Going Deep

There are 116 hours and 30 minutes left to this quarter. I have a calendar set up, measuring the hours in spans of 12, rather than days in 7s. I have three in class finals. One take 8 page essay that is a take home final.

I have insane amounts of work to do. I had started the push last weekend, but I was derailed on Wednesday when all my books, notes, and papers were stolen out of my car. Some walking pathogen jammed a key into my door and broke the locking mechanism, then grabbed my book bags. One of them was in my trunk. They got all nearly all the books I need for my papers and finals. The books were shaggy with post-its and filled with my scribbles and underlines.

I'd been doing a great deal of my work on paper, since I can't seem to sit down to the computer without getting distracted. All those papers are gone. All I have left are my initial ideas and the vague sense of having done this before.

I have bought or borrowed the books I need. I'm going to miss my massive Norton anthology of Shakespeare, as much as I complained about that tome.

They took my notebook. Remember when I wrote that I was finally writing stuff? Its all gone. They took my fucking notebook. And they'll probably throw it in a dumpster along with the rest of my books.

People who steal shit from peoples' cars don't read.

So I have about 45 pages of writing to do, and 116 hours to do it--76 working hours if I take 8 hours every night.

If it was just writing, that wouldn't be so bad. A page every hour and a half... But there is reading and quote hunting to be done.

They also got my medication, which will make the theft worth it for them. 100 pills of 20mg Adderall XR, and 20 pills of 5mg. That's a dextroamphetamine, in case you're curious. The operator at the Davis police station seemed annoyed that I thought they might want to know this immediately: Officers on duty might want to know that someone might be out there strung out on what is effectively speed.

This means that I'm going to need to sleep. Maybe. I have 6 pills left, each worth 12 hours of focussed work. We'll see how this goes.

Not only did this set me back when I was already behind, but its made me rather despondent. I'm depressed and fighting apathy. In 116 hours, the quarter will be over, and I'll get another chance to stay on top of all this shit. Two more quarters after this one.

There are books on my bed, and shakes in my hand, and a distant gaze in my eye, searching the hours for a dream. There is a gasp in my breast, I thrum gaps in my chest between beats that stumbling plod. There is a nod in my chin, a droop in the lids that struggle to shut out the light, but I fight back the fall that stretches and crawls up my spine. My bed looks divine, clean, smooth, sinking swallowing slithering sheets and a gasp as my ghost sails away. But I’ve run short on days, my hours slip by like a sigh from my lips as I sleep, though I don’t yet; my best bet is to let my debt to oblivion climb. How I long for that clime! So much softer than book laden chairs. I swear I could cry til I crumble, too dry for bones. The world is alone, with echoes of hope, sprites on the far-away Friday Noon. My feet grip the ground that spins me starbound. I see the end, but there are books in my bed, and words in my head, and papers blocked up by a dam. There's a gasp in my sigh, and a gaze in my eye to the distance, as I skim and I cram.

2:02

I sit here still and maybe rot.

I pit my will against the knot

That knits and frills my stomach taut.

Hands stick.

Gears lock:

