Wednesday, March 3, 2004

What Is and What Should Never Be

"Oh, like, totally, I love this dress. . .it's like so like good, and stuff. Like yeah."

"Can you tell me why you like clothes again? I don't seem to see it, you know." Man puts hands to hips in questioning manner.

"Like, it's like how they like look on me and like stuff. Like yeah. And I like like how cheap they are! Like this is like a steal! Like look at it!"

"Suuuuure. . ." Man rolls eyes. Whistles.

Woman takes out more clothes. Points. "Hey, which is better?" She shows him a red rose-covered skirt. "This one." She takes it back. "Or." She takes a black skirt. "Or this one."

Man groans. He wants to say, "You know I hate this type of thing. . ." but decides against it. Women get mad at that type of thing. Not good to complain. "I like. . ." He puts hand on face. Heavy thought. Heavy as a feather. "I like the black one. . .it has a nice undertone to your sturdy legs, and it also has a nice bringing-out quality with your face. I think black is your color." He nods at his own genius.

Another test he had passed.

He had done good. Lies only go so deep, and a skirt can hold them.

Woman eyes man in games. "Aghhhhhhh. . ." says woman. "Agggghh." Man ignores her.

"Look here! Look—look! They've got Tetris. Tetris! Would you believe that? Tetris! What do you think? Hm?"

Woman eyes man in games. "Aghhhhh. . ." says woman. "I think we should leave. . ."

"What?"

"I think. . .I think we should leave."

"No. No, we can't leave! Don't you see all they have here. . .it's great! It's great, it's just great."

"Aghhhhh. . .I'm hungry. I want some food! Aggghhhhh. Can we just leave?"

"No."

"Please? Please?"


"No."

"Aren't I more important than games. . .aren't I?"

"No."

"Aghhhh. . .screw you." Man grabs her.

"Stop right there lady."

"Hm?" He puts Tetris in her hands. Puts ET in her hands.

"Which one's better, you think?"

Woman rolls eyes. She wants to say, "Aghhhh. . .I don't care. Can we just. . .leave?" But, instead, says, "ET. . .ET I think."

"Are you sure?"

"Hm?"

"Is that your final answer?"

"What are we playing now? Are you Reg, me some loser idiot going for a million?"

"Yes. Yes you are. Is that your final answer?"

"Can I use a lifeline?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe, babe. Maybe."

"Okay. So can I. . .then?"

"Which lifeline would you like to use?"

"I'd like to poll the audience."

"Okay. Audience, press either ET or Tetris on your keypads now." Man screams, "WHICH GAME IS BETTER? ET OR TETRIS?"

"TETRIS!" a man screamed.

"ET!" another said.

"NEITHER!" one said.

Then, their voices coalesced. "TETRIS!"

"So they said Tetris."

"Yeah. Aghhh. . . okay. I'll go with Tetris, then?"

"Final answer?"

"Yes, Reg."

"And you're—you're—"

"What? Oh, what?"

"You've just won. . .absolutely nothing!"

"That's lame. Agghhh. . .can we just leave?"

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to look at some more games. Is that okay?"

"Ummm. . .I guess. But one thing. Hold on there."

"Yeah?"

"Why do you like games so much?"

"Why do you like clothes so much?"

"You answer first."

"No, you answer first."

"Agghh. . .fine. I like clothes because. . .well. They're so fashionable and—and they're so. . ."

"So what?"

"So pretty. And I like how they look. They just look right."

"Really? They just look right?"

"Uh, yeah. They do."

"I think you lie."

"What?"

"I think you lie."

"Aghh. . .why would I lie?"

"Because you're a woman."

"Women lie?"

"Some."

"Some, being me?"

"Yeah, being you."

"Pff. Right."

"Pff. Yes."

"I think you're the liar."

"Oh do you? At least I didn't have to use a life line."

"Oh sure, Reg. Now you're the big tough guy."

"Yes I am. And if you'd excuse me, I'd like to look at my games."

"You still didn't answer my question."

"I don't answer questions."

"Why?"

"I'm a muse. Can't you tell?"

"No, I can't."

"That's too bad."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Aghhh. . .right, and I'm a bunny too."

"You are?"

"Yeah, umm, I am."

"Well, Ms. Bunny, would you marry Mr. Muse?"

"I—I don't know. Do I get a wedding ring?"

"No. Those are for humans. We're not humans."

"Oh."

"Will you marry Mr. Muse?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? Well, maybe isn't an answer."

"I don't answer questions. Can't we just leave?"

"No, we can't. Now let me look at my games, would you?"

"Aghhh. . .fine. But hurry up."

"I will, I will. And we're getting that Tetris game too."

"Yay."

"Yes, 'yay' is right. Now, I'm going to look. Just—just go over there and flirt with someone, or something, would you?"

"Me? Flirt? Okay. Sounds better than you. Hmph. Sounds better than you ever will."
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Tuesday, March 2, 2004

Never

"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.

Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever.

Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never."
--Elie Wiesel, Night
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Oh the Places You'll Go

Merry Christmas Dr. Seuss,
If I were a rhymer, a child's talker,
You'd be the man.
And we'd eat green eggs & ham.

Yes we would, sam my man.

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Estne Scelestus?

You are Pig Pen!


Which Peanuts Character are You?
brought to you by

Hah. Still no one's commented on my story.

I think some must feel, "Oh, he must have been raped, or something, when he was younger." No, actually, I wasn't. And that's the truth. The closest it's gotten to that with my dad is still pretty far.

One day I threw this big tantrum since I couldn't go to a friend's. Something stupid like that. So, up in my room, I kicked this low piece of wall that wasn't too thick. I broke it. Put a hole right in it. My dad soon came up, and on my bed he slapped me. It wasn't a big, hard slap. Just one slap. That was all.

Yeah. That's the closest it's gotten to rape on my end. Pff. Anyway. Just wanted to clear that up.

Or maybe no one's posting either a) because the story is so goddamned awesome b) they stopped reading it in revulsion after they found out what its subject matter was c) they're just too lazy to read it d)they thought it was terrible and didn't merit a post at all e) they just didn't read it and were too lazy. Whatever the case, it's no big deal.

I stayed after school and submitted some of my stories/ poetry to the new lit mag we're getting at school, Anti. It's headed by this girl who's also on newspaper staff and is co-editor. Her name's Lisa Horner. She seems interesting enough to me, but we haven't really said much to each other. Just passing things.

You see, she's one of those quiet-type people. And I'm one of those quiet-type people (who sits and watches people giving out sparse funny comments here and there).

Along with submitting the story I've been talking about this whole time, "This Note Is Legal Tender," I also submitted: "The Pig of the Machine (The Desolate Shatter and the Open Plain" and "The Desolate Shatter and the Open Plain (Poem)" and "The Looming" and "Cocoon Swoon" and "Maggotula Rose." I think that's all of it.

I plan on submitting even more. But for the time being, yeah, that's all of it.

Well, back to my story. I felt so wonderful after writing it. You know the feeling. It's the feeling where you just feel you've put down something right, done something right, and it's just great.

At first when I sat down to write the story, I felt devoid of anything. I didn't feel like writing. I had wanted to write more of "Dead Astronaut" but decided against it. I just wasn't in the mood. My dad had been giving me his daily sermon on how I need to clean my room and how I need a job and all that. So I wasn't in too good of a mood.

And then wham. The story was just there. I had a one dollar bill in my hand and I just started writing about it, describing it. And then it went further on. And then I saw what Silivan Taylor wanted me to do. I saw, on my dollar bill, "THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE." And I knew what I was going to do.

The image was beautiful. Silivan would stick the dollar bill in his Father's headhole from the bullet. He would circle the upper left part of the front that said: "THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE." And then he would walk away saying, "Now you can't say I never did anything for you, Father." It was genius. I still think it was genius.

It felt amazing last night at about one in the morning as I winded down and was finished with it. It still looks like that on paper. Every word of the thing is just so great, and I like the heavy subject matter, I like what it says. I love Sylivan Taylor as a character. . .I love him.

If you've been reading my stuff long enough, and I've shown you some other piece I did once, you'll realize Sylivan Taylor isn't a new character. I once wrote a piece about him, but it was going nowhere, and I didn't know what was happening, so it's sat where it's sat ever since. I'll have to find it and tweak it and make it into an ongoing part of Sylivan Taylor.

You see, I'm not done with Sylivan Taylor.

What he is now is interesting. You can't help but see what he is--he's a man that was molested, raped, and so on, by his Father. And so he's become like his Father. And he knows it, but he can't fight what he is. You just can't say what Sylivan is doing is wrong, exactly. That is, if you're being as openminded when you come to this story as I always am with stuff like this. I'm not saying what Sylivan is doing as character is right, but it's the way he is.

His Father made him like that. With his Father raping him, and so on, all those years, Sylivan had grown to like it. Had grown to like to rape women. To rape men. His Father, in turn, made him what he is. One could say Sylivan is just a disciple of Fate. The Fate that his Father would make him what he is.

