waiting for the other shoe to drop
i took a hammer to the head
wound up back here instead
thinking of the ways we use to flop
take a roll in the hay
that futon never strayed
and so I say
take another shot today
spread myself thin
wise crack a jolly grin
I wrap my arms around your neck
in dreams and daytime memories
so please
come to me
I slip my heart out of my chest
present it to your beating breast
and free
the love in me
I held back for so long
the waves crest with this song
so come to me
tonight I plead
I wait for you with yearning needs
My skin desires your breathes breaze
come to me
come to please
me
Monday, August 6, 2012
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Letter to my brother I don't have to courage to send
Dear Brother:
I composed this letter in part in my head riding the route 1A from the Downtown mall to my apartment complex, and in part upon my arrival. I feel I should preface this by telling you I have always and will always hold you dear, both as a brother and as a friend.
That being said, I am constantly filled with worry for you, both for your sanity and your safety. The people you are associating with claim to be peaceful, but no peaceful man threatens violence however perturbed he becomes. Your constant talk of race wars, the illuminati, and your paranoia about being spied on both in the safety of your home from your computer and on the streets from the roaming eyes of police and pedestrians has me scared for you and your sanity. That being said: the threats you have voiced towards me have ME scared for MYSELF.
You seemed to be trying so hard to find peace, but I believe you have been lead astray. You voice so much hate towards people these days, even strangers you've never had so much as a passing word with. You are constantly preoccupied with people being racist, even though you know nothing of them or their beliefs. I know this because every conversation we have centers around it. You tell me of the people I surround myself with being racist. Rebecca is racist because she associates with gothic people, and THEY are racist because they listen to gothic and industrial music, and IT is racist because you say its all from Germany, and GERMANS are racist because of WWII. Gabe is racist because you believe he is a homosexual, and all homosexuals are sexual deviants and out to take advantage of people. Of course they are also racist, because somehow their fight for the right to marry infringes upon an African Americans fight to free himself from prejudice and poverty. You believe Rachael is racist because she is southern, and of course, all southern people are racist. The overwhelming theme is this: they are ALL white, and all white people are racist. You even believe I am racist, because I dress like a pirate and practice Wicca. Wiccans are racist because they have Celtic heritage, and Celts are all Aryans which are all racist. And as for my pirate clothes? Pirates, you say, brought African Americans over in ships to be sold into slavery.
All the peoples I have listed: the races, creeds, sexual orientations, and spiritual paths you hate on sight. You hate people who have money and an education because they are "yuppies" and of course, racist. You even now hate people that have TATTOOS regardless of the fact that you yourself are covered with them because, as you say, tattoos are expensive and only people with money can afford them, and people with money are racist.
My point is this: you hate them all, regardless of their personal merits or even knowledge of their actions or deeds. You don't know them, but you hate them just by looking at them. This is the very definition of prejudice and bias. You have become just as bad as someone who actually IS racist. The only people you seem comfortable with are African Americans, and even some of them you dislike on sight, because they are "thugs" and thugs? Totally racist. I'm afraid to even say this to you, but YOU have become racist, prejudice, and bias towards the entire world. You have become the very thing you so despise.
I don't blame you for what you feel right now, and in order to explain that I have to explain my feelings towards both hatred and violence. I myself have always been and will always be a pacifist. I have never been in a serious physical altercation, and have no intention of ever being in a fight. I have been struck, by you and by others, and I did not raise a hand in return. It is my belief that violence and hatred, even in retaliation, solves nothing and only makes matters worse. It exacerbates already bad situations and causes even more of the same.
Hatred is like a disease. People that vent, that inflict violence, that verbally abuse, are infected with it. Either by experiences they have been through or by simple genetics they turn PAIN and FEAR outwards and inflict it upon others, either in retaliation or to innocent bystanders to whatever situation ails them. My belief is that the main cause of this disease is simple exposure. Violent and aggressive and hateful people simply experienced far too much hate in there lives and became jaded, and thus: infected. The disease spreads as follows: hateful people inflict there inner pain on others, and those who go through this too much often become, as there aggressors, hateful themselves.
I'm sorry to say that at this time you have become afflicted with this disease, which IS a disease, just as much as alcoholism and addiction are diseases. They way you treat others isn't your fault, you were simply exposed to far too much of the same over the long sordid course of your life, and now it is all you know. The only way you know how to respond by feeling hurt or sadness or fear is to lash out. I love you brother, I love you dearly, but this has to stop.
My only hope is that through bettering yourself by doing good deeds, surrounding yourself with positive people, and with what might turn out to be a LIFETIME of therapy, you can conquer this horrible affliction you have found yourself being burdened with. Please know that I WILL always be there for you, as brother and friend, but I no longer know how close I can remain to you. Your pain turned to hate is starting to have an affect on my wellbeing, and I can't afford to become jaded. I'm niave yes, innocent, sure, but I still have hope, and I won't risk that hope for anything. I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep my distance for a while, until you can get yourself under control. I love you brother, but that's how it is.
Please take care of yourself, and be safe,
your loving brother,
Zak
I composed this letter in part in my head riding the route 1A from the Downtown mall to my apartment complex, and in part upon my arrival. I feel I should preface this by telling you I have always and will always hold you dear, both as a brother and as a friend.
That being said, I am constantly filled with worry for you, both for your sanity and your safety. The people you are associating with claim to be peaceful, but no peaceful man threatens violence however perturbed he becomes. Your constant talk of race wars, the illuminati, and your paranoia about being spied on both in the safety of your home from your computer and on the streets from the roaming eyes of police and pedestrians has me scared for you and your sanity. That being said: the threats you have voiced towards me have ME scared for MYSELF.
You seemed to be trying so hard to find peace, but I believe you have been lead astray. You voice so much hate towards people these days, even strangers you've never had so much as a passing word with. You are constantly preoccupied with people being racist, even though you know nothing of them or their beliefs. I know this because every conversation we have centers around it. You tell me of the people I surround myself with being racist. Rebecca is racist because she associates with gothic people, and THEY are racist because they listen to gothic and industrial music, and IT is racist because you say its all from Germany, and GERMANS are racist because of WWII. Gabe is racist because you believe he is a homosexual, and all homosexuals are sexual deviants and out to take advantage of people. Of course they are also racist, because somehow their fight for the right to marry infringes upon an African Americans fight to free himself from prejudice and poverty. You believe Rachael is racist because she is southern, and of course, all southern people are racist. The overwhelming theme is this: they are ALL white, and all white people are racist. You even believe I am racist, because I dress like a pirate and practice Wicca. Wiccans are racist because they have Celtic heritage, and Celts are all Aryans which are all racist. And as for my pirate clothes? Pirates, you say, brought African Americans over in ships to be sold into slavery.
All the peoples I have listed: the races, creeds, sexual orientations, and spiritual paths you hate on sight. You hate people who have money and an education because they are "yuppies" and of course, racist. You even now hate people that have TATTOOS regardless of the fact that you yourself are covered with them because, as you say, tattoos are expensive and only people with money can afford them, and people with money are racist.
My point is this: you hate them all, regardless of their personal merits or even knowledge of their actions or deeds. You don't know them, but you hate them just by looking at them. This is the very definition of prejudice and bias. You have become just as bad as someone who actually IS racist. The only people you seem comfortable with are African Americans, and even some of them you dislike on sight, because they are "thugs" and thugs? Totally racist. I'm afraid to even say this to you, but YOU have become racist, prejudice, and bias towards the entire world. You have become the very thing you so despise.
I don't blame you for what you feel right now, and in order to explain that I have to explain my feelings towards both hatred and violence. I myself have always been and will always be a pacifist. I have never been in a serious physical altercation, and have no intention of ever being in a fight. I have been struck, by you and by others, and I did not raise a hand in return. It is my belief that violence and hatred, even in retaliation, solves nothing and only makes matters worse. It exacerbates already bad situations and causes even more of the same.
Hatred is like a disease. People that vent, that inflict violence, that verbally abuse, are infected with it. Either by experiences they have been through or by simple genetics they turn PAIN and FEAR outwards and inflict it upon others, either in retaliation or to innocent bystanders to whatever situation ails them. My belief is that the main cause of this disease is simple exposure. Violent and aggressive and hateful people simply experienced far too much hate in there lives and became jaded, and thus: infected. The disease spreads as follows: hateful people inflict there inner pain on others, and those who go through this too much often become, as there aggressors, hateful themselves.
I'm sorry to say that at this time you have become afflicted with this disease, which IS a disease, just as much as alcoholism and addiction are diseases. They way you treat others isn't your fault, you were simply exposed to far too much of the same over the long sordid course of your life, and now it is all you know. The only way you know how to respond by feeling hurt or sadness or fear is to lash out. I love you brother, I love you dearly, but this has to stop.