An evil trick

that madly mocks.

~~~~~ ~~~~~

With virgin candle lit and bright flame burning hot,

I try to fill with wit this ever stretching lot.

It seems that I have writ more maybe than I aught.

The strong flame licks.

My hot heart knocks.

The long white waxy wick

Seems cold hard weary rock.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

The staggered steps plod up this hill. I fear that I may grow distraught.

I think anticipation kills. A weekend’s bliss is dearly bought.

It seems I left my bones to chill by dwelling upon warm forethought

My blood beats sticky, thick.

My breaths mark off epochs.

Each pulsing pause is sprawled cosmic,

All Being falls between the Tocks.

Life, I guess

My posts have been sporadic, my internet presence considerably diminished by ever-engrossing schoolwork. I feel compelled to give a small update in the happenings of my life. I don't think anybody but Jason and a spare few random perusers ever see these things, but that won't stop me. This way, nobody can accuse me of withdrawing myself from your society, dear reader.

Life has reached an agreeable pitch. There's a girl now, and though the relationship is still very green and tender, I find her company deeply satisfying, and the element she adds to my day to day existence is a pleasing one.

I've taken up cursive again, with a conscious effort made toward neatness and legibility. I imagine style will evolve from there.

I've taken up writing with regular frequency, as handwriting practice would require. I think I understand what I need to do to be able to write stories. My original technique of sitting down at the keyboard and seeing what comes out isn't cutting it. Hopefully, I'll have one of these finished pieces posted here soon.

Orlando, the guy who was going to illustrate that graphic novel that fell by the wayside, might provide illustrations as part of his own exercise. That could be interesting.

I'm keeping up and starting to work ahead on my schoolwork, thanks to my (slowly) developing organization skills and the (sudden) desire to have weekends free. It makes class easier, and sometimes more enjoyable. I'm afraid my sense of practicality is still giving me crap about the study of English Literature, but I can cope. It does seem to sharpen a certain edge, though perhaps not an edge appreciated or required in many industries. In the end, I think I will be grateful for my college experience. For now, it's hard to keep from bitching.

My room is clean, my backyard stands poised for the wet season, and my bookshelf looks fantastic tucked away in my closet. My words are becoming easier, more sensible and stable, and I think I am ready to write something of length. I am dating a woman I admire, and find great pleasure in her company.

Life is good.

If you're still out there, reading, let me know. Oh, and read the poem that precedes this post. I'm rather fond of it.

The Fall

It was begun with glorious Sun
departing from Her lands,
And purchase won by Hateful One,
with death upon his hands.
She might have wept, but wisely kept
the Warm wet of her tears,
To be spent upon the rent
when come the kinder years.

His hiss and slither shook and shivered
Her heart with icy dread.
Thence and thither, wilted, withered
the leaves that crowned Her head,
Which facing blight did fast alight
to wreath of fiery red.
A helm of war She brightly bore,
but sadly soon would shed;
An angry mutter sent the clutter
clattering cold and dead.

And with a howl, a wintry cowl
he cast upon the wood,
But from Her breast he could not wrest
that Warmth that made her good
(though he detest, and best contest,
against him still it stood).
Then with a screaming icy stream
he blew a frozen cast,
And in his fury deeply buried
beneath the blizzard's blast.

Too old for cold to crumble,
She stood in silence fast,
Spent, he stumbled mumbling numbly,
"Next year, you will not last."

Without report, she gave retort,
by facing, smiling, East,
Whence came Her Sun, His freedom won,
His debt to South released.
Before His power, Cold flinched and cowered,
like lowliest of beasts.

With gasp and scurry he scampered, hurried,
'fore his Forever Foe,
whose lofty might would surely smite,
and lay old Winter low.

"I'm not done yet," he spat his threat,
frost frothing from his mouth.
"For while you're here with mummy dear,
I can keep the South."

The Poet and the Watchman

It has been so long, so long within the arms of this fortress, and I can shout no more over walls, or whisper through grated gate and portcullis. The only embrace afforded in such a place comes from cold stone; I could crumble for loneliness and weep with weariness, the echoes of my frantic pace the closest I could call company. I would rather fall, forgotten, and bleed my warmth into the earth than stay here and safe. If she be a wolf, let her devour me and be done.

A waste, Watchman? That I am already, and can only more become, if I heed your cold command.

Follow me, if you like, if you are even able to leave your high tower. I depart, to find what is beyond the walls, and you are welcome—Your advice is not unwanted, but you command no more.

Remember, precious, that when you hinge your happiness on another, that your tears are theirs to call, and when you hand out your heart, you offer something to destroy.

You have been flippant and free of late, and have, without right or worry, put us in danger’s way. I’ll not stand for it, precious. You act like a pup, and if it does not stop, I will leash you. No more wandering beyond the walls, with gates wide, waiting for your return. You will sit inside, and your friend can wait at the gate until we are sure she is not fanged.

Beware and Behave, precious, if you do not want to bleed.

(ellipsis) revisitted

I enjoyed the way the original segment came out, but never had the brains or balls to try expanding on it. I'm going to give it a shot. I'm at work now, so I can't do any more on it today.

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 watch 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, soothing, 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 was 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 squeezed 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 winter-pond eyes rushing into my lungs, her fingers holding gentle, holding me in the tumble under her smile.

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

The cold of the vanquished night held refuge within the sand, and fastened to our feet as we stirred upon the roof of its abode. She shivered slightly, her skin tightening across her bare arms that lightly brushed like a winter breeze upon my own skin. I quivered, despite me, and I hid the delight as she grasped to the warmth of my core.

We stood a moment and gathered bodies with arms. I breathed warm life into her hair and held it against the Pacific chill. My neck pressed against hers, a warm tributary, passing and sharing with each pairing pulse. Blood surged and crashed in my ears, prelude, countermelody to the rhythmic roar of the sea, rising and pushing to a crescendo of sonic static, drowning deafening, fuzz thick and slow as sand.

I said something to her, and she looked into me. I doubt she heard, but it did not matter. She wrapped warm arms around my neck and burrowed fingers into my hair and I leaned in and kissed her and I felt her smile briefly against my lips before we mixed, gathered and twisted there on the sand

The sun did its work too slowly to save us that morning, and we were forced to gather and carry ourselves to her hulking old truck, conceding to the vestiges of ocean cold and beating a gritty retreat.

“You’re covered in sand,” I told her.

“Imagine that,” she said, brushing absently at the damp.

It was the first we’d spoken since arriving in the twilight and submerging ourselves in the ocean’s song. Her voice was smooth as a smile, hiding a laugh and singing the glint that lived in her eyes.

Phrenic

We rise, the rhythmic racket of clank and clatter ratcheting our excitement skyward. We wait, and watch, and wonder, knowing the first summit makes the ride. We level, lingering loftily, long enough to look around. The height makes the fall, the fright is all we came for, the frenzy enthralls us as we find our way floorward and my fortitude fails as we flip, faster than fantasy, and fly with a fury before slowing, each rise shallower than the one before, until the car slows to a stop. We climb out and scatter, scurrying our separate ways.

Or maybe we should ride again.

note the time

It started with a gash, a slashing dumpster lid that relieved me of a dime sized slab on the inside of my right thumb, beneath the joint. A quest for Neosporin ensued, with no satisfaction even yet, though I have strayed so far from my original purpose that the failure means little.

In searching for that tiny tube, which I recall seeing in various places over the past many months during which I had no need for ointment, I started rifling through boxes and corners of my closet long unexplored.

One of the first things uncovered was the stash of Monica-related souvenirs, kept for the sake of future nostalgia, rather than unrequited sentiment. A letter, some notes, a stuffed bear, a notebook, a card, photos, that old Cancun shirt, and other things. I found that ring she gave me, that I always used to wear. I wish I could wear it again, because it fits so well, and is perfect for ripping the lids from beer bottles. I read through a letter and a few notes, glanced at some photos before throwing away random debris that did not need saving (a pink razor she left behind on one of her visits, for example).

The letters and notes read like we were already resigned to our separation. Perhaps we were. They offer an interesting perspective now, almost a year after the original ordeal.

