the shmylight zone

no doubt you'll have a bit of trouble feeling it, but i think you'll find that every single pair of binary opposites in life are interchangeable.

 

 The Eternal Internal Binary Opposites of Life.

 

Close your eyes and imagine a yin and yang. Keep in mind that each element curves into the other, and each has a spot of the other element within it. Stay fully aware of the object as a whole circle, then two halves, each possessing some of the other within it. Now try and imagine opposites.

 

Now think of a road. It stretches out into oblivion, just scrawls away over the country side to a vanishing point somewhere in the curtain of midnight skies that is draped over the snow globe horizon. Imagine a radiant moon and those countless stars spinning slowly.

 

Beyond one side of the road, that moon is rising over the sea, and it casts its silver across the ocean’s undulating skin and lets it float there. And beyond the other side of the road, vast fields of golden corn turned gray in the dying light shiver in the cool breeze. And the road stretches on between the ocean and the fields, balanced on a cliff.

 

And now a figure approaches the road side. He is wet and shivering from swimming long and slowly in the ocean. Everything about him quivers with desperation. Desperate to be warm, desperate to be dry, desperate to feel okay again. Desperate.

 

And here, a figure approaches the road side. He is calm and still from wandering for hours amongst the tall crops. Everything about him is unruffled and still.

 

And there they stand, on opposite sides of the same road. Shivering, and still. Desperate and unruffled. Silent, but for the chattering of teeth.

 

And then they approach each other, and they stand on the same road and after a while, they sit together on the asphalt and tell their stories.

 

As a heroin addict, there lies at the core of your being an instability that stems from total dependence. That is to say, the forces of need and relief, push and pull, guide you through life.

 

A Buddhist monk ignores the push and the pull of life, like a cloud passing over mountains, it does not climb with the peaks nor sink with the valleys, it simply cruises with whatever breeze that finds it.

 

As a heroin addict, you will fight for what you think you really want and lose what you know you don’t need. You will give up everything for your next hit and come out the other end wanting nothing. Stillness. You know exactly what it is that you need. The drug you live for. This is dependence. And from this stillness, you are freed from all other bonds.

 

As a Buddhist monk, you will fight for what you think you know you want, and lose what you think you know you only think you want. You will give up everything and come out thinking you never wanted it in the first place. Desperation. You don’t know what you need. You live for happiness and you find it by losing everything. And from this freedom, you are bound to nothing.

 

And these two men might stand facing each other in a road inside you and, and you’d watch how they swapped and morphed.

 

And here there stands on one side of the road a man who is shaking and desperate, and deep within him he is grounded and still.

 

And here stands a man still and unruffled and deep within him he is cold and shaking and desperate to be okay.

 

And the most beautiful part of this story is you’ll never know which one was doing heroin.

new blog.

 

 

yeaaaah.

 

PORNOGRAPHY TODAY IS A PERVERSION OF SEXUALITY.

 

gone is the quiet elegance of erotica.

 

I DO NOT WANT THIS GIRL EXPLOITED.

 

gone is the romance, the passion of the most intimate of human interactions.

 

THIS GIRL IS NO SLUT.

 

now we mass produce sex and plaster the world with it.

 

GET THOSE IMPLANTS OUT OF MY FACE.

 

now the curious teenagers see girls choked.

 

I DO NOT WANT TO FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.

 

 

 

save yourself. find some vintage erotica.

what would you feel if your face was the last thing a complete stranger saw before they died suddenly and unexpectedly?

 

EDIT: MOST OF YOU GUYS SUCK. STOP COMMENTING UNLESS YOU HAVE SOMETHING ORIGINAL TO SAY, YEAH? WAS LOOKING FOR A BIT OF INSPIRATION, YEAH? NOT GONNA BOVVER WIF THIS CHILDISH STUFF, YEAH?

here's something i wrote for school. it's pretty stupid. but i figured i might as well put it up here. anybody who has read choke please forgive my blatant plagiarism. or don't. i don't give a shit, man. you don't own me.

 

 

Ten Inches.

 

“My brother told me that the average size for a penis is around ten inches”

 

You’re sitting in the back row of a classroom with a wonky phallus scratched out in chalk dominating the white board in front of you. It towers over you, adorned with labels and words,

 

Testes

See also: gonads

See also: nuts

See also: bollocks

 

It goes on and on.

 

You’re sitting there ignoring your teacher, listening to your mate tell you possibly the worst thing you could ever hear at this stage of your life. The average penis is around, ten inches. You’re too young to feel secure about these things. You’ve never even kissed a girl, let alone been allowed the chance to prove the proficiency of your down-belows. To be honest, if it came to it, you doubt you’d really know what to do with it at all. So when you hear this, your chest tightens up and lead weights come crashing down in your stomach like every bad cartoon you’ve ever seen. You just flash your mate a cocky smile and nod. But inside your thinking hard.

 

Ten inches. Christ. That’s, what, twenty centimetres?

 

You can’t work it out in your head.

 

                        Inches

                        See also: Imperial system

                        See also: who the hell even knows anymore?

 

You walk out of the class; it’s still on your mind. So now you’re in math and everybody’s ruling lines and measuring textbooks, and you stroll up to the teacher, acting casual. You ask if you can go to the toilet, he says yes. So you walk out of the room, and nobody sees the thirty centimeter stick you have hidden, quite literally, up your sleeve.

