Happy New Years

New Years resolutions are conceived for the sole purpose of causing ourselves pain and creating a guilty sense of failure. They are an excuse to try to change only once a year, a way to put off necessary changes until the end of December.

I have a list of goals myself, but have little to do with the turn of the year. I have already begun changing myself accordingly:

1) Work out four times a week, running at least two miles each week.

2) Maintain a weekly planner, as well as a calendar and daily schedule.

3) Finish all assignments and studying punctually and diligently.

4) Practice Kendo three times a week.

5) Keep track of finances to the cent.

6) Wake early, and keep a strict bed time.

7) Practice writing and music every day for at least twenty minutes.

8) Keep my living quarters clean and organized.

9) Be honest, open, and unashamed. Be brave; move forward boldly as a hero.


This last goal requires me to act in such a way that I have nothing of which I am ashamed. It is not simple honesty; it is a way of life that does not require deceit.


I know it is a long list, and will require a great deal of discipline on my behalf. One problem with New Years resolutions is that they are abrupt--you must change with the passing of midnight, or you begin the year failing yourself. With a list of goals that are not resolutions, I can build myself up to each, working diligently until I am that which I wish to be.

I feel good about the coming year.

So much for that...

I'm afraid my life isn't terribly interesting, or so it seems upon review. My interesting thoughts and insights may or may not exist, but have not yet made their way here. I suppose we shall see.

I'm currently packing to leave for Davis. If I were flying, this would be a ten minute task--a matter of collecting the clothes I brought down. Because one of my little brothers is studying the California missions, however, my parents will be driving my up to my lovely little town, meaning I can transfer more gear. Thusfar, the pile is dominated by a bulky old Ovation guitar, my Guitar Hero guitar, my Applause ukulele, the Marshall amp my ex gave me a few Christmases ago (which I am contemplating selling or trading, in order to take up the bass guitar), and clothes.

Maybe this time I'll actually stick with an instrument. We'll see. I've been bitching about not starting music in elementary school, but have not done much more than that. I took a beginning piano class at community college, and was somewhat helpful in improving my overall understanding of music. I also took a summer guitar course on the same campus, this proving a good deal more useful.


As I bring this small academic respite to a close, I can say that I am thoroughly pleased and satisfied with the way I spent it. It was good to see all my family and friends, and to be able to spend time with all of them. Meeting with Megan was almost bizarre, after three years with nothing but instant messages and maybe a total of three phone calls between us. Of course it figures that the night before she calls, my face breaks out for the first time in years. Nothing like looking ones best, right?

I also spent a good deal of time in the gym with my brother, and I think I can rightfully say that right now I am in the best shape I've ever been in. We'll see if I can keep it up.

Maybe this blogging thing isn't as hard as I thought. Maybe I'm just a rambling fool.

Due Dates, Deadlines, and Do Dates

There are fourteen hours left before my first final, which will concern photography and its theory in literature--women's literature, actually. Shortly after, I have a test in Medeival Literature, which will probably prove to be incredibly frustrating and generally off-base as far as literature examinations go.

I have 5 page essays to turn in for both of these classes. That gives me about six hours to produce quality work for both. I think I can do it.

On tuesday, I have a final on Emily Dickinson and her work, though the professor has told us what the exam will be--we are to choose a poem, and come it to class with a copy of that poem. We are to write an essay in class using that poem. I'm overlooking this class and its requirements for now, because the prior two are so much more heinous.

I can't pretend that its not my fault I'm in this place. Oh well. All I can do now is put every ounce of me into these next few days, and then strive to prevent these mistakes next quarter.

Perhaps it is time for some true bloggery?

If you care to take a look, The Looking Glass has a substantial number of posts, all of which are better than any of the writings I have done independently here. I like that particular project, because I am working closely with Ms. Horejsi in producing pairs of short stories from a common prompt. Naturally, the results are vastly different, and the contrast of our styles and approach makes for an interesting read--I think so, at least. The excercises have up to this point been quick-write style, with a time limit (from 30-45 minutes), with each of us striving to meet the goals ennumerated in the very first post of that blog.