Needless to say, Sylivan is one of the most alive characters I've ever written. I could just feel him when I was writing last night. It was great, great having the feeling I was writing such an amazing, such a good, character down. That I was writing something I knew was good.

I plan to write more of him tonight.

But, first, I have homework crap to do.

We have to learn Polyatomic Ions for Chemistry. 19 of them. I doubt I will be able to. I'm wondering if I should even do it. I'm so damn lazy, and I just don't give a crap about it at all.

You know, learning stuff the way school teaches you is just lame. But anyway.

I found my book, Night, by the way. I'll probably finish it tonight. I could've finished it yesterday, but I was busy. It was my brother's birthday last night.

It's pretty crazy, though. 2 weeks to read this book. I'm done with it in 2 days, and I could've been even less. The thing is, with stuff like this in this class, I usually put it off until the last moment. Such as when we were reading Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I wasn't interested in it, really.

There was a part speaking about how Maya was raped. That part was interesting, but Maya was so scant on talking about it that I was left with little about it. I mean, it's a terrible thing, but the only way to get it out of your system is to talk about it.

Yeah. Just a heads-up on things.

Lea just IMed me, and she said she was convinced the story was real. So was I.

So was I.
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? ? ? ?

So we're reading Night for AP English. It's a 110-page book. I started reading it yesterday, and I'm already on page 98 or something.

We have two weeks to read it.

AP English. Yeah, right.

We could be doing so much more in this class than we do. We have freaking two weeks to read the book, and I would've finished it pretty soon, if. . .

If I hadn't lost it. At lunch today, I sat it on the table. I left to dump my tray. . .and Mitch comes back, and guess what, yes, that's right, the book is gone.

Since it's multicultural week, we had some guys playing on bag pipes. And people over there dancing with them. I went and looked in the garbage, thinking I might have thrown it in there, and all the people singing and dancing, and all the bag pipes playing, made me very annoyed. It's the way I get when I see things like that.

No, there was nothing in the garbage. I go back and look under the table. No, nothing there. Where the hell could it have gone? I wanted to read the rest of it.

My guess is the person from my table might've taken it, either purposely or not so, and so it's gone and lost.

Or maybe it now dwells in the trash somewhere, deep in thickets where I cannot find it at all.

Whatever the case, it's got me annoyed. I hate it when you put something somehwere, and you know exactly where it is, and you come back and it's gone.

I don't want to have to pay for a book, and I also wanted to finish the book.

Ah well. Ah well.
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This Note Is Legal Tender

I stare into the eyes of this fiend, of this beast of beast. Stare him right in the face.

In the palm of my lined hand, in the fingers I feel its crisp edge. I run my hand along it, feel its texture, and it feels me to me. I bend it back and forth, back and forth. It makes the sound of crumping paper.

I put it in my mouth, on my lips; I feel it all over and bend and crumple and look at it.

I stare into the eyes of this fiend, of this beast of beast. Stare him right in the face.

George Washington, the wry fellow, the 1 in each corner. The green of trees of envy of leaves. The touch, the feel, and on the back, In God We Trust. In God We Trust indeed. Yes, sure as hell in him we trust.

On the back, too, E Pluribus, Unum. From Many, One. 1 in each corner. ONE written large in the center. An eagle in a circle on the right, a pyramid with an eye at its triangular top in a circle to the left. And, of course, THE GREAT SEAL OF THE UNITED STATES.

Eyes closed, money to side of head, nose breathing in, smelling. Hands to sides of the chair, light off, dim light of the doorway coming in, him speaking, speaking, speaking. Incessant, incessant, incessant. Like a chirping newborn bird in a nest, like a fly buzzing round the fleshly killed chicken, like a devastated widow at a funeral speaking a eulogy of melancholy determination.

I can hear him if I listen hard enough, can hear the dark shadow looming over me. I can hear him well if I want to, but the smell fills the nostrils, and I'd rather not. The smell of corruption. Ah the smell.

"—of course, sir—"

Of course sir? Huh, what was this? I can't hear you. Can't. Hear. You.

"In God We Trust," I said. Laughed. Went back to closing my eyes, smelling through nostrils, half-listening half-not and half-there.

Sudden movement. Shadow is coming over. Continue to smell through nostrils.

He grabs me by the shirt collar.

"—listen here, Sylivan—"

Listen here? Ah, I see you have me by the shirt. Eyes still closed, smile to my face, I wonder what I'll see with the open of my eyes. Ah do I wonder.

Open. Peek-a-boo, I see you.

"Yes?" I said. "Yes, what do you want from little Sy here, little Sylivan, hmmm? What is it?"

Ah. The face. I know the face.

Father?

Withheld the fear in deep. Gulped it inward and held it poised, a nice maneuver, like gymnastics, like doing a handstand on a narrow pole, and walking along. Feet upward, hands grasped to cold steel. Balance central, muscles working, hold it there, that's good. Yes.

Eye-to-eye. Reminds me of the pyramid eye on the 1.

He has a five o' clock shaving shadow on him. Deep in thickets and black. Eyes wild with power, with expectance, with control.

Withhold it. In it goes. No sudden anything. Yes. Going good.

"You know what you need to do." Sets me down. I move the green lovely through my hands, put it to my lips, feel its crispness.

"Father." Said it well. Good. "Father." Again. Yes. Still eye-to-eye. "Father, I don't know what to do."

"YOU GODDAMN WELL KNOW WHAT TO DO, BOY."

Had to hold back the smile wanting to go on my face. Cover it up with the green lovely. "I goddamn well don't know what to do." I breathe. Through clenched teeth. Oh, how nice it feels. Soon. Very soon. "I goddamn well don't know what to do, Father."

"YES YOU GODDAMN WELL DO KNOW WHAT TO DO, BOY."

"No I goddamn well don't." Ah, how he yells. Music to the ears. Like music to the ears.

"IF YOU WON'T DO IT, BOY, THEN GODDAMNIT, I'LL DO IT FOR YOU."

Set the green lovely on the bed, light, let it lie there, kiss the covers. Kiss them with its green of trees, of envy. Ah yes. Beautiful. Let it sit there. Then let Father do what he wants.

Still little light. I stand and peer to him. Wild eyes, oh yes, wild eyes. Concentrated eyes. "In God We Trust," I said again. Yes, sure as hell, In God We Trust.

His hands on me. Heavy. Soon I would act. But first, let him have his way. Oh yes. Let him have it. Savor it like a parched mouth being brought to water and drinking. Then, then it will be time. His hands feel good on me. I smile.

He smiles. That's right, smile you fucker. Could I scream to his face? No. No, not yet. Not yet, oh no not yet.

Shirt off. Hold the arms up like a good boy, like holding on a thin wire. Enjoy it. Enjoy it while you still can. Oh yes.

Time to play. Just a bit.

I fight. He tries to get off my pants. Fight, fight, fight. You like the fight, don't you?

Don't you Father? Yes. Yes you do. I can feel it hardening in you. Rocks are hard, so are fists. Like an ear of corn being unveiled it feels. Doesn't it? The struggle. It's the struggle. It's working wonders, isn't it, father? Ah, the smell of the corruption. Wish I could smell the green lovely to my nostrils. He wouldn't let me.

Homo Erectus, Father, isn't that right? Turned to my back, the struggle is won. The pants come off. Striptease. A strip tease indeed. Oh yes.

Next the underwear come off. He feels my back, the sensations. Oh the sensations. It feels good. Homo Erectus. Yes. Homo Erectus Father. In God We Trust. From Many, One. United States.

He feels me all over. It feels good. He grabs me hard. Heavy breaths. On my back. He goes in. Don't be so anal, right Father? Don't be so anal. I sneer. Don't be so anal.

He's riding a merry-go-round, and oh is it merry. And Holy Mary Mother of God. And Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow. And everywhere Mary went the sheep was sure to go. Oh yes, Father. You know it well. More well than them all.

The Virgin. The Virgin Mary. Yes Father. I can imagine your face. Pleasure. There is for me. Yes.

Then, in mid stride. In mid ride. "Tell me." He said. "Tell me." Again. "Tell me. Tell me now."

I'm up for game Father. Yes I am. "I love you," I said. "Fuck me harder. Harder. Harder. Yes, yes. Harder. Fuck me."

Harder. He goes harder. Harder. It will end soon. Time to act. Soon. Time to act. Act. Yes. Time to act.

I'm rocked back and forth like a baby in a cradle. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop, when the wind blows it will stop. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop, I'm just giving you a little fuck.

I lick my tongue between my teeth. Smile. Feel some pleasure inside. Push it away. Grope under the bed from where we lie. Bring the metal to my hands. Oh yes. The metal. How nice. It's just for you, Father.

Click-click. The hammer coming up. The trigger in my hand, the best feeling in my hand. I turn quick. You're too caught up in the moment, Father.

And aim. And fire. Bang! Fourth of July, for fuckers to buy.