I found bank statements and credit card bills from back in the days when I still had $2000 in the bank and only $300 to pay on the card. What I wouldn’t do to have that again.

I found some papers I wrote back in my first phase of college. I could rewrite them to read better, but some of the analysis is surprisingly astute, and I worry that I can’t come up with stuff like that anymore. One in particular discussed Bellamy’s Looking Backward using the Communist Manifesto and Weber’s The Protestant Work Ethic to discuss the use of religion in Bellamy’s socialist utopia, compared to traditional socialist ideals. I can’t believe I did that much reading for one paper.

I also found some old notebooks. I know there were more. I’m a little worried about where they are, because they’re so very personal, and so very very emo.

A lonely pillar standing tall

Supports the starry sky,

And if that pillar were to fall

Nothing’d keep the heavens high.

A chill wind blasts the single pile,

A shiver threatens doom,

The shake has surely cracked a tile

In Aphrodite’s room.

I obviously had girl trouble. Well, I have the same girl trouble to this day, but at least I’ve gotten laid between then and now. And I stopped writing shitty poetry.

Many of these entries are written as a discussion, one speaker, denoted by a square, is pragmatic and thoughtful, the other, a circle, is emotional and generally distraught. They worked together to solve my shit. I don’t think they managed to actually help.

- Go after a girl

O Which? Megan or Sarah?

- Which do you like better?

O They are two different types of people. I don’t know if I prefer one over the other. What do you think?

- There is less competition for Sarah, as far as I know, but you have to deal with her reluctance. Megan isn’t afraid, but might not want to go out with you, with all the other guys to choose from. Imagine being alone with them and compare

O Sarah is more quiet. I’d talk and laugh with her, but she would be uncomfortable. Megan would expect something. I have no clue what.

- Those expectations might end you.

O I have a feeling I fail either way.

It’s 4am as I type this out. I have already exceeded the acceptable blog length. You can click on anytime you want.

It occurs to me that these little chats were once highly embarrassing. I don’t really care anymore. I also notice that the emotional half uses first person, and the pragmatic half uses third. Apparently, the circle was at the helm at the time.

As I write this, I realize that much of my “girl trouble” stems from my general approach, developed in these rather formative high school years. Notably shy, purposely inconspicuous, I did not interact with many people then. I kept to my circle of friends, safe from judgment and the smirking whispers the pocked across the diseased little ecosystem. Such a defensive posture made meeting people rare, and as I have learned, one must meet girls in order to date them. My attempts at dating involved me creeping out of nowhere, approaching the target with the sole purpose of attempting to start something. This doesn’t work. Neither does approaching as a friend. The key is pretending to be interested in friendship long enough that the target doesn’t freak out and run away, and then pouncing.

I still don’t do this. We’re going on 11 months here.

Its almost time for bed. Closing thoughts? I’d love to say that those girls would regret turning me down, but its really not true. I’m broke, studying in a field that promises little, and frequently delivers. I claim to be a writer, but do not write. I’m not really “into” anything, don’t have any passions or deep interests, and as a result am fairly uninteresting myself. I am careless with honesty and choke on flattery and pretense. I’m socially impulsive, but generally unadventurous.

You know all those things girls are looking for in a guy? I don’t, but I’ll take a guess and say that they’re not on that list up there.

Now, where the FUCK is that Neosporin?

Ego, Hubris

By Seth Borenstein
Associated Press
August 19, 2007

(http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8R4H0Q00&show_article=1)

WASHINGTON - Around the world, a handful of scientists are trying to create life from scratch and they're getting closer.

Experts expect an announcement within three to 10 years from someone in the now little-known field of "wet artificial life."

"It's going to be a big deal and everybody's going to know about it," said Mark Bedau, chief operating officer of ProtoLife of Venice, Italy, one of those in the race. "We're talking about a technology that could change our world in pretty fundamental ways -- in fact, in ways that are impossible to predict."

That first cell of synthetic life -- made from the basic chemicals in DNA -- may not seem like much to non-scientists. For one thing, you'll have to look in a microscope to see it.

"Creating protocells has the potential to shed new light on our place in the universe," Bedau said. "This will remove one of the few fundamental mysteries about creation in the universe and our role."

And several scientists believe man-made life forms will one day offer the potential for solving a variety of problems, from fighting diseases to locking up greenhouse gases to eating toxic waste.

Bedau figures there are three major hurdles to creating synthetic life:

- A container, or membrane, for the cell to keep bad molecules out, allow good ones, and the ability to multiply.

- A genetic system that controls the functions of the cell, enabling it to reproduce and mutate in response to environmental changes.

- A metabolism that extracts raw materials from the environment as food and then changes it into energy.

One of the leaders in the field, Jack Szostak at Harvard Medical School, predicts that within the next six months, scientists will report evidence that the first step -- creating a cell membrane -- is "not a big problem." Scientists are using fatty acids in that effort.

Szostak is also optimistic about the next step -- getting nucleotides, the building blocks of DNA, to form a working genetic system.

His idea is that once the container is made, if scientists add nucleotides in the right proportions, then Darwinian evolution could simply take over.

"We aren't smart enough to design things, we just let evolution do the hard work and then we figure out what happened," Szostak said.

In Gainesville, Fla., Steve Benner, a biological chemist at the Foundation for Applied Molecular Evolution is attacking that problem by going outside of natural genetics. Normal DNA consists of four bases -- adenine, cytosine, guanine and thymine (known as A,C,G,T) -- molecules that spell out the genetic code in pairs. Benner is trying to add eight new bases to the
genetic alphabet.

Bedau said there are legitimate worries about creating life that could "run amok," but there are ways of addressing it, and it will be a very long time before that is a problem.

"When these things are created, they're going to be so weak, it'll be a huge achievement if you can keep them alive for an hour in the lab," he said. "But them getting out and taking over, never in our imagination could this happen."

----------------
Care to wager on that last line?

Bamboo Tea Garden

Collab between Orlandoo and myself.

Busted

New Online Tool Unmasks Wikipedia Edits
August 15, 2007 2:54 PM EDT
(AP) What edits on Wikipedia have been made by people in congressional offices, the CIA and the Church of Scientology? A new online tool called WikiScanner reveals answers to such questions.

As the Web encyclopedia that anyone can edit, Wikipedia encourages participants to adopt online user names, but it also lets contributors be identified simply by their computers' numeric Internet addresses.

Often that does not provide much of a cloak, such as when PCs in congressional offices were discovered to have been involved in Wikipedia entries trashing political rivals.

Those episodes inspired Virgil Griffith, a computer scientist about to enter grad school at CalTech, to automate the process with WikiScanner. (It's at http://wikiscanner.virgil.gr but intense attention has knocked it out of service many times this week.)

The free Scanner grabs the Internet Protocol addresses used in anonymous Wikipedia edits in the past five years. By combining that with public information about which IP addresses belong to whom, the Scanner reveals Wikipedia changes made from computers assigned to a bevy of organizations, including, um, The Associated Press.

Many of the edits are predictably self-interested: PCs in Scientology officialdom were used to remove criticism in the church's Wikipedia entry. But others hint at procrastinating office workers, such as the tweaks to Wikipedia articles on TV shows being made from CIA computers.

Many examples are being tallied at http://wired.reddit.com/wikidgame - a page run by Wired News, which reported earlier on WikiScanner.

Griffith wrote on his site that he hopes "to create minor public relations disasters for companies and organizations I dislike."

Whatever comes of it, WikiScanner has a fan in Wikipedia founder Jimmy Wales. "It is fabulous and I strongly support it," Wales told the AP.

Let Me Taste Your Taste

I'm obtaining music. Please make suggestions.

We can't talk here. Meet me out back in 20 minutes.

Frightened yet?

So I have a question

How is it that the country tried to impeach Clinton for his perjury concerning his sex scandal...

But our current president, who has pretty much blatantly disregarded laws, responsibilities, and restrictions concerning his office, still sits smiling dumb and pretty in his white house?

How is it that we let these corrupt billionaires take control of our country... OUR country... And how can we expect a respectable government to be run by unrespectable men?