If you're looking for my writing, look there, because I'm thinking of turning Apple Thoth into an actual blog. I would certainly like to do this, but know myself well enough to doubt the regularity of posting. We shall see.

The Process

She was walking in front of me on my way to class.  I could not help but admire her shape—tight waist transitioning smoothly to hips, gathering neatly in a beautifully distinct but not excessive.  An ass needs to curve outward in a near half-spherical shape.  Flatter is less fun but still pleasing, as long as the posterior extrusion is distinct and in proportion to the protrusion of the hips.  An overlarge ass will droop, and though can be pleasing on some body types, is not my personal ideal.

The fitting of jeans is remarkably important in this.  A girl may have a pleasing body, and ruin the aesthetics with clothing that create lumps or rolls.  Smoothness, flowing lines—soft but not gushy, firm but not hard… Muscle tone but no sharp cuts.

The waist should transition smoothly to torso and shoulders.  Shoulder to hip ratio is important, but I could not tell off the top of my head what…

I like slender thighs, myself.  Well proportioned legs.  Delicate ankles.

This is the first stage, and can generally be completed without ever seeing the front of a girl.  If her body is shapely from behind, the breasts are almost always well proportioned and pleasing.   Some softness of the belly is allowable, but I love that lateral line that forms on a slim abdomen.

That first stage is an initial shape filter.  Specific qualities are not appreciated as much as the proportions of the body as a whole.  This is fairly universal, though preferences in proportion will obviously vary.

This particular girl passed the first screen so superbly that I found myself walking faster, to pass her.  A part of me regrets already that she is so beautiful, and hopes that she passes the second screen… Because I will not have a chance to talk to her.

The next check is the face.  A quick sidelong glance reveals a delicate profile, a nose that is cute because it is so very moderate, shapely brow and well placed hairline.  I like to be able to see the jawline, though it must be narrow and feminine.  Cheekbones are subtle.  Skin is even colored and smooth.

I dislike neck fat.   A girl should be able to look down and not have the shape of the chin obscured by roundness, should be able to laugh without forming folds.

Apparently the most attractive women are the ones with proportions closest to the mean.  Not unkind—average.  Duh.  I think I agree with this.  Extreme features are generally masculine—except big eyes.  Babies have big eyes, and everyone likes those.

So after making sure there are no extreme features of the face, other smaller factors are measured.  Her gait and carriage, subtleties of demeanor, minor mannerisms, placement of eyes, natural facial expression, placement of hands.  Generally I think I’m checking for personality type—meek and self conscious, confident and showy.  I like a girl who feels comfortable, natural.

A double check of the face reveals eye color, lips, teeth, and… facial hair.

This particular girl had very light brown eyes, lighter than her hair, which was striking.  Her eyebrows complimented the shape of her face.  Her lips were full, though her mouth was smallish.

She was probably a 9, based only on appearance.

And then she opened a door to a math classroom and disappeared.  I will probably never talk to her.

Just thought I'd let you know

I hate books. i hate them. I hate the way the edges of the pages run along my fingers. I hate the shape and curve of type, the contrast of ink on paper. I hate the jumble of symbols. I hate mysterious dry boogers and disturbing hairs that find their way pressed between pages.

This... This is why we go to college.

Dearest You,

I had a dream about you last night. You felt torn, your desire, our natural attraction combating your loyalty and propriety. You couldn’t understand how you could want so strongly to be with me, when the man you’re with now makes you so happy.

But you came to me in that dream, and that filled me with a completeness and happy satisfaction that I have not known in some time.

We would go together well, you and I, if only our plot would bend that way. We would connect, not like puzzle pieces, but like roots in soil, penetrating and gripping with countless tendrils the very substance of our souls.

I knew I was dreaming. Even the very best in life cannot be as pleasing as the sweetest dream—or so I suspect. I wake every morning with a hint of regret, hoping in the back of my mind that maybe this is the dream, and I’ll wake soon and you’ll still be there.