The shot bounces off the lamp. Misses the royal jewels by a miniscule miscalculation. Oh, but there's more Father. Click-click. Hammer goes up. Trigger gets pulled. Aim. And fire. Bang! Fourth of July, for fuckers to buy. Coming back again.

The slug. In his Homo Erectus. Right Father? It bleeds. Blood comes out. Thick. Engorged. Oh yes. I smile to you, smile the largest smile I could smile. Do you like it?

I hold the gun to your head. Hammer goes up. Hand on trigger. "Tell me," I said. "Tell me." Your eyes rack in pain. You stare. Father, tell me. "TELL ME." I said. I shot the gun to the ceiling, heard the slug puncture and go up. Gun to the head again. "You better tell me."

"I. . .I. . ." You shake. It's beautiful Father. Where's High and Mighty Father now? No more Homo Erectus for you, right Father? "I love. . .you. . ." But Father, you don't mean it. There is no remorse in those words. Nothing that can give it back. I smile. Look what you've created, right Father? "I love you Sylivan." He doesn't even mean it. Doesn't mean it. You'll die soon enough, fucker. Soon enough. "I love you Sylivan."

Click-click. Hammer goes up, Homo Erectus. "Hammer goes up, Father." Goes up like an elevator. "Like a Homo Erectus, Father. Right Father?" He shakes. The pain. I read it on his face. "RIGHT FATHER?"

"Yes. . ." That's right. Yes is right, fucker. Father. Yes is right.

"Mary had a little lamb." I push the gun close to your head. Hard. Feel it seep in. Feel it get to you. For real. Feel you shake. Feel you shake even more. Oh. It feels so good. "Mary had a little lamb, Father." I pushed it harder. "Go on with it." Harder. He isn't responding. "GO ON WITH IT."

"Whose fleece. . .was white. . .as sn. .ow." Yes. Good job. Good show.

"You're not done yet, Father. The rest?" Gun in harder. Trigger in my hand. I have control Father. I have it. Listen to me. "THE REST?"

"And. . .and everywhere that Mary went. . .the lamb was sure to go. . ." Perfect. Bravo you fucker.

"That's right." I take the gun from his head. Survey his Homo Erectus. Then come back. Put the gun to his head. Oh yes. Time to play. "Now, do me an Our Father, would you?" He just shakes. Again. I kick him in the stomach. Hard. "Go on. Go on or else."

"Our Father. . .who art in Heaven. . ." Pauses. Collects himself. Racks in pain. "Hallowed by thy name. By kingdom come. . .thy will be done. . .on Earth. . .as it is. . .is in Heaven. . ."

I came in. "And give us this day, our daily bread. Our daily trespasses. And forgive those who come against us."

Nudged him. Seeped the gun in harder. On the head. "And lead us not into temptation. . .but deliver. . .but deliver. . .deliver us from evil."

Evil. I looked at him. "Evil, Father. Evil." I sneered. "Evil." Silence. "You're my Father, you know, Father. Art thou in heaven, hmmm? ART THOU IN HEAVEN?"

Pain on his face. "I. . .are. . .can you just. . .kill me already?" Kill you, Father? Kill you? How can I do that? I am your son.

"Father, Father, art thou in Heaven? Is this the way you would treat your son? Is it the way? IS IT THE FUCKING WAY?"

Silence.

"ANSWER ME YOU FUCKER." I push the gun hard. Hard. Yes so fucking hard. Feel it you fucker. Hard. Hard. Yes. I hope it leaves a bruise. Tell me what I want to hear.

Silence.

Silence silence silence. "I grow impatient Father. I grow impatient. Father, why have you forsaken me so?"

". . .For. . .sake. . en?"

"Yes. Forsaken." I sneered again. It was fun fucking with him. Soon it would be over. I had the control. Any time now. Any time and it would end. Yes. Oh yes. "Father. Quid pro quo. Quid pro quo Father. ANSWER. ANSWER ME. ANSWER ME, FATHER. QUID PRO QUO."

No answer.

Silence.

Nothing.

Not a word.

Not an answer.

I slash the gun across his face. Leave a large gash. Smile. "Father, oh Father. HOW I LOVE YOU. HOW I FUCKING LOVE YOU." I hit him across the face again. He still sat slumped, unable to stand, and I smiled more. "Father, Cowards, they die many deaths before they die. And the valiant, they taste of death but once. Only once, Father. Only once. And that's all. I've died many times, Father. Many times. And it all screams at me, Father. And it all screams at me." I paused. "Father, why have you forsaken me? WHY MUST I FUCKING SUFFER? Why Father? Why? Ah, but you do not have the answer, do you? Hmmm, no you do not. NO YOU DO NOT.

"You don't have the answer at all. You violated me because you could. You've made me what I am. Do you like what you see? DO YOU FUCKING LIKE WHAT YOU SEE? Father. do you like it?" His head was down, ignoring me. I pushed it up. Made him look me over. I am still naked. "Father, tell me I'm sexy. Tell me I'm your fucking son. Tell me you like what I am.

"Tell me Father. TELL ME NOW OR YOU DIE. YOU FUCKING DIE NOW. YOU BECOME A FUCKING HOLE."

"I. . .I. . ." Just say it Father. JUST SAY IT. Say it Father. Yes. Oh yes. Say it. "You're. . .sexy. You're my son. I like. . .I like what you are." Lies, lies, lies.

"You're such a fucking liar. Such a liar. You DESERVE to die. You deserve it, Father. You do not deserve to live. You're trash, Father. You're FUCKING TRASH." I kicked him in the gut harder than I had before. He began to cough. How beautiful. "There came a rapping, Father, a rapping at my chamber door. And there was the Raven, Father. The Raven. It screamed, 'Evermore.' And Father. Father. Do you know, do you know I'm going to be like this the rest of my life? LOOK WHAT YOU'VE FUCKING MADE ME. DON'T YOU REGRET IT. DON'T YOU FEEL ANYTHING FOR ME AT ALL? DO I EVEN HAVE A NAME TO YOU? Ah, ah, but what's in a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet? Right Father? Right? AM I FUCKING ROSE? Every rose has its thorn. Yes. Every rose has its thorn.

"Your thorn, Father. Your thorn is despicable. Despicable." I spit on him. "Father, I see other people at school. I see them. And they aren't like me at all, Father. They aren't like your little Sy. They aren't like me. I've grown up, Father. But because of you, because of you I enjoy. I enjoy what you do to me. I enjoy it. And I enjoy raping other girls, and other men. I enjoy it just like you do. And I like killing them, Father. I like killing them just like I like killing you right now." I pushed the gun in a shove at him again. "I like killing you right now, Father. I want to see you suffer. I WANT YOU TO SUFFER FOR YOUR FUCKING SINS. I WANT YOU TO FUCKING SUFFER FOR WHAT I'M GOING TO BE MY WHOLE LIFE. Father, why can't this world just accept me? Hmmm, why can't it accept me for who I am? Why not, Father? Father, you know why. It's because they don't give a fuck about me. They don't care. They could care less, Father. They don't understand.

"They don't understand at all. To them what I do and what you do is totally wrong, Father. To them it's inhumane. And why did you have to make me like this? Why did. Why did you rape Mother and make her have me, then kill her, and get away with it? WHY? WHY COULDN'T THEY HAVE GOTTEN YOU THEN? WHY COULDN'T YOU HAVE JUST BEEN PUT AWAY THEN? Why father? WHY? WHY WHY WHY WHY?" I began to cry and I smiled. "Father, when I think about it, I like what I am. I'm going to accept what I am. But this is how I feel sometimes, Father. This is how I feel sometimes. I feel like if things could've gone different, I'd be a different person, and I would be off fine. But I love what I am, Father. I love it. But others won't love it. And for that I hate you. I hate you for making me what I am when others won't love me. I FUCKING HATE YOU FOR IT." Angry. Melancholy. Happy. So many emotions. It was beyond belief. It felt so fucking good. Yes. Oh yes.

I told him everything before I killed him. Before I shot him. And that felt good, too. It all felt right. All felt good. Yes. Oh yes.

I am done explaining. I told him a few last words. "Father, you should've read a book. It's a genius book, Father. Silence of the Lambs. And that's what I want. Father, I want a Silence of the Lambs. Mary Mary Mary had a little Lamb, whose fleece was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went the Lamb was sure to go. Father, you would've liked to fuck Clarice Starling. Just like Hannibal wanted to. You would've loved it Father. Just like I would love it. There's Clarice Starlings out there, Father. I know there is And you know what, Father? I want to hear a Silence of the Lambs.

"I want to hear them quiet down. Mary's Lamb needs to shut the fuck up. Fucking Mary's Lamb needs to shut up. Doesn't it, Father? Oh yes, it does Father. Yes it does. I've had enough of being your fucking Lamb. Your fucking virgin. I've had enough of following you around. I've had enough of being your fucking toy. I hope, wherever you go, you're fucking killed ten times over.

"I want to hear a Silence of the Lambs, Clarice. That's what I want, Dad. That's what I want." And then I shot him. I shot him. Pressing the trigger felt like putting it all into one final press. One final suplex, one final swing. Like a homerun, or a power play. It felt so right. Oh yes. Felt so right.

