Friday, February 6, 2004

Herb

Description paper for english.

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The smell is musty. The place is old, dank and dark. With little light.

He's old, decayed, inundated, worn-out—he's wasted away like a rust-crusted car with chipping flesh paint, with beaten tires worn from spinning, from traveling here and there. Here and there: point A to point B. Was it really so simple? Just a car going a steady twenty-five miles an hour from Born, Womb to Endsville, Death; just a steady car, then new and fresh and full of potential, now worn down, the engine overused, dying. That was him. Just a car, just a thing traveling to its preordained location.

He manages a smile as he walks into the place, the old place—dank and dark. With little light.

His eyes are red in the corners, his pupils are black holes. His eyes tell you about him if you just look. They can let you into his mind; let you into his heart; let you into him. Look closer. The eyes are still alive. Out of space. Out of time. But still alive.

He is a short man. His hands are old but strong—creator's hands. Designer's hands. Maker's hands. The hands of God.

His face is wrinkled. Wrinkles expand from his eyes and mouth and forehead like ripples in water from throwing in a heavy rock. A rock that first makes a big splash, then ripples, then secedes to the river's dirt bottom.

His hair is gray. The signification of old—old as a silent black and white movie, old as a black man segregated from a white man, old as snow on the cracked asphalt of a highway in the middle of nowhere, to nowhere. His gray hair is in thin strands, strands so thin they are like twisted and gnarled twine. That hair used to have gradient, shade and hue. But time is a robber. A thief who steals gradient, shade and hue.

Time numbs. Time dumbs. Time's bondage can break and make and shake a person's uneven core. Time is endless and groping. Time is a pendulum racking to and fro, back and to; and in each fell swipe, in each pendumlum's throe, there is the second's death, and the minute's waste, and the hour's moan. And in each throe, in each ululation, time is knowing of its doing. Each second a human's heart beats, it's another beat to the last. Another prick, another preen, another tally to time's perpetual preservation, perseverance; another less second and another less heart beat to our deaths away and passed.

The old man smiles at this thought. He couldn't have said it better himself.

"It's time to get to work, Herb," he says to himself. He looks around the room; the old musty-smelling, dank and dark room. With little light.

Books. The spines of books, those bones which hold all other bones, stare back. Words on each spine glare. They all stand on shelves.

This is his library. This is his room. It's not anything else.

In the far right wall of the room, away from the glaring staring books and spines, there is a desk. A small, humble desk. On it there is a case of pencils, the case carefully closed, some ink ribbons, paper, and a typewriter. Everything on the desk looks old and used. The typewriter is an especially old, outdated model, still where it is even with the advent of computers. Some of the blank paper has yellowed with age, sick and malnourished. And on the desk, and everything on it, there is a collected specimen of dust. It is thick enough to say Herb has not been here for quite some time.

Herberton Belay walks over to his desk. Immediately thoughts cant out of him, twist into him, begin spinning in him.

It had been a long time since he had been in here. It was here he feels he has lived his whole life, and it was here he died and now seeks to live again, as long as he can. And he will live again.

He can smell the smell that is ink to paper, pencil to paper; the smell that is writing. The smell that is words, those eyes and hands and mouth and feet, the words that let you feel and see what you can't. He smells creation; he smells, most of all, storytelling. Storytelling he had given up long ago in frustration. Writing has always smelled musty; has always been mystery.

Herberton Belay sat down in the old, uncomfortable chair for the first time in years. He readied his typewriter, put in a fresh sheet of paper, and Herberton Belay was soon no longer Herberton Belay. He was gone and had left, and in his absence there was feeling. There was the motion of actual movement, of actual inertia and force.

Herb had been pushed away; pushed away in the mystery. The smell that smells musty and trailing. Herb had been pushed by a good friend who was always old and could guide. An old friend who was stronger than the hand of Death, stronger than the perpetual pendulums of time.

Writing had stolen Herberton Belay. Would it give him back? Not until he couldn't be pushed any longer. Not until he was gone.

And he would never be gone. He would exist as the words.

His hands sat knowing on the typewriter's keys. He began typing away, one word at a time, one second at a time, one pendulum at a swing. He typed quick, and with meaning and with heart.

And on the blank page, and many after it, he wrote must and dust. And he wrote dank and dark and graceful and light. But most of all, he wrote with heart; with imagination's child. And for once, he was young again. Younger than he had been when he was just a hopeful, as well as hopeless, teenager at the age of seventeen; younger than he had felt when he was just a small child, just growing and learning. Herb felt alive. More alive than age could ever give, or youth could ever spring. He was with imagination's child, he was with himself.

He has the most powerful gaze as he types away.

He thinks it smells like old pickles. Cucumbers that were placed in vinegar and changed, and that had sat there forever and were still just as tasty, good and great.

It was old pickles. It was flawless.

He wrote and wrote. And when he stopped, it felt like he had began again.
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Thursday, February 5, 2004

Martha

1
There's the flow of paper; swish and swoosh, white stark and it's there. Pencil in hand, a strange wry hand and it is writing. Scribble scribble, write it down. Write it down, put it there, make it there, it feels good there. Touch the words in that right way, put them down the right order. Does it look good this way? Give it more meat. Feed it some. Here starve it more. Let it suffer. Scribble scribble, write it down; scribble scribble, let it suffer, let it drown, let it starve, let it grow, let it eat, let it die, let it breathe, let it feel alive let it be alive and moving; make it kinetic make it have inertia.

Here I draw flesh and here it's given sinew and bone and mallow. And here she's a woman and she has long white hair and she's old. Wrinkles crack the face, the face is white as a ghost. Her name is Martha she was never young but I can make her remember. I can make her young. I can make her feel it.

Scribble scribble, there's the turn of the page, there's the words coming down, crashing and they're pouring out and can you breathe them in? Martha let me know you're there. You're old and you're white; and I can see your eyes. Deep-set eyes and they're black as dead space with no stars, no twinkles, just bare and clean; just full of stark nothing. What's your story Martha? What are you? Who are you? Tell me.

She's you and I'm her and we're all the same. Scribble scribble, there's the pencil flowing; click-clack there's the keyboard clanging, banging, and it's coming all down and what does it mean? And where is it going to go, and what is it we're seeing? Martha let me read you for a while.

Everyone has a story and so does Martha. Martha you were born in a hospital and the hospital was full of large quiet men. And the large quiet men were writing and they were talking to their papers. And they were pushing you, they made you. When you were in your mother's womb they made you form; there wasn't any sperm, there wasn't any ovum, there was just you and them; they made you, they built you, they loved you from the start. Martha you were so cute as a small little fetus developing, growing. You were augmenting and you were getting beautiful.

You look human from the beginning Martha. At first they just wrote MARTHA and then you started talking and then you starting making. At first you were just what the quiet men were writing down and you were empty; then you started coming alive in your mother's womb as she pushed and pushed—as they pushed and pushed. And Martha you were going to be beautiful from beginning.

When you were born the quiet men cried and looked up from the blank sheets they were writing on. They smiled at you as they saw you for real for once and they were glad to see you. You were beautiful and you had those black eyes; but they looked like obsidian, lustersomely smooth, shiny; like small black smooth pebbles. Your hands were just like they said: they were your hands from the beginning. They were smooth and curious and were creation hands. Fresh and new from just being made they were unworked but soon enough they were brought to working Martha.

A little baby you were Martha, with peculiar powder white hair and plump cheeks and a little body. They nourished you—smiling, the quiet men were still in the hospital with you and so slow you were being cut from your umbilical cord. Blood was all over, but it was blood that didn't stain; it was blood that was, that is, that makes. It was red with emotion, thick with meaning, thick with what would be. And you didn't mind at first. Martha you looked at the blood and thought it was just the beginning, and the quiet men still writing away looked at the blood and it was just the beginning. It was just the start.

You were a wailing thing then. You would cry and cry and you'd want anything you could have. And you wanted it all right away. Rome was built brick by brick; but it was always there, it was always in those peoples' hearts. Peoples' hearts are deep hidden things, and blood pumps through that machine that writhes and lives. Peoples' hearts aren't ever seen these days, but the quiet men writing wanted to show theirs, and they wanted to find your heart and let you see it. They wanted you to be alive and as full of your heart as they were; rich into it, and feeling it beating, and realizing how it felt.

