Being: Human

Orlando~!

2010-08-05T10:13:00.001-07:00

Today I will visit a very old friend for the first time in a very long time. Quite honestly, I'm a bit intimidated, just as I'm a bit intimidated about a great many things.

Why, you ask? Let us merely say that I was not particularly "civil" to him in our final encounter...for various reasons, all of which were illogical and emotionally heated.

But yeah...I'm trusting that this will be for the best. Oh yes. Oh yes.

My Anti-Atheism.

2010-07-30T09:22:00.000-07:00

I'll be leaving for college in a little over a month...college...

When I look at what I've done over my life up until this point, it all seems unbelievable. Unfathomable, that anyone could accomplish any of this. It's like building the Hoover Dam out of bubble gum and paper clips. It's unreal, almost impossible.

I've been living beneath a rock. Or at least, behind a veil. Everyone's always told me I'd be great; I'd be fine; I was destined to change the world; my name will go up in lights; my name will go down in history. And, I suppose, I've gotten this far by believing that - by believing without one ounce of doubt that I would succeed merely because I couldn't fail.

Looking now at what lies before me, with the faith that I have, I can't help but know that all of this didn't happen by chance or circumstance. It wasn't just a "chain of causality." I'm not a casualty of coincidence...this I know by virtue of the fact that the future terrifies me. These skyscrapers I'm supposed to scale stretch far above my reach; these issues I'm supposed to tackle are rooted far deeper than my own core. If I didn't believe in God, in Christ, in the Church...if I don't have faith, what am I? I'm just a scared little kid, with nothing but a tattered past and a well-worn philosophy to keep me company.

I know that I couldn't have come this far without Providence. I know because I wouldn't have the courage to keep going without Providence. That's my anti-Atheism.

Emeralds and Sainthood.

2010-07-19T21:26:00.001-07:00

I have no clue where, when, or how the tradition of "have your birthstone set in your class-ring" began, but I will admit that it sets up for some interesting conversation. For instance, the fact that my birthstone is the sapphire.

You see, I love my birthstone: the color, the name, the symbolism. Everything about it is fascinating to me. However, though I was indeed born in the month of September, the stone set in my class ring is not the blue one would expect by tradition, but rather a rich, dark green emerald - the birthstone of May.

This obviously causes quite a bit of confusion when people inquire as to my ring. "Why," they ask, "do you have an emerald in your ring if you were born in September?" I usually ramble about something along the lines of green being my favorite color, or my school's color, or some such nonsense...but the truth is not so difficult to tell.

You see, my father was born in May, and thus the stone I have in my ring is the same stone he has in his. This is the only thing that the rings share, as they are completely different in every other way, from design to choice of metal - a good analogy for my father and I as people, incidentally.

Now you no doubt inquire, "Why your father's birthstone?" That, too, is not so difficult to explain. You see, my father made many screw-ups throughout my childhood...by all means, he was far from the "ideal" father that everyone else seemed to think he should have been. He drank, he smoked, he commented on women, he was rash, unabashed, and often immature. He took me to many places which, according to the familial nay-sayers, a child of my age should have never been. He was in almost every way an echo of the violent, alchie-drenched destruction that had claimed his own father. So no, he was not the best dad...far from it, in fact.

And yet, despite all of this, he was still the "beez-kneez" to me. Every moment I spent with him was a moment to be cherished in my eyes, regardless of what anyone else thought. And as I grew and was able to understand him more, to appreciate the many-layered, multi-faceted, misunderstood creature he was, I began to love him more than I had. And once I became a man in my own right, and realized that I myself was an extension of him, I began to appreciate him more than anyone else could.

For you see, he is proud of me. No, beyond proud - he is in awe of me. I am the light of his life, that which gives him purpose and meaning. Without me, he would have no point...he marvels at how I could come to be as I am, where I am, with the future that I have in spite of the "monumental fuck-ups" he committed. But whether either of us understand the nature of my existence or not, no matter how ashamed of himself he is or how often he repents unnecessarily, that I do exist gives reason to his own existence. And in the most strangely symbiotic way, this fact, coupled with our strained past, adds power and color to my story.

Thus I wear an emerald in my ring not because green is my favorite color, not because my highschool ran rich with green-and-gold-pride, but because of the legacy of my father, a man for whom my life is redemption incarnate. I wear it because my birth began the process of his rebirth; I wear it in honor of the memories we've made and of the unique bond we share. I wear it because no one else would, nor would they care to.

So yes, that is indeed an emerald in my ring. And now you know why.

Hearts, Spades, Clubs, and Diamonds.

2010-07-14T15:12:00.000-07:00

So guess who's life has exploded into confusion?

Yup. Should have been an easy guess for the more analytically inclined of my readers, as logically there is a higher probability of me writing about my own issues on this type of site, given both my age and the nature of my predicament.

BUT ALL OF THAT ASIDE, things are...okay. I'm reading, and singing, and smiling a lot more...=]

Although I will admit, I'm having a bit of a crisis of transition....my faith, still strong, is changing, as I'm finding that there are several aspects with which I myself, in my own unique state of being, seem and feel incompatible. I'm still a follower and emulator of Christ, of course....that will never change, I know. It's just that the ways of worship with which I've been presented just seem...well, not "not right", because for me to consent to such a "black-white"categorization would mean that I must also consent to a framework of modern thought, which I cannot do, staunch post-modernist that I am. More like...not flavorful. It's like eating stale, unmarinated tofu to me.

Not to mention the transitions taking place in how I interact with the world, in my academic pursuits, in my logic and analysis...it's all adding up to be a very chaotic time for me.

Not that you must care, of course...merely that I'm assuming that you do care, if you're reading this. For if you did not care, there would be no motive for you to read this, and I would as such seriously question your sanity or your sentience. Or both.

But anywho, life is looking up, messy as it is...and I'm writing poems. Which you will get to read. yes, you will get to read the poems on which I've been working. Right after I finish them, some time after I start working on them.

But I digress. Deuces, fair readers, and peace.

Guess What's Very Atypical.

2010-07-11T06:15:00.000-07:00

I've done something terrible.

And in so much as I did, I'm truly, genuinely sorry for it.

I'm just a human, and humans make mistakes...

After all, rationality is not merely the means by which we confine our emotions, or corral them, or attempt to purge them - we can only do so to an extent, as that practice (in humans, of course - omitting Vulcans) leads inevitably to destructive outbursts and loss of control. No, rationality is merely that quality which, after our emotions ruin us, defines us as sentient, compassionate beings - it is the tool by which we rebuild relationships that have been destroyed by storms of love, passion, envy, selfishness...

I'm sorry I'm not as perfect as everyone thought I was. But, truth be told, no one ever is. If we were, why would we have need of the cross?

Guess What Isn't Atypical?!

2010-07-08T09:01:00.001-07:00

I haven't written anything in ages.

I need to.

I think I will.

I'll probably put it off.

As It Was Written...

2010-06-12T08:50:00.000-07:00

So did it come to pass.

I find myself only half-accomplished, standing at a precipice, a cliff....standing at the other side of a great and terrible ocean, at the foot of a great and terrible mountain. But it isn't so bad. There's miles and miles of Van Gogh landscape ahead....but it isn't so bad.

I find myself confused, lost, and disoriented....dizzy and dissolved, looking for my next goal, my next checkpoint....my next calling. My next great love. My next all-consuming, ever-bright, over-passionate fire.

It is the end, for him, who I was...where I am going, he cannot go. And yet I am left with his legacy; I run to his destination, which was set by fear during a fearful time. And now that I'm finally running to, I'm left with a tradition of running from...I guess that, in my youth, I overshot my target. But everything happens for a reason....and this, too, has a purpose. And really, I guess, we all have complaints.

I've passed through the gate, out of the Forbidden City, and looking now behind me I find that, unbeknown to me, I have become a genuine individual. More than a legend, more than a role-model, more than a plaque on the wall or an article in the newspaper or a full-ride scholarship....I am a person. And I have a purpose. And that purpose is to love. And also, maybe, to ramble.

But now it's time for me to plan. Or it would be, if I ever planned. I've always been more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-thine-pants kind of guy, you know...? ("Follow-your-heart kind of guy" sounds better, but also decidedly less rebellious.)

So I'm off to sail the several seas and skies of life not as the Emperor, not as Cpt. Arthur L. Seagraves, not as "that guy that won that money"....simply as Justin. Just Justin.

Because no matter where I go or what I do or how famous I become, I won't be great for deeds. I'll be great because I'm Justin - because I lived of love and died of a rage of living.

And as it was written, so did it come to pass.

Congratulations Graduates. God-speed, and God bless.

Things That Once Were

2010-04-17T07:16:00.000-07:00

There is no house at 496 Lee Thee Church Road. And yet, in spite of its emptiness, we are drawn to it; around it our lives center, around it our worries revolve, and because of it all the troubles we have now are seemingly magnified.

Yes, there is no house at that address, but there is a mailbox, the mailbox to which my mail is delivered. They're links in a chain, those letters, breadcrumbs that inevitably draw me back to that black hole, that dusty, dilapidated pit.