My only hope is that through bettering yourself by doing good deeds, surrounding yourself with positive people, and with what might turn out to be a LIFETIME of therapy, you can conquer this horrible affliction you have found yourself being burdened with. Please know that I WILL always be there for you, as brother and friend, but I no longer know how close I can remain to you. Your pain turned to hate is starting to have an affect on my wellbeing, and I can't afford to become jaded. I'm niave yes, innocent, sure, but I still have hope, and I won't risk that hope for anything. I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep my distance for a while, until you can get yourself under control. I love you brother, but that's how it is.
Please take care of yourself, and be safe,
your loving brother,
Zak
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Mojo: Chapter Two: Brethren
My worker bee picked me up early in the morning and brought me down to the spca adoption center with the hopes of picking out a pet....
"You wont be taking one home today, today is just to look, to shop..."
As if picking a friend could be that easy, just go in and shop around for a while, get a FEEL for them.
My heart twisted in knots as I stepped through the door, animals all of them, caged and wild eyed with anxiety or docile with jaded acceptance. Every one of them desperately needing a home, some one to take them into there arms and love them and care for them.
I don't know why I put myself through this... Going into animal shelters and pet stores and even going as far as to peruse the pet section of craigslist. Kills me EVERY TIME.
Towards the back there sat a squat cage on a small platform, and inside where four young cats, all of them solid black. Most of them came up to the cage walls and peered out, but far in the back one simply rested, the runt of the little with a small paper tag like a hospital bracelet reading "Mopsy". As I approached her side of the cage she lifted her eyes to mine and what I saw melted me to the core. Mopsy was not only the runt, but one of a litter of kittens that had come under horrible abuse. She had gotten the worse of it, patches of hair had had to be shaved off around her under arms, her ears with thick with black gunk from ear-mites, and her left eye shone solid white with cataract.
"From an injury" the young female staff member said, and wouldn't tell me any more.
When I extended my fingers to the cage she rubbed the side of her face lovingly against them and looked out at me, squinting and staring with that one good eye. She had seen the wars, been through the ringer, been through hell and back, took a licken and kept on ticken. Mopsy was world weary at the tender age of two, young even for a cat. But something in the way she looked at me prompted me to ask that she be removed from her cage and brought to a small adjacent room for me to socialize with her.
As she was lifted from her cage, she did not protest, simply went limp and allowed herself to be carried, though her eyes told a different story. The good eye bloomed wide with terror and distrust of the woman who now held her and carried her along. Her claws gripped her shirt as if expecting any moment to be tossed at the nearest wall.
One in the room Mopsy was placed on the floor and saw me enter. She starred up and me with that single eye and again her lids drifted into a mellow and relaxed squint. A moment latter she rolled onto her back exposing her belly to me. I got down on my haunches and stroked the fur there. It was soft, like the inside of expensive slippers. She purred with reckless abandon and again rubbed her face along my wrist and hand, marking me with her scent. I decided right then and there that Mopsy would be my kitty, that the following day I would return for her, to take her home and into my humble home, and far more humble life...
"You wont be taking one home today, today is just to look, to shop..."
As if picking a friend could be that easy, just go in and shop around for a while, get a FEEL for them.
My heart twisted in knots as I stepped through the door, animals all of them, caged and wild eyed with anxiety or docile with jaded acceptance. Every one of them desperately needing a home, some one to take them into there arms and love them and care for them.
I don't know why I put myself through this... Going into animal shelters and pet stores and even going as far as to peruse the pet section of craigslist. Kills me EVERY TIME.
Towards the back there sat a squat cage on a small platform, and inside where four young cats, all of them solid black. Most of them came up to the cage walls and peered out, but far in the back one simply rested, the runt of the little with a small paper tag like a hospital bracelet reading "Mopsy". As I approached her side of the cage she lifted her eyes to mine and what I saw melted me to the core. Mopsy was not only the runt, but one of a litter of kittens that had come under horrible abuse. She had gotten the worse of it, patches of hair had had to be shaved off around her under arms, her ears with thick with black gunk from ear-mites, and her left eye shone solid white with cataract.
"From an injury" the young female staff member said, and wouldn't tell me any more.
When I extended my fingers to the cage she rubbed the side of her face lovingly against them and looked out at me, squinting and staring with that one good eye. She had seen the wars, been through the ringer, been through hell and back, took a licken and kept on ticken. Mopsy was world weary at the tender age of two, young even for a cat. But something in the way she looked at me prompted me to ask that she be removed from her cage and brought to a small adjacent room for me to socialize with her.
As she was lifted from her cage, she did not protest, simply went limp and allowed herself to be carried, though her eyes told a different story. The good eye bloomed wide with terror and distrust of the woman who now held her and carried her along. Her claws gripped her shirt as if expecting any moment to be tossed at the nearest wall.
One in the room Mopsy was placed on the floor and saw me enter. She starred up and me with that single eye and again her lids drifted into a mellow and relaxed squint. A moment latter she rolled onto her back exposing her belly to me. I got down on my haunches and stroked the fur there. It was soft, like the inside of expensive slippers. She purred with reckless abandon and again rubbed her face along my wrist and hand, marking me with her scent. I decided right then and there that Mopsy would be my kitty, that the following day I would return for her, to take her home and into my humble home, and far more humble life...
Day of a Thousand Nights: Part Three: High Fashion
I arrived at fashion square mall to find gabe sitting quite awkwardly sandwiched between to people waiting for the bus near the smokers outpost in front of fashion square mall. I could see him from the window as we made our approached and upon recognizing my handsome, rugged, and epically bearded face peering down at him he cracked a smile and waved. Exiting the bus I met him half way between the ring of smokers and the stop, and immediately explained my plight.
"We need to GO IN, Gabe, I need to get change for you to ride back to my place."
You see, Gabe does NOT have a super convenient and super easy ada para-transit card as I do, allowing me to ride any bus in Charlottesville free of fair, and is still required to pay a pittance of seventy five cents for a single ride and a dollar fifty for a day pass.
This required us to enter the archipelago of shops, high ceilings, skylights, and cheap chinese food that is... FASHION SQUARE MALL. We of course bee-lined towards Gamestop and proceeded to browse, using the familiar atmosphere of cellophane wrapped video games as a cocoon protecting us from the surrounding hordes of mindless brain-dead slaves to consumerism that flock to fashion square on a daily basis, seeking the ever elusive "deal".
"We need to GO IN, Gabe, I need to get change for you to ride back to my place."
You see, Gabe does NOT have a super convenient and super easy ada para-transit card as I do, allowing me to ride any bus in Charlottesville free of fair, and is still required to pay a pittance of seventy five cents for a single ride and a dollar fifty for a day pass.
This required us to enter the archipelago of shops, high ceilings, skylights, and cheap chinese food that is... FASHION SQUARE MALL. We of course bee-lined towards Gamestop and proceeded to browse, using the familiar atmosphere of cellophane wrapped video games as a cocoon protecting us from the surrounding hordes of mindless brain-dead slaves to consumerism that flock to fashion square on a daily basis, seeking the ever elusive "deal".
Stream of Consciousness July 18th, 2012
Days are drifting in and out of each other like erotic clouds. the company of my friend gabe has become near stifling as he has found in necessary to be here far more often than I care for... and every day moves one belt notch closer to August 27th, where my classes begin and the long summer of my young adult life ends.
I memorized the lyrics to popular and not-so-popular comercials, not intentionally just by sheer exposure. you shouldn't let your money go out the window, on that we can all agree. call 1-800-Next Window, and you will clearly see. We are the window authority, we've got the best prices and design (for example...) any size white double hung window installed for $189. Window World, simply the best for less...
I guess this might come in handy one day, say if I even need new windows.
She cut the umbilicus, for a while at least, again with dates... EXACT dates, august 27th. prom...
I spout ellipses like and epileptic typewriter...
She sells sea shells down by the sea shore. I needed help, and now I have none, thanks to one nights worth of drunken "indiscretion". Every day around five thirty, six o-clock, i wonder why I didn't call the financial aide office, wonder why I'm neither excited nor scared of whats going to happen next month, wonder in an almost detached way if anyone will even notice when the time comes and I log into my psyche class for the first time.
Black witches robes made out of fleece, colleen asked me a pretty decent question: why fleece?
Its comfortable, I told her, It's like wearing a big yummy sock.
She asked me how it is that I've survived this long...
A witch in yummy fleece robes, with a woman's romantic sentiments and a man's lack of hygiene.
I've taken up drinking with Gabe, when we can spare a little money for a cheap twelve pack. He drinks natural light, so that's whats been on the menu. Being drunk on cheap beer has its thrills I suppose...
I feel like a puppet in and old timey ye olden puppet show, like some one should be bopping me on the head with an over-sized plush club and shouting silly things at me. It tastes foul, its all I can do just to keep from gagging on it, but once I get a few in me my head floods with pleasant fogginess and everything goes a bit numb. my dad would be so proud...