Brick by brick; hand by hand; heart by heart you were being built. In the quiet men you always existed, deep in their hearts you were always waiting to get out. And so they sat to their blank sheets and they wrote with letters; and the letters were full of heart. And so they wrote with words; and the words were full of heart. And with these words they made sentences, and with these sentences they made paragraphs, and with these paragraphs they created chapter and section and skin and layer. Brick by brick, Martha; hand by hand; word by word; sentence by sentence. Heart by heart, Martha, heart by heart. It was all there, but to make it matter it takes time. Peoples' hearts take time. They take time. Take time even though they've always been there.

A heart is as big as a fist Martha and is red and full of veins and muscle. Doesn't it seem small? But hearts, little blood fists, can work hard and heavy. It can pump and pump and push and push and it can make and it can feel. And it can blacken too, it can die it can not want to beat. To use a fist you have to beat it bloody. To use a heart you have to beat it even bloodier Martha. You have to work it hard. It's strenuous it takes time it takes will. Brick by brick; heart by heart; beat by beat; vein by vein; it'll be made Martha it'll be made. And why did you want it so fast?

The men were sleeping one night, their blank and filled pages to their sides; and your eyes opened wide and they look like they look now—looked like black dead space with nothing in it but futile expansive intent. You had been growing quickly Martha hadn't you? You were now twice as big as you were when you were born. The blood all over your operating table was drying, wasn't staining, and your umbilical cord was feeding you. Was eating you. It's controlling you and nourishing you.

You want to break free.

Click-clack and scribble scribble and it was the first time you were alive. Really alive. Make it suffer there. It feels good there. The words are coming out right Martha and you didn't like it you didn't want to be sold away. You wanted to be alive; you wanted to be. You wanted to think; to think and therefore say you existed, and not just in these men's words.

You made a knife come to your hands; you made it, you wanted it, you wished for it. It was yours and you had it. One of the quiet writing men was sleeping, wasn't he? You could see in his dream and you were controlling him. You had the power. You could just see his hand as it groped out a fresh piece of paper and it wrote. One word, scribbled and written in chicken scratch; one word that started it all, that made you alive. One little thing that started it.

And he did grope for a fresh sheet of paper. And he did put his pencil in his hand. His eyes were closed tight; closed tight and deep in sleep, and the eyelids quivered in his deep dream. Back and forth in their sockets, back and forth and back and forth; so fast Martha so fast. You had him good. He was yours. All yours and no one was going to stop you now, they were all asleep. The words came slow and hard and you didn't like their feel. But you know what you want. You wanted a sharp cutting instrument, you wanted sharp steel. You wanted a scalpel. Wanted to cut them away.

So slow Martha he wrote SCALPEL and then there it was in your hand. It's shiny in the light isn't it Martha; it's beautiful. Kill your beauties Martha; kill your beauties Martha.

The umbilical cord was long and big and full. And with your scalpel that shown your eyes on its reflection you cut it. It took a long while for you to do it. You had to puncture it slowly; had to take it brick by brick; heart by heart; word by word; incision by incision. But soon it broke, soon it gave way. And it was only the beginning for you Martha, it was only the beginning. The real one. It was the real start. With the cutting of that cord you were alive for the first time; were a breathing living thing; you were Martha. You had killed your beauties Martha you had killed them.

All the quiet writers you kill. You slay them with your own hands. It felt good, you felt like a monster, and that was good. You smiled and smirked and your eyes were no longer black like pebbles; they were cold and rigid but still so fragile. Two small dark black lakes where the water was rising up and down. Pulled by some moon's gravity way up in space.

They were dead Martha, kill your beauties Martha. Murder them. Redrum. They're all dead. He's in the corner and his face is not recognizable. And the other one's there and he's not recognizable. You can't tell who any of them were. Martha, where do you think they went? Do you think they went where the words took them? Do you think they were going someplace good?

Your eyes Martha. They are cold; cold as revenge. Revenge is a thing best served cold; best served with a bitter feeling. Your eyes are cold. You're shaking. Shake shake shake shake. You can't believe it. You did it to them. You feel remorse, you feel sad. You're shaking, you're cold. You did it Martha. You killed them; you killed your beauties.

What did you do? Why did you do it? Now you're feeling regret; feeling it for the first time. There's a first time for everything Martha, a first time for it all. Get used to it Martha, get used to it. Peoples' hearts, people themselves, they are so many different things. You know it felt good; you know killing them felt good. It didn't feel right but it felt good. People change all the time; people are so many different parts. Elated, sorrowful, morose, violent, sullen, anguished, depressed, good, happy, glad; peoples' hearts know what they want to do, but sometimes they don't know. Sometimes their hearts play tricks on them. Sometimes their brain acts as their heart; sometimes their heart acts as their brain.

You're about to cry Martha, I can see the tears coming. Get up. Go on. It doesn't end here, this is just the beginning. It's the start: the death of others for the lives of some; innocent, good peoples' deaths for the lives of someone like you, Martha. Pig's blood for a pig; kill your beauties; bleed; burn maim destroy effuse decay; dilapidated and run-down and full of shame. Martha's blood for her. Their blood for them.

It's okay. Don't cry. Don't cry, I don't like to see people cry Martha. I don't like it, it feels too sad. Get up, it's time to go, Martha, there's more to see. There's more of your story to tell isn't there? I can see it in your face, in your black eyes, in your white hair.

You're growing right now. At a fast rate. You're no longer a baby; now you're a child. Your plump cheeks are now less plump; your white hair is now thicker and has more depth; you're taller; your thoughts are more profound. Become what you will, there's more to come, more to see, isn't there?

She's going on now. She's leaving the hospital; she's leaving where she was born. Martha holds back tears. She's leaving where she murdered. Where she killed. She's leaving, and Martha's going out to show herself. She's going out to be.
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Wednesday, February 4, 2004

In Utero

Bad Mitch, staying up until 1 AM writing, when you should've been doing your homework in those two-and-a-half hours.

But seriously, magic was happening then. I swear. I started yet another new piece (of the many I've started so far since I've stopped writing poems mostly to start writing stories) and I think it's turning out good. I wish I could post it here, heh. I really felt that it was good, and I was so lost in what I was writing too. I just wanted to sit there and write and write and write, but I had to go to sleep.

Shouldn't be too bad though. I'll be able to do my homework I have left at lunch.

Man, I don't like Chemistry. It's too...math-oriented for me. I'll get through it though. Significant figures, and how to add and subtract and multiply and divide scientifically is an evil little thing. Plus I've never been too keen to measuring things, or measurments. I'm pretty stupid in the math area, and it comes from back in grade school when I was lazy and I didn't give one thing about what we were learning and math. I remember guessing on answer after answer.

It's supposedly common knowledge to know at least some measurment conversions. Like how many feet are in a yard, and whatnot. Well, I don't. I'm stupid in this way. I just don't know how long a foot or feet is, or an inch is to begin with.

An inch is about as long as your thumb, isn't it? Isn't that how that form of measurment was first made? Who knows, and I don't think it's pertinent to what I'm trying to say.

So pretty much, when someone says something's six feet away...I have no clue how far away that distance is. When someone says there's three Liters in this cup, I don't have much of a clue of how big it is, unless I use a measuring device. And even then it means nothing to me. It just doesn't mean anything to me. Measuring something in a quantitative aspect that's precise as well as accurate just doesn't interest me. I don't think it interests many other people, either. Qualitative (meaning, it's not using numbers and is usually guessed. Something like checking someone's fever.) measurment I like better. At least it means something to you, since you can use it every day.

I can't believe I wanted to be a scientist when I was little. Then it was I wanted to be a genticist. Then now it's a writer. I even wanted to be an astrologist when I was little too. Now I realize that while I do like science, too many of the science implement math which is mostly beyond my comprehension. Especially physics stuff; that stuff looks quite ugly.

I like stuff like Darwin's Natural Selection, or his Origin of Species book. I like stuff that's intelligent but doesn't have numbers which mean nothing to me other than values. I like something I can feel; and numbers I can't feel, I can't really get any fun out of them, or any love. Numbers are just cold hard little bitches--cold hard facts.