 

Now you’re sitting in the cubicle, a legacy of poorly drawn sex organs and badly spelt accusations of homosexuality and fellatio scrawled over the walls around you. There’s no need to describe what you’re doing, but you’re getting desperate. Try as hard as you might, it seems like whenever you line up the ruler to take a measurement, the size just drops away. You’re pushing 4 inches at best. Pathetic. The ruler stretches out way into the distance, the golden ten is like a mirage on the horizon. You don’t stand a chance, you’ll never make it.

 

You wander back into the classroom looking dazed, not even bothering to hide the ruler. The class is ending, and the teacher’s collecting up rulers. When he comes to you, he takes the ruler after a moment of hesitation, then seems to debate putting it in the bin instead of dropping it with the others. He doesn’t meet your eyes, he just moves on. It might be the slight pink in your cheeks, those clammy, moist hands. Maybe it was your slight pant that gave it away. Whatever it was, everything about your teacher’s behavior screamed that he knew exactly what you’d just been getting up to, and was fully aware that the ruler was somehow implicated. The feeling is something like somebody rubbing your ears with petrol then taking to them with a match.

 

Sport time. And now it’s getting bad. You’re in the change room, and it’s packed full of guys, all strutting about with those ten inch monsters tucked away from sight, you just know it. And there you are, all four inches or anti-climax hot and ready to go. Absolute shame. You pull your shirt right down as far as it will go when you drop your pants, and even then, you change facing the wall.

 

Now it’s lunch. And something brilliant is happening. It was like stumbling into a dream, then waking up and discovering you’re still right there in your wildest fantasy. Four beautiful, glowing faces are all beaming at you. They’re framed by the sun, flowing hair, some blonde, some brunette. They all have their skirts hitched up that little bit. Not too much, but just enough to give you that little flutter whenever you give them the odd once over with your peeping toms. You might be talking to them about cats, or, clouds or something awful like that. To be honest you can’t tell, you don’t even care. Your mouth is just chatting away independently while the rest of you just stares. Christ on a bicycle, they are fantastic.

 

You’re at that stage where your body wants sex, but you’ll be stuffed if you have even the slightest idea of what exactly you it might be like. To be honest, you haven’t even worked up the courage to look up porno on the family computer yet. So, by god, this stupid small talk with a bunch of girls, why, hell. They might as well be half dressed gripping your waist firmly between their luscious thighs for all you’ve experienced. So, that warmth starts spreading downwards, filters through your guts right into your groin. Blissfully, you’ve forgotten all that terrible business about rulers and inches and so forth, all there is is that feeling. It’s all terribly exciting, really.

 

And here it is. The slight change in their facial expressions. Their eyes flicking away from your face. The partially hidden smiles starting to play on the corners of their (god they’re lovely) lips. The first nervous giggles shaking chests and shoulders before seeping out like distant music. Then you feel it. That slight tug as the waistline slips over the hips, and the, swoosh, smooth sailing from there on down. You, my friend, are getting dacked. Full dacked. The whole thing, slipping on down to your ankles. And then you do the worst possible thing. The absolute dumbest god forsaken decision you could possible make in these circumstances. The definition of stupid.

 

You don’t get it. It just doesn’t click what’s happened. You don’t react. You just stand there, swaying slightly, mouth hanging open. And you know what gets you going? You look into the eyes of each girl there, and you follow their sight. They’re looking.

 

                        Four inches

                        See also: small penis

                        See also: premature ejaculation

                        See also: dissatisfied girlfriends

                        See also: gossip

                        See also: a life time of humiliation and exile.

                        See also: everybody is looking at you. Do something.

 

You snatch them up from around your ankles, pull them up over your waist. Tuck it all in, get it all arranged. The laughter is deafening. The feeling is like somebody dousing your head in petrol at taking to it with a match. You can imagine the guy in a cowboy hate strolling up to the top of your head and sniffing the air.

 

“Smells like, victory…”

 

Of course, now that’s all over. Now you’re years older. Now you’ve checked the net, and found out that the average size is actually around five inches. Yes, you’ve even measured. Turns out you’re better than average. Turns out those four girls should have been impressed. Four inches was pretty good for a guy of your age back then. So now you’ve done things (which we won’t mention here) and now you’re secure and now you’re experienced.

 

And despite all this?

 

Never, regardless of how much you try, will you forget the day when yours was the smallest penis in the world, and everybody was there to witness it.  

 

 

Fin.

right, ok. so this is the work, as finished as it has ever been up to this point in time. i figure i am going to be putting a good deal more work into this. so if you feel like, read through. if there are any errors or bad writing, your orders are to find it and bring it to me. i will then torture and kill it with a stick. good day to you.

 

 

(btw guys, the title is the emergence, fyi.)

 

the fourth last day.

the widow.

she’s washing dishes at the sink. silence but for the wind outside and the slosh of water, mindless scrubbing, more reflex than action. she stares out the window, against the fence, her rose bush is dying. leaves curl, sick blotches mar the luminous white of each petal. the vision of decay slides home, a white hot knife, and invisible wires tighten their grip on her throat. he used to care for those roses. she stops scrubbing. tears mingle with the soapy water.  silence but for the wind outside and the occasional sob she can’t stifle.