I memorized the lyrics to popular and not-so-popular comercials, not intentionally just by sheer exposure. you shouldn't let your money go out the window, on that we can all agree. call 1-800-Next Window, and you will clearly see. We are the window authority, we've got the best prices and design (for example...) any size white double hung window installed for $189. Window World, simply the best for less...
I guess this might come in handy one day, say if I even need new windows.
She cut the umbilicus, for a while at least, again with dates... EXACT dates, august 27th. prom...
I spout ellipses like and epileptic typewriter...
She sells sea shells down by the sea shore. I needed help, and now I have none, thanks to one nights worth of drunken "indiscretion". Every day around five thirty, six o-clock, i wonder why I didn't call the financial aide office, wonder why I'm neither excited nor scared of whats going to happen next month, wonder in an almost detached way if anyone will even notice when the time comes and I log into my psyche class for the first time.
Black witches robes made out of fleece, colleen asked me a pretty decent question: why fleece?
Its comfortable, I told her, It's like wearing a big yummy sock.
She asked me how it is that I've survived this long...
A witch in yummy fleece robes, with a woman's romantic sentiments and a man's lack of hygiene.
I've taken up drinking with Gabe, when we can spare a little money for a cheap twelve pack. He drinks natural light, so that's whats been on the menu. Being drunk on cheap beer has its thrills I suppose...
I feel like a puppet in and old timey ye olden puppet show, like some one should be bopping me on the head with an over-sized plush club and shouting silly things at me. It tastes foul, its all I can do just to keep from gagging on it, but once I get a few in me my head floods with pleasant fogginess and everything goes a bit numb. my dad would be so proud...
Monday, May 28, 2012
Mojo: Chapter One: The Fuzz Factor
I would tell people that I always wanted a black cat named Mojo. In retrospect, I have no idea why. There just seemed some charm in the concept, in the name and the very idea. In my previous apartment I was not allowed to have pets, and through various circumstances I had ended up in the basement apartment on King Street, which did. Also: In this new environment, I was completely alone...
So used to rooming with my brother was I, that waking up to an empty apartment seemed pointless. I would sleep as long as I could and spent my waking hours either waiting for the phone to ring or sitting idle at my computer. In the time between, however, I had made a friend. Gabriel Richard was his name, a thirty something man that intermediately lived with his mother or in cramped section eight apartments and was strickened with nigh crippling obsessive compulsive disorder, had a love for queen and other classic rock bands bordering on obsession, and was blessed with a genuine attitude of kindness towards others that was refreshing in comparison to the bleak jaded voice of those who I had befriended in my past.
When things went south with Ben, Gabe was there to pick up the pieces. He helped me clean out the old apartment, separating me and Ben's belongings the way one would for a divorced couple. Then came the task of finding a place to stay. I had been terrified by the prospect of ending up in some sort of group home, and was gladdened when I found the spacious basement apartment on King Street. The eccentric landlord, an elderly man named Dallas Wayne Crickenburger, was one part WWII vet, one part geriatric cowboy, add a dash of dementia, mix well, serve warm and friendly.
It wasn't until after I had moved in that I realized the distance I had placed between myself and anyone who could offer me company. Gabe was my only friend at the time, as there was some distance between me and my long-time friend/ex-girlfiend Rebecca, but he lived clear across town in Belmont and had to ride several buses just to bridge the gap between us. He tried to be there for me, but nine out of ten days I sat alone in silence, silently begging for company that I was too afraid to seek out.
So there I was, keeping tract of time by the passing of Tuesdays and Thursdays that marked the bi-weekly appointment with my social worker, at the time a friendly former punk rocker-turned mental health professional named Senna Magill. It was she that reminded me of one of the major benefits to moving into that place, so far from removed any source of social interaction: Pets.
"You have to implement something I call the Fuzz Factor." She told me in an official manner, with eyes barely concealing there loosely hidden mirth.
I took the bait.
"What is 'The Fuzz Factor'?" I Replied, "I'm dying to hear this one."
She looked at me for a moment and her good humor finally broke loose and she cracked a wise-ass smile.
"I'm glad you asked!" Was her sarcastic reply, "The 'Fuzz Factor' is a human beings innate love for all things fuzzy and cute used to combat mental illness or depression, kinda like a service animal for a blind person, only more fuzzy and with less responsibilities save for just being there and being loved upon."
It clicked in my head like the hammer of a gun, ready to fire and finally accomplish SOMETHING towards feeling better, something about being less of a mopey bastard and more of a whole human being. The Fuzz Factor, it made sense in the simplest of ways, I had always shown affection towards animals, especially cats, and I was now in a unique position to both own and provide for one. I had the new apartment, the restrictions on my finances were being loosened and readied for me to handle my own money, and I desperately needed both the company and the affection.
AND I already had a named picked out...
I would call this little ball of fuzz that I would take in, care for, and ultimately befriend MOJO.
And the stories we would live through would be GRAND indeed...
So used to rooming with my brother was I, that waking up to an empty apartment seemed pointless. I would sleep as long as I could and spent my waking hours either waiting for the phone to ring or sitting idle at my computer. In the time between, however, I had made a friend. Gabriel Richard was his name, a thirty something man that intermediately lived with his mother or in cramped section eight apartments and was strickened with nigh crippling obsessive compulsive disorder, had a love for queen and other classic rock bands bordering on obsession, and was blessed with a genuine attitude of kindness towards others that was refreshing in comparison to the bleak jaded voice of those who I had befriended in my past.
When things went south with Ben, Gabe was there to pick up the pieces. He helped me clean out the old apartment, separating me and Ben's belongings the way one would for a divorced couple. Then came the task of finding a place to stay. I had been terrified by the prospect of ending up in some sort of group home, and was gladdened when I found the spacious basement apartment on King Street. The eccentric landlord, an elderly man named Dallas Wayne Crickenburger, was one part WWII vet, one part geriatric cowboy, add a dash of dementia, mix well, serve warm and friendly.
It wasn't until after I had moved in that I realized the distance I had placed between myself and anyone who could offer me company. Gabe was my only friend at the time, as there was some distance between me and my long-time friend/ex-girlfiend Rebecca, but he lived clear across town in Belmont and had to ride several buses just to bridge the gap between us. He tried to be there for me, but nine out of ten days I sat alone in silence, silently begging for company that I was too afraid to seek out.
So there I was, keeping tract of time by the passing of Tuesdays and Thursdays that marked the bi-weekly appointment with my social worker, at the time a friendly former punk rocker-turned mental health professional named Senna Magill. It was she that reminded me of one of the major benefits to moving into that place, so far from removed any source of social interaction: Pets.
"You have to implement something I call the Fuzz Factor." She told me in an official manner, with eyes barely concealing there loosely hidden mirth.
I took the bait.
"What is 'The Fuzz Factor'?" I Replied, "I'm dying to hear this one."
She looked at me for a moment and her good humor finally broke loose and she cracked a wise-ass smile.
"I'm glad you asked!" Was her sarcastic reply, "The 'Fuzz Factor' is a human beings innate love for all things fuzzy and cute used to combat mental illness or depression, kinda like a service animal for a blind person, only more fuzzy and with less responsibilities save for just being there and being loved upon."
It clicked in my head like the hammer of a gun, ready to fire and finally accomplish SOMETHING towards feeling better, something about being less of a mopey bastard and more of a whole human being. The Fuzz Factor, it made sense in the simplest of ways, I had always shown affection towards animals, especially cats, and I was now in a unique position to both own and provide for one. I had the new apartment, the restrictions on my finances were being loosened and readied for me to handle my own money, and I desperately needed both the company and the affection.
AND I already had a named picked out...
I would call this little ball of fuzz that I would take in, care for, and ultimately befriend MOJO.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
The Day of a Thousand Nights: Part Two: Anyway you want it, thats the way I need it...
Getting to fashion square mall is a two part journey, one short and one that seems to stretch on for hours. The same way they differ in elapsed time they differ in the company you will keep. The bus from my squat three to four story apartments to the transit station at the downtown mall is mercifully empty on most occasions. You sit as you we're MEANT to sit, free from the uncomfortably close confines of strangers. The bus FROM the downtown transit station to the eventual destination, however, is crowded and loud and oftentimes ripe with the odor of a good two dozen agitated and car-less passengers.
The seating arrangement is just about the same on every bus, but if you're lucky you'll be on one with a scrolling sign that reads the date and time. These things are important when judging the time elapsed and good for estimating your time of arrival. Another perk of the slightly fancier buses is a protruding rectangular button on the posts the gleams red like rose petals preserved in acrylic. The button reads STOP and it saves you the slight trouble of having to crane your body around to reach and get a good hold on the many plastic coated wire pull chords the lumbering beasts of public transit offer.
The short ride bus, this day, was the fancier one... The long ride, however, was not...