Why do we allow ourselves to be lied to over and over again? Even when we learn that we have been violated by this administration, we do nothing. Even when we learn that justice and freedom have been forsaken, we do not react.

How is it that we have allowed this man to rule us? We are supposed to be a democracy. WE are supposed to make the decisions... And yet, even the beginnings of this regime, the usurpation of power was suspect, with underhanded tactics and scandals quietly ignored by the majority?

We sit quietly. Are we complacent? Do we not care?

Or have we forgotten that it is our responsibility to shout down the overambitious ruler?

Have we fallen to trusting our representatives, who buffer us from the responsibility of true democracy?

Or have we (and I fall in this last category) given up hope of influencing these men who speak for us in the larger houses of the government?

It does not seem like it should matter... Whatever the cause of our silence, the real question is this: How do we find our voice again? How do we speak out and make a difference?

Bush has over 530 days left in office. That's a year and a half-- more than a third of his final term. I don't think he should be trusted with that much time, and that much power. Imagine the damage that could be done. Think of how many more men will die face down in the sand, how many billions of dollars will be thrown away because we let aman who has consistently shown a lack of intelligence, conscience, and responsibility in the management of this country.

Any other man would be in jail... We tried to prosecute Clinton for lying about cheating on his wife. Bush took us to war. WAR, people! Guns and bombs and body parts.

Why the fuck is this country still asleep?

It is time for us to start pushing the senators to bring down Caeser.

*****
Is it bad that I am honestly frightened of retaliation, should I fill out this form?

V for Vendetta is no longer fiction

No Cars Go

I went on a run this evening, departing at 8:55 and returning at 9:50. This is approximately the length of time my last run took, though the distance is considerably longer: under 1.8 miles previously, 6.2 this time.

I'm impressed with the degree of improvement, especially in light of the fact that my cardio training between runs has been minimal (biking to work). The disparity may be caused by a better warm up and stretch prior to the run, or a more determined and better motivated mindset from the outset, or better nutrition and more available reserve energy. It is probably a combination of all of these.

For those that didn't take note, 6.2 miles is about 10k, which I ran in 55 minutes.

The time is not impressive to runners, but if you scoffed at my stats (or if you are remotely interested), please take a look at the map while I narrate.

If you look at mile 2, you can see a church directly south of my path. The First Baptist Church. If you take a look and the general environment, you can see that I have managed to escape the comforts of suburbia... meaning the path was unlit.

I guess I could hurry this along. I'm tired and don't want to write anymore.

I was moving at a good clip. I touched the street sign and turned around without changing pace, and was well on my way to finishing a kick-ass run when a spandex clad bicyclist flew past me, barking "ON YOUR LEFT" as he did so. He did not have the bike light required by law, and was going faster than he should have been on unlit road. I was wearing black and gray, so he probably didn't see me until he was on top of me. He didn't actually hit me, or touch me... Just startled me off the path enough for me to put my right foot where pavement met dirt. I rolled my ankle, stumbled a few feet, cursing, before falling in a graceful judo roll onto the lawn of the church, where I lay, listening to my heart beat, and feeling my rapidly swelling foot-parts pulse along.

I slowed my breathing, which had been steady and controlled. Without the noise of feet on road or breath in throat, I could hear that my iPod was still on, though I'd taken the headphones off to compensate for the dismal visibility. "No Cars Go" was taunting me from my pocket. I was two miles from home, with no cell phone, lying dazed and frustrated on the lawn of a sanctuary. It had been a fantastic run. My cardiovascular system had been operating optimally, my mental focus sharp, and my will to finish without stopping...slightly less powerful than gravity.

This is probably the ninth time I've sprained this ankle in this, or similar ways. I knew it wasn't too severe. I'd felt the pop, but hadn't heard it... Incapacitating sprains are audible. I wondered what I would do if this happened during a run in boot camp... if I would lay whimpering on the ground, allow myself to be shuffled to wherever broken recruits go while my comrades plodded on.

I would not. I would suck it up, keep a conscious tightness in the motions of the ankle and a soft limp in the right stride. I would get back up and fall in line, and finish, hoping the endorphins would see me through, hoping with every step that i would not step wrong, and praying that the shock of the steps was not making the injury worse.

I stretched it first, testing the weakness of the joint, finding the tender angles. I pulled my shoe off and folded my sock down, the doubled elastic giving minor support.

And I made the two mile run in decent time, without stopping again until I reached where I'd started.

I've iced it. I have a golf ball swell, which beats the hell out of a tennis ball. I'll be able to walk tomorrow, but its going to be stiff and weak.

I hate it this crap happens.


*morning update*
The whole ankle is swollen... Not just the side that got rolled. The whole area is acutely painful, and walking causes tantamount to anguish.

My legs are okay. I was expecting more stiffness, but I seem to have stretched it out. My right anterior hip flexor is strained, though, which makes lifting my tightly booted foot that much more difficult.

Live Wires

My attempts at personal improvement seem to come in spurts. The dystrophy becomes too much to ignore, and I revamp my approach to existence. This includes a serious and in depth cleaning of my room, reorganizing of my finances, sometimes the rearranging of furniture, and the creation of a To Do list from which the idle fat has been stripped. Feverishly good intentions take hold and I become ambitious and upbeat, and for a matter of weeks, I am the person I want to be.

But order cannot prevail forever against chaos when I must pit my resolve against entropic decay and my own creeping ease. It is an uphill battle of Sisyphean suffering, and though, when I first heard the sordid tale, I wondered why the poor man continued to roll his stone, I find myself following his cursed compulsion.

I become downcast when my boulder rolls from peak to valley, but have found that giving up on my toil only makes it worse—the bottom of the hill is lower than I previously believed, and I know I have not yet descended its full dismal depth.

And so, I push again, finding what I always thought was a perverse satisfaction in my futile work.

I have a new strategy. In the past, I always relied on finding a new source of internal energy, some hidden dynamo waiting, thrumming in the tangled darkness of my spirit. It may well be there, but blundering through the twisted jungle of humming power lines takes too long, and in the meantime, my boulder is giving in to gravity.

My conclusion, drawn only recently, is that my current power source must suffice, until I find that mystical machine, and I must divert and redistribute my energy, one line at a time.

My current effort is called the “Quit Smoking Weed Fitness Program”. I will explicate: Weed makes me lazy. Despite my atypical response to the drug, which is to get up and do something, I lose time and energy. I dumped four hours at a time into unremembered thoughts, incoherent scribbles, work out sessions that lack the focus and intensity required for improvement, and other confounded efforts. Also worth mentioning is the cost of the substance itself—another form of energy I cannot afford to waste. I have redirected the mental, physical, and financial energies into upgrading my flesh casing, the money spent on supplements, the time given over to a variety of beautifully destructive work-outs, supported with the desire, intent, and motivation of an unhindered mind.

It has been two weeks since I decided to quit altogether. I started a serious diet and exercise regimen only four days ago, and the difference is already apparent.

I will continue to push myself. Hopefully, because the energy sinkhole has been severed from the system, maintaining this intensity will be easy. The intent is to make change in my lifestyle, not just my weekly schedule.

There are other things that require improvement as well, obviously. I need to practice bass more, and write more frequently, and more professionally. Those things will have to wait until I prove that I can make lasting changes to my energy distribution. One step at a time.

I have a tendency to forget that a mile is made of steps. I find myself looking at the thousand mile walk, and breaking it into blocks of miles. I must not forget the steps.

And I must keep walking in the same direction.

of flickring intrest

I set up a Flickr account, because I have photos I want to share, and facebook makes them small. I think I let Flickr make them small too, but I don't care. Now people without facebook can see.

I guess I got bored...

I'm going to start writing again. I was overwhelmed by the sense that I was wasting my time... but it's good exercise.

I hate that I do this. I slack off regularly, my systems and functions breaking down with the faithfulness and reliability of a classic car. I don't keep my shit in repair, and this is what happens. At least nothing is broken... just need to refill the fluids, change the oil, get the tires aligned and all that jazz.