Geometry has been so easy lately. I love it, and it's actually making sense. All we're doing is similiarity between triangles, and ratios as well as proportions. Easy stuff, and it makes sense. Proportions are the comparison of many things to one another...by numbers, of course, but it makes sense. Similarity, while sometimes I'm stumbling on it, it's easy.

The thing I hate about Geometry is proofs, though. I don't like being forced to think in math, especially math I don't understand well. Thinking in math for me hurts. It really hurts.

I'm just not a numbers guy. I'm a word guy, I'm a guy that likes fiction. I mean, after all, "the difference between reality and fiction? fiction has to be real."

I've never liked cold hard logic and cold hard facts. While they do matter to an extent, common sense, as they say, is much more useful. But you need both common sense and factual intelligence to be smart in some fahion. Common sense is genius dressed in a cordial tie and an urbane suit. Common sense is genius dressed in work clothes.

A lot of my grades seem to be falling. Especially Latin. I need to study that stuff. I need to learn those declensions. I'm so damn lazy, though. What can you do, I just want to read and write.

And that's what I'm doing. I've been popping open On Writing by Stephen King to random pages, just reading things to cheer me up and into a writing mood.

There's lots of funny, entertaining things in that book. The beginning of it has a small biography of his life, which is heavily interesting. Just seeing the big picture is great.

Stephen King's first book to ever be published was Carrie, of course. Most people should know this much about him, if you're not familiar with him.

Well, as the story goes, the way he got the idea for Carrie is story formation at its best. It was the combination of many ideas. He had read an article in a magazing about puberty making paranormal activty, telekinesis or something to it. And he identified that as a good story to write.

And also, there were these two girls, they were dead, that he'd known and were teased in school. One wore the same clothes every day, and so on.

So he wrote the first page, the one about Carrie White having her first ovulation, her first period. And he threw it away, he didn't like it. He didn't like what he'd wrote.

He actually was frustrated all along as he wrote the book to some point. The characters just weren't interesting to him. He thought he was doing a bad job writing.

He was wrong, obviously.

His wife took that first few pages out of the garbage, told Steve he needed to write it, and she knew something. She knew he could do it, and all Steve needed was the encouragement.

There's also many other helpful tips for me as a writer in that book. Don't overwhelm your writing with adverbs. Second Draft=First Draft-10%. Kill your beauties. Write and read a lot.

Lots of good advice. And some really funny stuff too.
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Tuesday, February 3, 2004

The Sound and the Fury

Started reading some William Faulkner. It's great so far.

It would be wise if you, who is reading this, read some Faulkner.

I also need to start reading The Stand, by Stephen King, again. That book rules too.

I'm reading The Sound and the Fury right now. Although the way it's written is undeniably hard to follow, I still absolutely love the way it's written. I'll definitely be reading this over, and over, and over again just so I can get what's happening straight.

It inspired me to write something in a new way. The story I wrote, about 1,800-ish words, ended up being about Daniel Samms again.

I might post it here, if I can get it here (my floppy drive is broken at home), but otherwise, I don't have it.

I've been thinking about leaving the internet lately as well. Soon I will be getting a job, and so I need to put school and a job in the forefront of my mind, not the internet.

Also, I don't think what I've written in here, all these times, speaks well for who I am. People like Alex seem to think I'm some deeply depressed individual, when I'm not. I'm actually pretty lighthearted; those posts were just me writing away my thoughts, they were me speaking to myself and escaping by the amazing thing I've found called writing. They were more personal than anything. They weren't meant to make people form opinions of me.

I mean, this is the internet, after all. I don't see why someone would totally believe someone is something online as much as they are off it. And while the feelings there I write are real, it's not how I am all the time.

Lately I have been fine. I've been great. I feel I'm over whatever had me under the weather, and I feel I will get a job and I will go to school, and hopefully, someday, I will become a meaningful writer to some people--perhaps just those I love, and that is enough.

It's not about the money. Writing has, and never will be, about the money.


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Monday, February 2, 2004

The Phoenix and I, continued.

The old man sat nestled close to the fire. His parted lips, dumbly gape, still stood in their usual placement. His eyes—his maddening, dumbing eyes—still looked the same. In the fire his eyes glew with even more atrocious madness. I could only see the sides of his eyes. The fire was in them, making them sparkle, making his whole face glow.

"The fire, uh. The fire. It's, warm," he said. It was still in a small lull—a low voice that sounded as if he were only talking to himself.

"Yes," I said, feeling uncomfortable, but wanting to say something all the same. "Yes, it sure is." I looked at him as I said it, and when he spoke again, his eyes did not falter, his gaze did not move away from the flame. My mind was battling with the idea of this man being mad. Was he really mad? What had made him mad, and if so, had he always been mad?

The senile old man lulled up again.

"What's your name? Uh, my name's Walter. Walter, uh, Walter Price."

My name's, uh. My name's uh Seymour, uh. Seymour, uh, Mont, I wanted to say. I had to hold back boisterous laughter. I could just hear myself saying that in my mind—it sounded exactly like this man's, Walter's, voice. With the uhs in it—that dull croak to it—an old man's speak—it sounded just like it. Somehow, the thought took my mind off this man's inherent craziness for the moment. A smile on my face, the arrest of laughter, I said, "My name's Seymour Luxus Mont. Just Sy to my friends, which are few and far between, it appears." He was still gazing into the fire, encaptured by it. "By the way, Walter, is it okay if I call you, perhaps, Walt? If you want an equal exchange, you could most certainly call me Sy, if you wanted."

Walt. My thoughts turned to that transcendentalist Walt Whitman, and again my mind was at work using humor to lighten things up—to kill away how crazy this man seemed, how lost and cracked. O captain my captain, that one poem went. I wanted to shout it out then and there—wanted to yawp—and bust out in song and poetic demur. Again I smiled, fighting off and arresting my laughter. No Laughter, that's a bad boy, a very bad boy. You're under arrest, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And there the handcuffs would be pulled around Laughter, and my vocal cords—which were straining to crackle with Laughter—and to jail, behind cold steel bars Laughter would go. Three square meals a day of bread and water and rocks. A hard bed with broken coils, and a tempting window which would show light—the light of freedom, and what could—what would've happened—if laughter hadn't been such a bad little boy.

My thoughts were trailing again. So much that I was starting to think I was mad, and that I was only seeing this Walt's madness because I wanted to see it. But I do suppose humor is the logical response. It's the way I have always been. In the face of pressure, of danger, of death's eye, I was always wittying myself along in my own way. And maybe this old man—this crazy-looking, senile man—maybe he and I weren't too different at al. Maybe I looked just as crazy to him? I certainly would never know. He was urbane—polished and keeping his composure. His face told me nothing of what was going on in his mind. For being so crazy, my mind joked, he sure is reserved and composed, quite sane. How can someone reserved and composed by mad? Oh wait, that's because you're mad, isn't it? You're the one that's insane.

I think my thoughts gave new meaning to that crackerjack term for the insane asylum: the "funny farm." Thinking this, I almost laughed again, and I arrested my laughter again, as if Laughter was as much as disease as Alcoholism. It seemed I needed to keep reminding myself to get rid of my compulsion. Time to go to Laughers Anonymous, Sy. Time to get a hold of yourself, be around your kind, and tell your sad little story of how mad you felt a man was one cold Winter's eve. Anything's better than the funny farm, right? Anything's better, even that.

It seemed I had been sitting there the longest of times, my thoughts trailing, my mind reeling; and then the old man finally spoke up again. He was still looking at the fire, as if he were fire itself incarnate, as if he was staring it down. He intended to stare it down until he won, it seemed. "Uh, you can call me Walt—it's, uh, fine." He paused. "I, uh, remember. . . remember when, uh, we'd need coal, when, uh, it was so cold. During the, uh, the uh depression. . .funny how, uh, developed things are now. You've got your, uh, electricity, your natural, uh, gas heating." I nodded and nodded and nodded—it was all I could do, all I knew to do. There wasn't much I could add—the man was talking about the 1930s, for crying out loud. I was about negative thirty years old then. And that's young. Much too young to remember. I had what pictures I'd seen, what I'd learned, but it didn't go to the depths this man was talking about now. "Uh, yeah it was a lot different back then. Times were, uh, hard. . .harder than they'd ever been."

"My father, uh, he was a farmer. Farmer's, uh, they had it bad."