I plod along.

Remembering

Shelves and shelves of dust and time,
And bulky memories,
Boxes and crates, names and dates,
As old as love and crime.

Echoes of my footsteps guide
Me on my wandering way,
Alone in this room of dust and gloom,
Luck leads my every stride.

I look behind and see my tracks
In dust, untouched by an age.
No soul has tread, no light has shed
For decades here in back.

I look upon these memories
With fondness and some fear—
What will I find, the cruel or the kind?
Sore failures, or worn glories?

With opening eyes, I leave that place
Of dusty yesteryears,
And turn my gaze to coming days,
And pray they’re full of grace.

Shaken, Still

It was December near Christmas time. I had flown home from Davis, near Sacramento, to my home in Lakewood (near Long Beach/L.A.). I was thrilled to be home, and to be enjoying the holidays with my friends, family, and a girlfriend who has stayed with me and been good to me, even with 400 miles between us.

My first night home, we watched a movie at my parents' house. It was probably around midnight when the movie finished and I walked her out to her car. It was a long goodnight, as is to be expected after those months of separation. I was about to send her on her way when I noticed three people walking on the sidewalk toward us. They set off one of those sensing lights. I remember being nervous, but dismissing it. Lakewood is a quiet city with reasonably low crime rates, and I assumed the best about the three: they were on their way somewhere and couldn't drive. It was another three seconds or so before their behavior made it obvious that I was mistaken. They spread out, two in the street, one on the sidewalk, and continued to walk toward us.

I knew what was happening before he said the words, before they pulled out their guns. I calmed myself, resolved to keep my composure, and give them no reason to do harm.

"Money, wallets. Now. Don't make no noise, and I don't wanna see no cops, or we come back and shoot up the block."

I told them I had no money... I remember thinking (even then) that it was funny that I told them so in the same way you might tell a bell ringing Santa or a beggar outside of a grocery store. It was true. I was broke. I even showed them, but they took the wallet anyway. They took my girlfriend's purse, with maybe $200 and a three day old iPod nano. The speaker had a big gun. A revolver, black, with an obviously larger bore than his two silent and nervous cohorts. I don't know very much about guns, so I'll say no more than that.

Then he rifled through my pockets. I don't care about the stuff, but he put his hands in my pockets with the gun against my chest, right in front of my house.

In addition to the purse and wallet, he got my digital camera, but that's really not important. I didn't mind canceling all my cards that night. I didn't mind going to the DMV to get a new license. I didn't even mind that I lost my favorite toy.

They took my sense of security. They took my sense of safety. They took my positive outlook, and they took my trust for others. I was shaking and seeing hooded black men watching me in every car that passed that night as I gave my report to the officer. I was sure I was going to be shot right there by the patrol car every time a car rolled by. (I didn't know what they were driving, because after they finished they ran off around a corner, presumably to a waiting car).

I had been a mildly paranoid... or strongly cautious, take your pick... person before, but now I am on constant alert, day or night, everywhere. I imagine being car jacked. I imagine break ins in my home. I imagine random shooting and shadowy figures emerging from the night.

It kept me up many a night, and still does on occasion now, eight months later. I imagine what else I might have done. I imagine, as unrealistic as I *know* it is, disarming the first and killing the others. Or sending my girlfriend driving on first sight of them. Or at least following them around the corner to see what they drove.

But mostly, over and over again, I imagine blowing them away with that big gun that had pressed so cold against my own chest.

The Job

“Bulls eye!” whispered a dark looking man as he lowered his longbow. “I shot it right out of the sky! I only wish I could go find it so we could cook it. You’re sure he’ll come this way, right Vern?”

“I’m sure, Harl.”

Two men, heavily cloaked and deeply hidden within the woods along side the rode stared intently toward the horizon, waiting.

“You’re positive, Vern?”

“I’m sure, Harl.”