He did not scream when he died. He just died.

After he died, I found the green lovely on the ground. Yes. The green lovely. I put it face-up, crumpled, in the bullet hole of his head. I made sure one part stuck out. On the upper left, I circled it. It is all that read clearly from his head..

THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER, it said. FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE. And this debt, it was a private one.

I began to walk out. I turned. My head over my shoulder, still naked, I eyed him. The green lovely in his mouth.

"Now you can't say I didn't give you anything, Father. Now you can't at all."

2
The man slapped me awake. What was this? Where was I?

"Sir," he said. "Sir."

I looked over at him. He had a strange look on his face. "Yeah?"

He took his hands from the bars. Whistled a tune.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

And he went and left.

I sat on my bunk. I sat and did nothing else.
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Monday, March 1, 2004

If you're ragged and you know it clap your hands.

I'm so tired right now. But I'm so tired that I can't sleep.

And also, it's time to go to Chemisty now. . .

I want to write a derivative of the hoky pokey. That'll be awesome.

Yeah.

Subject titles that give you ideas rock.
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Change (in the House of Flies)

This is just personal post crap I've been making in a word document. . .I've decided to post it here. Ignore most of it. Most of it's just hyperbole, I think, but. . .but it helps me to get rid of some crap when it hits me. So yeah. Reader beware.

On a criminally random note, I should be writing. I've been skipping it quite often. But ah well. I just don't feel like it. . .but I should still be doing it. Ah well, ah well. Do I really think writing will get me anywhere? No, not really. So I don't see the big deal. . .or do I? Who knows. Shutting up.

---

2.23.2004

Okay. I want to discuss the atom.

I don't know extensive information about the atom, but I did a report on Democritus, so I have an idea.

The atom, from its initial conception, has gone a long way.

First, I'll start this off with my report I wrote about Democritus. From there, I'll expand on the atom and what it means, and go into a more interesting tangent about it and what it means:

Democritus was born 460 BC. He died 370 BC. Little is known of his life, and what there is to gather may but more assumption than fact. Most of what is known of him is his philosophies and, of course, his atomic theory. Although he wasn't the first to state something of an atomic theory. His teacher, Leucippus, had proposed an atomic system; and even before Leucippus, other Greeks had theorized that there might be atoms in some shape or form, such as: Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, and even Pythagoras, who proposed regular solids played a fundamental role in the makeup of the universe. It may be stretching it saying this about Pythagoras, and other Greeks—but Democritus is still widely more known for his theories of the atom.

Democritus was a materialist. He believed all things—even thinking—are carried out by perhaps atoms, by material means. He also believed nature behaved like a machine: that it is nothing more than a complex mechanism. In this theory, atoms are eternal and motion is as well; and he said the collisions of atoms to one another caused worlds to form, for things to be created. He said nature was a thing doing what it did. There was no divine intervention in this theory, there was only atoms randomly hitting to create. The atoms were the creators—not God, not some divine being. The world existed through the nature of atoms themselves, and everything else was controlled by them.

Democritus was also known as a great geometer; had his work in geometry survived, calculus would have came quite earlier than it did (which was around the time of Isaac Newton). And he, too, was known as a prolific writer who made somewhere around fifty-five works (which were lost mostly); but still, most of all, he is remembered for his atomic theory.

Democritus's atomic theory developed from what he was taught by his teacher, Leucippus. He took what Leucippus said and gave it a much more systematic, orchestrated appeal.

First, he took what Leucippus said. All things are made up of small, indivisible particles, called atoms. These bits of matter are too small to see. Democritus quotes Leucippus: "The atomists hold that splitting stops when it reaches indivisible particles and does not go on infinitely."

Democritus reasoned that if matter could be continued to break down, it would get to the point where it couldn't be put back together and would disintegrate. Although matter can be destroyed by repeated splitting, new things can be made by joining cruder, more simple pieces of matter together. This means the process of disintegration and reintegration is reversible. Thus there must be a form of matter that is it at its smallest, simplest. Could matter split infinitely, then there is nothing to stop it from destroying all matter completely. And that is not so—so there must be a form of matter at its simplest, Democritus said.

Second, there is empty space, vacuum, or void, between other atoms. Aristotle, another Greek who apposed Democritus in his atom theory, and who was the one who caused his atomic theory to be so detested, and fall into the backdrop (he also rote extensively of Democritus's works, which allowed what we have to be preserved), quotes Democritus: "Unless there is a void with a separate being of its own, 'what is' cannot be moved-nor again can it be 'many', since there is nothing to keep things apart." This states there has to be a space for many things to move around in, space to keep it apart. Without this void, space, atoms wouldn't be able to move and wouldn't be able to be "many." And so there must be space.

Third, atoms are completely solid, Democritus said. We know this assumption is incorrect. The scientist, Ernest Rutherford, discovered the atom's nucleus, showing that an atom is actually mostly empty space inside.

This notion which Democritus believed—that atoms are completely solid, compact, and don't have a vacuum, emptiness in themselves—lead to the belief atoms are heterogeneous; that they are the same all throughout. Another way to state this would be an atom has no internal structure. Again, this assumption is wrong; J.J. Thomson's discovery of the atom's electron rightfully showed it so.

And fourth, Democritus said of atoms: "They have all sorts of shapes and appearances and different sizes.... Some are rough, some hook-shaped, some concave, some convex and some have other innumerable variations." Democritus believed atoms were only different in their shapes and sizes. Later, Epicurus, another Greek, stated also that weight was another thing atoms were different in. For, to allow an object to move, inertia is required, and inertia requires an object have weight. As written by Aristotle: "Democritus recognized only two basic properties of the atom: size and shape. But Epicurus added weight as a third. For, according to him, the bodies move by necessity through the force of weight."

After Democritus, the atomic theory was long set aside. Aristotle opposed Democritus's beliefs, and said to the church that with this theory came Godlessness. Because of this, many of Democritus's books on the atomist theory were burned, and scholars who accepted and believed in the theory were prosecuted for their Godlessness.

Although the atomist theory certainly didn't lay around, many believe it wasn't until John Dalton's belief of the atom on a solid scientific basis that it came back into the forefront. There were, in fact, many scholars who upheld the atomist theory before Dalton. But Aristotle had been the kiss of death to it, and those scholars were far and few between because of the message that the atom theory was unGodly. So there it lay, dormant and crawling, dissipating, until John Dalton came along. From there, the rest gave us what we have of the atom today.

This said, the atom has changed much from this first conception of it.

We're now given the Bohr Model, and even more, we're given the Quantum Mechanical Model.

We're just going over this in my Chemistry class, so I don't know much about the Quantum Mechanical Model. I know that it has to deal with electrons, and how they levy out in an atom; that it has to deal with shells, or energy levels, that it uses probability. I know what we've started to get about atomic orbitals. But I won't squeeze that into this. I'll give a more simple explanation. (I also think that if you've taken your required science classes, you probably already know most of this anyway. But for the purposes of this, it doesn't hurt anything to explain it.)

So here's the Bohr Model. It says the atom is like planets orbiting the sun. The nucleus of the atom is orbited by its electrons (which are negatively charged particles which weight next to nothing). Bohr was somewhat right in saying this, but we've found his model is more of an average of how electrons work in the atom.

Keeping this simple, we've found electrons in an atom don't move in a straight set path around the nucleus. They sort of wobble around in there. Move all around in 3d dimensions. There's various mathematical garbage behind how this all works, but I don't understand it yet, and I don't want to add it to this either.

Now, electrons move extremely fast. So fast that it makes layers in an atom on the energy level it follows. When you look at an atom from what we can see, you see a fuzzy ball (at least from my understanding). Electrons are what cause chemical reactions to happen. An atom, if it has one electron in its outermost energy level, would want to get rid of it. And an atom with an almost full energy level would want to get the needed electrons to fill the energy level. That's how chemical reactions happen, and from my vague understanding (we haven't even hit this in Chemistry yet, but I remember learning it) the atoms share electrons. Thus maybe a hydrogen and an oxygen atom find each other and they share each other's electrons to make water.

I wonder something. Is the atom as we define it really an atom? Remember, Democritus said atoms were "indivisible"—they can't be broken down. And we've found we can splice atoms, we can fission them. Are what we call atoms really the smallest form of matter? I don't think so. I think we can even go smaller. I mean, there's the theorized quarks (basically more subatomic particles) as well as neutrons, electrons, protons. And an atom can be broken down, it can be cut, and spliced. Is an atom really an atom, as Democritus said? I mean, we can go smaller than an atom. There's subatomic particles. What's beyond these subatomic particles? What's beyond whatever's beyond these subatomic particles?

When you think about it, for all we as a human race know, we know little. We still don't know a lot about the atom, and I find that most of it seems to be mathematical garbage. But the garbage is important all the same, but it's not the stuff I like to look at. I like to look at the big picture: what does the atom mean. That's the big picture.