I nodded. I knew about it. "Yes, I know," I said, "it even got so bad they destroyed their own crops, even slaughtered their domesticated animals. Burned crops. Also, there was the dust bowl, wasn't there? The drought."

"Uh yeah." Still looking at the fire, his eyes still glowing, his face still dancing with its light. Can't you look away? my mind screamed. Can't you look away, talk louder, and get rid of the dumbstruck gape and eyes? "I remember, uh, watching my dad do it, too. . .I had this one horse, I uh, loved him. I'd uh, named him Babe, after, uh, Babe Ruth—he was big then, uh, he gave me. . .inspiration. My dad took the gun. . .and. . .and." He grimaced a bit, the first noticeable change in his composure. And his eyes had this fragility that went past his senile appearance. His voice came to a low murmur, then in a whisper he said, "And he uh killed Babe. Killed him right then and there—and his blood, oh, his uh blood."

My mind saw it—but didn't want to. Looking grave, feeling compassion for this man in an off-hand way, I said, "I'm sorry." And added, "I guess we do have it pretty lucky now, don't we? Go to school—get a good education, a good job." I sighed, a long sigh. "Then just. . .live." Living—it was all you could do, really, wasn't it? "It makes you wonder, seeing how much things change. How fast we got our electricity—our heating—it makes you wonder what the next level is. What's going to happen next, what we're going to create—what we're going to discover, find, understand.

"With the advent of the human genome project, and the advent of our understanding of genes. . .eventually we'll be able to control our own appearance, how we look when we're born, what sex we are. It's a scary thought. . .a very scary thought. You know, Einstein was known for saying, 'Even God doesn't throw dice.' Well, eventually we'll be a God, and we won't be throwing any dice any more. It's a scary thought, knowing that we could control all that. . .governs us. All that makes us. And fundamentally, I think that will destroy us. . .our knowledge and the way we use it, some use it, will destroy us." It all came back to the fire again, and what it meant—fire, burning strong, living off its oxygen. But without the oxygen, it fades, it flickers and dies. And when it grows too much—when it is allowed the right conditions to adapt, to feed, it will burn everything in its path—will scar everything it touches and make it to ash and ember—will kill the trees which take the carbon dioxide and turns it to oxygen. And because the fire no longer will have enough oxygen to sustain its uncontrollable nature, it will die. And the Phoenix and man, the Phoenix and I, will arise again.

In the end the nature will rule. And it's right that way. It's good that way. It's meant that way. It should be that way, it shouldn't be any other way at all. Simplicity overtaking complexity. In the simpleness of nature there is the complexity to harness it. And once harnessed, once warped and emulsified to man's own will, the complexity is penetrating and arresting—detaining and lifeless, apprehending, limiting. And so complexity cannot last. In bondage, detained, one will seek to crack his metal cuffs holding his hands, will seek to escape.

And those who don't seek to escape will be victims of their own humanity—of what they are. Selfish, self-sustained, wanting it all, they will not be able to control what they have harnessed. And uncontrolled, complexity will deviate to simplicity. And the stark wonder that is nature will prevail—the nature that is unchanged and undefiled earth, and simple life.

That man Walt and I, we talked over this most of the night. He still seemed mad to me—but it seemed to be becoming less and less, I seemed to be a lot like this Walt.

I still found it funny how the conversation had began with farms and farmers, when I'd just thought of that crackerjack term for the insane asylum: the "funny farm," moments before.

Walt still had the crazy look in his eyes, the dumbstruck part of his lips. But it no longer seemed insane, no longer mad, it seemed like him; it seemed like him more than anything now. As we drifted off to sleep, my mind felt, for the moment, at rest. A rest that was comforted in security, in serene simplicity—in the starkness of how I was thinking, of how simple things really could be, and should be.

I was thinking a long time. The fire was out by then. Had died from lack of anything to burn, even though it had plenty of oxygen. The ash glew dully. I made a tired little smile, a playful one. And I became a drifter in the thin wall of sleep. That thin wall that can so easily be broken and seem like reality.
Comments (1) | Permalink