The man named Harl shifted his weight uncomfortably and wrapped his cloak tighter, trying to ward off the pre-dawn chill.

The night before, Vern and Harl had been camping further back in the forest. Bandits by trade, the proposition that followed was rather unusual. A well dressed man found them, stealing his way into their camp, and joining them at the fire without asking. Vern and Harl were on the verge of cutting his throat when he proposed a job. How would they like to play assassin for a day, instead of lowly brigands? Yes, if the price is right, of course they would. And so gold changed hands and the two men began breaking camp. The bedrolls were rolled. The fire was put out. The area was cleaned and made as pristine as it had been before they had arrived. They might be bandits, but they were no slobs.

“Did you fill the latrine?” Vern asked

“I think so… Can you believe how much he’s going to pay us? I can’t believe it! We could almost retire! Do you suppose it will be hard to kill him? He said nobody had managed it yet. Something about Karma or some garbage…”

On and on Harl babbled about the money and the job. He had never been so excited. That is, until the chill set in. Then the work became decidedly less fun.

Some distance from the road and the two shady men, there was taking place a gut wrenching scene. A great hair beast, built much like a Bulbar and looking much like a gorilla, only a great deal bigger than either, was swinging its tree-trunk like arms at a young deer. Flecks of saliva spattered everywhere as the great monster sought to bring down his next meal. Now, in many stories, such adorable, innocent creatures are able to escape such predicaments through some absurd deus ex machina. This story is no different. High above the tragic scene, a duck died in mid-air, an arrow shooting straight through its fragile body. It fell like a rock through the air. The dead poultry struck the great hairy monster with staggering force, giving the fortunate deer a chance to flee. It did not escape unscathed, however. As it passed the monster, a single flailing arm caught its side, and the cracking of ribs was audible.

Not too far away, an elderly mage was kicking awake a much younger looking man.

“Get…up,” he said gruffly, punctuating the works with swift kicks.

The younger man groaned and rolled over, and swiftly received a foot to the kidney. With a gasp of pain he jump to his feet. A flash of anger danced across his eyes, but the old mage did not appear concerned.

“Go gather some firewood. Its cold in here.”

The younger man looked as though he would have liked to object, but he sighed hopelessly and grabbed a fur-lined cloak. He banged the door open loudly and stormed off, muttering something about an evil old codger.

A few yards away, a druid was awakened by the labored breathing of the fleeing, injured deer. Silently he rose, and walked toward the sound. It was not long before he caught up with the crippled animal, which was on the verge of collapse. Rushing to the deer’s side, the druid began tending to the poor animal. His hands were quick and able, and the air seemed to buzz with the silent magic of Amja as he worked on the deer. Sweat broke out on his brow, beading and running down his face, but he continued to work on the young animal. At last, he sat back in exhaustion with a weary but satisfied look on his sweat drenched face. The deer stood up slowly, testing its newly mended body. Realizing that it was healed, it nuzzled the druid in thanks and trotted away.

Our story follows the deer for a bit, as it comes upon the two shady men who had unwittingly saved its life. Curiously, the deer stepped toward them. Startled, one of the men leapt to his feet, his eyes wide with fear. Upon seeing the source of the noise, he grew angry. Scared by a harmless deer! He would show it who was boss! Stooping down, he picked up a rather large stone and hurled it at the poor beast, which fled at the prospect of another confrontation.

Not terribly far away, the young mage’s apprentice was carrying an armload of branches to be used as firewood, still grumbling and calling his master malicious names. He was in a terribly foul mood, and the cold of the early morning was not helping. He cursed loudly as he fumbled numbly with a large, precariously balanced branch. Just then, the unfortunate fawn bolted out of the brush, running headlong into the foul tempered man, who was bowled over and dropped his large pile of branches. With a scream of rage, the young man hurled a bolt of fire at the ill-fated beast, who failed to dodge and was struck down by the arcane incendiary. Screams of pain and the smell of seared flesh filled the air.

“You little piece of filth!” A voice came from the trees. “You will pay dearly for this crime.”