Yesterday was Friday, and as such yesterday was mail day. At the end of the week I drive past the ruins of my childhood so as to pick up whatever documentation has been sent to me during the four days prior. Sometimes I don't have to - sometimes my Grandmother, who is forced to live beside that hollow beast, retrieves my personal letters and amasses them for me. But whether she does or does not, the fact remains that I must come into close proximity with my past so as to communicate with my future.

You see...I had a dog once, when there was a house at 496 Lee Thee Church Road, when I was young. His name was Scooter...a black beagle/dachshund mix that my mother saved from the Humane Society. In all reality, he was a replacement; my stepfather's German shepherd had been killed not a week before his arrival. But we loved him...or at least, I loved him. My stepdad had never really wanted a replacement...which is probably why he ended up kicking poor Scooter out of the house. My dog, my own personal companion, and he defenestrates the poor thing as though it were a garbage mannequin. 'Twas a typical and unsurprising action of him.

Though Scooter now lived outside, I continued to care for him. He loved the outdoors, as I soon found out...being banished from the house was actually a blessing for him. He would run free and wild, chasing birds and chewing on grass, gregarious and unabashed. He had his own personality, I swear...the mind, mannerisms, and soul of a mischievous farmer's son.

Every day he would burn himself out, and everyday I would find him resting by the steps, waiting for me to return to him from school. And I would pet him, and run with him, and roll him about, and sneak him lunch meats from the refrigerator. And I loved him, and he loved me. He understood, a creature, more than any human could ever hope to at that point in my life. And I loved him for it.

But things happen, and life progresses, and as the pages turn and the hand of God writes on, we find ourselves facing new and bolder challenges. It came to pass that the house at 496 Lee Thee Church Road became unstable, infecting its inhabitants with fear and fury like a fetid, festering wound upon the earth. It pierced our very souls....we had to leave. We packed and moved and fled our prison, left those walls with all their memories and poor Scooter too.

I gave him to my Aunt up the road, so that he would have a suitable home and yet retain his usual stomping grounds. And whenever I came to receive my mail, he was there. Though I sometimes forgot about him, he never forgot about me. I'm not sure why. I guess because I was the only one to ever love him. Or maybe because I was simply the only loving person ever to glance upon him. Either way, he was there. Always there, beside the mailbox.

Many months have passed since then. My future is set, if not in granite then in graphite...or perhaps in sapphire. Chaos has reigned within my household, dividing it and pushing its constituent members apart, placing them as bodies in anthrocentric orbit, revolving in unison around me, their one common aspect. And above all, the house at 496 Lee Thee Church Road is no more, claimed by the unseen suits that first placed it on that land.

Yet the mailbox still stands, that portal to the outside world, despite the destruction of its lesser half. I went to visit it yesterday, and as I drove by my Colosseum, my Parthenon, my Opéra Populaire, I happened to glance for a moment at the things that once were...and saw Scooter standing there, sniffing about the dust, attempting in vain to locate something that was no longer, or perhaps had never been. It broke my heart to see him there, my farmer boy leaning against the shattered meter box, the one constant in the entire equation. He was waiting, and I wanted to stop, to pet him once more and apologize for forgetting and let him know I still do love him...but I did not. I drove onward toward the setting sun.

Many months have passed, and in my pursuit of the future and duel with the past, I have been transformed into everything I was, which was everything I desired to be. My family could never know...they get too close to the past, allow themselves to be absorbed by it, allow it to consume their very being. They become so busy trying to fix things that once were that they forget to live and look forward to things that have yet to be. They stay firmly in the past, drawn in by the inescapable gravity of that black-hole at 496 Lee Thee Church Road.

But I am not...I get only so close to the past so as to remember it, so as to give me the zeal to chase my rising star. It is what God desires of me...He who saw me through all of this, who hardened my heart and made me turn from Him, who forged for me in the flames of my passionate rage a weapon by which I might one day enact His will...

And so I return to that mailbox every Friday, return to that rank, defiled pit that once was the house at 496 Lee Thee Church Road. I return to tie my past to my future, so as to live but never forget. I return because I have to... because I need to. One day I will leave, and never return; one day the mailbox will be empty, a moss covered cave of plastic, gaping and empty and lonesome. But that departure is yet months away...months during which much more transformation is to take place. Much more indeed.

The Languid Sailor's Song

2010-04-06T16:07:00.000-07:00

"Consider God's handiwork; who can straighten what He hath made crooked?"

~ Ecclesiastes 7:13

Oh call me Sweet Ishmael -

Sail my mercurial dame.

Where now, the sweet gold swell

Imagined within her name?

Her blows do strike my knell,

Assassin of boyhood game.

Grand upsets here doth dwell;

My Mistress doth make me lame.

Tremors steal my heart,

Bones sway in their bed,

Even when on land.

Sweet, e'er I depart,

Lest ye cause me dead,

Searing passion's brand.

Yet I cannot stay away!

Build refuge by the sea;

Her gentle tides ev'ry day

Coax pilgrim out of me.

Memories of dreams so gay!

No other way for me -

I paint her in all the shades

Of passion my heart bleeds.

Fly, my feet, to shore;

Gone the grandeur has

Of this ocean life.

Wait on her no more.

Surf, erode the past!

Bear away this strife.

The Best Anyone Has Ever Seen!

2010-03-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

Wow. Just wow.

This week has been the most fulfilling, content, productive, progressive week I've had in recent or distant memory.

This weekend has been hands-down the very best weekend I've had in a very too-long time.

Yn wir, I am the happiest I've been since I left Governor's School East so many, many months ago.

And honestly, that's all I can say about them. I mean, I can't adequately describe right at this moment how ludicrously contented and anxious I feel. Articulation fails me. It's both startling and wonderful to behold.

But now, as I am tired, and as there is still much work to be done, much material to be studied, much plot to write, and much fun to be had, I be going to slumber. Nos da, readers.

"I never knew what it was like, to view the Other Side; a land bereft of autumn light, with endless coast and constant tide."

Mother Moon

2010-03-16T18:57:00.000-07:00

Good evening, Mother Moon.
Or rather, good morning for you.
Riding on the heels of your rival, the sun,
To make black a sky once blue.

I've missed you, Mother Moon,
From my place here in the glen,
Holding my petaled face to the sky,
Waiting to see you again.

You're prettier than the last night,
And the nights before those, too,
With your silver crown and gown,
You're the fairest, Mother Moon.

But still, no time for that now.
No, Mother, not when you're full.
Not with your face turned solely on me,
With our bond at its strongest pull.

For I've awaited this attention,
While you were dark, gone, or turned away,
And now that I have it at last.
There is much for this flower to say.

Mother, recall you now
Your absence when I was young?
From seed to blossom, recall you how
In that month from you I was flung?

Before I could breathe my first,
You had turned your pale eye away.
And as I grew, how I did thirst,
How I longed for your love everyday.

Oh, why such undeserved harshness
For the life that you'd bestowed?
Your habits, cruel tides, formed marshes,
Fetid swamps in which I glowed.

But now you return, Mother Moon,
To the place from which you have flown.
From your vantage I seem lovely, I know,
But I'm merely the seed you have sown.

For my petals are blue from my sorrows.
Creatures love them; they think them divine.
But were it not for the dew that I bled over you,
This sweet periwinkle would have never been mine.

And my stem is so tall from reaching,
From extending myself towards your grace.
It is steeled and hardened, firm and resolute
From attempting to feel your embrace.

You did everything wrong, Mother Moon,
But in doing so did everything right.
Your iniquities made me strong,
Your absences taught me to fight.

So for this, I’ll trust you, and wait
With lilted face held towards heaven above
Till you revolve and behold your boy,
Born of rancor, embalmed by love.

Above Us Only Sky.

2010-03-07T20:23:00.000-08:00

The other day I was spending some quality bonding time with a particularly atheistic companion of mine. It was a right gorgeous day; the wind was cool, offset by the warmth of the sun. It was nice.

We were listening to music - John Lennon, to be specific. Imagine began to play, which sparked my friend's searing distaste for all things religious. "Lennon had the right idea," they said. "All these damned Christians need to pull the sticks from out of their asses, or else just shut the fuck up about their beliefs. We need to burn their Bibles. Burn them all."

I was appalled. I collected myself for a moment, turning then to face them. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" they asked.

I shook my head and returned to my prior position. The conversation was dropped. Maybe it shouldn't have been.

An End to Dunes

2010-03-04T19:19:00.000-08:00

Here. Have some poetaster.

An End to Dunes

Take us down to Promontory Point, my love,

And see to it that we go swiftly

Like a cutting winter storm

In that car of blistering red

To see our ward, our lord.

We’ll go tomorrow, you always say.

Our hands rest restless in our lap everyday.

But peace we make for peace to keep,

If it means that you will stay.

We’ll go to the dunes today, my rabbit.

We’ll go to see the winds caress the sand

And incite the sweet ocean, like the hands of a man.

Your hands, my heart.

Come. Let’s cross the barbed wire fence
like we did when we were teens.

Our blouse was never quite so ripped by these uneven edges,

These jagged teeth that gnaw at stalwart fabrics

And itch at stalwart hides.

My knees were never quite so sullied, I recall,
Never quite so chaffed.

My makeup never dripped,

And you, my dear, were you.

And the sun was always bright, just like your spirits.