The atom means understanding the fundamental makeup of everything. It means understanding incomprehensible things. It's highly unlikely in my time, or anyone's who is alive now, that we'll figure out everything about the atom.

When you think about it, it's crazy. An atom, they're so small, but they make up everything. They're even smaller than bacteria, even smaller than cells; they're much more smaller, since they in fact make up cells themselves, right? Yes.

It's funny how Aristotle brought Democritus's atomic theory to the church, saying it was next to Godlessness. I suppose back then it was like that, but really, I find that science tends to agree with the theory of God in some aspects It's the opposite. Science and Religion can coexist; it's just that some people don't see it. If more than anything, the atomic theory presents more reason that there could, in fact, be a God. We see the atoms have an orderly, mathematical way about them. They do what they do with a certain autonomy. They do it with a set purpose. Just like our cells do; just like nature does (which I agree with what Democritus said; nature is a lot like a machine, a complex organism that does what it does). Just like our brains. Just like everything else we observe. Everything serves its purpose and does it.

But, on the other hand, science also supports the theory of something like the Big Bang theory, or any other theory one can think of of how what we have now is here.

Perhaps my mind wants to think it like this: First there had to be nothing, and then somehow, from that nothing, something was made. But what, perhaps, if there was always something here? There was always space. There was only the needed things to happen in the right way as to make the universe as it is today?

Another question: is the universe infinite. My gut feeling says no: and it's mostly my common sense speaking here. When you look at everything, we see everything is finite; it doesn't last forever. The sun will one day be gone. The earth cannot sustain itself forever, and will degrade to something like Mars (on a side note, I hope they find there once was life on Mars with the recent missions). I do not think the universe is infinite. But then again, if it is, then it is. I'm just theorizing, using what's in front of me and giving a go. And what I see tells me that it's not infinite. It has to end somewhere. It just doesn't span all over.

So if it's finite, how does that work? I'm not quite sure. Perhaps the universe is ever-expanding? Perhaps the universe is still growing? Perhaps new planets are being created quickly, slowly, but being created the same? Perhaps to us the universe may seem to go on forever, but it doesn't, it just goes on a long time.

As for other forms of life: definitely. There must be other life out there. This I'm pretty certain of, and I'm sure will one day be found to be true. But that's in another lifetime, another time, when the earth's all used up and we're in space, exploring. I do see that happening: stuff like star trek and all that. It'll happen eventually. We can't just stay on earth all the lasting of our race. We must leave.

Or face extinction, that is.

And who the hell knows. A meteor five hundred miles wide could hurtle towards the earth this very moment, and kill us all. That's the way it is. It giveth and it taketh away. Living is a privilege. We could all die any moment.

I could step outside of my house right now, and if things go right, I could be ran over by a car. And die just as suddenly as I live.

Few people seem to see this, though, and don't take life as something too hot to handle. They take it as something that's given. And living like that's wrong. You've got to live like any second you could be dead. Don't be depressed with how crappy this world is, just be glad you're alive.

Another side of me says it's pointless to live. But I've mostly tackled that side away. But that side has some good points.

Why live if all you learn and capture will die soon after, if not before, if not with you? Why live life if the world's as messed up as it is, and you can't just enjoy being alive, but you have toil to do it, too? Why live at all when there's people out there that're far more genius than you and will learn more than you ever will? Why do anything when it means nothing to you? Why even care?

All of these are good points. And there's many more I could give.

I'll probably plunge into this feeling once more some day. But for right now, I'm over it. Many call this angst, I just call it living. Life's not all straight and clear-cut, you know. It goes up and down, it doesn't stay level, and you can't always be happy with what you have. It's in us that when we have something, we take it for granted, and want more. That's what we all fall into. And then there's the whole feeling that life's not worth it. And that it's a waste of time. And we just live to die. And it'd be better to not suffer at all and not have existed.

Parts of me agree with this pessimistic, negative view of life. But not lately. Lately I'm just telling myself there's some things to live for in this world. The world can look all complex, atoms can look all complex, the universe can look all complex, anything and everything can look complex, but you can still simplify it.

There's some nice feeling to simple things, to small things. And these are the things that make my day.

Things like finding out what a word means, or reading a book and finding some interesting strain of thought brought on from it.

Why, today I even had fun doing math. If you know me, I despise math with a burning passion. Math to me is the devil incarnate, and I cannot stand to do it. And Geometry I put even a step above this. Geometry's like the Whore of Babylon, and it's even worse than math. Geometry's not even math to me at times. But it is math nonetheless.

In Geometry we're doing trigonomic ratios. You know, tangent, cosine, sine. And today we went onto being able to find all the parts of a triangle. It's fairly easy stuff, but I find it enjoyable just because I feel confident in it (which is a rare thing for math) and I feel that it makes sense and that it's not bad at all. I feel it's fun in its own way.

It's easy. You're given two sides of a triangle. You use the Pythagorean theorem to find the third side. Then you use the property of cosine, sine, and tangent to find the measure of the acute angle, and that's about it. It's easy.

Today I was reading The Silence of the Lambs and I came upon the phrase quid pro quo. I looked it up in the dictionary and found it means asking for someone to give you something and then you giving that person something. Just learning this has made me in a better mood. It's the small things that are the biggest difference.

I still do have a cynical outlook, I just try to keep it in. I usually am able to do this because I write most of my cynicism away in my writing, or get rid of it from some other way. It seems to work out in the end.

I think my grades are still terrible, but I'll get them up (or so I keep on saying. We'll see if it actually happens). It's not good that I have a Latin test tomorrow and I didn't even really study tonight. I'll probably do bad. I didn't do my math either. But I already got most of that done, and hopefully that's good and the teacher won't collect the assignment or anything.

It's also my mom's birthday today. I sent her all my stories I've written. It was a pretty sizable collection. I'm pleased with how many stories I have with how little it seems I've put into writing. I hope she enjoys those.

On another note, I should mention that one day my dad had that talk with me. I think that's for a different post, since I'm mostly worn out right now and about ready to quit writing. It's for another time I guess.

Dad's also off and at Utah this week until Thursday. My grandma's up here with us until then. My brother's been particularly wild lately. My mom seems to be doing good. What else? Not much else.

This turned out lame towards the end, didn't it?

Ah.

What I wanted to address.

Here's an interesting thought:

If God's the creator of Heaven and Earth, and the universe, then what created him, or it, or whatever God is?

I bet you can't answer that one.

Think about it for a while. It shows just how assuming it is to believe in God. I'm not saying it's bad to believe in God, not at all, I'm just saying there couldn't be a God just as much as there could. You might say everything you see gives more to your assumption of God. Well, everything I may see also may give me more assumption that there isn't God.

Here's how I feel about God, though: I feel it doesn't matter to me.

I also feel Heaven and Hell probably don't exist. There's also been an underworld and some sort of Heaven. It's in Norse Mythology, in Roman Mythology, in any religion we see almost. I highly doubt there's a heaven or a hell. It seems most just want to scare you about life, and make you worry about death your entire life.

That's not how it should be. You should rather live to your fullest and not worry about death at all. Death will come when it comes, and when it does you'll find out finally what there is after life.

I've come to the conclusion I'd just like to die and cease to exist, and perhaps my writing to live on. But it's highly doubtful I'll become something well-known like Poe, or Twain, or Hemingway, or Stephen King. It's highly doubtful I'll even make it big as a writer. I'm slacking as it is again on making my stories, but I suppose this suffices as my 2,000 words. Plus, there's good ideas in here for stories.

Also, I think I should mention this.

They've sort of found that time travel exists.

This is going to be vague, since I'm only recalling it from memory from what my Chemistry teacher said about it.

Okay. So they did a gold foil experiment like Rutherford did. The gold foil experiment is basically sending a beam of alpha particles at a foil of gold. In Rutherford's experiment, he examined that the particles bounced off the gold foil at angles, and some straight back. This showed there was a nucleus in the atom.

Now, they did it again, purposely missing the nucleus and electrons to see if the speed and all of the alpha particles remained the same. They found in some cases the alpha particles sped up, and in other cases slowed down.

Now, Einstein predicted this. I don't know where exactly he said it, or whatever else, but he said that time was a property of atoms like weight is and so on. He said time isn't like what we say it is, but time is a property, as weight is, as I said. He said it's not a certain elapse of a set variable, but it's actually a property.

So maybe time can be sped up and slowed down? Maybe it even further shows time travel's possible?

We don't quite know at this time. What I do know is that unlocking all the atom's secrets is the key to unlocking many other things. Maybe even the ability to play God and create things at our own will, and to change things at the atomic level at our own will.

It's so interesting, yet so alien to see this stuff. It makes you think how the world will be one day, far away. I'm not looking to the future, and I'm glad I don't exist there, but I'd be amazed to see what's going to happen in the far future.