The druid who had labored so hard to mend the little deer stepped into the open. His face was as dark as a thundercloud, and his eyes were filled with a raging fury that threatened to engulf the stunned young man. Without another word, the druid went to work, hurling burning seeds into his opponents face. The echoes of the screaming man and the groaning deer mingled with the stink of the burning flesh of both. The druid’s rage wasn’t sated by the burning attack, however. He quickly forgot the magic and began swinging his large fists into the younger man head. An animal panic crept into the young apprentice’s eyes, and he began yelling out an incantation. A practiced mage would recognize the words as belonging to a simple Shocking Grasp, but a practiced mage would also recognize the mistakes the amateur mage was making. I am no mage, myself, and cannot tell you what exactly went wrong. But I can tell you that the mistakes sent a shockwave ripping through the clearing. The fabric of the young mage’s very existence was torn to pieces, and the druid, the deer, and all the trees for yards around were completely obliterated.

“What was that, Vern?”

“I don’t know, Harl. It came from where we camped last night, though. I reckon—SHH! Quiet!”

Vern pulled Harl deeper into their hiding place as a large group of curious villagers began walking cautiously toward the racket.

“What do you suppose it was?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re coming to check isn’t it?”

“But what could it have been?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Conversations drifted through the now quiet air as the villagers found their way to the epicenter of the blast.

“Noisy buggers, aren’t they Vern?”

Vern only nodded.

Apparently, they WERE very noisy buggers, because they managed to attract the attention of a rather large, rather hungry beast who had already lost one meal that morning. The great hairy monster heard the voices as well, and made his way toward the babbling feast. He would not lose breakfast again. He would kill them all before they could run.

And he did.

There were twenty dead villagers, and an angry beast loose in the local forest. The King had to react. It was the easiest reaction: send a whole lot of soldiers to slaughter the beast.

And he did.

The soldiers swarmed on the great monster who was much slower and less deadly after eating its fill of villager flesh. Swords slashed and shields rang and the bowmen prepared to strike the killing bow. The knocked an arrow, drew, and fired. Nearly all found their mark, and the hairy beast fell to the ground, extremely dead. Now, you might have noticed that I said ‘nearly all’ arrows hit. There was, in fact, only one that did not hit. It was fired by an unseasoned bowman, a fresh recruit to the kings rank. The miss could not be blamed entirely on inexperience. The poor boy had stepped forward to draw his bow, and stepped in a rather foul smelling hole. Falling, the bowman let fly his arrow, praying it would find its mark.

It didn’t.

It sailed through the air, arcing gracefully back to earth. The bowman didn’t see it come down. Neither did Vern. Neither did Harl. The two latter might have seen it, considering the close proximity in which it landed. To say it landed close is actually an understatement. The stray arrow, being the long kind that longbowmen shoot had gone through Harl’s neck, and gone halfway through Verns back, where it most certainly pierced his heart. And down the road came a whistling, smiling man who walked with a definite spring in his step. He was dressed like a commoner, though his grooming suggested a higher rank. On he walked, past the dying men who stared at him with unseeing eyes.

Who was he? It doesn’t matter. What was the point of the story? I’m not entirely sure. I’ll let you gather what lesson you will, but I learned to fill in your latrine before breaking camp, or you might step in shit.

They delved too greedily, and too deep...

An isolated ecosystem was discovered sealed beneath the Earth's surface in an Israeli cave system. 8 new species of animals, isolated from the planet "for a millenia."

That makes me wonder what else lurks below the surface. An intelligent peoples? Demons and beasts of legend?

Rain

I stepped out in the rain,
A sopping summer storm.
The drops splashed on my face,
Like infant lakes.

I walked beside the river,
it sang to me its dreams—
To roll and rumble on the shore
Of endless beaches.

I slept beside the river,
And it whispered in my dreams,
A swelling hope of coming home
A rising need to rest.

I plodded along the shoreline,
Feet sinking in the sand,
Waves sliding up beside me,
To rest there on the land.