 

the vengeance.

he’s working out at the gym. again. they know him so well there they let him lock up after hours. he is a part of the scenery now, his presence so constant now that people forget to ask why he pumps iron over and over again, like you don’t stop to think why the sky is blue. sweat blankets him, pain runs through his veins. he has been working for hours. day after day. for years. he has signed away his life to preparation for a day that will never arrive. he looks at his rippling arms. they are strong. he knows he is ready, he has felt it for months now. it is like fashioning the most delicate of keys with the finest of tools, using all the precision and skill one can muster, then discovering the lock has disappeared. now all you can do is sit and polish the key. he grunts as he heaves the weight again.

 

the unpunished.

he sits outside, stares through the fence. he is surrounded by their laughter, shouting, sing song insults and arguments. he eyes them all. each one unique, yet achingly familiar to those he has seen before. he makes a selection.

 

the third last day.

the widow.

she is eating dinner alone. the table stretches out into infinity before her. silence but for the scrape of a knife, the rustle of a napkin. on either side of her, the walls are dotted with photographs of them together, warms smiles leer down on her. she stops eating and stares at one. stares at his face, split by a grin, his arm over her shoulders. but his eyes, now she really sees them. they are dead. they show no emotion, and what they so clearly hide, that secret desire, that hidden flaw, that is what leaves her alone now, with nowhere to go. unable to love. silence but for a car outside, and her whispered “how could you?”

 

the vengeance.

he stares down at the stone, it is like staring at his soul. it is cold, it can no longer change, and at the very center a name is carved. the man he has sworn to kill, the revenge that slipped between his clutching fingers, pulled from underneath his feet leaving him dazed, caught in time and left to rot. aching for a release that can not possibly find him. he remembers that man. he had been strong. he remembers the voice of his mother, her screams. that man had been so strong, she was just a toy in his arms. he had watched that man, seen every little thing his mother had to suffer through. back then, he had been helpless. he could not stop the demon that tortured his life in front of him. and when his mother had finally died and the man left, he swore revenge, a promise that grew like a tumor and took hold. he became possessed. now he is strong, strong enough to take his revenge, but he can’t. trapped hate paces inside him like a caged predator, hot anger mixes with bile at the pit of his guts and boils there. a scream builds up at the bottom of his throat, and he keeps it behind his teeth. the full moon stares down at him, uncaring.

 

the unpunished.

he thinks about the one he has chosen. he sits in a chair, in the glow of an old lamp, inside a house just like any other.  he remembers their golden hair and pink skin. he sips spirits from a dusty glass. he lays plans.

 

the second last day.

the widow.

it is three in the morning. she pads through her empty house, carpet footsteps. she reaches the bathroom. by the side of the sink, she can see the ghost of the case where he kept the razors, lying open. she had found that first, and thought nothing of it. she wanders out, towards the door of their bedroom. it is shut. she always leaves it open, but it is always closed again. she hates it, fears it. this way she has to open the door, relive it all over again, every single night, and the horror refuses to fade. she grabs the doorknob. she had wondered why the door was closed, that night. it was never closed back then. it clicks as she opens it. she steps inside, first she sees the blood. the red is impossibly deep, looking at it you feel like you could step on the stain and fall right into it, drown in it. choke on the warm thick wet. she looks up, his feet hang just above the foot of the bed. one wrist hangs open, blood still drips. his face, deep crimson, teeth clenched, the rope holds his neck impossibly tight. she sees his last moments, his feet kick one last time, and she stares into his eyes as they go dead. she screams, and she is standing in the middle of her empty bedroom, pristine white carpet and a tidy bed. she lies down, and stares at the ceiling beams. her cheeks are hot with tears.

 

the vengeance.

he is at home. he sits in a couch in front of a low coffee table littered with used mugs and fast food containers. how had he got here? he’d had such a clear direction, his hate fueled madness, a frenzied drive toward revenge. the hours at the gym, and on the phone and combing the internet. he had gone from the blurry memory of a face to a name and address and a phone number. he had gone from a weak, skinny body to hard muscle. he was ready. he’d made the call. a woman’s voice, he mentioned the name, and her speech cracked a bit and went soft. “oh” she said “i’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this…” he was uncomprehending. “… passed away, just a few days ago. it was food poisoning” his heart skips a beat, then seems to stop. “was he a friend of yours?” the line went dead. a chasm opened in his soul. he screamed. he wept. he denied it. he beat upon the walls until his knuckles bled, and then he kicked holes. he lay shivering on the floor for hours. how could this be?

 

the unpunished.

he waits outside, they are all going home. he sees the one he picked. follows him for a while. the child stops inside a candy store, as always. when he comes out, he is waiting. the kid bumps right into him, and is picked up quickly. strong arms take him, nobody sees it. a car parked in a dead end alley. the boot slams. the child is in darkness, alone. he never saw the face, never heard a voice, just a formless black mass that carried him away like he was nothing, it all happened too quickly for fear to register. the car drives home, the boot remains shut, the driver goes inside. he is standing in his basement. the ground is soft beneath his feet, the soil is constantly getting dug up. he thinks about all the ones he’s buried here. remembers the blood he mixed into this earth. how he could control them, how he could use them until he was spent and their bodies gave up and went limp. they are all here.