Later. Right now, I need to eat.

The Eight

I guess I should do these.

1. I can’t grow hair anywhere on my face except my chin and neck, and when that gets too long, I start pulling it out, hair by hair, as a fidget. Because of this, I stick with the clean-shaven look. For the most part.

2. I do not have, nor have I made, a single friend by taking the initiative and introducing myself. Everyone I know was introduced to me by another friend, or by force of circumstance.

3. I don’t write drafts. I build essays in layers, starting with the skeleton and adding until I have a finished product. It is a single process, and I can’t remember the last time I sat down and rewrote the result.

4. My first reaction when facing a problem is to apply violence. Conversely, I have never been in a fight, or actually attempted to solve a problem with force. I do, however, have more weapons in my bedroom than I have fingers.

5. I have had one girlfriend, ever. This probably has something to do with #2.

6. I have watched the Firefly series and the corresponding movie at least a dozen times. I want to live on a spaceship and defy the powers that be.

7. I get lost almost every time I get in the car. I have no sense of direction, no internal map, and no general concept of where I am geographically. Downtown Davis is a grid, arranged by letters and numbers. There is nothing confusing about it, but I still can't navigate it.

8. I also get lost every time I try to play music. I can’t keep the chorus, verse, bridge straight, nor can I remember when the transitions are. I generally don’t remember lyrics either. This and the previous probably have something to do with attention span—I’m in it for the ride, not to learn how I got there.

I have to wonder where these quirks come from, and how many of them the meds are supposed to solve.

Beats in the Dark

I'm going to try to run more often. I'm using my blog to hold myself accountable.

I ran tonight, leaving at 8:40, and returning at 9:30, running nearly four miles. I followed a new route and found a nice empty edge of this small town. This is not a fantastic time for a 4 mile run. I know I can do better, though I wasn't really running for time. There were several long intervals of dashes and sprints, which required a short refractory period. (yes, i know)

The night was thick with magic, the rich soil of the fields, the the scent of thriving trees heavy with leaves. My footfall set a beat to the orchestra of insects and the soft flight of the owls. Mice scrambled from their hiding places, crossing the paved bike way in front of me. The air was thick with flat-faced night birds, hungry, drawing in the night as they hunted on downy wing.

I found the edge of my town, and cared to go no farther. Next time I will. I was shy of the 2 mile mark this run, and I'd like to finish a solid 4 miles next time.

I love running fast in the dark.

Lets Get Physical

“What the fuck?”

I can’t remember which one of us said it. I’d finished a quarter handle of whiskey in the course of the evening, and I know that if I didn’t say it, I thought it. I’d been sitting in my patio, minding my business and enjoying the dark Davis night.

We stared at each other for a moment. I threw another Washington Mutual statement into the tiny, foot tall barbeque and finished the last gulp of bourbon. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be nonchalant: my every muscle was relaxed to sagging, and when I glared droopily, my head lolled sideways.

“I don’t remember inviting you in, asshole,” I said, controlling my tongue as well as one might expect. I wasn’t worried about hiding the fact that I was drunk. It was my home, after all, and I knew I could kick his ass into a corner without resorting to dirty tricks.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” I slobbered slightly, “but I know what you’re not doing, which is fucking off.” I put my best I’m-considering-ripping-your-dick-off-and-shoving-it-up-your-nose face and stood. Slowly. “Why don’t you see to that?”

He looked me up and down. I was shirtless, with a slight post-workout gleam and swell clinging to my melting muscles. He took in the rest of the scene: A pile of unopened envelopes, crumpled receipts, an uncapped handle of Maker’s Mark, a generic brand bottle of lighter fluid, a box of matches, and a small mop bucket.

“That’s quite a blaze you have going there.”

It was actually causing me physical pain. I later discovered singed leg hairs, but at the moment, I was focused on the intruder.

“I’m reconciling my checkbook,” I growled. “New fiscal year and all.”

My boss calls it “physical year” and I have to bite til I bleed to keep from correcting him.

I dropped a stack of old credit card bills, overdraft notices, and preapproved credit card applications onto the mound of smoldering ashes.

“Why don’t you leave, before I start to feel threatened and defend myself?” I didn’t break eye contact ask I scooped up the lighter fluid, popped the top, and sprayed until a fireball burped up from the stack of financial irresponsibility.

“Because you’re making a lot of smoke, and the flame on your barbeque is taller than you are, and because I’m a fucking firefighter.”

“Did you just threaten to kick my ass?”

“Put the fire out.”

I think my response surprised him a little bit, not just by the direction I was taking the conversation, but by the abrupt shift in volume.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? NO! OH GOD! YOU’RE HURTING ME! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

I stepped around the inferno, balling my fists and cracking my neck menacingly. Neighbors would have heard me. I smiled.

“Fuck off before I start defending myself. This shit needs to burn. Fucking credit cards. Zero percent APR, preapproved, no interest for six months! Free checking! Cash back with ever purchase, and you’ll be entered to win a thousand dollars every time you swipe. Not that I fell for that shit. I just like nice things. And now I’m an indentured servant for a company that doesn’t sell a damned thing. Credit card companies don’t sell service. They buy lives. Fuck off. I’m emancipating myself.”

“You’re going to burn your house down, and then you’ll go to jail. That’s not emancipation.”

“I know my fire safety. I have my fireman fuckin ‘chit. I have a bucket of water. I have a shovel and a mess of dirt. I have a lid for the barbeque. Nothings going to happen.”

“You’re drunk off your ass. That’s not safe.”

I spat at the ground in front of him and grabbed the bucket of water. I glared at him as I filled the small metal pit to the brim with water, the ashes of my failure swirling and spitting steam.

“I’m going to say this once, and I hope you don’t listen to me, because I really want to hurt you. You have exactly no time left here in my home. Turn around and leave right now.”

The Final Minutes

“Stand tall!” he shouts from behind the polished metal grill of his men. I gasp for air, stretching my lungs in a desperate attempt to move the hot, used air trapped behind my own mask. I think he’s yelling at me; I am bent at the waist, hands on knees, giving my lower back a short reprieve from the weight of my sweat-heavy uniform. Dry, all the gear weighs around ten pounds—enough to slow a fighter, enough to drain him, and throughout the course of the two hour training session, I dump copious amounts of fluid into it. By the end of practice, everything is heavier, hot, holding the salts of my anguish.

We are nearing the end of the session, and my vision fights to blur and the walls would dance about me if I didn’t hold them in place with grave determination. I am dehydrated, I can tell, but I don’t know how serious it is. The strength and violent vigor of the eager warrior is gone, lost with my water and breath. We are nearing the end. I have to continue to remind myself, because I want to throw myself to the floor and rip my men from my face, pull free the dou, the oven clamped across my chest. I want to take the weight off my feet, which are battered, torn, and tenderized from the repeated launches and stomps involved in this samurai sport. I want to breathe.

There is nothing in me except a refusal to quit, and the knowledge that I do not suffer in vain. I endure, as the sword endures the fires of the forge, so I might be shaped into the perfect tool, the impeccable weapon. My spirit is the hand inside a puppet. I lift myself. We are nearing the end.

I stand tall. It is almost over.

In truth, I do not know if this is true, and I do not dare steal a glance at the clock, lest it leave me with anguishing news. I trust that it is almost over, because if it is not, then even a spirit indomitable could not keep my spent body from toppling.

I stand, and imagine bloody footprints. I form myself into my stance, my kamae. The small muscles of my lower back cramp as I tuck my spine into position, and a pain steals its way into my skull. My stomach turns as my body’s self preservation systems scream into high alert, preparing to eject whatever poison has so wracked my body. I tilt my head back and swallow the threat of vomit. The angle change sends blood rushing through stressed vessels in my head. I might loose consciousness. I might black out and tilt backward on my heels. I would be limp before the back of my head hit the ground.

My neck tenses. The muscles across my back tighten and my core gathers my organs and straightens my spine. My jaw clenches and I say it to myself.

“No.”