I smiled at the water,
And I continued on,
Knowing I would find my home,
And rest there once again.

I stepped out in the rain,
Like sobs from darkened sky,
Water weeping down my cheeks,
Like children cast aside.

I wept that night with the rain,
And howled into the wind,
I’d walked so long and longed to rest,
But knew there’d be no end.

I Leave Footprints in the Sand with Every Stride

I leave footprints in the sand with every stride,
Proof that I had come, and I have passed.
The sands will smooth with rising tide.

Some peoples’ marks press deep and wide,
Their weight upon the mortal world so vast
They dig craters in the sand with every stride.

These heroes who fight so hard have cried,
Knowing their deeds will not hold fast:
The sands will smooth with the rising tide.

These very words I hope will somehow abide,
A small monument of what little I could grasp.
I leave footprints in the sand with every stride

And though I’ve fought and though I’ve tried
I know no song will stand time’s heartless blast,
The sands will smooth with the rising tide.

After you, and I, and ours, and theirs have died,
What could make our legends last?
I leave my footprint in the sand with every stride,
But the sands will smooth with the rising tide.

Late for an Interview

I hold the sheet of paper in my hand, printed weeks ago in my small apartment, and stare at the empty words. I live alone, twenty minutes from my parents’ home, fifteen from my grandparents’. Fifteen minutes—an easy hop on the freeway—hardly any trouble at all. And the whole thing might have taken two hours, at most.

I would have called first, of course, and driven over shortly after. My grandmother, a quiet old Japanese woman, soft to look at, soft to touch, with a soft voice and a soft smile, would answer the door. Her pug would be barking at me from behind the plastic baby gate they had been using for eight years to keep the rolly ball of dander off of the nice furniture. I would step over this—the dog and the gate—my long legs pulling me into the kitchen that was almost exactly the same as it had been since I was a toddler.

A new coat of paint had been put up maybe a year ago. A new microwave sat in the place of the old “castrator,” as my father called it. Nothing else was different. The mosaic of magnets from places like Tahoe and Mammoth and Vegas still decorated the side of the refrigerator. The one with a cook and the name “Sally” stood in the same place by the handle, the guardian angel that had stood at the gates for longer than I had been alive.

“Do you want a soda?” she would always ask first, as invariably as the arrangement of magnets. “You know where they are.”

Next she would ask me if I had eaten. There would be food prepared somewhere in the kitchen, on the table, on the stove, waiting to be eaten in the oven. I usually accept, because usually I have not eaten, and if I have, it was poorly made and unsatisfying.

This is the same exchange we have been having for the last twenty five years, since I was old enough to make my way out through the backyard to the garage where she keeps a ready supply of Diet Coke and orange soda in her extra refrigerator. I love orange soda.

I would always come back to the house, holding my prize, to find a glass with ice in it, waiting for me on the counter. I stopped asking if the glass was for me many years ago, and instead took to giving her a hug while she did dishes.

I would make my way to the living room, and greet my grandfather. He would be lying on the sofa with the remote control on his watermelon belly, a pink blanket which my grandmother had crocheted and the dog had imbedded with thousands of fawn bristles pulled over his legs.

“hey, hey” he would answer.

I would have asked him then if I could interview him. I would have informed him that he is a living legend, that very few Japanese Americans had fought in World War II, and that only a handful were still alive. I would have pointed out that I know nearly nothing about his family or his past, and that it is important to know these things.

I would have asked my questions, which I had been compiling sporadically for months before. I would have recorded the entire thing with a digital recorder.

You’re nissei, second generation, right?

Mom says you went back to japan at a young age, and returned. How old were you when you left and returned?

Did you do any martial arts or sports? What were your hobbies?
What did you spend your time doing as a kid, teenager, young man?

Which camp were you in?

When did you join the army?

Were you drafted, or did you volunteer?

America was treating you un-American. Why did you decide to fight for a country that alienated you?

You drove a jeep in WW2? Where were you stationed?