 

the last day.

the widow.

she falls asleep, and then she is awake again. always it is like this. no dreams. a dead heart. when she had found him, she ran over and tried to pull him down. he got blood all down her dress. she ran out screaming, down to the kitchen, her world swirling and burning around her. she burst back into the room, long knife in hand, and cut through the rope. he dropped to the floor, his leg broke with a crack and she cried out. she spent hours crouching over his body, moaning and weeping. the police only arrived because the neighbors made the call. they examined the scene. it did not take long to rule it as a suicide. however, they never did find the noose. a few days later, there was a small service. he is buried in a cemetery, just outside her house. they had only ever had a modest circle of acquaintances and each other. she stood there while they put him in the ground and the priest droned on. she just did not understand.

 

the vengeance.

he wakes up. drinks down some cold coffee and heads out. the first time he visited his grave, he had wept silently. they had a photo of him next to the headstone, it all matched up. he stood next the grave, a monuments to his life’s cruel failure, at the highest point of the cemetery. he was truly gone, beyond his reach. he stared across the rolling plains of graves, towards the city, swept by a gray rain. now he is at the gym, working again.

 

the unpunished.

he is finished. the knife comes down and warmth spreads between his fingers, the child goes floppy. he takes the shovel, and digs a hole right where he planned it. soon the boy is just a lump in the earth. he goes upstairs to wash.

 

the emergence.

 

nobody knows exactly when it begins. sometime around sunset. it starts at the northern tip of the country, and spreads south nightmarishly quickly. floods of calls jam emergency lines, panicked reports of disturbances. hospitals report being flooded, then can no longer be reached. casualties appear everywhere. the few people that know what is happening don’t want to say it, don’t want to believe it. the world plunges into chaos. something very wrong is happening. a state of emergency is announced. all over the radio and television, people are instructed to remain calm and hide in the most secure place in the house they can find. basements etc are recommended.  lock doors and windows, under no circumstances go outside. religious figures herald the end.

 

the widow

she is at his grave, she goes there every night after work. she stands there and does nothing. she still can’t understand. she turns around and starts walking home. tonight it ends. she does not see she is being followed. she does not see the earth tremble where she once stood. she does not hear the rasping moan of air being pumped through dry, rotted lungs.

 

the vengeance.

he leaves the gym. catching a bus home, he passes the cemetery. he hits the button and gets off. he wants to see it again.

 

the unpunished.

he sees the television. he can already hear shouts and screams far away. his heart begins to pump, and he locks all his doors, then goes down to basement, barring the door tight behind him.

 

the aftermath.

the widow

she sits on the bed clenching her fists. finally she is able to hate him. that bastard. that fucker. she wants to hurt him now. to leave him like he left her. to hurt him. how could he? how fucking could he? he left her in the most gruesome way she can imagine and did not even say why. she weeps. she does not hear the slow footsteps down her hall. does not see the mud smeared on her carpet, from the dragging of a broken leg. does not smell the lump of dead flesh and putrescence, loosely arranged in the shape of a man that makes its way towards her bedroom. she puts the noose around her neck, the same one he used, kept in a hidden compartment in her bedside table, next to the gun he used to have for protection. she ties the rope to the same ceiling beam he used. and steps off the bed. she hangs there, she chokes, she kicks. it feels good, in the worst kind of way. her head starts pounding. she fights it out of instinct, but she does not care. she just gives up and lets her brain die. and as her vision darkens, she sees her husband step into the room and stare at her, mouth hanging open. she doesn’t think to disbelieve it. she just realizes that she’s finally got him back for how he left her. her eyes go dead. her last thoughts echo like a pin dropped in a pitch black empty room.

nobody ever gets this kind of revenge.

 

the vengeance.

he stands at the grave. he looks at the city, it has started to burn. now he can hear the screams. he looks down over the grave yard, and sees it come to life. it wriggles and crawls as the graves open like flowers to the moon, and the stench rises to him. he does not understand. behind him, he hears a rustling. he turns to see earth explode. staring down, he watches the creature drag itself out the ground, panting and rasping. it stands, unsteady, and looks him in the eye. a yellow toothed grin, set in rotting gums, surrounded by lips no longer there splits the all too familiar face, now spotted with decay. it stinks. it’s real, it is alive again, it stands before him. it’s him. he rots before his eyes, it oozes puss and worms. it carries mud and filth and moss, its belly is swollen. he feels a sick pleasure seeing his nemesis like this, more horrifying and evil than he could ever imagine, the epitome of disgust and fear, perfectly demonized for the role it played in his life. fists clench, and he swings his first blow. he does not stop. he kicks and punches, he breaks old bones and tears off strips of dead flesh. his hands are caked with black blood. he destroys the body, completely. when he is almost done, he stands upright, breathing fire. everything is bathed in the orange of a burning city. reaching down, he takes the head of the dead man he has just killed, and pulls it from its shoulders. he raises it high above his head, and beats it upon the stone until it cracks. a new stench reaches him, and he grins wolfishly. it is done. he is free. he looks out over the burning country, and none of it touches him. soaked in the old blood of his old enemy, he thinks to himself.

nobody ever gets this kind of revenge.