I send my conscious mind deep within my own being. Digging deep, people call it. I find my resolve. I find the embers of my intensity. I scream. It’s called kiai, my battlecry. I empty my lungs, my voice shaking my men and echoing through the high-ceilinged gymnasium. There is so little left—so little fuel for the fire. I dig deeper, desperate for something. I wonder if there is anything left to give. I let loose another lungful. The shouting forces blood to the head, and the pressure becomes blinding, so unbelievably intense is the pain. Tears wash the sweat from my eyes and run down my sunken face. The pain does not abate, and part of me wants to slam my head into the wall and escape into darkness. The pain does not abate, and the tears steady rivers down my cheeks. The pain does not abate, but the fire is lit, my body is alive, and I fight. I cannot remember that I am tired, or that I am thirsty, or out of breath. I do not need air. I do not need water. I will fight until my feet are mangle knobs. I do not care. I have abandoned human concern for self. I believe that I am insane, an unreasoning beast. The pain does not stop, and I fight.

The fire rages. The intensity of my kendo exceeds my limit, and the limit is shattered as I pour every mote of my existence into that fire.

“Yame! Kamaete.” Stop. Assume your stance. He calls out the words that stop the fight, but the fire does not die. I am not gasping. I am ready to fight again.

It is his decision. He might have us rotate, and continue training. I do not know the time. Instead, he says the words my body delights to hear.

“Osame, toh.” We crouch and set our shinai into their imaginary sheathes. We are done.

Almost.

We must remove our armor from the kneeling position. Tired hands often fumble, but my fingers find their way easily. I am not rushed. I am not panicked. I carefully coil the cords that keep my mask tight. I set it down gently and fold the tenegui, the dripping head rag. We bow, showing respect to the Sensei, to our comrades.

And then words. The fire is still on, and I control my body with an iron force of will. I am graceful, even. I sit kneeling as I listen to comments, suggestions, and administrative announcements. The blood stops flowing to my feet, and I notice my eyes see in different shades, and my focus is shifting rapidly between the two. My right eye sees more red, my left more blue. It is a bizarre effect.

The headache loosens itself, but does not release me. We bow again. I can let the fire die, but there is more to do. Practice is not over until my equipment is packed, and because it is a Japanese sport, there are specific and painstaking methods of doing so.

The hardest part is folding the hakama, the flowing pleated pants we wear. It must be arranged in such a way that the arrangement of the folds and pleats are preserved, so that it is presentable at the next practice. It is hard to describe how tedious this really is to someone who has not tried. I complete this well, and then lie down and close my eyes.

I am awake no longer.

Road Trip (AC)

I dont have time to write a long post, or to formulate complex sentences. I'm going on a road trip. I just got my hands on enough cash to fund it. I'm flying to SoCal to kidnap Mr. Klein. He's in the middle of school, with finals coming up, so this is very inconsiderate of me. I don't care. Now he'll graduate late with me.

My plane leaves shortly. I'm not packing anything, so I'll get through the airport quickly, but I'm going to need to speed to get there.

I'm not sure where we'll go yet. I'm excited to get home.

I want to show my dear friend what I can do. It's dangerous, possibly divine, but its also really cool, and I'm not above showing it off.

More later. I promise an interesting read on Friday, if I can get to a computer. I'm thinking jungle.

The Weekend

I’ll begin this post by turning away readers eager to read of my progress into super-heroism, for you will find none of that. I flexed only once this past weekend, and did not move my body a mote for its duration.

I did, however, have an incredible weekend. It began with Uncanny, a visual arts event that took place out on a fallowed organic vineyard. I arrived an hour before sunset to see a curious population milling about the huge expanse of rich, soft dirt, leaning curiously toward certain presentations. There was music for dancing, but no dancers. There were live bands as well. Upon arriving (and yes, I got lost first, and sped down dirt roads first), I headed straight to Mr. Bulis’s display, titled “High Tea”. It consisted of a tea table and stools, all hand made, all slightly rickety, all about eight feet in the air. Mr. Bulis was wearing a suit he’d tailored from burlap, walking on painter’s stilts and serving tea from a teapot rigged to a stick using twine. The whole setup was dangerous, but it was one of the most popular. When he described it to me, I thought he would have a set cast of people snootily sipping tea and looking down their noses as passers-by. It turns out he was allowing people to take turns sitting in the sky.

The sudden elevation changed the world. The table in front allowed the sitters to temporarily ignore the frightening height they’d reached, though the wobbly chair was a constant reminder that their time in high society could be cut short in a violently painful manner. Mr. Bulis claims there was no metaphor, but I insist there is. Then again, that’s what I’m trained to do: inject significance into art that may or may not have been intended by the creator. That’s what all English majors do. We bullshit. Sorry. It’s true.

And then the sun went down, and the whole place became a wild pagan festival. Visual displays became glowing pieces of wonderment. Music was everywhere, and nobody was pretending. We did not come to this place to project a personality. We came to see, to hear, and to exist. The lack of pretense and lie was the most enjoyable part of the evening, I think. People began dancing to the music, kicking up small clouds of dust and losing themselves in the crowd and the heavy bass. I didn’t see many people who knew how to dance, the way one might expect people to know how to dance on a floor. This was not a club. This was madness, a release, and nobody cared. I danced too, and I don’t know how long.

There was a display which lead people away from the crowds, from the lights and the noise, into the darkness. Glowsticks lighted the way, drawing the curious like pixies or goblins into the deep dark. At the end? Quiet, peace, the soft clanging of chimes in the distance, and a sofa. I was accompanied by a pair of girls. They pulled their cell phones out to light their way, but I insisted they put them away. Their eyes would adjust, if they let them. We do not spend much time beneath darkness and trees. This was a thing of beauty.

And then I walked on stilts and talked to cute girls, and the night was over.

That was Thursday. I missed Friday’s post. Sorry.

Friday, I started cooking a pot of chili I’d begun prepping the day before. That was two hours of work. Then I left to pick up Lindsay at the airport. There was an accident, and I was late. No problem though.

Until we got back to my apartment. She couldn’t find her ticket, and I could tell she was just about ready to freak out. I’ve lost stuff and subsequently lost control enough times to know what she was feeling, and how close she was to breaking down. I tried to keep her calm. I spoke with a mellow voice and did my best to engage her in conversation while leafing through her books and looking for hiding places. This was an expensive trip for her, and she lost the reason she got on the plane in the first place. I told her to call United. That took a while, but eventually, she found the number and made the call. I heard her squeal “really?!” from my room, and my arms shot upward in triumph. I had been looking forward to this weekend for too long to have shit like that happen.

I went to a friend’s house then, because I said I would. Lindsay was welcome, but she opted to work on a paper, which I guess worked out well. I got to try my hand at playing drums, which was a lot of fun. I was late returning home. I’d intended to make it back with time enough to make the drive to the airport to recover her ticket. We tried. We drove down there, but we were too slow. Somehow, I managed to get lost on that drive too, and we wound up at the airport despite giving up.

Megan called needing instructions later that night. I totally misunderstood her. She told me they were on the 5 toward San Fransisco, and had just left Stockton. That puts them just south of Sac, and maybe 40 minutes away from Davis. It turns out they were going south, and by the time they stopped and decided something was wrong, they were 100 miles away from Sac. Damn, I wish I’d caught that.

And then there was more difficulty with the map, caused in part by cell phone static, and in part by anticipatory intoxication. I am bad with maps and directions anyway. Try getting me to guide you when I’m senseless.

They arrived in Davis with the sun.

The next day, we gathered ourselves, directions, tickets, music, and made our way to Berkeley. We were all stinking of envy as we drove through that town. I wish I’d applied there, but I distinctly remember deciding I didn’t like Berkeley’s city. As a veteran college student, I appreciate it more now.

The concert was simply beyond words, so I will not try. We saw Arcade Fire, for anyone who doesn’t know yet. We were in the front, standing.

A few things to note then…

1) I didn’t think very hard leaving the house. I wore sandals, shorts, and a thin button up, and brought nothing else.

2) Despite having listened to Arcade Fire ravenously for four months, I did not know the lyrics.

3) I did not know the lyrics because I was listening to the albums starting with the oldest, and working my way backward. I knew “Headlights Look Like Diamonds”, a song they had not played for a few years, better than most of the stuff they performed. I regretted not being able to sing along with most of them.