Did you see anything noteworthy on your tour? Is it true you were in Germany during the Nuremberg trials?

The list was sad; a poor tribute to this man’s life. When I printed it, I had been counting on more questions to come to me as we spoke. They came to me then, as I read the clumsy interview-- of flood of curiosity over the trivial details. It was too late. The questions were all I had. Two hours, at the most, is all it would have taken. The meeting would have ended with hugs and well wishes and an invitation to come back any time.

“Visit soon,” she would have said.

“Bye bye,” he would call after.

I crumple the list of unanswered questions and throw it across the room. It is too late. I sighe and dress in clean clothes and prepare myself for the grim faces of my family, gathered in the kitchen, in the living room that would never be the same again.

Bandwagon

Because Megan and Nicole got to do it.
I doubt I'll get results seeing as how nobody ever sees this place anyway.

Nohari

Johari

Do it, or I shall shake my fist at you.

GAH

I just remembered that I’m supposed to be working on the basics, and avoiding this stuff.  But its so much fun.  And it doesn’t take much time.  I supposed I could challenge myself to condense character development and conflict into a page or two.  There is no need to exceed that.  Mostly I’m just lazy.  I am my bane. The solution is deliciously Buddhist.  

(ellipsis)

The zeal of the morning shine struck and carried beneath the bloody clouds, tearing shadows across the whispered landscape. The sand shown orange as I slithered and slicked beside my towering shadow, and the waves sang Wash and Show. The girl slid from the salty lifeguard shack behind me, padding her way –surely, padding—across the pouring sand. The salt blew her hair into my face and my nose filled my head with the flowers growing in the sand as her hand pressed into mine, fingers binding and tangling there on the sand.

She said something then, notes lilting and tilting me into her, and she held me and I could only smile as I fell into her. More words, soft, hypnotic, lolling and lulling reverberating through me, wrapping around me and rolling with me, soft, warm. Perfect.

And somewhere in the distance a flag clanged against its pole as a breeze tugged it awake to stand and greet us. The click, sharp snap, crisp through the air as though the world were silent but for the pointed noise rising above the low rushing wash and the hissing retreating show that muffles the silence of every beach.

And her hand squeezing again like a click, like a tug away from the distance that had captured my eyes and her words rolled over me like a smile, like thunder or a heavy blanket that pushes down on the chest and arms. A sense. An overwhelming tide of gasping breath and pounding heart. An undercurrent towing me down and down and away with her crystal eyes rushing like water into my lungs, her fingers holding gentle, holding me in the tumble under her smile.

She looks away, her eyes breaking away, riding back along the horizon, drawn by something I could not see. I could breath again, and the wind blew her hair back across her shoulders.

From Yesterday, when I was more sensible

Torn and waiting sieze and thought
by horse and tinge it all but sought
and shooting from the thwarted mein
beneath the wabe or boren Tain.

Oh what, do you or I unfurl
beneath the silence of the curl
and taken in and taken back
to when we are within the lack

word taste

blare the tarnished bungle horn
and shadow thinse the shallow herd
running whence [ ] bounding fell
curdle hurled and cuddle round
bell from bale and bovine moon
bouncing chale and chalky fume
think upon the stout and call--
what is thrumming and unsad
on the ledge of torn smiles
i cast away the demon years.

Ramen

Writing a paper. I have not slept.
I am eating ramen from a rice cooker.

A Surrender, of sorts

“Character development she says. Conflict, fundamentals. FUCK!”
All but the last bitter ejaculation had been silent, thoughts that snaked a sneer across my face and pushed the ball point pen deep into the paper. I had been sitting there for almost an hour, writing and rewriting opening paragraphs to stories that could be little more than malformed. I had always assumed that I had never written a story of any length because I was, and am, an unreasonably lazy person; that the seeds of my thought, my creative genius had never grown and bloomed because I hadn’t tended and nurtured the budding lives. Flowers. That’s all these were ever meant to be. Short pretty little pieces of life that, ummetaphorically speaking, fucking preschoolers could care for. It’s not as though I was trying to grow a tree. Flowers! Not even a garden. Just enough flowers to make a bouquet. Or a garland.