And the clouds were always lofty like our dreams.
But now the clouds are lower, love,
And the sun cannot be seen.

Still, take us now to the farthest dune

Like once you did when days were longer,

Yet never long enough.

Never long enough to go just one more time.

Retrieve the cardboard slab that you took from your father’s shop.

Carry it up the hill we loved, dear.

The one beside the lighthouse,

Though not the one that held it,
That savior of the fisherman and sailor both alike.

Can we salvage it? Can we go again?

Skate down on a sled so razor-thin?

Trample the grass,

Traverse the curves,

Rebound from the protestant rocks?

Those Protestant rocks!

Oh how they hurt, those thick-skulled stones!

Bruising bottoms and jarring bones,

Tearing chunks from our vessel.

Weaker it was with each successive ride,

Though the well-worn path waxed successively clearer.

So that lo, on the umpteenth trip,

With bodies and muscles and lungs all aflame,

A stray rut, and an unexpected tumbling.

From arms around your too fair waist,

To arms against the bluest sky,

To arms that graze the greenest grass,

To rest beside your featureless face.

A sweet respite from fighting fear with fun.

During which the gulls would call, as we recall,

A shrieking heraldry for the snuffing of the sun.
Here and now we miss it,

As we lied there each in another’s arms.

Though perhaps we merely miss the fun.

But it’s hard to see on Promontory Point

As the waves drown the choking, spitting light.

You once said you could hear its passion sizzle and fade,

How even such giants could grow wild with fright
At the ending of yet another day.

Thus we would tighten our embrace like a vice

Lest the winds set adrift the sand dunes we built.

What should be done? We can’t claim to know.

We loved you then, as we love you now.

But did we, we do, and if not, then no.
We play the cards, not read them.

Spite! The dunes erode as the cruel winds blow.
The grass can only do so much to root the sand.
The grains have always been so flighty,
For it is their nature to displace,
To shift and grind and sting a blind,
To reveal new secrets as they rest old habits.

Yet, soft, the moon has come at last
To pierce this billowing sheet of gray
With silver light, far brighter than the day.
So swift - the time has such brisk pace,
For now we go our separate ways.
We end our fond embrace and face
a somber end to play.

Or we would, if you had not gone.
Please, stay, before you fly;

Hear the timeless crickets chirping

While the faceless sky is twinkling

Just like your formerly marbled visage.

Hear how the waves consume the sand,

And feel everything to do with the salty sea,

Though tears are saltier by far.
Yes, these tears are saltier by far.

The Tragedy of Macraffe

2010-02-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Yes, I told you you would get a poem today, but this is my blog, and I don't feel like posting the poem yet. So here - have another Macbeth parody instead.

The Tragedy of Macraffe

The crimson sun was rising quickly over the African savanna, and all around the first stirrings of life were being illuminated by the soft glow of the morning. A crazed tribesman could be heard in the distance, shouting random phrases in Swahili.
It was a scene of unparalleled grandeur (omitting the shouts of the tribesman, of course) marred only by what appeared to be a patch of perpetual night hovering above the grasslands. The portal opened with an audible squelch like that of sewage flowing through a pipe, throwing up its riders upon the barrens.
The three weird sisters - Lacy, Stacy, and Fred - stood slowly, their yellow skin stretched grotesquely across their bony frames. They dusted off their already dirtied robes (for no but show), looked around, and grimaced at their surroundings.
“What? Where are we? This ain’t Dunsinane!” Lacy said through sharpened teeth.
“Don’t look at me, wot! I ain’t the one what flubbed the bloody spell!” Stacy squawked. “Was Fred what did that, it was!”
Fred, for her part, stood stark still between her sisters; a glazed look graced her eyes, and rivulets of drool and dribble soaked her very lady-like beard.
“Bleeding saints, Stacy! You daft git! How many times does I have to tell ye not to let Fred do anythin’?”
“Wot?! I was busy getting’ me chestnuts back from some monchin’ wench! I figured she could handle it!”
“Well, ye figured wrong, din’t ye? By me warts, it’s hotter than Hecate’s thighs out here…wait…Wassat?”
Lacy extended a single gnarled finger to point across the way, indicating for her sisters the object of her inquiry: a giraffe, lopping along at a leisurely pace.
The giraffe in question was known far and wide as one of the most vain and prideful in all of Africa. His name was Ralphie, and on that day he was roaming the plains in search of lunch. Finding a suitable tree, he prepared to dig in, but stopped short upon hearing a rustling behind him. He turned around (as quickly as a giraffe may) and found there three large, beak-less birds looking up at him, one of which was sporting a very becoming beard.
“You there!” one said. “Yeah, you! What are you, who are you, and who is the king o’ these lands?”
“I,” began Ralphie in a nasally tone, “am Ralphie Raffe. I am a giraffe. The king of these lands is Sir Lord Gustafa Lion the Brave.”
Stacy, observing the creature’s tone, immediately formulated a terrifically dastardly scheme (as witches are prone to do). “Why not have some fun while we’re here, sisters?” she asked mentally.
“Seems a good idea to me.” Lacy replied.
“Durrrr-hurr-durrrr!” Fred shouted aloud.
“You! Yer spots be mighty pretty, and yer neck by mighty high. One should think this Gustafa chap is not so stunning as yourself.” Lacy began.
“Well,” said Ralphie, “I never thought so, no…”
“Then wouldn’t ye think too,” Stacy hissed, “that yeh should be king instead? Provide a perfect example of…beauty for these poor, primitive souls?”
“Oh! I would think so, yes! Oh, yes indeed!”
“Yeah, yeh would. We kin tell…The adoration o’ the masses could be yers.”
At this Fred (on cue) fell writhing upon the ground, her mouth foaming.
“She’s havin’ a vision!” Stacy shrieked. “Quick, sister! What is she seein’?!”
Lacy placed her clawed hands firmly upon Fred’s temples and began to chant rhythmically, pretending to channel spirits. “Oh! OH! A tree, I see a tree! A tree amid a sea of...grass! GRASS LIKE THIS GRASS! Oh! This tree!” At this she threw hers arms out, gazing with wide and wild eyes at the tree above them. “This be the tree! These be the leaves o’ FATE! Eat them Macb…er…Ralphie, and be KING!”
At this most harrowing spectacle, Ralphie was thoroughly and irrevocably within the witches’ grasp. He turned around (again, as fast as a giraffe may do so) and proceeded to eat all of the leaves off of the tree, down to the very last one.
What Ralphie and the witches did not know, however, was that this tree was the proclaimed personal property of the dread Macraffe, who was ripped from his deceased mother’s womb by a rabid antelope. As Ralphie finished off his meal, Macraffe sauntered up with his raffe-crew in tow – a veritable forest of necks and legs.
“What have you done?!” Macraffe exclaimed. “In your gluttony you have robbed my crew and me of our precious food! We shall all go hungry! And also my family, to a much lesser extent!”
“I had to, to be great!” Ralphie said indignantly. “Now I am become king! Bow to me, Macraffe!”
“You silly twat! I challenge you to the fight to the DEATH!”
“Wha-?” Ralphie began, but was cut short by the raffe-crew as they formed a circle around he and Macraffe.
Macraffe landed the first blow, striking Ralphie’s neck, which Ralphie then countered with a strike of his own. The fight thus commenced, and thus continued for forty days and twenty nights, until finally the two wearied combatants broke each other’s necks (simultaneously, of course).
Sir Lord Gustafa Stafason Von Stafenham the Ubercool, who had been watching the fight in awe, suddenly exclaimed “Free food!”, and a great feast commenced immediately, much to the enjoyment of his remaining subjects.
“Well,” Stacy said, “that was fun.”
“About as fun as hittin’ a hoop with a stick.” Lacy retorted. “Fred! Take us back home!”
“AAAAAAhfdjkslghbfdbvjklbfdghjk!” shouted Fred as she summoned another portal to carry them back to Scotland, leaving the animals to whatever fates they may or may not have had.

Of Gays and Many Things

2010-02-27T20:52:00.000-08:00

Often times (more frequently than usual, lately) I find myself wishing I were straight. I mean, honestly, why wouldn't I? To be accepted, to have more potentates than I know with what to do, to be able to walk hand in hand with my significantwhatever without fear of ridicule or tribulation - who wouldn't want that, when all they've ever been is gay?

I guess some would think me weak for admitting it...after all, I'm Justin. I'm supposed to have an answer to everything, right? I'm supposed to read people, and interpret art, and crack the codes of Nature with the greatest of ease. But I don't really give a shit right now. I'm ranting, and if talking about my issues makes me weak, then think of me as Charmander. But not Bulbasaur, because Charmander is cooler. And that's a fact, as proven by the fact that fire whoops grass' grassy-ass.

But I digress. I do sometimes wish I were straight...but it's quite impossible, as I've discovered. I'm just not...."attracted", to put lightly. There's only the hollow desire for attraction - never the real thing. I truly do wish I could sit on the couch with my father and agree with him that Angelina Jolie is sex incarnate. I'm just too busy admiring Brad Pitt standing there next to her.