Getting on as soon as it arrived, regardless of there tendency to wait until the official arrival time to play catch up with there schedules, the bus was still empty. As I walked through the folding glass doors I grasped the handholds but before pulling myself up took one final glance at the yellow score board like bus sign along the bus's side. It, of course, read "7:FASHION SQUARE", just as it had when I saw the bus approach. A tiny inkling of paranoia in me always fears getting on the wrong bus, so it behooves me to double check the sign (first brooding signs of OCD, perhaps?).
Once inside I lifted my Transit Card into view of the stoic and apathetic driver, who gave it no more than a sideways look before gesturing me onward. I took a seat dead center of the bus, just at the end of the front row, just before the "step up" that lead to the rear seats. I take this seat more often than not because it affords certain advantages over the others. For one: you always have a clear view of the upcoming stops, something the seats to the front and right doesn't provide due to being oriented directly behind the driver.
I took my seat and waited for the rest of the passengers to pile in. The bus was half full by the time the driver pulled out of the station, and as we drove parallel to the downtown mall we picked up more and more people at every stop along the way. Halfway between the the downtown mall and the corner the bus was a picture perfect example of the melting pot in action. Every minority present in Charlottesville was in attendance here, most speaking in there native tongues which turned the normal expected chatter into a veritable din of unfamiliar sounds from every range of language spectrum. If you listened closely you could discern the individual forms of speech. To my front: The subtle tweeting of the Indian couple, to my right the smooth enunciation of the Mexicans who sat across. Behind me I could barely make out deep African tones, and deeper still what had to be an Asiatic chattering. The sounds alone weren't unpleasant, but I still felt oddly out of place there.
And so I fell back on the number one fail-safe of awkward social situations: I pulled out my cellphone at tinkered with it intently, refusing to even acknowledge my surroundings. First order of business was to check the time and see if I had any messages, missed calls, texts, ect... Next was to send what I hoped would be a witty text to my friend Colleen. It read "Do you think Pirates are considered a minority?". I hoped, but didn't really expect, for a quick response. And last but certainly not least, I just sat there holding it absent mindedly going through the menus attempting to acquire an air of business, a "can't talk, on the cell phone" sort of look. High tech fidgeting at its finest, and to think, people used to twiddle their thumbs and bite there nails. When I had exhausted the admittedly poor reserves of the phone, I relinquished it to my pocket and stared out the window.
There is a certain mindset one must reach to successfully navigate public transportation unscathed, a sort of zen space where time slows and skips and thoughts bellow and bloom and obscure your surroundings with oh so distracting daydreams. Keep in mind, this has its own inherit danger. There is the risk of missing your stop altogether, but thankfully I always seem to "come to" at the exact moment I reach my destination. Its like seeing things in your peripheral vision, you see them, you REACT to them, but they aren't in focus and thus: unimportant as a whole until you need them to be. As such, just as I was pulling into the Fashion Square parking lot, reality jerked back into the forefront, and in an instant I could no longer even remember what stray thoughts I had been absorbed with moments before, and believe me, my mind LOVES to pick up strays. As the bus circled the parking lot I got a phone call on my cell, it was Gabe's mom....
"Hello?"
"Hi, its Zak?" I asked in the form of a question, JEOPARDY!
"Oh! Hi, yes, have you gotten there yet?"
"Just pulling into the parking lot, will be at the stop in a sec."
"Ok, is Gabe there?" She inquired, and internally I pondered 'where the hell else would he be, mad woman?'
"Ummm I don't know, but he SHOULD be."
"Ok, well have him give me a call when you run into him." As if this wasn't planned out from the get go.
"Sure thing, will do. Bye."
"Ok, bye..." She said with a chuckle...
Overbearing mother may win this round yet...
The seating arrangement is just about the same on every bus, but if you're lucky you'll be on one with a scrolling sign that reads the date and time. These things are important when judging the time elapsed and good for estimating your time of arrival. Another perk of the slightly fancier buses is a protruding rectangular button on the posts the gleams red like rose petals preserved in acrylic. The button reads STOP and it saves you the slight trouble of having to crane your body around to reach and get a good hold on the many plastic coated wire pull chords the lumbering beasts of public transit offer.
The short ride bus, this day, was the fancier one... The long ride, however, was not...
Getting on as soon as it arrived, regardless of there tendency to wait until the official arrival time to play catch up with there schedules, the bus was still empty. As I walked through the folding glass doors I grasped the handholds but before pulling myself up took one final glance at the yellow score board like bus sign along the bus's side. It, of course, read "7:FASHION SQUARE", just as it had when I saw the bus approach. A tiny inkling of paranoia in me always fears getting on the wrong bus, so it behooves me to double check the sign (first brooding signs of OCD, perhaps?).
Once inside I lifted my Transit Card into view of the stoic and apathetic driver, who gave it no more than a sideways look before gesturing me onward. I took a seat dead center of the bus, just at the end of the front row, just before the "step up" that lead to the rear seats. I take this seat more often than not because it affords certain advantages over the others. For one: you always have a clear view of the upcoming stops, something the seats to the front and right doesn't provide due to being oriented directly behind the driver.
I took my seat and waited for the rest of the passengers to pile in. The bus was half full by the time the driver pulled out of the station, and as we drove parallel to the downtown mall we picked up more and more people at every stop along the way. Halfway between the the downtown mall and the corner the bus was a picture perfect example of the melting pot in action. Every minority present in Charlottesville was in attendance here, most speaking in there native tongues which turned the normal expected chatter into a veritable din of unfamiliar sounds from every range of language spectrum. If you listened closely you could discern the individual forms of speech. To my front: The subtle tweeting of the Indian couple, to my right the smooth enunciation of the Mexicans who sat across. Behind me I could barely make out deep African tones, and deeper still what had to be an Asiatic chattering. The sounds alone weren't unpleasant, but I still felt oddly out of place there.
And so I fell back on the number one fail-safe of awkward social situations: I pulled out my cellphone at tinkered with it intently, refusing to even acknowledge my surroundings. First order of business was to check the time and see if I had any messages, missed calls, texts, ect... Next was to send what I hoped would be a witty text to my friend Colleen. It read "Do you think Pirates are considered a minority?". I hoped, but didn't really expect, for a quick response. And last but certainly not least, I just sat there holding it absent mindedly going through the menus attempting to acquire an air of business, a "can't talk, on the cell phone" sort of look. High tech fidgeting at its finest, and to think, people used to twiddle their thumbs and bite there nails. When I had exhausted the admittedly poor reserves of the phone, I relinquished it to my pocket and stared out the window.
There is a certain mindset one must reach to successfully navigate public transportation unscathed, a sort of zen space where time slows and skips and thoughts bellow and bloom and obscure your surroundings with oh so distracting daydreams. Keep in mind, this has its own inherit danger. There is the risk of missing your stop altogether, but thankfully I always seem to "come to" at the exact moment I reach my destination. Its like seeing things in your peripheral vision, you see them, you REACT to them, but they aren't in focus and thus: unimportant as a whole until you need them to be. As such, just as I was pulling into the Fashion Square parking lot, reality jerked back into the forefront, and in an instant I could no longer even remember what stray thoughts I had been absorbed with moments before, and believe me, my mind LOVES to pick up strays. As the bus circled the parking lot I got a phone call on my cell, it was Gabe's mom....
"Hello?"
"Hi, its Zak?" I asked in the form of a question, JEOPARDY!
"Oh! Hi, yes, have you gotten there yet?"
"Just pulling into the parking lot, will be at the stop in a sec."
"Ok, is Gabe there?" She inquired, and internally I pondered 'where the hell else would he be, mad woman?'
"Ummm I don't know, but he SHOULD be."
"Ok, well have him give me a call when you run into him." As if this wasn't planned out from the get go.
"Sure thing, will do. Bye."
"Ok, bye..." She said with a chuckle...
Overbearing mother may win this round yet...
The Day of a Thousand Nights: Part One: A Truly Modest (yet somehow troublesome) Proposal
Thinking back at the beginning the day started out like many I've been through before it, at one thirty in the afternoon...
I awoke several times before finally giving up the ghost and downing a cup of delicious coffee, thoroughly inundated with powdered french vanilla creamer and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. I spent many a morning in the years past sucking down black espresso, which has the taste of liquid burnt ass, and have promised myself never to look back. The coffee I drink, I sip, I ENJOY. Its purpose is not just to pump my veins full of caffeine but as an integral part of my waking ritual. I sip, I smoke a cigarette, I sip some more, I ease into the mid day like most people ease into a favorite pair of highly comfortable gloves, as to say: slowly and enjoying every minute of it.
Then, without warning, the loneliness struck. I picked up the phone and called my mother: busy... I called the few friends that I have: busy, preoccupied, available but very far away. Nothing left to do but set out on my own, it was close to the first of the month and I still had and ample supply of greasy bills and there far less greasy digital counterparts in my bank account, and they burned in my pockets like hot coals on the soles of a witches feet during the inquisition.