At that critical juncture in my journey as an author, I was learning that though the lack of time and care was certainly crippling my writing, I had not—she was right—developed the basics required. My characters yellowed and withered, becoming unsightly ornaments rather than nurturing appendages. My plots were either convoluted, twisting and wrapping in such an impulsive manner that it quickly became root bound, or thin and spindly and unable to support characters or conflict. Most of the time, the conflict never managed to grow more than a few lines, and was too withered and bent to even begun a blooming climax.

My shoulders tightened. My breathing came slow and shaky. My lips nearly parted into a bestial snarl. I was about ready to start throwing things, a prettification of my childhood tantrums that I had never really outgrown. I caught myself looking around for something I could fling (that I would not regret later), and calmed my breathing, closed my eyes, relaxed my neck, and picked up the leafs of paper before me. Three sheets, front and back, covered with opening paragraphs, sometimes two, each story separated by evidence of frustration: scribbles, vulgarities in varying sizes, and tears (both kinds). Calmly, as though I had grown wiser in the minute that had passed, I straightened the pages of failure, and slide them into a drawer.

“Someday, maybe,” I said, though I don’t know if I was speaking to myself or the infant fictions.

It must have been at that sitting that I realized that she had been right on every count. That though my words could whisper like wind blown through the wheat, or choke and panic like a room too small with lights too dim and carpeted walls of green and purple, going down, these tricks, these fancy tricks would do me no good. Blossoms, and nothing more, pretty, useless unless attached to the tree.

And so I sat, giving up, or trying, the poetry that made my prose, to learn the basics, trying first to develop a character, his personality, his past, his ambitions, disguised as self-reflexive meta-writing.

So it dawned on me

I realized as I sat to write that I have no stamina in an authorial sense. I lack ideas that could be extended into something long enough to be a short story, in addition to the sticktoitiveness (i love that word) to turn my poorer ideas into lengthy drivel.

Apparently it took Joyce ten years to write A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
And Fitzgerald is not so much a storyteller as a word-smith.
The first two of Bradbury's books were thrown together collections of short stories.

I'm not without hope. I hope.

On a similair but slightly bloggier note, I have retrieved my signed copy of Bradbury Stories : 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales. I saw him speak back at good old Long Beach City College, and got a copy signed. Go me.

So on a less bloggy note, be warned that the next thing I post here will probably be lengthy SOC, so the more linear of you... Well, screw you too.

By the Way

By the way... I'm back, kind of, and shall with redoubled and rehalved effort post my brain vomit here.

Huzzah

Tonight

The night is angry, pressing against the creaky walls of my house with such glowering malice that I can see the darkness pushed against my window, glaring at me. I am quite certain that I will die tonight; that the ominous amorphous midnight will seep into seams and cracks in my walls, my sad card-castle walls, fill slowly, ooze into the wall space through nail holes and breaches in wood and plaster. My walls creak beneath the weight and strain, and I’m sure that the hateful unease is creeping thick and slow through some window left unclosed and into my home, into my study where the warm glow of electronics and the reassuring hum of the heater are not strong enough guardians to protect from the night.
How will I die? My roof sighs and nails click in their holes as my house settles under the great mass of the nighttime. How will I die? Will it crush me? Will my home simply cave beneath the pressure? Will the endless night sky, the pallid moonrays, the uneasy flickering of the stars, the terrifying noises of the sleeping word press down and shatter my house like a light bulb that had been sat upon? Or will the walls give way, leaving only the frame and a viscous flood of terror pudding and me drowning in the mess?
I find myself staring at the words in my book, reading not the author’s tale, but seeing my own as I wonder how much longer the window will hold. Not long, I hope. An angry night is a good night for my climax. Last night had been a dark and stormy night, with howling wind and pouring rain, and I dread a death in such a cliché.