Which is what really frustrates me about my family, and about hardcore Christians in general. They seem to have decided that my homosexuality is easier to deal with if they consider it a "phase", something out of which I may someday grow. It's all just teenage experimentation...some have even expressed the notion that I only claim to be as such for attention. And it's not just them - all of these camps and resorts, claiming the ability to morph people to heterosexuality...as if. If it actually worked, if there were a cure, I'm somewhat ashamed/afraid to admit that I'd "be all up in dat" like Bobby Brown in Whitney Houston. Maybe not quite so fecal, but you get the point.

I mean, the very idea that anyone would actually choose to live this life is preposterous! Why would I want to be alone, with no one to keep me company on a Saturday night but my family? Why would I actively seek the sexual frustration that stems from falling for a straight guy (or at least, a seemingly straight guy)? Why would I want to limit my choices as such, so that I largely have either bad or mediocre from which to pick? Why would I desire such a cloak-and-dagger existence, or else to suffer such virtual social exile? What level of attention could be so infinitely sensuous so as to be worth such things? The answer, quite simply, is that there is not one. If there were, I wouldn't be ranting about it - I'd just get a girlfriend and shut the hell up.

Truth be told, I'm not angry or miffed that I'm gay...I'm often rather thankful for it. After all, if I had been straight, I would never have ended up the person that I am, with the future that I have. And I really like where I'm going at the moment. And I really like men. I really, really like men. Really. Like, a lot. Vraiment.

...It's just that, sometimes, in a moment of inexplicable emotional weakness, I wish that I liked women instead. Or that I could "like" women at all.

But enough of my bitching! It does no one any good. Tomorrow you all shall have a (relatively) marvelous poem, bundled with a social update. Until then, goodnight. And if you're straight, I'd advise you to appreciate your sexual normalcy.

Gourmet Seizure

2010-01-25T12:59:00.000-08:00

It's been a wonderfully restful week away from school, despite some major emotional setbacks. My home life is still as turbulent as it was when the year began, but I have new shoes, and a new cardigan. And this is nice.

I also got to spend plenty of time slaughtering the virtual undead with my "brother-from-another-mother", Black Josh. What's more, I got to see three very good friends last week whom I hadn't seen in quite some time and don't get to see often enough. My wonderful Governor's School companions, they are. They keep a spirit of (faux) intellectualism alive within me.

So yeah. In spite of my revived role as the familial grief counselor, all is feeling well. I'm even pursuing a possible romantic interest. Key-word, possible. As in, I'm not putting too much faith in its success. But I'm not seeking to sabotage it either.

But now for a funny story. I had a very enlightening lunch with my mother yesterday, during which the main (only) topic of discussion was my stepfather's bastard-hood. We ate at the Sub Station, which is right next door to the Food Lion, which is the grocery store at which my mother works. My mother has her lunch there almost every day, and as such is very familiar with all employees hired by Mr. Kadij, the owner. So when Deborah, the manager, finally showed up for work at around 1:30 clad in her pajamas, my mother was not surprised.

Deborah was only there because the new girl Kadij had taken on was struggling under the mid-day lunch rush. In fact, Deborah was planning to quit her job as the manager of Sub Station to take on a position as a waitress for the local Fatz Cafe. The problem was that Deborah (though very much a "people person") must memorize the entire Fatz menu before she can be hired, as the chef would like to cook meals "only once." She, having only ever worked at bars and buffets, was very worried about this, as she informed my mother.

"But," she said, "I already know all the salad dressings! We have Ranch, Buttermilk Ranch, Fat Free Ranch, Bacon Ranch, Blue Cheese, French, Italian, and Gourmet Seizure."

I swear, I almost spat out the cola I was drinking. I actually doubled over in an attempt to keep my mouth firmly closed. The way she said it, so proper and matter-of-fact, was too funny to ignore. They both stared at me with that look in their eyes of "....Quoi?" Or "What?", rather, since neither of them speak French.

I gasped, attempting in vain to wipe physically the smirk from my face. "What was that last dressing, again?"

"Gourmet Seizure."

"Don't you mean Caesar?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. Seizure."

I smiled and nodded. At first I thought to correct her pronunciation, but then decided better of it. After all, should there be others in this forgotten county familiar with Caesar (as I know there are), and should they go to Fatz Cafe, and should they be waited on by sweet, goodly Deborah, I would want them to lul as epically as I lul'd at her ludicrously hilarious mispronunciation. Vraiment.

My lunch ended, and my mother and I parted, and lots of awesome occurred throughout the day, but no guffaws were had that were quite so hearty as those had at poor Deborah's expense.

Here's hoping you enjoyed my blatant distraction-ary tale. I shall now continue to do absolutely nothing about the half-finished poem waiting in my journal.

Bitchfest, '10.

2010-01-19T11:41:00.000-08:00

I'm working on a poem. I swear I am. It's a narrative piece, so it's taking a while. But it'll be done soon enough. And then I'll post it. In the mean time, have another story from my life. Because I know how much you all love to hear about my daily doings. Not really.

So. The other day I found myself sitting at my grandmother's house, watching television with my younger sister, Miranda. I don't know if I've told you about her yet, so I'll take a moment to do so: she's 7; she has long, curly red hair; she has beautiful blue eyes; she is of average intelligence; she is rambunctious, loud, unabashed, and temperamental; and I'd wager she has as much if not more muscle and stopping power than I do. And that's Miranda.

I was watching Miranda for two reasons. One, because my mother and stepfather were at each other’s throats on the back porch, and two, because my grandmother was off painting the town rouge with her jealous lover. Still. Me, her, and my grandma’s chihuahua were all sitting on the couch, watching VH1 Classic. After all, my sister thinks Hannah Montana is a fucking musical genius – I owe it to her to educate her as to what separates music from horse dung. But that’s just my opinion.

Anyway, we were sitting there, watching music videos. My sister had a bag of candy. Colorful, chalky things, artificially flavored and cast in the likeness of pacifiers. Really disgusting things, they were, but she seemed to like them well enough. She offered me one. I declined. She offered again. I declined. She stomped her feet and huffed and puffed and shouted that she was going to inform our mother that I wasn’t allowing her to share. I told her not to go out to the porch, and declined again. It was then that my sister decided she was going to force me to share, and so shoved a piece in my face. I swatted her hand away.

My sister is a dramatic child. It comes from living in a dramatic household, and from watching too much modernized Disney. I often chastise her for “pretending to live in a TV show” when she acts like a brat and thinks it’s funny. When she kicks old people in the store. When she shouts at her teacher. I really hate children’s television.

But I digress. She’s a dramatic child, and so (when I swatted her hand away) she naturally fell upon the carpet in tears, as though I were beating her with a two-by-four. The candy flew across the room, into the kitchen, where it broke neatly in two on the tiled floor. My sister cried. My mother rushed in. My stepfather continued to shout. I massaged my temples, more out of habit than necessity.

Mrs. Ransom tells me on a daily basis that a comfortable childhood is rarely worth one’s trouble. What she means is that those who’ve had it rough to start generally come out better in the long run. And that’s true, I guess, for me. But it won’t be true for my sister, because my family won’t allow it. They refuse, they say, to do what they did to me to her, because they’ve “learned” their “lesson.” They won’t run the risk of making another me, because they don’t have to, because it’s easier to be comfortable now than it is to wait for comfort later.

But the environment hasn’t changed much. I was around her age when my parents divorced; mom is going to be looking at her second divorce here shortly, this time with Miranda’s dad. My sister, so confused, with conflicting views bombarding her swiftly developing mind, clings to me as the only adult in her life that really knows. But I don’t claim to know, or think I know. Her innocence is still there, in some form. But I’m laughing to myself, because I realize that the dramatist in me is showing. It’s only a crying child. It’s only a doting mother and an angry dad.

It’s only a broken piece of candy. But I’m still laughing. I mean, isn’t that the single most hilariously cheesy metaphor for the loss of innocence that you’ve ever read or heard? Honestly.

Honestly. I need to stop posting this pointless dribble. I need to do some actual creative work for a change. I really do.

The Unsexed Ballad of Lady Macbeth

2010-01-02T18:56:00.000-08:00

The first post of the New Year, and it's a rap. What the hell, Justin.

Any-willy-wonka-ways, this was a rap I wrote for an English project. It's basically Lady M looking back on everything that transpired just before she offed herself. It was meant as a comedic piece, so yes, all of the atrocious grammatical errors were intentional.

But I digress. I hope you enjoy, and also lul.

I don’t sleep mothalicka, I got killin’ on the brain!

Plotting Duncan’s murder for me ain’t nothin’ but a game!

Now my hands be in this business ain’t nothin’ gon be the same!

Spirits come unsex me so I can help Macbeth to reign!

In the beginning things was all right, at the start this mess was good.

We was chillin’ and relaxin’ and sittin’ up at my hood

When a messenger came, had a letter with my name,

Man, reading my hubby’s story, my heart was hard to tame!

Thane of Glamis and of Cawdor and the King of Scotland too?

With mad moneys and cash bling and new turf for all my crew?

I want this bad, Macbeth, and thus can’t leave it all to you,

So I’m gonna twist this and constrict this so you’ll do what you must do!

I don’t sleep mothalicka, I got killin’ on the brain!

Plotting Duncan’s murder for me ain’t nothin’ but a game!

Now my hands be in this business ain’t nothin’ gon be the same!

Spirits come unsex me so I can help Macbeth to reign!

