your boiling brown beverage coursed down my face and all over my pressed outfit, I found myself feeling sorry for you because now, you didn't have any coffee to drink. Not one drop.
You didn't even look back as you made your way up the stairs and into the building.
Now, aside from being busy nursing my second degree burns, I'm sad.
The people in the ER were very nice to me. And, as tempted as I was to comment on the nurses excellent choice of perfume, I did realize that she had a tray of syringes next to her, and I didn't want THOSE thrown in my face, too.
Oh well.
I hope you got a refill and had a good day.
:)
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