Sunday, February 1, 2004

Eho Sum Nemo

machineofbones (8:03:53 PM): *eats your brain* I am the
brain eater.
madsatirist (8:04:00 PM): good for you
madsatirist (8:04:02 PM): :-)
machineofbones (8:04:11 PM): I know, it is good for me.
machineofbones (8:04:14 PM): Because I can eat brains.
machineofbones (8:04:39 PM): Brains are highly on
nutrients, you know,.
madsatirist (8:04:49 PM): ::nods::
machineofbones (8:05:11 PM): *snods*
machineofbones (8:07:07 PM): "Coma White," by Marilyn
Manson, is a good song.
madsatirist (8:07:22 PM): Manson...eh
madsatirist (8:07:27 PM): not my cup of tea
machineofbones (8:07:29 PM): Heh.
machineofbones (8:07:32 PM): That's fine.
machineofbones (8:07:42 PM): Math..not my cup of tea,
either.
madsatirist (8:07:51 PM): I really think he's a publicity
whore, anyway
madsatirist (8:07:54 PM): I mean,
madsatirist (8:08:00 PM): if he didn't act the way he
did,
madsatirist (8:08:10 PM): I seriously doubt his
"music" would have taken off
machineofbones (8:08:23 PM): Well, that's true.
madsatirist (8:08:34 PM): Similar to Eminem
machineofbones (8:08:35 PM): I like to be whoreified.
madsatirist (8:08:39 PM): it's about their image
madsatirist (8:08:43 PM): not the musci
madsatirist (8:08:47 PM): music*
machineofbones (8:09:28 PM): The whoreor is amazing.
madsatirist (8:09:51 PM): ::is about to stop paying
attention::
machineofbones (8:10:12 PM): That's what selective IMing's
all about, Alex.
madsatirist (8:10:57 PM): If you wish to converse, do
make it worthwhile for me
madsatirist (8:11:05 PM): instead of mutilating words
machineofbones (8:12:15 PM): Sorry Mr. Esten, I won't do it
again, I don't want to go to the principal's office.
madsatirist (8:12:41 PM): Patronizing will get you
nowhere, as well.
machineofbones (8:12:57 PM): That wasn't patronizing, that
was Mitchcams.
machineofbones (8:13:01 PM): *Mitchcasm
madsatirist (8:13:12 PM): And again, mutilating
words...
machineofbones (8:13:41 PM): What, is it like I'm ripping
Christ from the cross and cutting him to pieces, or something?
machineofbones (8:13:43 PM): Does it hurt?
madsatirist (8:14:00 PM): Mentioning Christ does
nothing here.
machineofbones (8:14:13 PM): As it should.
machineofbones (8:14:14 PM): ;p
madsatirist (8:14:15 PM): If you think that mutilating
the English language makes you look intelligent,
madsatirist (8:14:23 PM): you are mistaken.
machineofbones (8:14:28 PM): I don't want to be intelligent.
machineofbones (8:14:30 PM): I just want to be me.
madsatirist (8:15:17 PM): So you're going to tell me
that "Mitchcasm" is just being you, and not at all
trying to sound more intelligent than others?
madsatirist (8:15:20 PM): Hmmm...
madsatirist (8:15:28 PM): let's go see.
machineofbones (8:15:55 PM): No. It's just me being me.
machineofbones (8:15:59 PM): If it's not funny to you, then
it's not.
madsatirist (8:16:10 PM):
http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?s=
&threadid=36317&perpage=15&pagenumber=4
machineofbones (8:16:12 PM): You know you're a smart
guy.
madsatirist (8:16:31 PM): Hmm...correct me if I'm
wrong, but you were certainly trying to elevate
yourself above DeathBug
machineofbones (8:16:48 PM): It was for the fun of debate.
machineofbones (8:16:57 PM): In the end I said he could
think what he thinks.
madsatirist (8:17:18 PM): So, then, it was limited
solely to the debate?
machineofbones (8:18:06 PM): It was for the fun of debate,
as well as the fun of writing.
madsatirist (8:18:13 PM): madsatirist (9:09:24 PM): If
you wish to converse, do make it worthwhile for
me
madsatirist (9:09:32 PM): instead of mutilating words
machineofbones (9:10:43 PM): Sorry Mr. Esten, I won't do it
again, I don't want to go to the principal's office.
madsatirist (9:11:08 PM): Patronizing will get you
nowhere, as well.
machineofbones (9:11:25 PM): That wasn't patronizing, that
was Mitchcams.
machineofbones (9:11:29 PM): *Mitchcasm
madsatirist (8:18:19 PM): Is this still part of the
debate?
machineofbones (8:18:33 PM): Yes.
madsatirist (8:18:50 PM): Now, is that an honest
answer,
madsatirist (8:19:03 PM): or are you just rationalizing
this situation to save face?
machineofbones (8:19:55 PM): machineofbones (8:12:15
PM): Sorry Mr. Esten, I won't do it again, I don't want to go to
the principal's office.
machineofbones (8:19:57 PM): I meant this in fun.
machineofbones (8:20:00 PM): But you don't see that.
madsatirist (8:20:25 PM): Oh, I don't see fun in that?
madsatirist (8:20:34 PM): Let's consider your attitude
in past months.
madsatirist (8:20:46 PM): Belittling the instructor...
madsatirist (8:21:01 PM): Taking a very indignant
tone when speaking of my teaching plans...
madsatirist (8:21:15 PM): Just short of calling me an
Idealist...
madsatirist (8:21:42 PM): Well, considering all that,
I'm sorry if I misinterpeted what is so clearly
patronization.
machineofbones (8:22:06 PM): Heh.
machineofbones (8:22:23 PM): If you want to be a teacher, if
it's what you're meant to do, do it.
madsatirist (8:23:22 PM): And now you skirt the issue
yet again, by falling back to difference of
opinion...
madsatirist (8:23:25 PM): How peculiar
machineofbones (8:23:40 PM): Indeed.
madsatirist (8:24:05 PM): Do you have any logical
defense other than wholly agreeing with me?
madsatirist (8:24:14 PM): Are you out of excuses?
madsatirist (8:24:47 PM): ?
machineofbones (8:24:50 PM): Lie me an alibi.
madsatirist (8:25:10 PM): Why not take responsibility
for yourself?
madsatirist (8:25:27 PM): Why insist on having others
take the responsibility?
machineofbones (8:25:41 PM): Because it's fun to fuck with
people.
madsatirist (8:26:09 PM): So, "fucking with people" is
a sign of intelligence? A sign of maturity?
madsatirist (8:26:28 PM): Because your intents are
obviously not honorabl.e
madsatirist (8:26:40 PM): You have no logical
motivations behind it.
machineofbones (8:26:46 PM): No, they aren't honorabl.e
machineofbones (8:27:19 PM): It's just the internet.
madsatirist (8:27:39 PM): Again, why not take
responsibility for yourself, and stop blaming other
entities?
machineofbones (8:28:08 PM): And who are these entities,
and how am I blaming them?
machineofbones (8:28:10 PM): Let's get a list.
madsatirist (8:28:22 PM): Very well
madsatirist (8:28:25 PM): High school instructors
madsatirist (8:28:27 PM): The Internet
madsatirist (8:28:29 PM): Myself
madsatirist (8:28:46 PM): Is that sufficient?
machineofbones (8:28:51 PM): And now, how did I blame
them?
machineofbones (8:28:57 PM): You forget that part.
madsatirist (8:29:15 PM): "[whoever pissed you off at
the time] threw it in my face"
madsatirist (8:29:47 PM): Tell me what I'm forgetting.
madsatirist (8:29:48 PM): If you can.
madsatirist (8:30:08 PM): Because you are losing
this debate here.
madsatirist (8:30:10 PM): Deny it if you want.
madsatirist (8:30:21 PM): Reply with, "Well, that's
your opinion."
machineofbones (8:30:25 PM): I'm losing, and it doesn't
matter either. I don't see a debate.
madsatirist (8:30:42 PM): And now you are
attempting to escape from the situation.
madsatirist (8:30:53 PM): Idealism...
machineofbones (8:31:00 PM): ;p
madsatirist (8:31:17 PM): You are denying what is
here.
madsatirist (8:31:26 PM): Humor will get you so far.
madsatirist (8:31:32 PM): But it will not finish the job.
machineofbones (8:31:57 PM): I'm not up to jobs. I worked
at one at KFC once, they fired me after the first four weeks.
madsatirist (8:32:23 PM): Again, you are deflecting
the issue.
madsatirist (8:32:27 PM): You are attempting to
escape.
machineofbones (8:32:34 PM): Obviously.
machineofbones (8:32:40 PM): And it's pretty fun, too.
madsatirist (8:32:52 PM): KFC is wholly unrelated to
the topic at hand.
machineofbones (8:33:09 PM): An obtuse angle measures
90-180 degrees.
madsatirist (8:33:17 PM): And by this, do you still
regard yourself as a mature intelligent?
machineofbones (8:33:47 PM): I'm a seventeen-year-old who
goes to High School and who is in 11th grade. Do you expect
me to be intelligent?
madsatirist (8:34:16 PM): I expect when one says
they are intelligent, then they demonstrate
intelligence.
madsatirist (8:34:21 PM): You have claimed
intelligence.
madsatirist (8:34:39 PM): But I see a little boy.
madsatirist (8:34:39 PM): No offence.
machineofbones (8:34:41 PM): A mentally handicapped
person is intelligent in their ways.
madsatirist (8:35:12 PM): You are not a Rainman
machineofbones (8:35:22 PM): My grandpa is mentally
handicapped, and he's intelligent.
madsatirist (8:35:32 PM): Again, you are not a
Rainman.
machineofbones (8:35:48 PM): I've never liked rain
anyways.
machineofbones (8:35:54 PM): The stuff is so wet, and dirty.
madsatirist (8:36:20 PM): I suppose it's beneficial
that you won't be around next week.
machineofbones (8:36:44 PM): Is the pope an over-zealous
religious fanatic? If so, then it's beneficial.
madsatirist (8:37:15 PM): The Pope is the Church's
Marlon Brando.
madsatirist (8:37:25 PM): But that is skirting the
issue.
machineofbones (8:37:48 PM): Skirts are nice, especially
short ones.
machineofbones (8:38:05 PM): If I could, I'd be skirting
anything I could.
madsatirist (8:38:07 PM): You are certainly not
intelligent.
machineofbones (8:38:26 PM): Label me then.
machineofbones (8:38:27 PM): What am I?
madsatirist (8:38:34 PM): A poseur.
machineofbones (8:38:41 PM): Make it more mean and ugly
than that.
madsatirist (8:38:49 PM): And that is putting it nicely.
madsatirist (8:39:00 PM): Why would I feel a need to
do that?
machineofbones (8:39:01 PM): Make me a monster.
madsatirist (8:39:06 PM): I have said what I wanted.
madsatirist (8:39:17 PM): It is up to you to further
develop it.
madsatirist (8:39:34 PM): Say it yourself.
madsatirist (8:39:44 PM): You've been wanting to say
it for a long time now.
madsatirist (8:39:48 PM): I know you have.
machineofbones (8:39:55 PM): It.
madsatirist (8:40:12 PM): No, Mitch.
machineofbones (8:40:20 PM): No Mitch?
madsatirist (8:40:46 PM): Very well.
machineofbones (8:41:07 PM): Very good.
madsatirist (8:41:15 PM): You are avoiding the point.
madsatirist (8:41:23 PM): Stop trying to escape.
machineofbones (8:41:43 PM): I already see the point, and I
have seen it is in a plane, and I have made that plane my home.
machineofbones (8:41:49 PM): And the plane flies me to
many places.
madsatirist (8:42:16 PM): And being weird for the
sake of being weird will also get you nowhere.
madsatirist (8:43:01 PM): I really would advise
against trusting your definition of weird,
regardless of who you believe you are.
madsatirist (8:43:27 PM): And I would advise against
trusting your definition of fun, as well, regardless
of who you believe you are.
machineofbones (8:45:16 PM): Then what definitions
should I believe and trust? Hm?
madsatirist (8:46:13 PM): Perhaps the definitions of
the English language.
madsatirist (8:46:27 PM): Ever think about that?
machineofbones (8:46:57 PM): I don't think. I don't have
metacognition.
madsatirist (8:47:10 PM): Again, metacognition is not
thinking.
madsatirist (8:47:15 PM): It is knowing about
knowing.
madsatirist (8:47:25 PM): Anyone can think
madsatirist (8:47:32 PM): But not everyone can truly
know that they know.
machineofbones (8:47:35 PM): Well I know that I know that
I know.
madsatirist (8:48:08 PM): But you don't.
madsatirist (8:48:20 PM): You are still living by your
own little provincial mentality.
madsatirist (8:48:25 PM): Why?
machineofbones (8:48:36 PM): Cur? Quod.
madsatirist (8:48:47 PM): Even other high school
OBers are aware of the outside world.
machineofbones (8:48:57 PM): Ego sum.
madsatirist (8:48:58 PM): Shinmaru
madsatirist (8:48:59 PM): OtakuSennen
madsatirist (8:49:02 PM): Shinji
madsatirist (8:49:27 PM): Are you going to
straight-up answer the inquiry?
machineofbones (8:49:41 PM): Ita vero.
machineofbones (8:49:48 PM): Quod.
machineofbones (8:50:28 PM): Ita vero means yes.
machineofbones (8:50:33 PM): Quod means because.
machineofbones (8:50:36 PM): Ego sum means I am.
madsatirist (8:50:42 PM): Then answer the inquiry.
madsatirist (8:50:48 PM): Then answer the inquiry.
machineofbones (8:50:53 PM): I did.
machineofbones (8:50:54 PM): I did.
madsatirist (8:51:03 PM): No, you did not.
machineofbones (8:51:14 PM): Spread your legs and read
between the lines.
madsatirist (8:51:16 PM): "Because" is not a suitable
response for anything.
machineofbones (8:51:39 PM): Or, preferably, if you're an
angel, spread your wings and read between the lines.
madsatirist (8:51:49 PM): I'm getting bored.
madsatirist (8:52:00 PM): Are you going to face the
facts or not?
machineofbones (8:52:13 PM): I'm getting stoned...what was
it that Bob Dylan said.
machineofbones (8:52:24 PM): And no, not the
intoxicationally defined term of it.
madsatirist (8:52:26 PM): You're trying too hard here,
Mitch.
machineofbones (8:52:48 PM): I find this funny, because
we're both just messing with each other. ;p
machineofbones (8:52:52 PM): In our own ways, of course.
machineofbones (8:53:52 PM): "But I would not feel so all
alone
Everybody must get stoned."