4) Sometimes a good quesadilla is better than a large burrito. I don’t need to add any more beans to my diet anyway.

5) The opening act was really cool. I fell in love with the drummer, but Kevin says she looked like a boy.

And then the concert was over. Sure, there are details I’ve missed, but the point is that it’s over. My guests left in a flurry, and the weekend that had been sitting in an envelope on my bookshelf for the past four months is over. I was seriously bummed.

This is where the flex comes in. That’s what I’m calling it now, because I kind of have to flex my awareness in order to slip between moments. I flexed, after they’d left. I knew I could stop time to an extent, (though not completely—infinitely small moments still pass between instants), but I wanted to go back. I wanted to have my weekend again.

I sat and flexed and pushed and sweated, fought until tears poured free, but I could not move backward. There is only forward, though I can adjust the size of the steps I take.

Like the conclusion of my last post, I have learned that there is no turning back, so I’d better do it right the first time.

100th Post (AC)

I don’t really want to write this post. I’m tired, and I’m sore everywhere from a long and angry workout, and even though my last post wasn’t very well written, it was long. I had an adventure. I was a hero. Obviously, I’m dealing with the repercussions. I effectively ended a man’s life that night, and I’m not very happy about how I handled it.

It’s too fucking late now.

It’s too late to decide to disarm him. Its too late to put a bit more thought into what would happen to a body with that kind of energy transferring into it.

It’s too late to punch him anywhere else. With a frozen target, I didn’t think twice about shooting for the button. I could have broken any bone in his body, but I chose his spine.

He’d had a rough week at work, his fiancé, the sobbing woman, told me. He was stressed out, but didn’t think he was that upset. He pulled a gun. He was going to run from the police. She wished she’d known. She sobbed it over and over, but what has passed is past, and all we have, to a degree that few people understand, this very instant to make our choices.

I don’t know how to atone for my action. I will not make that mistake again. I will not forget to think. I will act deliberately and wisely, and I won’t kill. I don’t want to take lives.

I’m not going to vow that I will never do it again. That would prove me a fool or liar, because we both, dear reader, know that I will.

Can I make right what I’ve broken?

Like Heroes of Old (AC)

Your body and your mind will be the only things that limit you. The depth of your comprehension will determine the caliber of your ability, and the strength of your body will allow you to survive its use. Be careful. Every action might break you.

I was pouring over the letters my father gave to me, absorbing the straightforward parts, and staring narrow eyed and slightly frustrated at the more cryptic sections. Some of my father’s words make no sense to me, and I fear understanding will continue to come only after I have caused serious harm.

I’d just come home from Neal’s house, after a sunburned day of Sacramento jazz, a small cookout, and a few beers. There was also an impromptu kitchen floor brawl initiated for no reason at all (and with no intent to harm). Neal is an Iraqi Freedom vet, and one of my training partners. I am learning how to fight from a man who knows how to kill.

Anyway, I was unwinding in my room, preparing to write this post. It was Sunday, and I was surprised that I was writing in preparation for Monday. People who know my habits know that I don’t generally do things ahead of time. It is warm in Davis these days, and my window is open almost constantly. Outside, there was shouting: a mail and female voice. It started sounding like a heated discussion—some sort of passionate drunken discourse. I have shouted a few times myself, after drinking.

But the voices became angry. The male began shouting as hard as his throat would allow, and the female was interjecting with sharp jabbing responses between roars.

Everybody is allowed to argue. Shouting might even be justified. Everybody gets on edge, especially near the end of Spring quarter, when students are nearing finals, and apartments have been shared for nine months, at least. Everybody is allowed to argue, and it is nobody’s business.

“Ouch,” came the female voice, “that really hurt.”

Kathy later said she heard something about “my wrist.”

I stood.

“Stop! No, ouch!” Then there was a cry, sharp with pain, wavering with frightened tears. And then, “My back!”

I looked around for my phone.

“Oh God! Somebody help me!”

She sounded panicked. The alarm bells in my head shut off and I went into action. I was already opening the front door when Jin called me, also on his way out the door.

We raced outside. I was ready to jump fences and kick down doors. I spotted the open window on the second floor, spilling sounds of sadness into the night. Kathy came outside. This was the first time I ever had to look at someone with a calm and serious face and tell them to call the police. I did not wait. I sprinted around the apartment building (their door faces away from ours) and ran up the stairs, Jin right behind. I was grateful for his company. Together, I think we could handle just about any shit that doesn’t involve guns.

I pounded on the door. It was a “what the fuck is going on in there?” kind of pound, using the fleshy side of my fist. The voices stopped. I heard the man curse, and the woman sob, “It’s nice to know my neighbors care about me.” I rolled my eyes—she was using guilt trips and self pity tactics that could have very easily turned the man’s ire upon us. I turned the doorknob. I looked back at Jin to see if he was ready, as I crouched and prepared my body weight to contend with possible deadbolt resistance. He shook his head and knocked. His knock was with his knuckles, loud but not demanding, as though to say, “we’re not going to start any shit, but we’re not leaving either.”

I was ready for a brawl. He knocked twice more, and I heard the female voice say, “be a man about it.”

The door opened. It was a very large man with two by four wrists and at least a hundred pound advantage. He looked like a man facing a firing squad, like he knew he’d fucked up.

“Good evening gentlemen.”

“We heard a lot of shouting,” Jin started. “We heard somebody call for help. The police are on their way. We just want to make sure everybody is okay.”

“You’re welcome to come in if you like. You can see that everything is fine.”

The woman was sitting on the floor, back against a sofa, head hanging, bobbing slightly with each

“We’ll wait out here,” I said. “The police will be here shortly. If you’d leave the door open so we can see inside, though, that would be best.”

He nodded and leaned against a wall.

“Are you okay,” Jin called inside. I felt slightly guilty then, because I forgot about the woman, I’d become so fixated upon the possibility of violence.

She sobbed that she was fine.

“How long ago did you call them?” the big man asked.

“They should be here soon. You know how bored Davis cops are. I don’t hear sirens, though, which means they’re probably not moving with urgency. Listen, if this is a misunderstanding, I apologize, but when someone calls for help, you call the cops.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You did the right thing.”

The sad thing, though—the thing that is still upsetting me—is that we were the only ones that responded. A woman could have been hospitalized, for all my neighbors knew, and nobody came out. Who is going to come when it’s me calling for help?

I relaxed a little. The man seemed resigned to dealing with the police. He must have seen this, because he produced a small clip fed handgun, which he pointed at my belly. His mouth opened to speak, but his words caught.

I squeezed between moments. The air became pudding around me. I pushed forward the single step that separated us, and carefully raised a fist. I was still recovering from my first squeeze, the damage to my body a powerful warning against moving rashly. I balled my fist and carefully thrust forward in a controlled jab, my wrist aligned properly with my arm, my muscles carefully controlling the forward power. My hand made contact with his jaw, and I pushed against his chin until it moved back about a half centimeter.

I withdrew my fist and released the instant. There was a small pop and a familiar jolt of pressure shot up my arm, absorbed by muscles well prepared for the force. The man’s head snapped backward and his eyes glossed as he tipped, landing flat backed on the floor. I slid the gun out of his twitching fingers with my foot, and maneuvered it out the door and out of reach.

Two police cruisers rolled onto the sidewalk then, disgorging four brisk stepped officers. I waved to them. I walked down and told them there was a gun by the stairs, and an unconscious man just inside the door.

I told a similar story to the police, but didn’t bother trying to explain how I landed a knockout blow on a gunman. They seemed impressed, and even shook my hand before one of them realized the man was still twitching, and not waking up.

The ambulance was faster than the police.

And I ended up visiting the Davis Police Station. There is a good deal of legal work involved in dislocating a man’s vertebrae, self defense or not.

He may or may not regain consciousness.
He will not regain muscle control.

You greatest power is the power of contemplation. When time vanishes, every decision can be pondered for as long, if that term applies, as necessary, and every thought carried to completion. The gift is that you cannot move too slowly, though it comes at the cost of moving too quickly. Consider every motion. You do not only harm yourself.