So now I act like a man, and my man acts like my bitch.

Obsessing and regressing thinks of nothing but the witches’

Prophesy, our odyssey, on this journey we’ve embarked,

But though I’m holding it together, Macbeth’s loony as a lark!

He’s gaffy and ungainly, and he’s giving us away!

Macduff, I fear, sees right through our macabre masquerade.

But no matter – Duncan’s finished, and our futures have been made.

Bust out the 40’s now, what ho, ‘cause it’s time to celebrate!

I don’t sleep mothalicka, I got killin’ on the brain!

Plotting Duncan’s murder for me ain’t nothin’ but a game!

Now my hands be in this business ain’t nothin’ gon be the same!

Spirits come unsex me so I can help Macbeth to reign!

But now Macbeth just isn’t acting quite the same, man!

Acting all crazy and demented and straight insane, man!

Doing anything he can so as to garner fame, man,

And to solidify his reign over all the Scottish thanes, man!

I just don’t know what’s goin’ on, I don’t know what he’s thinkin’!

Every single day my control over him is shrinkin’.

His soul, it be on fire, but his passion’s got us sinkin’,

And all the while my sanity from me I can feel leavin’!

I don’t sleep mothalicka, I got killin’ on the brain!

Plotting Duncan’s murder for me ain’t nothin’ but a game!

Now my hands be in this business ain’t nothin’ gon be the same!

Spirits come unsex me so I can help Macbeth to reign!

And now there’s only one thing to do.

Though this tragedy was brought on by two,

I can’t take it, man, my time here is through.

So, Macbeth, I leave it all up to you!

[Exeunt]

Should old aquaintence be forgot.

2009-12-31T20:51:00.000-08:00

I am currently sitting on a bed in room 603 of the Crabtree Holiday Inn with seven of the most awesome people in the world. Though a lot of the other most awesome people in the world are absent, I am nonetheless having an insanely good time.

I have not done much homework.

I'm still -somewhat- single.

I'll have to return home in a few days.

But for now, with the onset of the New Year, and with my harmonica, my friends, and my journal of poetry, and despite some lackluster friendships (among other things), it truly feels as though everything might be okay. Of course, it feels that way regardless, as I am dancing and having my way with life. And am going to the University of Chicago for free. But still...

The New Year is coming, and I have no resolutions but one: to be happy. I'll do everything I can or will allow myself to do, and so far as succeeding. It's broad, and yet somewhat specific....but it's whatever.

And the only way I'll know of my success is when I succeed. Because I don't read the cards - I play them.

But now sparkling cider and Time Square and the promise of a possible phone call from a very, very, very close companion are drawing me from my laptop. I hope your year was as bitter-sweetly wonderful as mine (or just plain wonderful, as it were), and I hope that 2010 brings good times for all. Be thankful and graceful and badass, and don't forget to dance.

Much love,

~Cpt. Arthur L. Seagraves

Watch your step.

2009-12-30T14:15:00.000-08:00

There are three entrances to Joyner Hall on the campus of Meredith College - a front entrance, a back entrance, and a side entrance. While at Governor's School East this summer, I went to Joyner on a regular basis, as both my Area I and Area II classes were held there. More often than not I would use the side door to enter the building and the front door to exit, as I would walk with my French student friends to class and leave with my English classmates.

One day, however, I stayed late after first period to talk to Robin (Follet. An excellent teacher and premium person, should you ever meet him.), and so did not get to walk out with anyone. It was my break period, and so I decided to wander the halls for a while and look at the pictures on the walls; Joyner is (or was) the "English" hall, and so the walls are adorned with paintings and descriptions of famous authors and literary figures. I started at the back and worked towards the side, as Joyner's hallway is fashioned in an "L" shape. And so, as I was already at the side door, I decided to use it to leave.

Normally I was not alone when on my way to class, and so there are people behind me to catch the side door as it closed. As I said, however, I was alone on that day. There was no one to catch the door. And in the absolute silence of the hall after classes, the side door mets its frame with a resounding boom. The hinges on that door were faulty, I felt, as I hadn't slammed the door. It simply closed very loudly.

And, I'll admit, it caused me to jump. However, as I was walking to the quad (I had second period break), the slamming side door also caused me to think and reflect on many things, especially my experience at Governor's School thus far. It was only the beginning of the second (or so) week, but the place had already begun to leave an imprint on my mind. I reached the quad, found my usual bench seat under the tree in front of the cafeteria, and wrote the following poem.

A man with willow gait,

standing straight and tall

with wispy silver hair

was walking down a hall.

His footfalls, they were silent.

His breathing was controlled.

His head held high, his bright eyes sly,

Down the hall he strolled.

'Till he reached the farthest portal,

and flinging the doors wide,

the graceful man with crafted steps

found his way outside.

But as he crossed the threshold,

behind him thunder roared.

For though he knew the way he moved,

he could not control the door.

It's not very good, I know, but the meaning stands the same - actions have consequences. Sometimes we can control or predict them, sometimes we can't. I think that's a good sentiment to remember as we all enter the New Year, aiming to make changes and improve our lives. Ouais, yn wir. Yn wir c'est vrai.

That said, I hope you all have a great Eve, and that none of you do anything silly, stupid, or dangerous. Though my worry is misplaced, as I already know that none of you will. But still. Happy New Year to all, and to all a good life!

Sexy Teddy

2009-12-27T19:17:00.000-08:00

Today my Uncle came down from Charlotte to visit. He doesn't live in Charlotte; no, he makes his home in Georgia. He was only in Charlotte to visit his wife's family for Christmas. Yes, his wife's family got him before we did. He's so totally whipped.

But I digress. I love it when my Uncle comes to visit, for he is the only person in my family with whom I feel an intellectual connection. He is the only other scholar amongst our number. Sure, he's a biblical scholar, and most of what he knows is theological (Christian) in nature, and his Ph.D is in Christian studies, but it's knowledge for knowledge's sake nonetheless, and as such I identify with him. He is the single most intelligent family member I know and communicate with, and I love that he uses words like "erudite" in every day conversation. That, for me, makes up for his spiritual shortcomings.

Yes...he seems to come from another family, my Uncle. He's so completely unlike my Aunt, who is so completely unlike my Dad, who is so completely unlike my Uncle. But that's a good thing, I suppose, for if we were all the same, our reunions would be much less hilarious. And I would appreciate them less. And that would be very, very bad.

Today was our belated Christmas celebration. What that means is this: we had pizza (I picked off the meat) and opened presents. This is where the shenanigans began, and why the title of this blog is "Sexy Teddy." For you see, though my Uncle is through-and-through a good, God-fearing Christian, he still has a fairly dirty mind. This became evident when my Grandma gave him an electric razor - many vibrator-related lulz were soon had at its expense.

My Grandma also gave my 5-year old cousin (my Uncle's son) a talking teddy bear. She has an infatuation with teddy bears. We don't know why. Anyway, she gave him this (seemingly) innocent toy...you could either press its hand or talk to it directly, and it would respond with a (seemingly) random phrase. Some of the more outstanding phrases were:

"Let's do it!" (In response to "Do you like me?")
"Okay, but only if you leave the lights on."
"I like you."
"Will you tuck me in?"
"Uh-oh, I've been a bad boy."
"What're you gonna do to me?"
"I think the joke's on you."

And all this from a children's toy. Needless to say, the toy soon left the children and migrated to the adults, who were arguably having a better time with it anyway. It was excellent. Then we watched Youtube videos, and laughed our collective ass off. The videos we watched were all discovered by me, and are as follows:

Vraiment. Then I explained the plot of Breaking Dawn to my Aunt and Uncle, and their jaws quite literally fell off. That was when the fun stopped and their innate-but-well-hidden prude-ish-ness flared, and suddenly the talk shifted towards "pedophiles", "bestiality", and "those damned homosexuals." But it was alright, because we'd had our lulz, and I had a "kamphy koat", and I also had my harmonica. So no worries.

And that was that. To keep you updated on my writing, you shall see a new poem shortly, and perhaps a few pieces of Cuba. But definitely a (in my opinion) very pretty poem! Soon enough!

Also - this is an excellent song and video, and this is an epic group. That is all.

Prevailing Westerlies

2009-12-26T20:17:00.000-08:00

My Dear Readers,

This blog shall be brief. I know that I have not had a good life. That much is certain. But I have never claimed to have a tragic life, nor have I ever attempted to belittle others or enlarge myself on the basis of my past. The past is only useful when one is learning from it - that is the only use the past has, though it is certainly the most important use of all.

Some people write tragedy, some people write comedy. Yet both could be considered art, and both have lessons to give. I try to present ideas and opinions as I give them, in the stories that I write and the tales I recount. And I write because it helps me deal, the same reason why I play music. Music, I feel, is what language once aspired to be. Because I must bend the rules of language so as to convey feelings that music carries naturally.

I had a large argument with my family tonight, and it helped snap me out of a potential mistake, among several other not-good things. I took the side of rationality to their irrationality. I will not describe the argument, what was said, or how it made me feel. I was close to doing to them what they've done to me. But I didn't. I'm not tooting my own horn; I'm a kind-hearted fool for not striking them back. But in a way, I did. I won what I won tonight through fire and steel and combat and prolonged fighting. And it felt mighty good.