I made it as far as the mail box before the first impulse to turn back struck, the heat in the hallway was stifling and I argued internally that I was wearing leather pants, not proper attire for ninety degree weather (I further visualized my social worker jotting down notes, something along the lines of "inappropriately dressed for the weather"), and I decided to instead check the mail.
Inside was a flat square envelope inscribed with the words "gamefly" (think netflix but for video games, REALLY think "superfly: now with more game for every playa"). I knew at once exactly what game it was, kingdoms of amalur: the reckoning, or, as I had been calling it: kingdoms of anal-whore: I reckon. It was GABE'S game, one that I had ordered at his behest purely to cease his constant reminders and gentle nagging that I had "promised". Every time he used that word I pictured him as an overly large toddler so caught up in the concept of a promise that he felt that if one were to be broken it would forever break not only his trust, but his very spirit.
I grudgingly walked to the bustop, the game still in my mailbox. Pulling my cellphone from my leather lined pocked I dailed gabe's number.
"Hello?" an aging woman's voice answered after a few rings...
"HI, yeah its Zak again, can I speak to gabe?"
"Yeah, hold on a second, I have to YELL" Was her answer, and yell she did, in the unmistakable blow-horn tone of a mother to her son, albeit normally this would be reserved for a MUCH younger son... Gabe, as it was, is 35...
"GAAAAAAABBBBBEEEE! TELEPHONE!"
I couldn't help but to snicker, and though she heard me she didn't comment on the matter. Distantly through the tiny receiver I heard my friend in the background asking who it was, as if anyone else ever called him. Soon the phone on the other end jostled and changed hands.
"Hey, you just called a minute ago?" Responded that very same friend.
"Yeah, guess what SHOWED UP TODAY!??!?" I said sing-songedly into the cell-phone.
"What?"
"KINGDOMS OF AMALUR! You want to come over? I'll pick you up at fashion square!"
"I don't know, let me ask my mom..." Was his response, but I KNEW he was ready to shit his big-boy pants with excitement over his precious game finally arriving.
Through the phone, an epic but all too frequently occurring battle took place, a battle between man-child and overbearing mother. I could feel the sting of her incessant nagging just as readily as I could the dull hurt of his uncaring and thoughtless "whatever"s. Finally the battle was won, and Gabe, Jester of his own private domestic kingdom, stood triumphant.
"Yeah, I'll meet you at fashion square, bring change for me to ride the bus..."
He then hung up shortly after my curt response of "awesome" which was spoken in a stutter of stifled boyish giggles.
And thus, the day was set, that day, YESTER-day, and the night that followed would be glorious indeed...
I awoke several times before finally giving up the ghost and downing a cup of delicious coffee, thoroughly inundated with powdered french vanilla creamer and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. I spent many a morning in the years past sucking down black espresso, which has the taste of liquid burnt ass, and have promised myself never to look back. The coffee I drink, I sip, I ENJOY. Its purpose is not just to pump my veins full of caffeine but as an integral part of my waking ritual. I sip, I smoke a cigarette, I sip some more, I ease into the mid day like most people ease into a favorite pair of highly comfortable gloves, as to say: slowly and enjoying every minute of it.
Then, without warning, the loneliness struck. I picked up the phone and called my mother: busy... I called the few friends that I have: busy, preoccupied, available but very far away. Nothing left to do but set out on my own, it was close to the first of the month and I still had and ample supply of greasy bills and there far less greasy digital counterparts in my bank account, and they burned in my pockets like hot coals on the soles of a witches feet during the inquisition.
I made it as far as the mail box before the first impulse to turn back struck, the heat in the hallway was stifling and I argued internally that I was wearing leather pants, not proper attire for ninety degree weather (I further visualized my social worker jotting down notes, something along the lines of "inappropriately dressed for the weather"), and I decided to instead check the mail.
Inside was a flat square envelope inscribed with the words "gamefly" (think netflix but for video games, REALLY think "superfly: now with more game for every playa"). I knew at once exactly what game it was, kingdoms of amalur: the reckoning, or, as I had been calling it: kingdoms of anal-whore: I reckon. It was GABE'S game, one that I had ordered at his behest purely to cease his constant reminders and gentle nagging that I had "promised". Every time he used that word I pictured him as an overly large toddler so caught up in the concept of a promise that he felt that if one were to be broken it would forever break not only his trust, but his very spirit.
I grudgingly walked to the bustop, the game still in my mailbox. Pulling my cellphone from my leather lined pocked I dailed gabe's number.
"Hello?" an aging woman's voice answered after a few rings...
"HI, yeah its Zak again, can I speak to gabe?"
"Yeah, hold on a second, I have to YELL" Was her answer, and yell she did, in the unmistakable blow-horn tone of a mother to her son, albeit normally this would be reserved for a MUCH younger son... Gabe, as it was, is 35...
"GAAAAAAABBBBBEEEE! TELEPHONE!"
I couldn't help but to snicker, and though she heard me she didn't comment on the matter. Distantly through the tiny receiver I heard my friend in the background asking who it was, as if anyone else ever called him. Soon the phone on the other end jostled and changed hands.
"Hey, you just called a minute ago?" Responded that very same friend.
"Yeah, guess what SHOWED UP TODAY!??!?" I said sing-songedly into the cell-phone.
"What?"
"KINGDOMS OF AMALUR! You want to come over? I'll pick you up at fashion square!"
"I don't know, let me ask my mom..." Was his response, but I KNEW he was ready to shit his big-boy pants with excitement over his precious game finally arriving.
Through the phone, an epic but all too frequently occurring battle took place, a battle between man-child and overbearing mother. I could feel the sting of her incessant nagging just as readily as I could the dull hurt of his uncaring and thoughtless "whatever"s. Finally the battle was won, and Gabe, Jester of his own private domestic kingdom, stood triumphant.
"Yeah, I'll meet you at fashion square, bring change for me to ride the bus..."
He then hung up shortly after my curt response of "awesome" which was spoken in a stutter of stifled boyish giggles.
And thus, the day was set, that day, YESTER-day, and the night that followed would be glorious indeed...
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Don't Open Untill Autumn
I set my mind
to ten o-clock sharp
as the knife I used
to know the way forward
word play in mind my mouth
echoes fingers typing keys
that click and render me feeling-less
numb to the touch of my
former insecurities
this time I tried
and pushed to the ends of me
in defense of me I lied
when I said I was ready
my intellect denied
by multiple choice entropy
a skill I kept sacred
secret no longer frequent
are the tapping of keys
in late night sequence
sequins like quills in a former life
pronounced quite different
pro-choice without hype
and is this business just
risk-less inference
of line to line to rhyme to
left behind
I shine when I weaken
I bleed in morse code
dot-dot-dash
my reasons inclosed
to ten o-clock sharp
as the knife I used
to know the way forward
word play in mind my mouth
echoes fingers typing keys
that click and render me feeling-less
numb to the touch of my
former insecurities
this time I tried
and pushed to the ends of me
in defense of me I lied
when I said I was ready
my intellect denied
by multiple choice entropy
a skill I kept sacred
secret no longer frequent
are the tapping of keys
in late night sequence
sequins like quills in a former life
pronounced quite different
pro-choice without hype
and is this business just
risk-less inference
of line to line to rhyme to
left behind
I shine when I weaken
I bleed in morse code
dot-dot-dash
my reasons inclosed
Monday, April 23, 2012
Binks: Free Promotion: DAY ONE UPDATE!
According to the report manager on KDP (kindle direct publishing) I have sold 78 copies of Binks TODAY ALONE! This promotion is going better than I could have ever dreamed, the sheer number of new readers is overwhelming and I am filled to the brim with excitement! I have the page open and every so often the number listed under "Free-Units-Promo" will go up by one, and its a party every time. The idea is that after this three day promotional period the free copies downloaded will translate into actual sales in the future. The same way that people like Ethan's mom found out about it, good old fashioned word of mouth, will allow the fanbase of Binks to blossom and become a glorious following.
It's actually and finally getting out there in the way I had always dreamed but never dared to hope for, BINKS is being read right now by more people than in the entirety of its short yet arduous life combined. I had things to say, a story to tell, and a REASON to tell it. The silenced male voice of abuse victims has always been what this was about, for every boy or young man too ashamed or confused or hurt to speak out about whats happened to him.
This is my heart laid bare, every joyful moment and terrible incident spelled out in perfect detail with NO shame and NO bias. I think now also of the stigma involved with having a mental illness, of how society views us as either forest gump stupid or hannibal lector dangerous. My journey detailed within those pages, both digital and print format, SHOULD show the humanity behind those with psychosis. I hope I did my life justice, but I KNOW that I wrote with perfect honesty and clarity of the things I've been through, and that should be enough.
So here's to you, lost souls of the world, to all the botched and the damned.
And here's to ME, for having the balls to write the damned thing in the first place.
Here's to my family, for there love and support.