 

the punished.

he stands in the middle of his basement. waits. is unsure. is scared. he starts to hear whispering. he tries to think he imagines it. there is rustling. the earth begins to shake. it bursts from beneath him, he stares. at a loss. tiny hands sprout like evil grass, grasping and clutching. they swarm out of the dirt like locusts. he runs for the door, tries to force it open. it sticks. he yells, beats upon it, struggles against it. their hands find his ankles, more and more latch on. he falls, pinned under their weight. they smother him, stinking and wet, dripping maggots and decay. he gags, he can’t breath. their teeth sink in. he screams, he bleeds, he is torn apart chuck by chunk, and each and every soul he had ever taken has its fill of his flesh.

 

nobody ever gets this kind of revenge.

 

epilogue.

 

there is a house, and the one lighted window displays the silhouette of a figure hanging from a roof. it sways slightly. outside, the lawn is silver in the moonlight. there is a rosebush against the fence. it is dead, yet silently it blossoms, delicately raising its rotted flowers to the sky.

possible zombie story on the way. here's a sneak preview.

 

"she’s washing dishes at the sink. silence but for the wind outside and the slosh of water. she stares out the window. against the fence, her rose bush is dying. leaves curl, blotches of brown mar the perfect white of each petal. he used to look after those roses. she stops scrubbing. tears mingle with the soapy water.  silence but for the wind outside and the occasional sob she can’t stifle. "

 

EXCITED? YOU FUCKING BETTER BE.

it's been a while, hasn't it? here is a story, if anybody ever comes here now, leave a comment. tell me it's worthwhile.

 

five.

 

his name is jared. he is single, and in around five months, his daughter is going to die unless he gets enough money to buy a doctor to cut the cancer out of her. so, in about five minutes, he is going to rob a bank.

 

his name is luke. in around five hours, he was going to leave this building, and go propose to his girlfriend. but, in about five minutes somebody is going to rob his bank.

 

her name is mary. around five weeks ago, she was sexually assaulted by her boss, but he was never charged. so, in about five minutes, she is going to walk into the bathroom and shoot herself in the head, leaving her body at the bank where she works.

 

her name is lucy. five days ago it was her grandson's birthday, and she is withdrawing fifty dollars to give to him. she is paranoid and senile. a widow. she carries a handgun and pepper spray in her bag. in about five minutes, a man in a balaclava is going to wave a gun in her face, and she is going to panic.

 

his name is cam. five weeks ago he joined the force, and he thinks he is justice personified, jesus' personal warrior. he reads the bible and comes from texas. in about five minutes, he is going to respond to a probable armed robbery, shots fired at some bank nearby.

 

outside the bank, it is a gentle day, middle of spring. the sound of traffic is muted, creating fuzz on top of which the call of a bird or a distant conversation ring delicate and clear. trees are swaying under the invisible hand of a breeze, and butterflies play with shadows amongst the flowers.

 

around five minutes later, a generic car rolls up and stops. inside, the driver's heart is pounding, and his breath comes in gasps as he pulls a balaclava over his sweat-soaked face. he climbs out of the car, walks quickly across the pavement and heads for the entrance. he trips a little on the stairs, swearing. he grips the door with a trembling hand, and holds his breath. his name is jared, and he is robbing a bank.

 

he hands over a fifty to the old lady, and checks the clock again. just under five hours to go. the bank is early empty, and time is passing slowly. he checks his pocket and feels the box, yet again. a nervous habit. he can't wait for tonight. he watches mary slip into the bathroom, looking pale. she'd started acting weird since that night. her hands always shook, and her eyes were red... still he refused to feel guilty. besides, he planned to fire her soon, her presence was getting awkward. his name is luke, and he is looking startled, eyes wide and mouth open as a man in a balaclava crosses the foyer of his bank and comes at him with a gun.

 

she hears raised voices, but not from the foyer. in her head, she is replaying the incident. her pleading voice, unheard. the weak resistance of her arms, unheeded. in the mirror  she is there. trembling, stained with tears, she can’t stand up properly. she never expected to be this fucking terrified by her own death, especially after her life was so mercilessly ruined. gulping breath between sobs, her hand closes around the pistol in her pocket. her name is mary, and she is getting ready to die.

 

she gasps as the man bursts in screaming. she stands frozen, near the counter, fifty still in hand. the man crosses the room, yelling at the manager. he sees her standing, barely comprehending, and puts the gun somewhere in the middle of her forehead. he is still yelling, but she doesn't understand. what she does understand is the gun, and how it will kill her. all she can think is that she needs to get the fifty to her grandson. sweet chubby cheeks and sparkling smiles, all her life invested in that little bundle of joy. so she goes for the gun in her bag, pulls it out and sticks it in the man's gut, then squeezes the trigger. the guy flinches, doubles over with the pistol jabbing him then raises his gun wildly. nothing happens at first, but then there are three miniature explosions, and the whole world is going gray. her name is lucy, and she is on the floor with three bloody holes in her chest, in her hands are a fifty dollar note for her grandson and a pistol with the safety clicked on.

 

he is rushing down the road, sirens screaming, replaying the report in his head. probable armed robbery, shots fired. all units respond. his name is cam, and when he sees the body of lucy, he is going to take the law into his own, holy hands.