machineofbones (8:53:54 PM): There it is.
madsatirist (8:54:12 PM): Quote the entire verse.
machineofbones (8:54:49 PM): They'll stone you when
you're at the breakfast table
They'll stone you when you're unable
They'll stone you when you're making a book
They'll stone you and say then good luck
machineofbones (8:54:57 PM): Well I would not feel so all
alone
Everybody must get stoned
machineofbones (8:55:49 PM): Well, they'll stone you and
then say it's the end
They'll stone you and then they'll come back again
They'll stone you when you're riding in your car
They'll stone you when you're playing your guitar
machineofbones (8:56:00 PM): Yes, but I would not feel so
all alone
Everybody must get stoned
machineofbones (8:56:38 PM): Obstinate silence, I see.
machineofbones (8:56:42 PM): ;p
madsatirist (8:57:38 PM): No, actually, I'm talking to
Charles about cartoons.
machineofbones (8:58:21 PM): And now you've given up.
machineofbones (8:58:23 PM): Sounds good.
madsatirist (8:58:46 PM): Given up?
madsatirist (8:58:46 PM): No, you're boring me
machineofbones (8:59:03 PM): Heh.
madsatirist (8:59:08 PM): I'm serious.
machineofbones (8:59:14 PM): I'm not.
madsatirist (8:59:22 PM): You try too hard to sound
funny, or intelligent,
machineofbones (8:59:22 PM): Mr. Esten, I actually think
you're too serious. ;p
madsatirist (8:59:32 PM): and come off as extremely
dull and boorish.
machineofbones (8:59:49 PM): I think most writers are like
that.
madsatirist (9:00:04 PM): Are like what?
madsatirist (9:00:09 PM): dull and boorish?
madsatirist (9:00:21 PM): You've read A Modest
Proposal, correct?
machineofbones (9:00:31 PM): That's a negative, sir.
machineofbones (9:01:11 PM): You've read The Pit and the
Pendulum, correct?
Comments (6) | Permalink

Dath

Dathall Wilts sat at the kitchen table. He was thinking about the strange person he'd met that day. His name had been Alder, and he had been different.

Alder had worn distinguished, colorful clothes—clothes that Dath had never seen—not ever. They were so full of color; full of colors Dath hadn't even knew existed. And when he'd seen Alder, saw those clothes he was wearing, he hadn't known what to think. Dath hadn't even known what to say. He had been breathless—his jaw was closed tightly, and through his teeth and nose he had held his breath, as if caught in the moment. Eyeing Alder, his eyes wide, his arms to his sides, Dath had felt that moment last so long. And when Dath had finally took a deep, hard breath, that was when he greeted himself to Alder.

It had been during school—during lunch—as Dath had been sitting in his usual table, his usual spot, with his friends.

They had been taking about Fera Harner. It seemed they did this every day at lunch—like it was some ritual.

But what they had talked about concerning Fera had been different. It hadn't been just talk of how good she looked, or what she had been wearing. It had begun like that—but it had turned out different.

Dath had wondered if it was for the best it had gone this way, and he did the same now, as he thought back over it.

"Fuck," Groyl Stephens had said. "Did ya guys see what she was wearin taday? Did ya?" Groyl took in a bite of his lunch. He was big, chubby. His double chin made it hard to distinguish where his neck began and ended. Groyl's cheeks were round, his eyes meek and small on his round face. Groyl did a Groyl smirk, remembering what Fera had been wearing as he chewed his food.

"Hell, I saw." It was Enton Giers. "I saw. She was wearin a short lil skirt, was torn of course, but let me tell ya—went bout this high—bout shortest I ever seen too. And she was wearin no bra, and this lil tight shirt—just this lil thing. I swear you could see the nipples—could see em pokin right out. " He paused as Groyl swallowed his food he had been chewing, and went on, speaking in a whisper. "I heard she's been raped many a time, I have. Some say she's pregnant. For all I know, she damn well could be. Some say she's been fucked half a dozen times—some say a dozen."

"Sounds like a whore if I knew one," Bent Summers said, who was sitting right next to Dath (Dath was on the seat to the right of him), and across from Enton. Groyl, beside Bent, on the seat to the left, was smiling, and looked like he was in a hypnotized haze. Dath thought he looked as if he were going to drool all over the table—and he could well imagine that happening Could see it going on so long that the table itself would be covered in it. Even so far as the entire cafeteria flooded with it. And it might be stretching it a little too much, but he could imagine an underwater sea. One that covered the whole school in drool—and he could see Groyl in that sea of drool, that hypnotized look on his now dead face, his eyes wide open. Those eyes looked like they were undressing you—they looked like they could see right through you.

"Fuck yeah," said Groyl, still looking hypnotized. And sounding it. "Course she sounds like a whore. Course she does—that's cause she is one—she's a gawdamn dirty lil whore." Groyl thought over how many times she might have been raped—tried to put his finger on a number—tried to finger it. "I heard too she's been raped, but the best I can guess is bout half a dozen—even less. I don't think it's that high—could be wrong, I suppose, but give or take, I'd say she's been raped more than once." Groyl put his hand dreamily on his double chin. "Goddamn, she sure is one sexy lil bitch, isn't she? Gawdam—gawdam, she's, she's just so goddamn sexy."

Dath had been quietly eating all throughout the conversation. He had listened, and now as he looked in Groyl's eyes, and saw his hand on his chin like that, he had to hold back a laugh. Groyl sure was funny with his lusty want for Fera. It was too bad she was already taken. She had been for a long while.

She was dating Warn Bower, had been for a while. From what Dath had found out, she was often raped by Warn's friends—sometimes by Warn himself. Even gang bangs sometimes—all at her, one by one, rape after rape. It wasn't a bad thing, of course—it was quite usual. Allowing another person to rape your girl—or wife, for that matter—wasn't seen as a bad thing. Allowing others to rape your girl showed you loved her enough to let others have her, and that you weren't selfish—as well as a woman allowing men to rape her was sign of the woman's integrity and strength. It showed her willingness and her power. It was polite and honorable for a woman to allow a man to rape her if she was asked. If she declined, it only showed she was selfish and had no honor.