Moonpies just taste better with RC Cola, as my Grandpa says. And bluegrass is a very cathartic genre. That said, I'm going to post a song now, one that I've sung to myself for quite some time, just because I like the way it sounds. I think it's really beautiful, regardless of what it means. I want to share it because I want to. Some of you might know it.

"Home is behind,
The world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadow
To the edge of night,
Until the stars are all alight.

Mist and shadow,
Cloud and shade.
All shall fade-
All shall fade."

Yup. It's very pretty. True too, but it's more important that it's pretty. Especially when sung by Billy Boyd, who is not as pretty as his voice, unfortunately. Not by a long shot.

I'm going to be writing more creatively here shortly - I have a story I'm working on called "Cuba" that is swiftly becoming a very long piece. It may be the first novel I've ever attempted to write. I'll be posting bits of it up here as it comes along, so keep your eyes peeled! Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I'll also have lots of lovely poems up for you soon! So you'll all be reading pretty things! And that is good. Very good.

When the world denies us happiness, we must take what we want from the world. That means a very many varied lot. And is somewhat pretty.

Also, dw i'n dsygu'r Gymraeg.That's I'm learning Welsh in Welsh. Why am I learning Welsh? Because I want to, and because it's badass. And only the most badass languages are badass enough to be spoken by a pirate as badass as Captain Arthur L. Seagraves. Badass. Vraiment.

So goodnight for tonight (or goodmorning or good day or good evening, as the case may be). I'll see you all eventually, with lots of pretty things in my satchel.

A Far Green Country

2009-12-24T10:41:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas Eve, and, as usual, I'll be spending the night at my Grandmother's house. I've spent every Christmas Eve there since as far back as I can remember, and it's almost always the same. Except for this time, because this will be the first time that we've ever had Christmas without my Grandfather.

I remember it quite clearly. It was Christmas Eve (of course), one year ago, and I was feeling quite irate with my family. I'd just told them all of the donations I'd made one their behalf, and of course, none of them cared. They were more interested in the gifts they could actually hold; they just aren't as altruistic as myself, I suppose. Add on to that the fact that no one had purchased anything for my Aunt Katie (whom I shall discuss in later blogs), and one could imagine why I was feeling hot under the collar.

My Grandfather hadn't been doing too well: he'd just recently been placed on an oxygen tank. He was a chain smoker - he'd tried to quit before, but the addiction had proved his better every time. The doctor had told him flatly that it was the habit or his life, but it was never that simple....those who claim cigarettes aren't that addictive have never watched a 65 year-old man crying in a hospital waiting room.

That night he had forsaken the tank. It was cumbersome, he'd claimed, and he didn't want to scare the young ones. My Grandmother had objected, said he was being a damned fool and was risking too much. My Grandfather replied that, with his record, he could probably afford one more night of bad health.

We all new something was up, each and every one of us, but no one spoke up. It was Christmas, after all, and no one wants to talk about death on a day of merriment. But still, we couldn't shake the way his eyes seemed sunken and glazed, the way his sinewy muscles seemed oddly weaker, the way his cheeky smile was only half there. It was tough, but he demanded that we speak not of it, and so we obeyed. He even forsook the carving of the ham - he gave that representation of his manhood to my Grandmother, who proceeded to butcher the meat. Not that I particularly cared, but you know... It just wasn't normal.

He hadn't moved the entire night, except for once near the end. My Grandmother had gone to the bathroom to freshen up, and as she walked out he rose shakily to his feet to follow her. It was only after his death that we learned what he'd felt need to tell her. The conversation was as follows: "Bob, you scared the pure-tee-shit out of me!" "Babe...I've got something to tell you." "What? What's wrong?" "This is going to be my last Christmas." "Oh, shut up. You say that every year. You'll be fine." "No, babe, you don't understand....I know. I feel it. This is going to be my last one." She hadn't said anything after that. When they finally reemerged, they both were rubbing their eyes. They kept up the facade, if only for our sake.

Then the party ended, and everyone went home. He insisted on hugging every single one of us; he made the kids sit on his lap so as to tell them how much he loved them. We all went home, and all went to sleep. I'd like to say that he died peacefully that night, but that's not how it happened. He didn't die until late January.

He'd been in and out of the hospital for weeks at a time, having tests and examinations and the like. It was a gruesome ordeal, and one could tell that it was taking its toll on both of them. She was almost as gaunt as him. The doctors claimed that his health was improving; he was coughing up phlegm and little else. Eventually, once all the gunk was out of his lungs, they would work on restoring his health, and he'd have another five years at the least. These were the same doctors who'd told him to "just kick the habit." One night, however, his harsh coughs brought up not phlegm, but blood, and my Grandmother, seeing the sanguine specks, rushed him in yet again.

He stayed in the hospital all that week. It would be his last visit. I was taken to visit him on Monday; he could speak, and assured us all that he would be fine. He was tenacious, after all! He'd survived the war, the depression, and those damned hippies! Everything would be fine. One look at his frightened eyes told us he was lying. I remember that I couldn't quite look at him, lying there in his bed sheet, staring at the ceiling. I had a notebook with me, and, instead of speaking, I ran endless functions. Created simple equations and filled in numbers. X^2. X^3. (X^2)+X-5. The numbers comforted me, somehow, when a human touch could not. They gave order to chaos.

I was taken to visit again on Wednesday. He was not conscious. The doctors had set a date for surgery - Friday, they would go in. Something was dreadfully wrong, they claimed. Gee, I remember thinking, how could you tell? I did not get to see him, as they pushed us from the room, but I did get to see my Grandmother. She was in the food court, sobbing. I'd never seen her cry as hard as she did that night; I'd never seen her in a public place without makeup before. It was a strange sight for a strained night. I tried again to run functions, but found my mind too muddled for arithmetic. I settled for hugging my Grandmother - there was little else I could do. We stayed there for two hours, waiting. No word.

I wanted to visit again Thursday night, but my Mother stopped me. The surgery was tomorrow, I had explained - what if something went wrong? I could feel it, somehow...my intuition told me that that night would be his last. It was a primal instinct, a prophetic emotion. I just knew, the same way he had known. I had to see him once more, to say goodbye. But my mother wouldn't have it. She claimed she was too tired, that we hadn't enough gas, that it would take her too long to get ready...she just didn't want to go was all. That was it. She just didn't want to go. I stormed back to my room. Her rationale betrayed me my last moments with him.

She checked me out of school early on Friday; I knew what had happened before she so much as opened her mouth. He had died, gone on into nothingness. As she told it, the doctors had opened him up to find his lungs blackened by cancer. They hadn't known he'd had it, they claimed, but really, how could you not? How could something like that go undetected so long - long enough for it to consume two entire organs? There was, obviously, nothing they could do at that point. They sealed him back up, woke him, and told him he had two options: he could either live for however many more years attached to a machine, or he could go now and be at peace. My Grandfather, ever the brave, tenacious sort, chose the second option. He was unhooked, allowed to say goodbye, and, within fourteen minutes, died in my Grandmother's arms. My Mother, who had found out only after he'd been unplugged, tried her best to get us up there, but to no avail. I don't think I've ever truly forgiven her.

And that was that. By the start of February he was buried, and by the end of May my Grandmother had a new man in her life....but I didn't blame her. She grieved hard for him in a short amount of time, and moved on quickly. A year has passed since then. An entire year...I've loved and lost, been to the ivory tower of Academia and back, braved the hellish, brackish waters of Real-World-Land, and won a free education at one of the world's most prestigious universities.

An entire year has passed. It doesn't feel like it. It feels only yesterday that I was sitting on the front porch, discussing politics and economics with him beneath the starry country sky. An old man with a glass eye, a crooked belly-button, and a stiff comb-over... Sometimes I wonder, if there is indeed an after-life, whether he'd be proud of me...but still. I've rambled now for far too long. I must get ready to leave soon.

Joyeux Noël, my few, dear readers. Enjoy what you have while you can, and remember it fondly once it's gone. Adieu.

A Gift to Pass the Time

2009-12-23T13:30:00.000-08:00

I wrote this wonderful slice of nonsense a few months back for a good friend of mine. It was her birthday. I feel it represents her personality rather well.

I bring for you a gift, he said.
A gift?, she said.
A gift., he said.
You bring for me a gift?, she said.
I do., he said.
A gift., he said.
A gift to pass the time.

A gift to pass the time?, she said.
A gift to pass the time., he said.
A gift?
A gift. To pass the time.
A gift.
A gift?
To pass the -gift-?
To pass the time.
A gift to pass the time?

You bring for me, she said,
A gift?
Indeed, he said, I bring
A gift
To pass the time.
To pass the time?
A gift - ?
To occupy the present.
Which is to say, the present time.
Which is to say, to pass the time.

A present to pass the present?
A gift to pass the gift?
A gift to pass the time.
A time to pass the present?
A present to pass the gift.
A time to pass the time?
A gift to time the present.
A present to gift the time?
A time to present the gift.

What gift, this gift?
A gift to pass the time!
What time, this time?
The time a gift, passed by the present,
Which is to say, the gift.
This gift to pass the time.