 

jared is swearing, almost in tears. the old lady dies quickly at his feet, and he doesn't even have time to say he is sorry. his pistol whispers lazy curls of smoke. then he hears sirens. inside his head, everything feels like it is exploding and falling apart. he remembers his daughter, and swings his gun around, jamming the tip in the manager's face. money, he says, handing a bag over.

 

luke is sweating and scared, hands trembling as he loads wads of notes into the bag, under the watchful black hole eye of the pistol. the sirens are loud now, and the bag is nearly full. he sees the patrol car pull up out front, and a cop leaps out, pistol in hand. enough, the gun is screaming, and he hands the bag over. rough hands grab him, and he is pulled against his assailant, facing the door. the hot pistol is pressed against his temple. he is now a hostage, and he keeps one hand in his pocket, gripping the soft velvet box.

 

mary is hearing sirens and gunshots. this is not helping her stress levels, and she starts to panic at the idea of some cop kicking down the door, knocking the gun from her grip. strong hands around her waist listen to me mary, you have every reason to live. she won’t have that.  pressing the gun against the side of her head she takes a trembling breath and takes one last look in the mirror.

 

cam is inside the foyer, staring at the suspect, his face is obscured by a balaclava, and his body is obscured by a terrified man, manager's badge gleaming under the fluroescent lights, pistol jammed in his ear. a few people lie on the ground cowering and praying. cam looks at the body of an old woman, slowly soaking in blood. his righteous fury is boiling, and he forgets negotiation, he forgets to wait for backup, he forgets to take cover. he simply stands out in the open, an invincible angel of god, stares into the eyes of the murderer in front of him, calmly points his pistol at him and waits for an opportunity to shoot. behind him, support has arrived, and they are assembled in the bank, slowly advancing. an array of weapons pointed at the suspect. the man points the pistol right at cam. everything in the bank goes still. muscles twitch, guns bristle. breath is held and hearts pound. awareness shrinks down to a pinpoint, solely focused on this moment. every ear is zeroed in, waiting for the first shot to be fired. clocks stop ticking.

 

his name is jared. he does not care about dying, just his daughter living.

 

his name is luke. the face of his girlfriend is all he thinks about as he stares down the barrel of every gun in the room. 

 

her name is lucy. she, for one, has nothing to worry about.

 

his name is cam. he knows god is waiting for him, and when he meets him, he plans to meet him with the soul of this sinning bastard in tow.

 

her name is mary, and she is pulling the trigger. the shot rings out clear and solitary. as the contents of her skull evacuate through one side of her face, little does she know that she has just exacted the revenge she always yearned for, the revenge that had driven her to death. before her ruined cheek can touch the floor, the foyer is bathed in the clatter and boom of gunfire.

 

the smoke settles, the noise fades. five hours later, the police have sealed off the area, shaking their heads and muttering.

 

five body bags lie in a neat row.

have come to the conclusion that for the un to function properly all decisions must be decided through a series of powerful samurai battles involving tons of screaming and yelling, wilderbeast, thai midget kickboxers and lots and lots of beer and spirits. my hope is that by the end of it the leaders would have had such a jolly good time for themselves they would just get along and all that. i mean, it's no wonder all these countries are torturing refugees, they're just venting a little frustration because general assemblies are so shit boring. personally, i can't wait until the earth's climate is plunged into chaos and our cities are swallowed by the ocean. be a bloody pleasant change i say. but that's not the point. my point is, who the hell messed up my space and how much am i going to have to kill them before they change it back? have spent the last ten or so minutes eating whole pickles out of boredom. should have just built a house of cards or something, pickles are awful. not just awful. really awful. recently my internet has been a bitch in stilletos with a small calliber handgun concealed in her business-like panties below a short skirt and low-cut blouse (lawyer type), and it's made blogging too much to bear. which reminds me of how cool bears are, but let's not talk about that, you gossip-elephant. you're just a little gossip-elephant.

every tick of the clock is one step closer to your death, you're a toy on a conveyor belt, and every little step they stick an extra piece on you, and you just keep getting more and more amazing, and then it's the end of the line and you get dumped in a kid's toybox never to be thought of again, the biggest things in your life could not be smaller in the eyes of god, and the defining moment of your existence is the universe's ad break, your plans are nothing in the face of god's big idea, but hey, the feeling is mutual, god's big ideas are background noise to your little plans, you're hunched over your own little antfarm, trying to control every aspect of your tiny world, and the universe is spinning around above you, and you're stumbling and gasping like some idiot under the weight of everything that ever mattered to you, and really it's just nothing, and everything is very, very busy falling apart.

ok, ok. i'm revising this. love can't be measured, because it does not exist on its own. by saying that love exists on its own contradicts my theory of a neutral existence. so i figure love (also hate) is an experience. in that, the more of life we experience, the deeper our feeling of love or hate becomes. so the more we accept life and live it fully, the more we experience, and the deeper our ability to love and to hate becomes. any good?