When Dath was a child, he had seen his mom being raped many times. He hadn't meant to find her being raped, but it was just a matter of being there at the right time. Looking through a little crack in the door, he'd watch his mom, and she never resisted when he watched. Each time she had a smile on her face—it wasn't a pleasurable smile, more of a smile of pride—a smile of accomplishment. And as the man on top of her (it was often his dad's friend, Delton) would reach orgasm, she would only smile more—she would only have more pride reading on her face. Dath could tell she was glad to do it—it was the polite thing to do—and polite things go a long way, he had found.

He had asked Groyl then—he'd been thinking of asking him since forever. Dath had put down his fork he was eating with, and just asked. Groyl's hand was still on his double chin, still leaning forward dreamily, his eyes off in the distance, as if he wasn't even at the lunch table. It was like he was with Fera right then and there.

"Groyl," Dath had said. Groyl had turned, looked at him.

"What?" And Dath said it, after all this time.

"Why don't you ask her to let you rape her?" he said, said it as if he hadn't wanted to say it forever. As if it had just come to him now.

Groyl only stared, his mouth moving up and down slowly, his double chin moving back and forth, back and forth. He didn't look surprised, Dath thought, he just looked like he was trying to articulate what he was thinking. He was trying to understand why he hadn't asked her.

"Well, I," he began. then stopped. Bent looked at him, amused, and snickered.

"You're just afraid—can ya imagine that? Groyl afraid—afraid, of all things." He rolled his eyes. "Are you really that scared, are ya really that much of a scaredy cat?" Bent snickered again, and looked at Groyl, waiting for him to say something back. When Groyl's mouth only continued to move up and down like a swaying, rusty swing, he spoke up again. "Well Groyl? What do you have to say? Why haven't you asked her to rape you? What's the reason?"

Groyl's mouth moved up. Moved down. Up. Down. Up, down, up, down. Then it stopped moving, and he looked like he was about to speak.

Dath actually had an idea why, but he wasn't sure. He would wait until Groyl said something before he assumed anything. Dath had read on his face then that he was finally going to say something. His mouth had stopped moving, too.

"Well," Groyl said, speaking up finally. "I, well, I'm afraid of that Warn. The guy seems like a real jerk—like a fucking jerk. A big fucking jerk. And I'm afraid if I ask her to rape me, he'll, well, he'll hold it against me—hold it gainst me like it's fucking life or death." He stopped, looking stern. "I'm not a chicken at all, Bent. What would you do? Haven't you seen that Warn guy? He's a real bastard from what I've seen—gets into fights with lots of people—pulls out knives, even—guns too—is heavily into drugs.

"He seems like a real fucking bastard—one that Fera doesn't deserve to put up with at all, either. I'm sure that fucker's only been with her as long as it is cause he threatens her—puts some fear into her. I just don't get it, I don't get how Fera even started going out with this little prick. I just don't get it, I don't get it at all; I don't get it one little fucking bit." He sounded angry. He sighed. "I don't even know why I give a fuck about Fera—I don't even fucking know her, ya know? I don't even know her. Why the fuck do I care for her so much? I should just face it, shouldn't I? I should face she'd never go out with some fat bastard like me—and that she's stuck with that Warn bastard." He paused, as if thinking things out. Then, "And I feel like such trash for not helping her, ya know? I know that bastard's doing something to keep their relationship together—and I get a feeling it's not about something as fucking simple as love. And I can't even do a thing to help her—I'm, well, I'm afraid. But I'm not chicken, Bent." He finished. "I'm not chicken. But what can I do?"

Their entire table was silent. There wasn't a snicker from Bent, wasn't a single whisper, peep, anything. Just silence.

Dath wanted to say, that's not true, Groyl, and you know it. You know you could get her, could have her rape you if you wanted—you know this Warn guy wouldn't care. You know you're a good guy, that you're a great friend, that you deserve someone like Fera. But all he could do was stare at Groyl. Maybe Groyl was right. Maybe he was.

Dath had given Groyle a look of desperation and gotten up, grabbing his tray to go dump it.

That was when he had seen Alder—had seen his bright, strange clothes he was wearing. It was the first time he had met the mysterious new student—but it was not the last.
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The Phoenix and I


There was a man there that lonely Winter eve. A very strange one at that—but a man all the same.

I had been sitting lone in my house, beside my warm fire, my thoughts thinking and crackling. The fire had touched my face as I sat watching—had given my face that glow of ember. And I'd just been thinking. My thoughts were of nothing much. They were of nothing important—of nothing of too much meaning.

The fire looked very warm—and I could tell it was. Its tongues, crackling and licking on the wood supplied there, gave off warmth. A warmth cozying, tiring. The warmth which can only be that of fire.

Fire, I had thought. Fire—it meant so very much. It was power—it was destruction—it was warmth—it was wild, uncontrollable nature. And the flame to my eyes, it was hypnotic to stare at it—it caught you in a trance and held you. Just looking into the flame, that glowing, ululating thing; that flickering, colorful thing—it caused your thoughts to wander. To go away and leave.

Fire is very much like man. It feeds off of oxygen, uses it to keep it alive and breathing—it uses oxygen like we use it in our lungs. It uses it to breathe and be alive. Just like the filling and unfilling of a lung, that expansion and recline, that systematic, intuitive thing that is breathing; that thing which is our bodies at work keeping us alive, allowing our blood to be nourished with oxygen, allowing us to function—so is fire. Without oxygen there would be no fire. Without oxygen, fire sputters and dies. And like man, if given the right conditions, fire will too spread and grow from its surroundings.

What is fire? Is it passion—is it destruction—is it creation—is it life itself? What is fire, and what, then, are we to do with it? When man first harnessed fire, saw its ephemeral glow in his eyes, what was it that had been found then? Was it mimicry of the stuff that is, the stuff that we shouldn't seek to control? A Phoenix, that fabled creature. Reborn from its own ashes—from the emulsified napalm of its own doing—only to do it again, and rise again, and fall again, and rise again.

Is the Phoenix fire personified—is man fire personified? I can see houses, thin woodwork, and steel, and nails; I can see streets of concrete, and I can see a hustling—a bustling—metropolis of highways and byways—the very veritable civilization of man. And I can see this woodwork being burned down, I can see concrete being heated and bubbling; and I can see fire, wild creature as it is, destroying and molding and changing.

And most of all, I can see sinew and fiber—I can see mallow and bone—I can see hand and leg—I can see skin and muscle, heart and lung. I can see man—I can see him for how weak and lowly he is—and how grand, great, he tries to be. Man messes with fire like fire messes with wood—man seeks to be what fire is. Man seeks to harness the very things which create him, he seeks to understand it all—but he can't. Man is as wild as fire, and in the end all he seeks to create—all he seeks to control—will eventually burn to what it was that man is. It will become weak as man's flesh, weak and swaying, and it will all burn as fire burns wood. Burn until embers glow, and ashes blacken.

And from that, man will arise again. Will he learn from his mistakes—will he harness what he once knew and had and realize the most uncontrollable is the controllable? Will he see that nature wins in the end? Will he see the dinosaurs—monolithic, dead, now only bones and fossils—will he see that is where, one day, his race shall go? Will he understand that the bigger you go, the higher you build, the more you know, the more you take for granted; will he understand that still all there is is fire—fire, burning passion strong, blackening, burning eye—will he see it will all fall, will burn by nature. Will he see simplicity is more capturing than anything other? Even the smartest, most advanced, most technologically knowing, most educated civilizations are the most stupid. What man is cannot be averted—what man does cannot be smothered. Flesh and bone and cells and beats and inhale and exhale and breathe—bone and brain and hand and cartilage and pain—this is man, this is him. He is a functioning singularity. He is a teeming, wandering mass of himself. And he is bounded to this forever.

There is never certainty where there is chance—there is never intelligence where there is blind arrogance and all-knowing knowledge. There is always uncertainty. There is always fire. There is always blaze, there is always warmth spurring into hurt. There is always burn. Flicker, sway and darkness.