A gift?, she said.
Yes, gift., he said.
A gift to pass the time.
A gift?
A gift.
A gift?
A gift.
A gift to pass the time?
YES.

What gift?, she said.
ENOUGH, he said.
You've wasted too much time!
So Death cut down this crafty wench
Who was well past her prime.

A Man Most Worthy

2009-12-22T20:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went caroling, despite an intense desire to avoid all forms of marry-making. I've been terribly off, you see, and felt that something as festive and light-hearted as caroling would only provoke me into committing an act of aggression. Still, I went anyway, after some motivating from a close friend.

The caroling itself was an event orchestrated by my dear Mrs. Boros, an extraordinary English teacher and the advisor of Broadening Horizons. BH, as it is colloquially known, is a sort of "culture club" - we go to plays and shows and cafés, absorb cultural delights, and generally have a gay old time. It's an organization meant to "broaden" kid's "horizons" - hence the name. So, as BH is the "culture club", and as Boros is all about getting us to do silly things that we all bitch and moan about yet always enjoy, we went caroling. In the cold. With fake candles. Thank Ceiling Cat for gloves and scarves, for without them we would surely have perished.

I arrived at 7:00 pm, and as was to be expected, everyone was already bitching and moaning. There were concessions to be served afterwards, you see, and they wanted to eat before going out. Mrs. Boros would not have it, and Mrs. Boros always wins. So off we went to spread cheer, or make merry, or whatever-the-hell you feel like calling it. Suffice to say, we went singing.

And for the first two or so houses, it was fun. The people smiled and waved, brought their kids out and sat on the stoop. Sure, the songs were a bit uncomfortable (they all dealt with Christ the Saviour, or God, or Bethlehem), but seeing all the smiling people made me feel better in spite of myself. And of course, I was with my friends, so that even though it was bitterly cold, and I was feeling very knotted-up inside, I was at least not alone. It was nice.

Then we came to the third house. My fingers had lost some of their feeling by then, and Stephanie and I were huddled close to Kiara for warmth. What we wouldn't have given for real candles...but still. No one answered at the third house; we moved to the fourth house. The owners of the fourth house slammed their door in our collective face. So we knocked at the fifth house, at which time a very burly man in a blue jumpsuit and red cap with a very bushy beard emerged, gave us the stink-eye, and stormed back inside. We fled, afraid he would return with his handy-dandy hunting rifle.

Our breath coming in short, ragged draws, we scrambled towards the sixth house, which was (in a word) peculiar. The reason I say this is that it was the only house on the street that had absolutely no decorations. Even the Grinch and the Two Scrooges from up the road had something - this chap didn't even have a single candle. But Boros, ever the maker of merry, insisted that we knock. The group (as has been made evident) commenced to bitching, but Boros always wins, and so we knocked hesitantly at the door. And a frail old man in a red flannel shirt and gray sweatpants, with worn slippers and a balding, liver-spotted head, whose back was bent as though the weight of the world bore down upon him, answered the door.

We sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer for him, which is to say we shrieked like harpies until Boros stopped conducting. "Merry Christmas!" we proclaimed, but instead of hearing a "Happy Holidays!" in return, all we got was a faint sniffle. And then another. And another. And the frail old man with his broken back asked us in a wavering voice to wait a moment. He returned with his wallet, saying "Now, I don't have much since my retirement ran out, but I've got some left-overs from what my son sent me last week. You can have it for your charity - that was a beautiful song."

He sniffled again, rubbed his eyes. "No, sir, we're with the high-school. We're just spreading cheer." Boros replied. The man closed his wallet slowly. "Oh, I see....well alright, then. The song was wonderful. Thank you kindly." We all said "you're welcome" and turned to leave. But the old man wasn't quite done.

"You know, I haven't decorated this house since my wife passed not three years ago." We turned around again and beheld him there, standing in his yard with his face to the ground. It was obvious that he was ashamed of the tears. His voice shook with the fear of a child. "I just haven't had the heart. It was her favorite holiday, and I just never could bring myself to decorate without her. She used to sing that song, Rudolph, to the kids - she'd sing it every day to them, almost, when they were still babes." He twisted the hem of his shirt in his knobbly hands so as to steel himself. "She'd take us all, and we'd go caroling with the church, and she'd sing it for everyone else too." A sniffle. "I miss her dearly." He turned, and walked back towards the house. He looked back once more as he opened the door, and we saw his sunken, tear-stained eyes for the first time in the fluorescent glow of the street light. "Thank you again - you folks have no clue what that meant to me." And then he was gone.

We caroled at several other houses, but none were as thankful for our services or left as much of an impact as the old frail man. We whispered in between songs, wondering how his wife died, where his children were, how he survived alone in this cold, cruel world. He left a particularly strong impression on me; I told you I'd been feeling down for several reasons, and that's the truth. But that old man, with his bald head and bent back, returned to me some small amount of endurance. He gave me some measure of strength - after all, if he in his old age could sustain such a devastating blow, I in my youth could cope with hardships equally as trying.

Eventually we made our way back to Boros' house and ate the food. What I could eat I ate, and I enjoyed myself immensely. After the meal I broke out my harmonica and played a few tunes; Mrs. Boros' adopted daughter (a very young girl) got out her toy accordion and tried her best to play along. She said she wanted a harmonica for Christmas; I whipped out my phone and dialed "Santa" right away, since he "owed me one." It was a wonderful affair.

Then we watched Rudolph, and everyone was forcibly reminded of the old man from down the street. We squirmed uncomfortably for the first fifteen minutes of the film, wondering what he could have been doing, before finally electing to send him some food. Two of our number fixed a plate for him and carried it away; their bright, triumphant faces later told us he'd enjoyed the act of kindness.

The gathering ended soon after, and all of us got into our cars and drove home. I left the radio off, choosing instead to sit and think in silence. That man, I thought, had more kindness and compassion in his heart than did all the other homeowners combined. Though he'd suffered terrible losses and had felt the bitter sting of Life's whips more times than one could count, still he held compassion close to him. I wondered if I were like him; I wondered if I wanted to be like him. But then, I'm not him, so I have no reason to worry - I could never be him.

I returned home to find the trash can full of empty beer cans and my parents slumped over each other in the bed. They were snoring very loudly - officiously, even. As I readied for bed, I thought of what the old man might say of them: he'd been through more than they had without sedatives, without resorting to alcoholism and induced memory-wipes. He'd probably pity them, then try to help them.

Yes, he would try to help them... if it took all the left-over money from what his son had sent him a week prior, he would help them. I pulled up the sheets, turned off the lamp, and closed my eyes.

That frail old man is among the most deserving of all the good in the world.

Delivre Nous.

2009-11-25T20:28:00.000-08:00

25-11-2009

My parents are drinking again tonight. As I've found, they drink every night. And profusely, I might add. They laugh and laugh and chug and chug, and I sit here refreshing Facebook and hoping that someone, anyone, will come online to chat and take my mind off of things. But no one ever does, or the rights ones never do, at least.

Of course, I could go outside and talk to them, and maybe break the ice. I can see them on the porch, through the curtained window on the door; I can hear them talking through that thin veil. That flimsy piece of linen never did keep any heat in this house.

Yes, I could go out and talk with them, but what good would it do? My step-mom would get pissy in her inebriation and leave, my Dad would then become remorsefully sentimental and cry, and I, who already feels like an ass for coming out here and purposefully making an ass of myself, would feel like an ass. So no, I don't think I'll go talk to them. I don't really want to be around alcohol anymore.

I really wish I had some gas, so that I could go driving. But alas, they're drinking my fuel money. I've been drifting on vapors since Sunday, and they're drinking my fuel money. But I don't blame them. I mean, if I were addicted to that moose-piss, I'd spend my spare coinage on it too.

But still. If I had some gas, maybe I could go for a drive. I said that driving relaxes me - that wasn't a lie. No, it was very truthful...but the thing about driving, I guess, is that you have to have a destination. Whoever came up with that rule, I dunno, but it's true. You always end up somewhere. I'd like to drive without a map and find my true somewhere, but I can't afford to do that just yet. I mean, I don't have enough gas. Thanks, alcohol.

So maybe I'll just go to sleep instead. Or I would, if I weren't too tired to sleep. I'm not an insomniac or anything - that's not how it is. I mean, I live my life on the mental "edge", but that's only because I don't know how to survive otherwise. No, I just...can't go to sleep. I'd lie there in bed and listen to my mp3 player until I finally lose conciousness at around 1:30 AM, long after that old dependable train thunders off into the gentle night. It seems depressing, but it makes me feel artsy. I mean, that's how the romantics lived, right? And they did some pretty cool stuff, I guess. Sand and Shelly and Byron and the lot.

So maybe I won't drive, and I won't sleep, and I won't go talk to my parents, and I won't get to talk to the people I really, truly need to talk to. Maybe I'll just write. Maybe I'll just do what I do best, and forge feelings into letters, and shape letters into words, and fuse words to make sentences, and link sentences to make paragraphs, and stack paragraphs to tell a story. Maybe I'll just unfocus my eyes and see with my fingers, fall away and lose myself in the furious tapping of keyboard keys.