All Dressed in White (AC)

I was going to post a copy of a letter I received in the mail yesterday, written on heavy parchment with splattered ink, in my father’s careless hand. It is a fascinating read, and should help me a great deal. There is advice in abundance: something he could always be counted on to give. There are warnings as well—apparently there is a good number of my kind born every generation, but most perish while playing with their skills. The body is such a fragile thing.

I think you would be greatly interested in seeing this letter, but I have not fully digested it myself, and will show it at another time. Right now, I can think of nothing more than my own agony.

I have come to the conclusion that I am incredibly lucky that I had my breakthrough on soft dirt. Every muscle in my body feels torn. It hurts to move. It hurts to breath. I’d rather die than sneeze, and I spent a day and a half in bed, moving twice to roll over and pee in a bucket.

I awoke Wednesday beneath the naked brilliance of a noonday sun. I’d slept on my arm, and my fingers were tingling—a suddenly minor sensation compared to the shrieking protest of every muscle fiber from neck to toe as I tried to adjust myself.

I managed to fish my cell phone from my pocket. I pressed the appropriate button and croaked the name, and the machine beeped quizzically in reply. I had food and water in my duffel bag.

My duffel bag had been hanging on my shoulder when I decided to start running. It had been on my shoulder when I froze. And I could see my duffel bag from where I lay, crumpled like a broken body at the spot where the rent in the soil began. I winced and glanced down at my shoulder, my neck complaining stiffly at the minute change in degree. My shirt was shredded at the shoulder, the skin beneath bruised and bloody, as though I’d been hit by a baseball bat wrapped in carpet. I must have snapped the strap, I remember thinking. Another moment of dazed immobility passed before I started to wonder what kind of jolly havoc that bag’s mass had done to my spine.

Dirt, as I mentioned before, probably saved my life. If I had run on concrete, if I had touched anything more solid than the fertile farmland, I’d probably be suffering from shattered bones, ruined joints, and possibly a mild case of death.

As it was, I managed to call Jin and relay my general whereabouts, which was difficult, because he could barely understand me, and I almost never know where I am anyway.

I lay still, sweating and gasping shallowly until he arrived and recovered me. I blacked out again when he lifted me from the ground. My bones felt searing hot and loose, hanging by abused ropes from each other, lolling and falling like a tangled marionette.

“Holy shit,” he said as he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the piles of earth my feet had displaced.

I’ll have to be extremely careful about my movements. I have not tried to use the ability again. I have not been able to conjure the will to do more than pull my keyboard over to my bed and tap out the post you are reading. I am in jabbering, senseless pain. I’m not even sure if what I’ve written makes sense. One hopes for the best. Jin and his girlfriend Kathy (with whom I live) seem to be hoping for the best. I awoke on my bed in clean clothes, the mud and sweat gone, and a bandage tidily affixed to my shoulder. My mouth tasted of Gatorade, and some of my strength had returned, though little of the pain abated. I recall groaning my way across my bed to write this, a token post that cost more effort that you, my dear reader, probably realized.

“You told me not to take you to the hospital,” he said when I awoke. “What happened?”

It turns out he doesn’t read my blog.

“Did I break anything?” I asked, suddenly imagining my Achilles tendon torn, or my clavicle shattered.

“From the way your clothes were shredded,” he said stone faced, “you probably broke the sound barrier.”

The Transformation (AC)

It was a destructive experience—I was, for a span of time immeasurable, on the brink of total collapse.

I suppose I’ll begin the exciting tale where I left off—with me jumping up from my computer, having just posted the first installment of this rather interesting stage of my life, grabbing my duffel bag full of carefully collected ritual artifacts, and rushing out of my apartment.

I was late. I should have been well out of the city by then. I should have been in place, with all the intricate pieces of ritual spread on the ground around me, waiting calmly for the hour to strike. My father had given me instructions, but no explanations.

Instead, I was speeding up a highway, looking for a dirt road and an expanse of uninhabited land. Even in the sparse outskirts of our little city, I could not find a place out of eyeshot of human signs. I had no idea what kind of destruction my transformation might cause, and I had no desire to cause harm.

With fifteen minutes left, and me between cities (towns, really), I pulled off the highway and onto a tractor-scarred gravel road that lead into the heart of a crop field. I don’t know what was growing—Strawberries, maybe? There was no fruit, but the air was sweet and moist with dirt’s promise, and the gentle reach of soft greenery.

With three minutes left to midnight, I slid my car to a halt, grabbed the keys and bag, and sprinted across the field. What if I exploded? I wouldn’t want to hurt my car. The adrenaline soaked my arteries, and the sprint came naturally.

As I was running, several things occurred to me:
None of my clocks were accurate to the minute.
Cosmic midnight might be different from our measure of time.
I was not born on midnight.
I had no idea how this was going to work.

It also occurs to me that trying to write at work is not a good way to produce cohesive results. It is, however, a fantastic way to incubate inhuman rage.

I ran. I sprinted as hard as I could, my feet sinking in the pregnant soil. It felt right. It was exhilarating. I love running fast, and the night air was cool and sustaining.

And suddenly, everything stopped. I was frozen, mid-stride, mid-breath, with both feet off the ground. Only my thoughts continued.

I have no idea how long I was suspended there. It might have been a month. It could have been a decade. At one point I panicked, believing myself locked, believe that I failed to withstand the transformation. Maybe this was death.

But I relaxed, and took advantage of the opportunity. I am now immensely grateful for the small amount of time I have spent studying meditation methods and philosophy. Without those ideas, I might have lost my grip, frozen in time, only to fall to the ground babbling nonsense, robbed of my mind.

Every moment, everything is absolutely transitory. No single moment can be held. Everything is changing, everything is moving. Everything is temporary, and we only barely exist, so brief and small are our lives, compared to the infinite expanse. Like the mathematical point, we are so small that we have no value—we exist mostly as an idea. But contained within that point, there are an infinite number of points. Within the lifetime, there are an infinite number of instants. And likewise, within each instant, there is an infinite number of moments.

We are nothing, and we are everything.
God is the Universe.
We are made in the image of Him.
We are all a universe.

The purpose of religion is to enumerate morality; morality is an instinct. We are born with the drive to be moral, because this is how to be a healthy part of the perfect infinity.

I was always taught that the true torment of Hell is being apart from the Great One.
Every body is a universe.
Unhealthy systems are ejected from the Host like popped pimples.
All of mankind must be healthy as a unit.

That is the role of the angel.
That is the task set upon me.

My preconceptions crumbled. My sense of time abandoned me, and I reveled in the instant.

And in my understanding, I found that I could move, from moment to moment within that instant. My feet touched dirt, though the ground was as ungiving as stone beneath my feet. A cloud was frozen against the sky, and there was no twinkle to the stars.

I began to run. It didn’t feel quite normal; the air was viscous and uncooperative. My watch was still frozen at what would be midnight, if I’d adjusted the hands correctly. I looked behind me. There was a slight distortion of moonlight where I’d displaced air, but not much.

And then I stepped out of the moment, allowed it and its universe of instants to pass. I jerked myself out of that frame, and into this, and the universe spun around me.

And then the earth exploded. Dust and gravel rocketed into the air. I could hear a shower of rocks, launched at high speeds, pinging against my car, and in front of my, a great rippling wave of soil jolted away from where my feet rested. The force of my stop sent me skidding across the moist ground and blasting dirt in a huge shockwave that drowned countless young plants beneath its tumult.

The ground where I’d stepped was torn. Deep, splattered footprints ripped a yard-wide gash through the neat tilling. I’d sprinted a quarter mile in an instant, and the force of my movement was impelled into the ground. I could only see the effects afterward.

And then my chest exploded. I choked. I gasped so hard for air that my throat closed. My heart was painfully audible, and I could see my chest convulsing with the manic beats. I’d overcome time and space, but laws that govern matter cannot be escaped while wearing a suit of flesh. My body paid the price.

I took a step back toward my car.
My leg gave beneath my, suddenly ripped with fire.
I collapsed, and my body seized like a spider into a single ball of wailing muscle.
I lost consciousness listening to the panic of my heart, and wishing for death.

That is why this post is late.