 

 

 

everything and nothing are the same. if you remove the limits to create something that is infinite, you lose all sense of measurement, and it becomes nothing. nothing is just the same free of all boundaries, and therefore encompasses everything. does this mean that to say we love infinitely essentially means we don't love at all? if there are no limits, boundaries to our love then it has nothing to function within and therefore is obsolete, non-existant. so yes, to love infinitely is essentially to not love at all. in which case it is the flaws, the limits to our perception that makes them so valuable, for to see everything is to see nothing. i think i have discussed the perfection of nature in some of my earlier blogs. i see that good and bad are merely points of view. i know that where one sees bad, another will see good. therefore, where one is, so too is the other. this strikes a perfect balance. this means that good can't be experienced as a truth, to see the universe as inherently good is foolish and narrow, the exact same applies to seeing the universe as bad. the truth is the universe is neutral, eternal, nothing. in which case, how can our limited perceptions exist? neither infinity or sorrow, can be divided, therefore the idea that our perceptions are the result of a limited view of an infinite thing destroy the idea of there being an infinite universe in the first place. how can anything exist within nothingness? it can't, because nothingness does not exist. infinity does not exist either, as infinity and nothing are the same thing. anything that exists is finite.

 

i said ealier that to love without limits is to not love at all. any love that can be said to exist is not infinite. love, just like good, is an abstract, it can't exist on its own as a truth. it requires hate, or bad, to balance it, to define it. so wherever there is love, there too is an equal amount of hate. this balance means that the whole essentially adds up to nothing. but as humans we are not whole. as humans we may posses the potential to hold both sides of the equation, but our conciousness allows one to exist in the light while the other remains obscured. therefore, to experience love we need only ignore hate, but to first understand love we must know hate.

 

this is making my ears bleed. jesus. any opinions?

the poseidon adventure had all the potential for being an epic thriller. lots of dead bodies for zombies, the ocean provides giant squids, sharks, unfriendly crabs, and very large jellyfish, and the boat is just screaming out to be full of pirates of the blood-thirsty kind. instead all they had was a bunch of water and stuff. weak.

it's got to be said. for the end of the world, tuesday was a totally pisspoor effort.

 

 

the movie looks spooky though.

the truest levels of emotion are not caused by anything. rather, they are the cause of our actions. the greatest, purest levels of love or hate do not exist because we act them out, we act them out because they exist. These feelings are not the end, they are the means. they are without reason or justification, rather, all things are justified by them, all things find their reason within these feelings.

 

just a thought.

i wonder if god ever takes his eyes of the universe and looks at the great big nothing above him and says to himself "i wonder if there's anything out there?"

 

we are all gods to ants.

(it's rather long, so if you aren't in the mood for a big story, scroll to the bottom. thar be pictures ahoy, ye harrrrr)

 

The following is Jonathan Nolan's short story
"Memento Mori", the inspiration for his brother,
Christopher Nolan's, screenplay for the film, MEMENTO:

MEMENTO MORI
by
Jonathan Nolan

What like a bullet can undeceive!"
    -Herman Melville

Your wife always used to say you'd be late for your own funeral.
Remember that? Her little joke because you were such a slob-always
late, always forgetting stuff, even before the incident.

Right about now you're probably wondering if you were late for hers.

You were there, you can be sure of that. That's what the picture's
for-the one tacked to the wall by the door. It's not customary to take
pictures at a funeral, but somebody, your doctors, I guess, knew you
wouldn't remember. They had it blown up nice and big and stuck it
right there, next to the door, so you couldn't help but see it every
time you got up to find out where she was.

The guy in the picture, the one with the flowers? That's you. And what
are you doing? You're reading the headstone, trying to figure out
who's funeral you're at, same as you're reading it now, trying to
figure why someone stuck that picture next to your door. But why
bother reading something that you won't remember?

She's gone, gone for good, and you must be hurting right now, hearing
the news. Believe me, I know how you feel. You're probably a wreck.
But give it five minutes, maybe ten. Maybe you can even go a whole
half hour before you forget.

But you will forget-I guarantee it. A few more minutes and you'll be
heading for the door, looking for her all over again, breaking down
when you find the picture. How many times do you have to hear the news
before some other part of your body, other than that busted brain of
yours, starts to remember?

Never-ending grief, never-ending anger. Useless without direction.
Maybe you can't understand what's happened. Can't say I really
understand, either. Backwards amnesia. That's what the sign says. CRS
disease. Your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe you can't understand what happened to you. But you do remember
what happened to HER, don't you? The doctors don't want to talk about
it. They won't answer my questions. They don't think it's right for a
man in your condition to hear about those things. But you remember
enough, don't you? You remember his face.

This is why I'm writing to you. Futile, maybe. I don't know how many
times you'll have to read this before you listen to me. I don't even
know how long you've been locked up in this room already. Neither do
you. But your advantage in forgetting is that you'll forget to write
yourself off as a lost cause.

Sooner or later you'll want to do something about it. And when you do,
you'll just have to trust me, because I'm the only one who can help
you.

***

EARL OPENS ONE EYE after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large
enough for him to read from the bed. An alarm clock is ringing
somewhere. He reads the sign, blinks,reads it again, then takes a look
at the room.

It's a white room, overwhelmingly white, from the walls and the
curtains to the institutional furniture and the bedspread. The alarm
clock is ringing from the white desk under the window with the white
curtains. At this point Earl probably notices that he is lying on top
of his white comforter. He is already wearing a dressing gown and
slippers.