And too my close friends, some who might actually read this, you know who you are and I couldn't have done it without you.
THANKS EVERYBODY! I'll let you know how it turns out :)
It's actually and finally getting out there in the way I had always dreamed but never dared to hope for, BINKS is being read right now by more people than in the entirety of its short yet arduous life combined. I had things to say, a story to tell, and a REASON to tell it. The silenced male voice of abuse victims has always been what this was about, for every boy or young man too ashamed or confused or hurt to speak out about whats happened to him.
This is my heart laid bare, every joyful moment and terrible incident spelled out in perfect detail with NO shame and NO bias. I think now also of the stigma involved with having a mental illness, of how society views us as either forest gump stupid or hannibal lector dangerous. My journey detailed within those pages, both digital and print format, SHOULD show the humanity behind those with psychosis. I hope I did my life justice, but I KNOW that I wrote with perfect honesty and clarity of the things I've been through, and that should be enough.
So here's to you, lost souls of the world, to all the botched and the damned.
And here's to ME, for having the balls to write the damned thing in the first place.
Here's to my family, for there love and support.
And too my close friends, some who might actually read this, you know who you are and I couldn't have done it without you.
THANKS EVERYBODY! I'll let you know how it turns out :)
BINKS Free Promotion!
As a special promotion for my memoir, Binks: The Bizarre Account of Zachary Peter Jarrett, I will be offering the kindle version for FREE from now until midnight April 25th! The book is available through amazon.com's Kindle Direct Publishing program at:
www.amazon.com/Binks-Bizarre-Account-Zachary-ebook/dp/B005J85MME/
Now is a great time to sample what I consider to be my greatest work, so anyone that actually reads this blog should definitely take a moment to download Binks!
ALSO, as you may or may not know, I have been maintaining a facebook page pertaining to my book giving updates and tidbits of info on the progress of the project, if you read and enjoy Binks be sure to "Like" it at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Binks-The-Bizarre-Account-of-Zachary-Peter-Jarrett/240574335986280
As always thank you anyone who has stumbled across my little corner of the web, though I doubt you'll stay long I hope you enjoy the moment you do!
www.amazon.com/Binks-Bizarre-Account-Zachary-ebook/dp/B005J85MME/
Now is a great time to sample what I consider to be my greatest work, so anyone that actually reads this blog should definitely take a moment to download Binks!
ALSO, as you may or may not know, I have been maintaining a facebook page pertaining to my book giving updates and tidbits of info on the progress of the project, if you read and enjoy Binks be sure to "Like" it at:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Binks-The-Bizarre-Account-of-Zachary-Peter-Jarrett/240574335986280
As always thank you anyone who has stumbled across my little corner of the web, though I doubt you'll stay long I hope you enjoy the moment you do!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Looking forward to remembering School
Starting May 21st I begin taking online classes through pvcc! They will be as follows: Psyche 101 and Information Literacy. I feel apprehension about this, anxiety falls over my brow like a cowl and I can't help but think that this will be like highschool all over again. BUT on the other hand, I'm excited... the nervousness only makes the excitement more palpable, it has a flavor...
What will happen to me? At first I'll be doing the majority of my studies online, but will have to take tests and whatnot in house in the PVCC testing area, which having taken my placement tests there I am familiar with. My summer will be a refresher course in studying and school work, in getting into the groove of college without actually taking too much of a risk. In the fall I plan to take the refresher course in English that I'm required to enroll in due to my abysmally pathetic score on the writing portion of the placement tests. THAT will be my first in house course, though I may take a second alongside it, as I doubt it will give me much trouble.
I keep trying to ignore my mothers persistent reminders of my learning disability, she insists that I tell them of it and my IEP so that I can get the help I need to succeed in college. I don't FEEL like I have a learning disability, I FEEL like writing is my one true strength and to think otherwise will only bring me down....
In other news I've received word that my book is being read by a few individuals locally, the parent of and old friend, a stranger I've never met... it all seems so surreal. I don't know these people, well most of them at least, and yet somehow they've found my words and my work and enjoyed them. MY life on paper, that's what that 301 page beast is to me, and they are READING IT!
I finally wrote Ethan back, I told him I'd meet with him to discuss the writing and publication process, though the way he worded his email it seems he thinks I actually had some clue as to what I was doing... I hope I don't disappoint him. Old friends... I never really knew them, at least not the way they knew each other, but they meant something to me just taking the time to talk to me as I wandered the halls of Murray high school like a black clad ghost in a penny dreadful. I wonder if they realize that they were the only reason I kept coming to school at all instead of dropping out. Just for a few words, a laugh or two, a clever reference to a mutual interest... its all I needed to break the isolation, just for a moment, and feel like an actual human being instead of just... a shadow.
What will happen to me? At first I'll be doing the majority of my studies online, but will have to take tests and whatnot in house in the PVCC testing area, which having taken my placement tests there I am familiar with. My summer will be a refresher course in studying and school work, in getting into the groove of college without actually taking too much of a risk. In the fall I plan to take the refresher course in English that I'm required to enroll in due to my abysmally pathetic score on the writing portion of the placement tests. THAT will be my first in house course, though I may take a second alongside it, as I doubt it will give me much trouble.
I keep trying to ignore my mothers persistent reminders of my learning disability, she insists that I tell them of it and my IEP so that I can get the help I need to succeed in college. I don't FEEL like I have a learning disability, I FEEL like writing is my one true strength and to think otherwise will only bring me down....
In other news I've received word that my book is being read by a few individuals locally, the parent of and old friend, a stranger I've never met... it all seems so surreal. I don't know these people, well most of them at least, and yet somehow they've found my words and my work and enjoyed them. MY life on paper, that's what that 301 page beast is to me, and they are READING IT!
I finally wrote Ethan back, I told him I'd meet with him to discuss the writing and publication process, though the way he worded his email it seems he thinks I actually had some clue as to what I was doing... I hope I don't disappoint him. Old friends... I never really knew them, at least not the way they knew each other, but they meant something to me just taking the time to talk to me as I wandered the halls of Murray high school like a black clad ghost in a penny dreadful. I wonder if they realize that they were the only reason I kept coming to school at all instead of dropping out. Just for a few words, a laugh or two, a clever reference to a mutual interest... its all I needed to break the isolation, just for a moment, and feel like an actual human being instead of just... a shadow.
Monday, April 16, 2012
God Complex, Part: Two: The Council and The Fall
Ahead of them on on a high podium sat the councils leader, sitting defiant of his form and revered by all before him. A penguin crafted of faux fur and likely stuffed with plastic beads and polyester filling. On his brow, a crown of exotic feathers so elaborate and vibrant as to put to shame the headpieces of all else present, around his neck a number so large as to defy reason and the very physics of the small laminated card it was writ upon.
When He spoke his words came out in the high squeaky voice of a muppet...
"HEY, guys! This is a VERY important day for all of us, JUST LIKE YESTERDAY!"
The murmurs of the crowd hushed as he plainly intoned.
"Here and now, then and always! HA HA HA!" Was the crowds unanimous response.
The old man jammed his elbow into my side and leaned in for a hushed whisper...
"Don't let there appearances fool you, they take this form as to not shatter the minds of any mortals present, each is a fierce, and oftentimes unimaginably horrid, God of the Realms..."
The head of the council went on to speak of matters that I could not follow, more or less understand, often lapsing into various languages that were alien to me, but still spoken in the ridiculous accent that was a cross between kermit the frog and big bird. The old man, taking advantage of the focus on the head of the council, reached out with his foot and nudged one of the clay figures off of the shelf, and as it struck the ground it imploded into a small and nearly silent display of purple-yellow light.
He took this moment to stand before the council, and speak. His words came out in harsh guttural tones completely different from that of the muppet king, but the meaning of them were lost to me behind the barrier of language. I could only hope it was going well.
Curious of the nature of his actions, I peered over the objects on the shelf before me. One appeared to be a plastic replica of a futuristic weapon of some sort, no more than a toy. I reached out my foot and nudged it off the shelf, and it fell with the same affect as the previous. The old man gave me a subtle smirk and winked at me, though I knew not what he meant by it.
This went on like this for some time, I caught only brief segments of the preceding, of the old mans insistence that I live, and various others arguing for either my demise, or for no action to be taken at all.
"HERE AND NOW, THEN AND ALWAYS!" The crowd spoke in unison, it appears the session had come to a close.
The old man rose from his seat and took a small bow before exiting the room, me following close behind. We walked in hushed silence towards the elevator and when we reached it, he glanced over at me and appeared to remember that I was there at all.
"OH! Perhaps I should tell you, you've been given a second chance, as I had hoped..." He said with a smile, "But it wont be easy, you are to be dropped from the wall of the acropolis at sunrise, and must fall through time and place to your destination, the moment and location of your passing... with some MINOR alterations of course." That last sentence was hushed and followed by him clearing his throat...
"How... how did I die?" I asked hesitantly...