Also, think about this. What if time in the future is going on as time here in the past is going on. What if time in the past is going on while we're here in the present. What if it replays over and over again, or it keeps going (maybe in separate dimensions, maybe something else) at its own level. I've mentioned this before, but it's things to think about I have deja vu some times. This would explain it. Somehow the world's bending and you're understanding something that's happened in the past (or maybe it was just in a dream, whatever the case sometimes reality doesn't seem so real. And it's when it's like that that it's so strange, as if there's something you can't quite put your finger on.)

Or perhaps, what if our understandings of past, present, future, are fundamentally flawed. What if there's just time, going on, and there was never past but where we see it. There was never future but where we see it. What if there's just the present, and the past is gone forever, and you can't go back to it, and you also can't go to the future because it hasn't been made yet? If things are relative like this, then time travel is impossible.

But I believe time travel may be possible, but if it is possible, it has some very easy ways to totally mess up things as we know them. You know the whole thing. If you change one thing, it changes many things, like dominoes falling in rapid succession.

Whatever the reality of time is, and if there's future and past or not, who knows. It's just interesting to think highly outside the box and think over how things could be.

I think the atom is what'll unlock many things for us. But it won't be happening in my time, nor yours, nor many others. But I see shimmers and glances of it here and there, like with that experiment with the gold foil that proved Einstein right.

Einstein must've been a genius. I'll have to read some of his other things someday. See what there is to see there. It's amazing he predicted that. Just like it's amazing Democritus predicted what he did way back when.

2.24.2004 (I hate this post, but whatever, I'll post it. . .)

I can't write. This sucks.

. . .I'm listening to a song from FF7. I love this song. It's from in Nibelheim, when you're in the scene with Sephiroth. Not the Sephiroth music, but the soothing, sort of flittery song. I can't explain what song it is. Just know it's a rather calm song that seems to have a disillusioned veneer to it.

I was trying to write down what this song makes me think of. It's hard to pin it down. I think it's quite a beautiful song.

What does it make me think of. . .? I don't know. It makes me think of FF7 and what a beautiful, wonderful game that is. It makes me feel like hugging something. It makes me feel like sleeping, like escaping things.

The music is subtle but grabbing. Solemn but mysterious. Sullen but devised.

I think it makes me think of too much to just put down here all at once. It sort of is so beautiful I can't even think about what it makes me think about. All it makes me think about is it.

I can't finger it. I don't know. All I know is I like this song. . .

I feel. I don't know. I don't want to know. I don't want to explain. I don't want to care. I don't want it to be tomorrow, I just want it to be now, or maybe that I go to sleep soon and I sleep a full sleep that lasts forever. Not death, but just sleep, a sleep where I dream forever but don't wake up, and the dream is so much better than anything here. A dream where I'm not limited by these emotions I feel; these anythings I feel.

What am I even saying? I don't know. I. Don't. Know.

I feel. . .frustrated. And I'm doing it consciously. We do control how we feel, and so do I. I'm not even looking at the keys as I type. Not even looking at this screen. I'm sort of putting my head down on my chair, shutting my eyes, and trying to make all of this go away. I'm trying to blank out. . .is that the word? I don't know. I don't know the word. It feels so frustra right now, so in vain, so ego sum nihil. I think I'd like to just lie in bed, alone, and just feel passionate alone with myself. That would feel good. But feeling passionate in a romantic sense has been far and few lately. Lately.

The words won't come out I'm holding them in because I don't think they're the right words I think they're the wrong words. Not the good ones, not the ones that I think are the real ones that are me. The words don't feel like anything, they feel like roadkill on a road that's been ran over by car after car and a large desolate freeway to nowhere, from nowhere, into nowhere, and being the center for nowehere that the roadkill lies on. Tires are round and spin forever and are black, and they just revolve, like the planets around the sun, like flies sweltered to a carcass, spinning madly around, madly madly around. Oh it's so mad. . .So very mad.

I think I just need to sleep. But I don't want to sleep. I want to know that I can write, but I can't right now, and I don't have the will, and I just want things to be easy. I want things to be out of the way and for everything to be what it should be.

And I'm just ranting endlessly, provincially, with no point or purpose or mean or reign or home,. I'm just saying to say to say, and speaking to speak to speak, and writing to write to write. And I'm just here to be here to be here.

We eat babies.

I think that should've been on the Star's shirts.

I wish I could write something. I tried a poem but it didn't work. It turned out terrible. Is poetry done for with me? I can force myself to write it, but that's not fun.

Writing's not fun when you force it. And that's what it's all becoming.

All you can do is remain strong, isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? I'm not strong. I'm weak. I'm pitiful. I can break and I'm fragile as a sandcastle on a beach by the lapping shore.

. . .Fragile as a sandcastle on a beach by the lapping shore,
. . .Go on roach, yell the antenna high, this is this and I've died,
. . .Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan. thank god for that much to have had.
. . .The god is in bloom, handcuffed and raped.
. . .

I still remember that poem, don't I?

Cloud water
endlessly deep
for someone to keep

Only underneath
that cloudy water
will you sleep

It still seems good now.

I'm just going to go to sleep, maybe read some Silence of the Lambs. I need to sleep, I can feel it. But in that same moment, in this same, I don't want it to be tomorrow. When it's tomorrow there's a whole new day of school to tackle, a whole new everything that's everything that's the world, and society.

It's a whole lotta things to break you and it's a whole lotta things for you, for you you trashcan man, you crash dummy, you vase with a wilted plant on it that's falling off the unkempt shelf. An unkempt shelf. An unkempt shelf. . .

And where is the self? The frame with the picture. And where is the self. . .an unkempt shelf? And where is the self?. . .An unkempt shelf?

And where is
the self?

2.26.2004

I just got done listening to my brother scream at me.

You see, being the selfish little boy he is, he decided to take the PS2 upstairs to his room. Now, you'll notice I didn't say our PS2. I'll explain this.

The Christmas we got the PS2, I found it in my dad's closet, an easy find that wasn't even hid well. And so, because of this, my parents got angry and took back some of the gifts they bought me and told me that I shouldn't look for presents like that again, and that the PS2 will be owned by my brother instead of both of us.

But he isn't supposed to have it in his room.

So, being the calm, collected person I am, I stepped into his room. He was playing Max Payne 2, a game that is mine, but I let him play it anyway. So, I ask him, "You need to take the PS2 downstairs. You know grandma's told you to do it many times. And you know it's against the rules to have it up here."

He screams, quite loud and quite rudely, "GET OUT OF MY ROOM."

So, being the calm and collected person I am, I stood there, and wouldn't give it up. Slowly, quietly, "You're going to take it out of your room."

Being the brat he is, he screams, loud enough for the neighbors on the next block to hear and get a headache from, "I SAID GET OUT OF MY ROOM."

So, being the calm, collected person I am, I still stood there, but my emotions were mounting. Why was my brother screaming at me? I hadn't done anything wrong. I had only came into his room to tell him he should take "his" PS2 downstairs because that's the rules—he's not supposed to have it in his room.

I take the memory card from its slot in the PS2, saying I won't give it up back until he takes the PS2 downstairs.

"I'M NOT TAKING IT DOWNSTAIRS GET OUT OF MY ROOM LEAVE ME ALONE I'M NOT TAKING IT DOWNSTAIRS—"

And here I was. The kid stood up out of his seat, began screaming incessantly. What a brat, I thought. I wanted to smack some sense into his stupid, ignorant way he was talking to me—by just screaming. In the other room I heard my mom slam her door—she was on the phone. Doesn't this kid know how to control his temper? Doesn't he know I'm just trying to have him do something simple?

"—GET OUT OF MY ROOM I'M NOT TAKING IT DOWNSTAIRS I'M NOT TAKING IT DOWN THERE GET OUT OF—"

He's starting to scream even louder now. Everything he says is in a high-pitched squeal. I wonder if his throat will hurt from that? Maybe. Spit starts flying down, and I hold him light by the shoulders and say, "Calm down. There's nothing to be screaming about." I say it all in my cool demeanor, in the nicest way I can, but inside I feel a need to hit this kid as hard as I can over the head to knock some sense into his stupid head.

I decide it's hopeless. My mom's on the phone, and if I were to do anything that made progress, it would be hitting my brother. And hitting my brother isn't a good thing. Each and every time I have hit him I have had to come to my dad and get bitched at endlessly that it's wrong to hit him.

But it seems it's okay for him to hit me. He's still screaming, spit coming everywhere, I see spots on his sweatshirt. Why does he scream? He has a temper just like my (step)father. Well, I'm not like that. I don't know why he has to be like that. Screaming like this is no way to act. In a few days he'll be 13. A 13-year-old that doesn't even act like one. Soon he'll be in 7th grade. Then what? Will he still be like this?

"—GET OUT OF MY ROOM AND LEAVE ME ALONE I'M NOT TAKING IT DOWN THERE GET—"

He hits me light, and I decide I need to leave, and act on it this time. He's just going to end up biting me, or hitting me, as he always does. I walk out.

I had wanted to sock the kid on the head, knock some sense into him. But I can't do that. Violence isn't endorsed by the family's ten commandments. "Thou shalt not hit." I guess I can't do that. Guess I have to follow what this house believes.