There is always this man, there is always he looking at a fire and it looking at him. If fire can melt ice, let the water flow and bubble and sizzle. If fire can burn, if it can flicker, let it be. Let it do its swagger. The Phoenix and I, one day, will understand one another. The Phoenix and I, one day, will kill ourselves in madness. In lunacy, in dumb autonomity. It will go by its nature—by its own self-sustained, ordained, blamed, claimed, and inevitable decay and decline. By its own devices of devise. By its own death given. By its own mortality interred. Its own frailty discerned.

May the dead die. May the fire be smothered. May eyes close and bones rest. And may flames die and flan the flesh. May man one day rest in peace; and man find comfort in it.

And so my thoughts went—fire, man, fire, man—and there came a sudden rapping at my door. A stiff, cold and numb rapping by a cold and numb hand. Was there some desperation in its knocking? Some loneliness? Some reason and find to it?

My thoughts interrupted, my gaze gone from the flame, I came to my door. I did not glance to the window—I was too lost in my thoughts, trying to hold onto something half-lost now.

I clicked off my locks that barred my door, placed my hand on the door's knob, turned it, and flung open my door.

There was the man.

He stood before me. He was short—of less than four feet tall—and wore a tattered old white shirt, and tattered old denim jeans. His hands were facile and old—meticulous hands. Hands that spoke of creation—a writer's hands, or a laborer's hands. They were well-defined, but old; full of veins, and what appeared to be bruises. His hair was grayed, in a thin tangle on his head. The man was nearly bald. His face was thin—cheekbones shown outward, defined. And those eyes—those eyes.

Those eyes went right into you, went right into you like guilt. They jarred into you—made you want to shake, made you afraid. But why did they make you afraid? It was because those eyes were the eyes of a senile. Because they were full of a dumb madness—a dumb lunacy which drove you to some ream of fear. Those eyes seemed to dance and jest with a flame of their own—as if the pupils were a deep hole, and deep in the hole there was a jeering flare. His eyes, they made you feel fragile, breakable, shattered. Broken. As if you couldn't be fixed.

And the way his mouth looked—it was held open in an even more dumbing, maddening gape than his eyes. Those thin, colorless lips parted and held open, the space in between them abyss, no teeth juttering out. It gave off an even higher feeling of dumbing madness.

He looked to the ground as he spoke, swaggering his head, bobbing it, as if intoxicated, or dreaming. "Oh, hello," he said. It was in a mutter—a low lull that you could barely make out. It was as if he was talking to himself rather than you. As if he was more gone than there with you right there. "I was, uh, wondering. Wondering if you could. Could let me stay. Stay the night. Uh, I'd be, uh, thankful."

I did not know what to say. A man walks up to you in the middle of the night, out of nowhere, knocks on your door, looks madder than you've ever seen. And he asks to stay the night, of all things. Asks you to let him in, give him kindness.

Was this really happening? And why me? Why me, of all people? Why me?

The warm fire was behind me, and harsh Winter cold was now breathing onto my skin. I was only wearing my pajamas, which did not insulate well against the cold. I began to shiver as I looked at the man, the black night behind him. He looked so mad. Looked so insane.

He looked like he hadn't lost his marbles, but they'd been grounded to a fine dust from the beginning.

There was a part of me that wanted to be kind—that wanted to allow this man to say. And in my head it was screaming now. It was blearing, badgering, bickering.

Just let the man stay—let him stay. How could it be bad? What if you were that man—what if you were him and you were only wearing an old and faded white shirt, and old and faded denim jeans? What if you were out in the coldness without a home to have, without a warm fire, without anything but yourself and cold Winter? Who knows, maybe the guy's suffering from a craziness brought on by the cold—and you're going to deny him to your house just because you assume he's insane, just because you think he's insane, just because you are only going on first impressions? Where else is the guy going to go? Where else, other than here?

I hated that voice. I wish it had never spoken to me, had never convinced me to let the man in. But I listened, listened and was kind-hearted.

I realized I must have been standing there for longer than two minutes, just thinking, going over rather or not to let him in. And the man was still only looking fixedly at the ground, and bobbing back and forth with his head in that dreaming way.

"You can stay the night, I guess," I said as kind as I could. "Come on in."

And he did come in as I held my arm in a gesture for him to do so. The fire was still going as he came in, it flickered over his face, his mad face, those mad eyes, that dumbstruck, maddening gape of his mouth. I thought then I had never seen someone so mad looking—so lost looking—so cracked, and insane. And maybe that was right.

I gave him a blanket to warm up with. He looked quite cold. He sat right beside the fire, as I sat on my couch, and we began talking into the early hours of the morning. We talked of many things, of a plethora of things. And through it all, he sat beside the fire, sometimes glaring in at it, sometimes turning slightly away. It was as if he was drawn to the fire—drawn to it just like I was, but to a much higher level.

It was a long time before we slept. Day was starting a wide grin as we'd gone to sleep. He slept on the floor while I slept on the couch. I sat there for a long time, just thinking over things, watching what left of the fire glow and seem to hum.

Sleep soon overcame me, and the world of dreams came.


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The Coming of the Psycopomps

"'The poets talk about love,' Machine said, running the straight-razor back and forth along the strop in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, 'and that's okay. There is love. The politicians talk about duty, and that's okay, too. There is duty. Eric Hoffer talks about post-modernism, Hugh Hefner talks about sex, Hunter Thompson talks about drugs, and Jimmy Swaggart talks about God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth. Those things all exist and they are okay. Do you know what I mean, Jack?'

'Yeah, I guess so,' Jack Rangley said. He really didn't know, didn't have the slightest idea, but when Machine was in this sort of mood, only a lunatic would argue with him.

Machine turned the straight-razor's edge down and suddenly slashed the stop in two. A long section fell to the pool-hall floor like a servered tongue. 'But what I talk about is doom,' he said. 'Because, in the end, doom is all that counts.'

--Riding to Babylon
by George Stark"
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Thursday, January 29, 2004

When You Write in Journalism You Ism out of Control

So there I was and yeah there I was. I was in my bedroom and so there I was. I was thinking of people I hated, those people I wanted to beat into the ground like the little curs they were. (Curs, by the way, are mongrels. They should be shot on sight like struggling deer that deserve to die.)

My room is really small, a sad old little thing. Going into it is like going into a dusty attic that deserves to be closed off from the rest of the world. Something like a closed road on a deep hot winter night with snow falling down and there’s the highway patrol man blocking the way saying, “Road’s closed bucko, you gotta move on.” And so anyone will move on, but you know, they eventually come back too. So here I was, I was back.

So there I was and yeah there I was. I was in my bedroom, thinking about people I hated. I thought maybe I hated George Bush (let’s whack around the Bush!) or maybe that Bob Dole guy just because he made bananas. If I made bananas, I’d think I had penis envy or something. I could just imagine this Bob Dole guy too, putting a banana in the zipper of his jeans, and walking around. Penis envy would read on his face. And then he’d hold onto the banana like it was his banana, and it was no one else’s, just Bob Dole, just the banana man’s. Stupid Bob Dole—go make condoms or something, then.

What about George Bush though? He’s been a good president, so why do I hate him? I think it’s his name, and just him, maybe. I mean, with politicians like Bush, Dick Cheney (chainy, hahahahah) it makes you wonder. Really does. Our government is run by sexual innuendos. Funny thing.

I can imagine George Bush’s alter ego, Curious George, that funky ape. He’d say something like, “De axes of weevils musst be stooped! De axes of weevils, dey musst be stooped!” and all the people listening to him speaking would be all, “What the hell?” And I’m sure someone would really, actually axe a weevil, being the crazed, stupid people that live in this American society today they are.

I’m starting to think that, in light of the discovery that Saddam Hussein (So damn Insane) actually never had Weapons of Mass Destruction (Weapons of Mass Disappearance) Mr. Bush was actually trying to snuff out some axes of weevils. I’m also starting to think de axes of weevils were all about Whack Around the Bush’s own agenda—his own agenda to finish what Old Whacker Round the Bush’s agenda was. I’m also starting to think that bush is an errorist himself—so damn close to a terrorist that it’s just missing the slashed and made “t” that would make it what he’s after.

I suppose any president would be doing something like this though. It’s not just Mr. Whack around the Bush.




So there I was, in my room, and yeah like totally there I was. But now it’s time to leave.
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