"OH! No small matter, a twist of fate landed an insurgent suicide bomber out of place and time at the Virginia renaissance Faire, and at the VERY booth you then occupied. It seems he was very disturbed by the whole matter, confused as well, and set off his explosive device the moment he saw your boots..."
I then wished I hadn't asked...
"I need you to punch in the code for the acropolis please," He asked as if it were no small feat.
I starred at the ever shifting keys of the elevator and as I lifted my hand it gravitated towards several buttons of its own volition. We entered through the door and began the long trek upward through time.
Back at the acropolis, surrounded by the ancient stone pillars and rough cut ruins he took me to the edge and placed his hand on my shoulder.
"You know, you could stay... I could use someone like you on my staff." He asked hopefully.
"I don't know, I think I'd rather just go home."
"Very well then, but remember, as you fall you fall not just through space, but through time as well. The sensations will be very disturbing, but do not fear. I've created a platform of sorts minutes before your demise for you to "land" on, and you SHOULD survive the fall."
It was the word 'should' that had me worried... but I didn't have chance to object, as his hand on my shoulder then shoved me over the edge and into madness.
Falling through the clouds that rung the stone edifice was one thing, I had never been skydiving but I'm sure that this was not much different,but one through them it were as if I were plunging down passed an elaborate and ever changing skyscraper crafted of neon light. All around me the world reconstructed and deconstructed and while it would at one moment seem i were falling, at another seem I were being lifted or thrown across space. bellow me a prismatic shimmer grew close, then further away, then closer still and it seemed often that I would miss it all-together, until in a rush I collided with the moment in time I had left. Time rushed to catch up with me and I could see myself reforming from decayed matter and progressively aging backwards to the moment I had left, and as it reached it I fell to the ground as if struck by my future selves.
I got up off of the dirt and saw a familiar sight, the vendors tent I had been in when this all started, only the rack of boots was conspicuously missing, and instead of the swarthy looking man stood a common bar wench who approached me.
"Are you al'right me'lord?" She said, ever in character, thanks gods for the staff of the ren faire, ever dutiful.
"Yeah, I think I will be..."
THE END!
When He spoke his words came out in the high squeaky voice of a muppet...
"HEY, guys! This is a VERY important day for all of us, JUST LIKE YESTERDAY!"
The murmurs of the crowd hushed as he plainly intoned.
"Here and now, then and always! HA HA HA!" Was the crowds unanimous response.
The old man jammed his elbow into my side and leaned in for a hushed whisper...
"Don't let there appearances fool you, they take this form as to not shatter the minds of any mortals present, each is a fierce, and oftentimes unimaginably horrid, God of the Realms..."
The head of the council went on to speak of matters that I could not follow, more or less understand, often lapsing into various languages that were alien to me, but still spoken in the ridiculous accent that was a cross between kermit the frog and big bird. The old man, taking advantage of the focus on the head of the council, reached out with his foot and nudged one of the clay figures off of the shelf, and as it struck the ground it imploded into a small and nearly silent display of purple-yellow light.
He took this moment to stand before the council, and speak. His words came out in harsh guttural tones completely different from that of the muppet king, but the meaning of them were lost to me behind the barrier of language. I could only hope it was going well.
Curious of the nature of his actions, I peered over the objects on the shelf before me. One appeared to be a plastic replica of a futuristic weapon of some sort, no more than a toy. I reached out my foot and nudged it off the shelf, and it fell with the same affect as the previous. The old man gave me a subtle smirk and winked at me, though I knew not what he meant by it.
This went on like this for some time, I caught only brief segments of the preceding, of the old mans insistence that I live, and various others arguing for either my demise, or for no action to be taken at all.
"HERE AND NOW, THEN AND ALWAYS!" The crowd spoke in unison, it appears the session had come to a close.
The old man rose from his seat and took a small bow before exiting the room, me following close behind. We walked in hushed silence towards the elevator and when we reached it, he glanced over at me and appeared to remember that I was there at all.
"OH! Perhaps I should tell you, you've been given a second chance, as I had hoped..." He said with a smile, "But it wont be easy, you are to be dropped from the wall of the acropolis at sunrise, and must fall through time and place to your destination, the moment and location of your passing... with some MINOR alterations of course." That last sentence was hushed and followed by him clearing his throat...
"How... how did I die?" I asked hesitantly...
"OH! No small matter, a twist of fate landed an insurgent suicide bomber out of place and time at the Virginia renaissance Faire, and at the VERY booth you then occupied. It seems he was very disturbed by the whole matter, confused as well, and set off his explosive device the moment he saw your boots..."
I then wished I hadn't asked...
"I need you to punch in the code for the acropolis please," He asked as if it were no small feat.
I starred at the ever shifting keys of the elevator and as I lifted my hand it gravitated towards several buttons of its own volition. We entered through the door and began the long trek upward through time.
Back at the acropolis, surrounded by the ancient stone pillars and rough cut ruins he took me to the edge and placed his hand on my shoulder.
"You know, you could stay... I could use someone like you on my staff." He asked hopefully.
"I don't know, I think I'd rather just go home."
"Very well then, but remember, as you fall you fall not just through space, but through time as well. The sensations will be very disturbing, but do not fear. I've created a platform of sorts minutes before your demise for you to "land" on, and you SHOULD survive the fall."
It was the word 'should' that had me worried... but I didn't have chance to object, as his hand on my shoulder then shoved me over the edge and into madness.
Falling through the clouds that rung the stone edifice was one thing, I had never been skydiving but I'm sure that this was not much different,but one through them it were as if I were plunging down passed an elaborate and ever changing skyscraper crafted of neon light. All around me the world reconstructed and deconstructed and while it would at one moment seem i were falling, at another seem I were being lifted or thrown across space. bellow me a prismatic shimmer grew close, then further away, then closer still and it seemed often that I would miss it all-together, until in a rush I collided with the moment in time I had left. Time rushed to catch up with me and I could see myself reforming from decayed matter and progressively aging backwards to the moment I had left, and as it reached it I fell to the ground as if struck by my future selves.
I got up off of the dirt and saw a familiar sight, the vendors tent I had been in when this all started, only the rack of boots was conspicuously missing, and instead of the swarthy looking man stood a common bar wench who approached me.
"Are you al'right me'lord?" She said, ever in character, thanks gods for the staff of the ren faire, ever dutiful.
"Yeah, I think I will be..."
THE END!
Thursday, April 12, 2012
God Complex, Part: One
The air was crisp a clean, a perfect spring day, a mixture of heat a cool so sublime that it tickled the senses and made you want to inhale the air through your nose with every breath. I say was, perhaps IS, maybe never... My mother, sister, and I stood in an open field surrounded by a bustling medieval marketplace, but its all a facade, just over the hill sat a parking lot filled with suvs and hybrids and clunkers alike. We stood at the cusp of time, between what once was and what would be.
Allison fiddled with her garb, trying to get the complex series of chords and eyelets to hold and hold comfortably, my mother simply took it all in, and me? I was ready to browse. I took off on my own then, looking for a vendors tent by the name of "A simple Peddler" where the online merchants list promised a variety of medieval and renaissance goods ranging from swords and weaponry, to leather mugs and straps.
I came upon a hill and asked one of the friendly, always in character staff if anything was going on behind it, if there was more to see and do. He told me no, but I ventured forward anyway. Above the hill stood a pavilion peopled by the staff of the Virginia renaissance faire, discussing the ins and outs of the days events. I didn't stay long, still eager to find the prizes I sought.
Further beyond stood the tent I awaited, lined with garb and jewelry and various nick-nacks of the lives of those in the yester-years. I spoke with the woman running the tent as she arranged various items of clothing on a circular wrack.
"What size are you?" She inquired, but enthralled as I was I hardly heard her.
"Huh?"
"What shoe size hunny, we carry a variety of boots and footwear." Was her curt response to my confusion.
"Oh, size eight..."
She then quickly shuffled through the wrack, pointing out which boots she had in my size, and which she did not. It was all very commonplace, nothing out of the ordinary for that day, for ren faire day. Our conversation went on like that, her showing me her wares and me, beginning to ponder if I had withdrew enough money for that days festivities, until an odd man approached where we stood. He had the look of a gypsy and the eye of a comical villain, dreams are so literal sometimes. I dropped the large chunk of segmented amethyst I was holding at the time and a portion of the puzzle fell behind the shelve it had been sitting on. As me and the shop-keep struggled to move the shelf to get at the interlocking piece behind, a flash of white light overtook me and my surroundings were suddenly and incredibly changed.
Before me and miles bellow me stood a rising acropolis, pillars of stone in rings where each circle rose higher than the last, and on top of all of them sat entire cities crafted of living rock. I soared through the air, arching down and around this scene as rain filled the air around me and water poured from every crevasse of this impossible structure. At its apex stood a pump-house, with an old but strong man furiously primed a hose in an attempt to spray clean the surface of the buildings around him. He was bald on top with an almost anachronistically large beard hanging pendulous from his chin.