I can picture myself now, in my mind's eye, walking down a lonely street in historic Southern Pines. Some shops are closed and others are open, but all the windows are foggy. And a mist, the finest film of vapor imaginable, coats everything, so that you can feel it everywhere but barely see it. And my shoulders are raised and my hands are in my pokets, and I'm strolling along alone beneath street lights and lit strees and a starless, moonless sky. I'm only window shopping, since it's all I can afford to do, or even all I want to do. Just looking here and looking there, and comparing the two. I mean, I'd shop, but I don't have anyone to shop for.

A good friend once wrote to me in a letter that I was one of the most amazing souls she'd ever met. She said I was so kind and understanding, but that she worried for me because I divided my heart between so many people that I rarely left any for myself. And you know, she was right. Maybe I can go shopping for myself every now and again.

But there goes the old dependable train. It's its own herald, wailing and billowing and disturbing the peace. It's telling me to go to sleep, so maybe I'll put down my writing for tonight and obey. My parents are coming in anyway, and I don't really want to be around alcohol anymore.

Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of catharsis.

2009-11-22T08:21:00.000-08:00

To all it may concern (including the goodly Captain himself), and some who won't see it but should.

"Your heart is like a sailing ship on the windswept seas during a storm. You love the idea of the adventure, yet you also long for quieter times so you can relax and enjoy the beauty of your journey. Never mind your nostalgia or restless fantasies. You have work to do in the present moment as the emotional intensity builds to a climax. Don't worry; calmer weather is on the way."

Indeed, the water is choppy as of late. The morning sky is red. Storms are on the way for all, but there's nothing that can't be weathered with strength and perseverance. Unless, you know, you die or something. That might be a bit hard to endure. But anything short of death is livable with good friends, good times, and some solo-time with the sea, I'd say.

Let's Break the Law...

2009-11-21T13:49:00.000-08:00

...and post twice in the same day. On the very day my blog is created, no less! Oh, what a rebel I am. I can already feel the adrenaline in my veins.

To clarify for whatever readers I may gain or garner, this blog will primarily be used as a window and mirror to provide a view in, a view out, and a view of. It's a descriptive thing, a representation of the mind. At times it will be random, at times serious. It will be both curt and long-winded. It will discuss life, academia, and the arts. But most of all, it'll be a way for me to waste time and feel a fuax importance while doing it.

But I will type no more today. Fun times lie ahead for those who choose to read in the future! And for those that don't, we'll still have fun without you. Vraiment.

A Night in the Life (Or, The Author Establishes his Writing Style)

2009-11-21T13:35:00.000-08:00

My dad's buggin' me. I told him I have to go to my Grandma's to get some things, and he's worried that I might wait too long and that the roads will be too dark and too dangerous by the time I start to move. He's just drunk is all, the alcohol taking control of his voice box. But I suppose I might as well go, considering all the homework I don't have tonight.
So I comb my bangs over to one side, placing my hat carefully so as to hold them in place. I pull on my blue hoodie, taking great care to smooth the shoulders. I don't know why I care so much...I guess I just like to look good for the world, since I have no one to look good for. I look down. My shoes are as dirty and ragged as ever.
I tell them that I'm leaving; the friends they have tell me to wait. They've blocked me in, and have to move their behemoth of an SUV so that I can go. The husband sends his wife to do the deed. Her arms are half the size of her torso, she's half the size of me, and her stomach is twice as big as her shirt should allow. I swear I can almost hear the fibers screaming. She says something that she finds funny, causes her to laugh. Something about not being able to drive my car through her car. Her babydoll curls bounce up and down, mimicking the motion of her double chin. I nod absently, resisting the urge to ball my fist. I just want to go and come back. I don't appreciate their drunken humor.
And then I'm driving. Driving always helps me relax. It's the monotony that does it, the steady pulse of the engine and the long, unending river of asphalt upon which my thoughts order and embark. I love it as I love very few things. I remember once I drove to Star and back for no reason other than I wanted to. I remember once I drove to several places for no other reason than I wanted to. Two stop signs, a Lutheran church, and a left turn later and I'm on the road, crossing the bridge. The railroad tracks lie beneath that arch, outrunning both sides of the horizon. Sometimes I wish I could just walk down the tracks and see where they take me. Train tracks strike me as easier to walk than life tracks.
I remember when I lived in East Rockingham, in the middle of the proverbial ghetto. I often stayed up then as I do now, reading or playing games or listening to music. Sometimes people would stay up with me. Often I was alone. But that suited me just fine - I fill could fill in the silence with sounds. There were railroad tracks there as well, that lied beneath our house on a hill and rattled every Saturday night at 1:30 AM exactly. Never early, never late. Dependable, that great train was, and loud as fuck.
But I've been daydreaming, lost in a haze thicker than the fog on my windshield. I turn on the defroster, lurching forward ever so slowly, like a dog with his tail between his legs. I can't see the eyes of the driver behind me, but I can feel them glaring. It's not a pleasant feeling. It's like ice on the spine, or ants on the brain. Not pleasant at all.
A left and a right and I'm on the highway, gunning it from 35 to 55 as quickly as my sedan will allow. I know it wastes gas, I know it's dangerous and disruptive, but I have to have some exhilaration. We have to have some feeling.
Death Cab for Cutie is playing on my MP3 player. I listen to one song and judge them too depressing. Brothers on a hotel bed, indeed. I try Muse, seeking some empowerment. I find it in Knights of Cydonia. I love that song. I sing all the notes that aren't too high, and even make wonderful electric guitar noises when there are no words. Some of that new crap they have the audacity to call music follows said awesomness, and I change the tune. Random. Fergalicious, definition, make them boys go will be the night that you will stop believing, hold on to that power that's inside, gotta catch 'em all, gotta catch gravity is working against ten million fireflies, I'm weird 'cause I hate feel good, shaka out in the sun, having fun and feeling up to you, New York, New York, I can't fight this feeling anymore.
My phone is ringing, so I drive with my knees while reaching in my pocket and turning off the radio. That line in the middle of the road means nothing to me. It's a friend - we talk about nothing while both of us drive.
Eventually I make it to my Grandma's house, only to find my mother there. I finish my conversation with my friend. Where are my clothes?, I ask. The house, she says, and points towards our old home. The power might still be on, she adds. I already know it isn't.
I'm right. I open the door, flick the switch, and nothing. Luckily I have a flashlight. I walk through the gutted rooms, marveling at the space and cleanliness. It seems so habitable in death, so much more than it did in life. I almost wish that I could stay. There are memories in these walls, of kisses, Christmases, and brutal fistfights. Regardless, what's done is done. I lock the door behind me.
The stars are beautiful tonight. I feel the need to share and so text a close friend to inform him of their brilliance. He responds, "We have no stars here. There is too much light." Of course, I don't know that at first. He says it in French, and I'm not as fluent as he is. But I know it later, thanks to Google.
I give my mother a hug. She stalls with questions of my father's sobriety. Will you stay? Won't you stay? I think you should stay. No, no, I don't think so. At least take some money. No. Take it. I do. A fistful of assorted coins is supposed to buy me a marginal lunch for the next four days. Poverty and pride never truly coexist, unless it is poverty due to pride or pride in poverty.
So I leave them and decide that I don't want to go back to my dad's house. I take a detour, going to the Food Lion on US Number1 instead. I fish around the car for more quarters but find nothing but napkins and a puddle of wet strawberry-scented something. I take my coins inside and buy two bouncy balls and one bubblegum machine ring. The balls are hideous, so I rub them with the strawberry something. If they look bad, at least they smell good. The ring gets stuck on my finger, as was to be expected. I hold it before the air vent to heat it up. It slides off. O, human ingenuity.
A lady passes me as I leave the store. She has an UNC front license plate, and a beautiful dog. Bad taste in college. Bad taste in hair styles. Bad taste in clothes. Great taste in dogs.
I drive all the way "home", not paying attention to what I'm listening to. The Killers, I think it is, but I can't be sure. It's still on random anyway, so it's not like it really matters.
I pass a church. I chuckle because the sign says "Nothing is to hard for God." Nothing except standard grammar, apparently. A deer runs out in front of me, followed by a dog. I come to a screeching halt. That's my signal to "STFU", I guess. (I also almost run over two people on the way back. Pedestrians should be required by law to wear reflective patches at night. Seriously.)

I take a right at the light and drive past the Mexican place. It's almost empty, and the stragglers are being pushed out as I drive by. It's always sad to watch the Mexican restaurant close. Music and laughter and escapism are packed away for the evening, and the wandering ghosts in their fleshy shells are set upon the earth once more. If only I were there, I'd buy a final round for all. To glorious retreat, and inglorious withdrawal.

Cross the bridge, over the tracks, to the Lutheran church, and take a right. Stop. Stop. Right. Only one tree is illuminated by the streetlights, like a phosphorescent halo, orange and flickering. It's the neighbor's tree, the neighbor with the immaculate lawn. Hmph.

Kick open the door, grab my stuff, slam it shut again. Walk to the door, place my hand on the handle, and my dad opens it from the inside. He's too eager to help, and too drunk to boot.

I decide to write. The house winds down as I type. I infuse the words with its energy, which leaves less for it to use. All the better, since they need to go to sleep. All the better, since I need to go to sleep. And now I will, or, I'll try. Maybe I'll just wait, and listen for the dependable train. Maybe.