I feel frustration, anger, as I walk down here and start typing. I feel a want to cry, but I don't. Cry for what? The day hasn't be so bad that I need to do that. Crying's bad. I think it's weak. I don't want to look weak. Always keep the emotions in, and let them out somehow else. Don't show any emotion but what you feel inside, and keep it inside. Let people do what they do. Let the kid sit up there with this PS2 and go against the rules and do what he wants. He's always gotten his way since he was little. He wasn't even spanked much at all. One time he had spray painted the garage. Oh, but that's okay. My parents just cleaned it off because for some reason a kid isn't supposed to be responsible for his actions, he's supposed to blame others. That's fine, isn't it? Just dandy. It really teaches him how to act.

Oh, and he always gets his way. And when he doesn't he screams like a brat. That's okay too, isn't it? I'm sure when he's trying to get a job and they won't hire him he can just sit there and scream at them and yell his "GET OUT OF HERE" all over them and scream his yawp all over the world. I guess that's okay. He'll go real far.

He's been terrible lately. He's hyper, and knows it. He does everything and he knows it. He sometimes bounces all over our furniture making bang! and boom! and pow! noises as if he's playing with something I can't see. Why does he do that? Why does he have to be so hyper?

I love this kid. But not lately. He's just been bad company to be around. He swears, he acts annoying. It's gotten to the point where no one wants to be around him because he's so annoying. He doesn't even have any friends.

I guess I see a lot of me at his age in me. Perhaps I was this bad? But I know I didn't have a temper like that, and that I felt responsible for my actions, unlike him. I also know that I did just as bad in school, but shaped up 7th grade.

He has a lot of growing up to do. This growing up will probably crush him just like it crushes me right now. He'll learn. He'll be tamed by how things bend him and divot him. He'll figure it out.

All I know is I can't stand being around him right now. I can't even approach him and ask him to do something without being screamed at. Usually I try to stay away from telling him what to do, but my dad's gone. And also, my dad's also given this kid so much slack over the years. He's never punished, and when he is it isn't long. He knows how to play my dad and make him sing. He can play hell with my dad's heart and make it all his. I could never do that. My dad and I aren't the same people.

Some of it is probably that he's his real son. It must be part of it. It has to be. But I know my dad loves me as much as he does my brother. Sometimes it's questionable though. Sometimes I wonder. But what's new.

What my brother did has offset my mood. But what can you do.

I'm sitting here in my room, the lights off, loud, nice, soothing music booming in my ears. Since I stayed up so late last night, I feel like I could just sleep now. I think that'd be nice. Just to sleep. And not be here right now.

I feel at times all this crap is overbearing.

To quote a reliable source and end this: "few, if any, survive their teens."

Think about that.

You change so much these few years it's insane. I feel it's for the worst. I'd rather just be an ignorant stupid kid like my brother is right now. But time's not like that. Time's a real bastard. Not much else can be said.

2.27.2004

Today had been going fine. Had been going just wonderful great whatever adverb you want to use. Whatever shrugging shoulder you want to shame.

It had been going good. But then I come home.

My dad's been gone all this week. He came back last night.

Since I had nothing to do, I went to my friend Ryan's house last night. I hadn't been to his house for quite some time, and everyone needs to be with someone else once in a while. I just needed to get the hell out of here.

Went over there and my brother was left home alone. The kid's going to be thirteen. I thought it would be all right.

I tried to call my mom before I left, but I got no answer on her cell phone.

So ten o' clock rolls around. My dad calls me at Ryan's. I had been about ready to go. He tells me to get home now, I'm in trouble.

In trouble for what? Oh, that's right. For leaving my brother home alone when he did just fine, and when I called him once to catch up on things. He was only playing his game the whole time. And the kid doesn't even listen to me. Many times he just screams endlessly at me, or he grabs scissors or a knife and threatens me with it so I won't do anything. And if I hit him back or fight him back I'm the one that's in trouble because I was just knocking some sense into his head. But it's all right for him to walk up to my daily and tell me to shut up and call me bad names, but if I call him any bad names I get hell. So I don't see how I do much of anything when I watch the kid. Because I don't.

But I guess I can't even do anything much even though I'm currently about seventeen years old. Even though next year I'm graduating from high school. Even though my mom says I'm mature and responsible while my dad sits here and tells me on a daily basis I'm a loser and I'm a slob and that I'm lazy and all these little things that add up in the end. I guess leaving my brother because I needed the get the hell out of the house for once was wrong. I guess doing this makes me a horrible person. I guess trying to give me some me time isn't right in anyone's eyes. This week's been stressful, there's no way around it. Every week is stressful. I've been trying to hold myself up and keep on going, but now it feels like it's all coming down.

It's the little things. They gnaw on you till you're raw—visceral—till you're just a bleeding, bloody chunk that doesn't even look like what you want to look like. You look in the mirror and it's not even you there, and all you see is the little things, the small things, the gnawing depravation of your skin.

Since I went to Ryan's and left my brother home alone I'm being penalized like some sissy little kid. I'm grounded. I'm grounded because I left my brother who's going to be thirteen soon and should be able to be home alone fine. I'm grounded because I just needed a break from everything. I guess I'm just a terrible person. I guess I should just go shoot myself in the head because I can't do anything right, and I can't even stay home and watch my brother when I'm supposed to. I guess I deserved to be grounded for something when I don't even see it as bad. My parents are so overreacting it makes me want to just scream in endless frustration.

Whatever. And oh well. Wonderful phrases, aren't they? Yes they are. Yes. They. Are. They're the best things I can say.

Going to Ryan's would be very nice right now. Just getting the hell out of here would be nice too. But I get to be treated like I'm some stupid ignorant little kid and I'm grounded. I'm just so frustrated and sick of this daily crap from all sides. There's school, there's this, there's the need to get a job, there's the need to get ready and on my way to college, there's the need to give myself some time to unstrain this, there's a need for me to just relax and not be so serious all the time. There's a need for everything and I'm sick of giving what I need. I'm sick of the meticulum, the tedium, the entire useless drone this world's adhering to.

I was doing fine earlier today. I actually tried and cared about what I was learning about as much as I could. I came home and I felt that I could write my 2,000 words today, that I could give myself some me time. Because it's the weekend after all.

I guess not though. I guess I'm still cemented, still perversed, to these interdictioned chains. I guess all I do is in vain.

I just feel like pounding monotonously on a wall in thick, heavy strokes, and feeling the numbness in my hand tinge up to my shoulder tinge up to my head. I feel like sleeping. I feel that nothing matters because I can't even go and do things with my friends even though I'd like to.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I guess I'm just reactive. I try to tell myself I'm fine and I'm going to get going on things. I tell myself to keep at it all and it'll work.

Today was registration for the ACT. Got that out of the way. And I don't care. I don't care I don't care I don't care.

Half of it is I'm cranky from not sleeping too much, and half of it is the real feelings that I constantly suppress. Whatever it is it doesn't matter.

Why should I even do anything? Why should I even go to college? Right now it seems useless, stupid, inane. Right now I don't want to do anything but lie down and not have to sit here day-by-day and feel or know or see or anything.

I don't even know why I'm moaning. Writing down it doesn't do anything. It seems useless as everything else.

At least I get to go see Passion with my friend Ryan and Dusten from newspaper. But Ryan has to pick me up, since my dad's being so goddamned anal about me leaving my brother.

Here I thought, "Yes! It's the weekend! I can finally do things with my friends!" But now it's, "No! I can't do anything because I'm a terrible person who left his brother at home alone when he's going to be thirteen and he's completely able to watch over himself and sustain himself for a few hours! And I even called him in those few hours and because of my decision to leave I'm grounded and I can't do anything for no reason at all just because my dad seems to think I deserved to be punished for doing nothing! Yes!"

It's a 360 degree turn of turns. It's a circumvention of the sides. It's a radius on the sides. It's a circle spinning spinning—spinning.

Enough of this then. It didn't help too much. I need to do something and take off all this humdrum crap off my mind. Stupid world. I hate it.

I'm in a System of a Down sort of mood. "Sugar" is a great song. . .I recommend it to sate the pains.
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Sunday, February 29, 2004

Dead Astronaut

"I can tell you what they say in space
That our earth is too grey
But when the spirit is so digital
The body acts this way
That world was killing me
That world was killing me
Disassociative

The nervous systems down, the nervous systems down

I know

I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space

Sometimes we walk like we were shot through our heads, my love
We write our song in space like we are already dead and gone
Your world was killing me
Your world was killing me
Disassociative
Your world was killing me
Your world was killing me
Disassociative

I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space
The nervous systems down, the nervous systems down
I know"
--Marilyn Manson, "Disassociative."

A dead astronaut in the jaws of space. His helmet, wide, domed, is broken. The glass fell out. His hands prostrate, legs stolid, unmoving. Floating.