I "landed" near him, and without a word began to aid him in priming the pump as he set awash the stone structure with niagra falls levels of torrents of water. Suddenly the pump locked in place, and as it did so the rain that fell before ceased. The old man dropped the hose he held and leaned against a stone pillar, seemingly exhausted.
"Where am I, is the usual question..." The old man said to me then.
"I'm either dead or dreaming..." Was my quick response.
He looked at me then, bushy grey eyebrows arched noticeably.
"Smart man, come with me."
As we walked down a series of staircases and across rough cut stone walkways he explained to me my plight, which it seemed we shared.
"You've died prematurely..." He said to me,without hesitation. "and this is a problem for me, because great men are had to come by."
I merely listened...
"The thread of your fate was cut short, and thus those of all you WOULD have affected or altered altogether. Without this, my design is all but ruined."
The word "design" had me intrigued, while I had always hoped for a grander scheme to things, lingering thoughts of chaos plagued me.
"I have to take you before the Council of Gods, and argue for your continued existence, give them reason to believe you are integral to all our survival. It won't be easy, more than half of them have fewer followers than I, and they would LOVE to see my schemes fail."
He spoke of such this with a conniving simplicity that it betrayed years of belief in me, he was just as much a man as any man, and less a god than a great manipulator, a politician working the pantheons of mans deities.
He took me to a grand elevator, reminiscent of one standing the the lobby of an archaic office building or hotel, only the numbers on the lit panel shifted position and changed from numbers to letters to symbols I could not discern. He quickly punched in several of the ever moving digits and a loud hollow ding issued forth from the smooth reflective doors. The grinding of machinery could be heard from behind and the doors slid open, he then quickly pulled me in just before they slammed shut behind us. The girl from eponena played out in monotone musak tunes from all around us as we were lowered through the bowels of creation. All around our secure confine unknown sounds boomed and crashed and rumbled as a sense of displacement took hold of me, a feeling of being in several places at ones but no-where at all. The unsettling sensation passed and the doors again slid open, and out I was pulled the doors again shutting far too fast behind us.
The lobby we entered was different in every sense from the stone pillars and ancient edifices we had left behind, I found myself in what for all intensive purposes was any hotel lobby in America. As we quickly walked a long I noticed a black sign with individual letters clicked into a perforated background, it read:
"Council of Gods!
In session: Today and always.
What was, what could be,
and what will be,
sometimes, ARE!"
Outside a large doubled doored entry way sat a folding table with several feathered hats placed upon it, each with varying numbers and colors of feathers. The old man took a hat with several earth tone feathers of impressive size, and gave to me a leather strap with a single feather rising from its center. He tied the head piece onto his brow and I did the same, never questioning the validity and reality of the situation I had found myself in. As well as doing this, he pulled a laminated card out of his robes, that contained a rather large series of numbers prominently displayed on it and hung it from his neck.
We entered through the doorway into a large chamber lined with wooden bleaches, and in each chair sat a plush penguin, all of them wearing a feather headdress, all of them with a number card like the old mans hanging from there necks. We sat at the far end of the chamber near several large racks containing an odd assortment of random things, from old action figures, to discolored lumps of stone, to seemingly organic carvings of things my mind couldn't place but recognized as the works of intelligent and creative designers.
Everything seemed about par for the course according to what had already occurred, that was until one of the toy penguins began to speak...
Allison fiddled with her garb, trying to get the complex series of chords and eyelets to hold and hold comfortably, my mother simply took it all in, and me? I was ready to browse. I took off on my own then, looking for a vendors tent by the name of "A simple Peddler" where the online merchants list promised a variety of medieval and renaissance goods ranging from swords and weaponry, to leather mugs and straps.
I came upon a hill and asked one of the friendly, always in character staff if anything was going on behind it, if there was more to see and do. He told me no, but I ventured forward anyway. Above the hill stood a pavilion peopled by the staff of the Virginia renaissance faire, discussing the ins and outs of the days events. I didn't stay long, still eager to find the prizes I sought.
Further beyond stood the tent I awaited, lined with garb and jewelry and various nick-nacks of the lives of those in the yester-years. I spoke with the woman running the tent as she arranged various items of clothing on a circular wrack.
"What size are you?" She inquired, but enthralled as I was I hardly heard her.
"Huh?"
"What shoe size hunny, we carry a variety of boots and footwear." Was her curt response to my confusion.
"Oh, size eight..."
She then quickly shuffled through the wrack, pointing out which boots she had in my size, and which she did not. It was all very commonplace, nothing out of the ordinary for that day, for ren faire day. Our conversation went on like that, her showing me her wares and me, beginning to ponder if I had withdrew enough money for that days festivities, until an odd man approached where we stood. He had the look of a gypsy and the eye of a comical villain, dreams are so literal sometimes. I dropped the large chunk of segmented amethyst I was holding at the time and a portion of the puzzle fell behind the shelve it had been sitting on. As me and the shop-keep struggled to move the shelf to get at the interlocking piece behind, a flash of white light overtook me and my surroundings were suddenly and incredibly changed.
Before me and miles bellow me stood a rising acropolis, pillars of stone in rings where each circle rose higher than the last, and on top of all of them sat entire cities crafted of living rock. I soared through the air, arching down and around this scene as rain filled the air around me and water poured from every crevasse of this impossible structure. At its apex stood a pump-house, with an old but strong man furiously primed a hose in an attempt to spray clean the surface of the buildings around him. He was bald on top with an almost anachronistically large beard hanging pendulous from his chin.
I "landed" near him, and without a word began to aid him in priming the pump as he set awash the stone structure with niagra falls levels of torrents of water. Suddenly the pump locked in place, and as it did so the rain that fell before ceased. The old man dropped the hose he held and leaned against a stone pillar, seemingly exhausted.
"Where am I, is the usual question..." The old man said to me then.
"I'm either dead or dreaming..." Was my quick response.
He looked at me then, bushy grey eyebrows arched noticeably.
"Smart man, come with me."
As we walked down a series of staircases and across rough cut stone walkways he explained to me my plight, which it seemed we shared.
"You've died prematurely..." He said to me,without hesitation. "and this is a problem for me, because great men are had to come by."
I merely listened...
"The thread of your fate was cut short, and thus those of all you WOULD have affected or altered altogether. Without this, my design is all but ruined."
The word "design" had me intrigued, while I had always hoped for a grander scheme to things, lingering thoughts of chaos plagued me.
"I have to take you before the Council of Gods, and argue for your continued existence, give them reason to believe you are integral to all our survival. It won't be easy, more than half of them have fewer followers than I, and they would LOVE to see my schemes fail."
He spoke of such this with a conniving simplicity that it betrayed years of belief in me, he was just as much a man as any man, and less a god than a great manipulator, a politician working the pantheons of mans deities.
He took me to a grand elevator, reminiscent of one standing the the lobby of an archaic office building or hotel, only the numbers on the lit panel shifted position and changed from numbers to letters to symbols I could not discern. He quickly punched in several of the ever moving digits and a loud hollow ding issued forth from the smooth reflective doors. The grinding of machinery could be heard from behind and the doors slid open, he then quickly pulled me in just before they slammed shut behind us. The girl from eponena played out in monotone musak tunes from all around us as we were lowered through the bowels of creation. All around our secure confine unknown sounds boomed and crashed and rumbled as a sense of displacement took hold of me, a feeling of being in several places at ones but no-where at all. The unsettling sensation passed and the doors again slid open, and out I was pulled the doors again shutting far too fast behind us.
The lobby we entered was different in every sense from the stone pillars and ancient edifices we had left behind, I found myself in what for all intensive purposes was any hotel lobby in America. As we quickly walked a long I noticed a black sign with individual letters clicked into a perforated background, it read:
"Council of Gods!
In session: Today and always.
What was, what could be,
and what will be,
sometimes, ARE!"
Outside a large doubled doored entry way sat a folding table with several feathered hats placed upon it, each with varying numbers and colors of feathers. The old man took a hat with several earth tone feathers of impressive size, and gave to me a leather strap with a single feather rising from its center. He tied the head piece onto his brow and I did the same, never questioning the validity and reality of the situation I had found myself in. As well as doing this, he pulled a laminated card out of his robes, that contained a rather large series of numbers prominently displayed on it and hung it from his neck.
We entered through the doorway into a large chamber lined with wooden bleaches, and in each chair sat a plush penguin, all of them wearing a feather headdress, all of them with a number card like the old mans hanging from there necks. We sat at the far end of the chamber near several large racks containing an odd assortment of random things, from old action figures, to discolored lumps of stone, to seemingly organic carvings of things my mind couldn't place but recognized as the works of intelligent and creative designers.
Everything seemed about par for the course according to what had already occurred, that was until one of the toy penguins began to speak...
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