Space: the last frontier. The universe is universal; a large, billowing, looming thing. The stars shine in space like blinking eyes with long lashes held to the face. The face, the universe, wears its eyes proud.

The dead astronaut still floats. His face is shrouded, withdrawn in the dull light. A closer view returns an empty face, the mouth held open in an endless moaning. Up from the gape, vapid eyes. They seem to stare at something, and the fear is almost palpable. Culpable.

The dead astronaut's suit is white dull. How did he die? A good question. The answers escape him. They're eschewed. Gone. The dead man can't talk.

It is a long time of floating in the endless space; it is a long journey, an odyssey, but all ends have their beginnings. All beginnings have their ends.

Time is an over-reaching, seizing enslaver. And at all times all moments are interacting and going. While the past happens, the present goes on. And while the past and the present go, the future lives too. It all repeats again and again, a wheel circumnavigating. It rolls on, it makes its dust and rolls on. The wheel is of fascination. Its sheer beauty cannot be violated.

While at this moment the dead astronaut in space floats, he is dying deaths innumerable. The deaths are circumstantial. Preimagined, preforetold. But while he dies in other continuums of time, he is already dead here. He floats, the helmet broken, the face framed. Still the same.

In another continuum of time, he is being conceived. His parents, a well-to-do man, and a supple, large-breasted woman, kiss one another in embrace. They hump each other and pleasure sweeps across the large-breasted woman. The well-to-do man, cupping hands to her breasts, also purses in pleasure. Copulation has ended. The ejaculation comes with held ease, and at a smaller level sperm writhe and traverse the woman's intimate insides. Millions of them move. These are weird, alien creatures; their long flagellum spiral; their heads, containing the man's genetic information, steer forward. This is a fight for birth. Will they make it to the fallopian tubes? Deep in here, smaller than the eye can see, a few hundred do. The rest have died.

In here awaits an ovum—an egg—for one sperm to fertilize. The head sperm, the best of the best, makes it. Fertilized, the ovum makes its way out of the fallopian tubes and then to the uterus. As it makes its way, the cells divide. Two cells become four, four eight, eight sixteen, sixteen thirty-two, and on and on, until there formed is a fetus. Then a baby. Then a child. Then an adult.

Then death, in the devoid of space. When he died, first his heart died from his inability to breathe. His helmet's dome glass cracked, breathing impossible, his heart did not get the needed requirements for it to keep beating. When his heart stopped beating, nourishment to body cells ended; circulation of blood ended. The cells of the cortex, susceptible to lack of oxygen, die first without their required nourishment. Then the cells in the medulla oblongata. Next the cells of the body's glands and the muscles that move the bones of his skeleton. His bone and skin cells live for several hours, then die. At the microscopic level, there is a slaughter. A killing of millions upon millions of cells with no clemency whatsoever. With no rhyme or reason but nature's. It's genocide—the killing of a distinguished, set-out group. Of his cells. But no one weeps of the deaths of the cells, of the ornate, encaptual being the cells created. But instead, they weep for the singular. The man.

A woman cries, the tears secreted in her eyes' tear glands reacting. The tears roll down her cheeks, fall. Her eyes are tight from her emotional upheaval. Her brain sends messages of grief, and reacts with tightening her eyes and tears. She lets out cries of aguish and despair as the tears roll down. At a small level, her vocal cords rock back and forth with the emanation of her screams. Her son has died. When—where—how—is unknown; all that is known is he is dead. She is an old woman, gray hair, nineties. Growth and aging has stopped in her—her cells renew themselves at a much slower pace than when she was in her thirties. She is less acute. Her memory is dulled. She is still big-breasted, but her breasts have lost their perk. They now sag and have lost their beauty.

A woman cries, the tears less, rolling down her cheeks. She cradles her baby son in her arms and blood is down on her. Pain strains her face, and sweat permeates from the pores of her skin, but it was all worth it. She cradles the baby close and wallows in the beauty of the moment. Then the baby is taken from her arms. The doctor takes shears and cuts the umbilical cord. In the womb, it had served to nourish this baby. But now it is unneeded. The doctor, meticulous hands, takes the baby's penis and circumcises it. The foreskin removed, the baby goes back in her arms. He cries too. Why do babies cry, the crying woman is thinking. She thinks it's because birth is traumatic, like being raped. She wonders what it would feel like to first see the world; she wonders what that would look like, feel like. It would be unsettling. Uncomfortable and eerie and strange.

In another continuum of time, in parallel with all time running its ways again and again, a woman holds her child in her arms, tears down her cheeks. The child feels the supporting nuzzle of his mother's heaving breasts and cries too. Blood flows down the child's leg from a large laceration. "It's going to be OK," she said. "It's going to be OK. We'll go to the hospital."

A woman cries, and she lies in bed, still remembering her son. She pulls the covers over her body. She is old, in her hundreds, and about to die. There is not much pain. Only the mental feelings divying out and going on their ways. She can feel her heart struggling to live, to throb. Thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud it goes. Then thud. . .thud-thud. . .thud. . .thud-thud. . .thud. Then thud. . .thud. . .thud. . .thud-thud. . .thud. Then thud. . .Then. . .thud. Then nothing. Nothing but small, dying thuds.

She looks old. Beneath the covers she wears a bra half-seen through an open nightgown. The breasts are sagged, veined and bruised. They have lost all shape and look ugly. Her face is full of wrinkles, clear concise wrinkles that seem to be strained and stretched thin. She is at peace and dead.

The last thoughts, those of her son, milled around in her head. The brain cells sent their last few messages to one another in a stumbling tandem. The thoughts were slow, gasping. She had almost lost all of her memories from the death of her brain cells over the years.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he said.

They mourned and bowed their heads and prayed. She went in the ground and the dirt was thrown on top, covering the coffin. But at the same moment she's alive and well and young, and she's alive and well and middle-aged, and she's alive and well and old. Again and again and again time goes about its predetermined way. A circle, a wheel, a parallel arrangement.

The dead astronaut in space. He floats and comes to where he left from. A planet, green with trees, blue with water. He begins to enter the atmosphere. What remains of his flesh burns up and falls. He lands and is only bones, small pieces of bones, a fine powder of bones. The atmosphere ate him up, and all that's left is too small to see with the discernable eye.

"I love you," she said to him, after they had had sex.

"I love you too," he said. They were lying in bed together, still naked. He lies to the side, his hand comfortable on her stomach. She lies to her side too, her hands eased at her sides. She can feel his body pushing against her, can feel it on her buttocks, her back, all over. He can feel her against him.

Her face is loose and thinking. His looks the same. It is late at night. The alarm clock beside the bed, on the nightstand, says 3 AM in digital read. The room has a small emanation of light from a mini lamp beside the alarm clock. The light steadies on her face and complexes her face with shadows and lightened areas.

She is thinking about the future. About stability. About what will happen. She is tired. With her hand, she feels the texture of the lamp in a haze, and feels for the switch. She finds it and puts pressure on it, and the light goes out.

I love you hangs in the air as her eyes, depressioned spheres, close. Eyelids closed, and blackness ensues. She feels the releasing grasp of sleep grab her. Yank her. Rend her. It takes her away to the desolate, open plain of dreams. She feels the desolate shatter take her away.

They fall asleep, together. Soon after they slept, the sperm who made it to her ovum began its work.

She looks—stares—at the pregnancy test. Is it true? Is this real? Is it a dream? It reads positive, tells her she has a baby being created inside of her. She's so young—only nineteen. Is she really ready for this? She wonders how he'll take it. She sets herself down on the toilet, finds a magazine, urinates, and tries to take her mind off of it. She decides she hates bathrooms. This one most of all. It's so white. The walls, made of tile, are white. The sink's counter is white. The sink's faucet is white. Its drain is white. The bathtub is white. The shower spout is white. The toilet is white. She wonders why she's trying to take her mind off of it. The bathroom being white was fine. She was just trying to send her feelings of apprehension and guilt aside.

She is done peeing. Still on the toilet, she moved her left hand up and pressed the handle. The familiar action of the toilet flushing resonates and she gets up, pulling her nightgown back around her and tying it. Her breasts heave in their clustered hold. Her face is full of her inner turmoils.

The man drove to work thinking about her. She was so beautiful, so enchanting. His thoughts reoccur to the night before, and how passionate, how releasing it had been. He had one hand on the steering wheel, lazily pushing it to and fro as needed. His other hand rested on the outside of his open window, fluttering in the wind. His eyes, unfocused, view out the windshield. He can see someone walking their dog—the dog a small poodle. He can see he's coming up on a stoplight and it's going yellow. There's a car already stopped and he slows down to compensate. Veering to a stop, foot firm on the brake, he moves his hand outside the car onto the top, hitting. A hollow metallic to his ears.

His thoughts are focused on her. They cannot leave her, cannot desert, abandon, go away, digress, from her. The light turns green. The backlights of the car in front of him lose their red lighting, and the car speeds forward. He moves his foot from the brake and puts it to the gas, hitting it gentle and going to an easy start. Ten minutes later he was almost dead.
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