He lies back and reads the sign taped to the ceiling again. It says,
in crude block capitals, THIS IS YOUR ROOM. THIS IS A ROOM IN A
HOSPITAL. THIS IS WHERE YOU LIVE NOW.

Earl rises and takes a look around. The room is large for a
hospital-empty linoleum stretches out from the bed in three
directions. Two doors and a window. The view isn't very helpful,
either-a close of trees in the center of a carefully manicured piece
of turf that terminates in a sliver of two-lane blacktop. The trees,
except for the evergreens, are bare-early spring or late fall, one or
the other.

Every inch of the desk is covered with Post-it notes, legal pads,
neatly printed lists, psychological textbooks, framed pictures. On top
of the mess is a half-completed crossword puzzle. The alarm clock is
riding a pile of folded newspapers. Earl slaps the snooze button and
takes a cigarette from the pack taped to the sleeve of his dressing
gown. He pats the empty pockets of his pajamas for a light. He rifles
the papers on the desk, looks quickly through the drawers. Eventually
he finds a box of kitchen matches taped to the wall next to the
window. Another sign is taped just above the box. It says in loud
yellow letters, CIGARETTE? CHECK FOR LIT ONES FIRST, STUPID.

Earl laughs at the sign, lights his cigarette, and takes a long draw.
Taped to the window in front of him is another piece of looseleaf
paper headed YOUR SCHEDULE.

It charts off the hours, every hour, in blocks: 10:00 p.m. to 8:00
a.m. is labeled go BACK TO SLEEP. Earl consults the alarm clock: 8:15.
Given the light outside, it must be morning. He checks his watch:
10:30. He presses the watch to his ear and listens. He gives the watch
a wind or two and sets it to match the alarm clock.

According to the schedule, the entire block from 8:00 to 8:30 has been
labeled BRUSH YOUR TEETH. Earl laughs again and walks over to the
bathroom.

The bathroom window is open. As he flaps his arms to keep warm, he
notices the ashtray on the windowsill. A cigarette is perched on the
ashtray, burning steadily through a long finger of ash. He frowns,
extinguishes the old butt, and replaces it with the new one.

The toothbrush has already been treated to a smudge of white paste.
The tap is of the push-button variety-a dose of water with each nudge.
Earl pushes the brush into his cheek and fiddles it back and forth
while he opens the medicine cabinet. The shelves are stocked with
single-serving packages of vitamins, aspirin, antidiuretics. The
mouthwash is also single-serving, about a shot-glass-worth of blue
liquid in a sealed plastic bottle. Only the toothpaste is
regular-sized. Earl spits the paste out of his mouth and replaces it
with the mouthwash. As he lays the toothbrush next to the toothpaste,
he notices a tiny wedge of paper pinched between the glass shelf and
the steel backing of the medicine cabinet. He spits the frothy blue
fluid into the sink and nudges for some more water to rinse it down.
He closes the medicine cabinet and smiles at his reflection in the
mirror.

"Who needs half an hour to brush their teeth?"

The paper has been folded down to a minuscule size with all the
precision of a sixth-grader's love note. Earl unfolds it and smooths
it against the mirror. It reads-

IF YOU CAN STILL READ THIS, THEN YOU'RE A FUCKING COWARD.

Earl stares blankly at the paper, then reads it again. He turns it
over. On the back it reads-

P.S.: AFTER YOU'VE READ THIS, HIDE IT AGAIN.

Earl reads both sides again, then folds the note back down to its
original size and tucks it underneath the toothpaste.

Maybe then he notices the scar. It begins just beneath the ear, jagged
and thick, and disappears abruptly into his hairline. Earl turns his
head and stares out of the corner of his eye to follow the scar's
progress. He traces it with a fingertip, then looks back down at the
cigarette burning in the ashtray. A thought seizes him and he spins
out of the bathroom.

He is caught at the door to his room, one hand on the knob. Two
pictures are taped to the wall by the door. Earl's attention is caught
first by the MRI, a shiny black frame for four windows into someone's
skull. In marker, the picture is labeled YOUR BRAIN. Earl stares at
it. Concentric circles in different colors. He can make out the big
orbs of his eyes and, behind these, the twin lobes of his brain.
Smooth wrinkles, circles, semicircles. But right there in the middle
of his head, circled in marker, tunneled in from the back of his neck
like a maggot into an apricot, is something different. Deformed,
broken, but unmistakable. A dark smudge, the shape of a flower, right
there in the middle of his brain.

He bends to look at the other picture. It is a photograph of a man
holding flowers, standing over a fresh grave. The man is bent over,
reading the headstone. For a moment this looks like a hall of mirrors
or the beginnings of a sketch of infinity: the one man bent over,
looking at the smaller man, bent over, reading the headstone. Earl
looks at the picture for a long time. Maybe he begins to cry. Maybe he
just stares silently at the picture. Eventually, he makes his way back
to the bed, flops down, seals his eyes shut, tries to sleep.

The cigarette burns steadily away in the bathroom. A circuit in the
alarm clock counts down from ten, and it starts ringing again.

Earl opens one eye after another to a stretch of white ceiling tiles,
interrupted by a hand-printed sign taped right above his head, large
enough for him to read from the bed.

***

You can't have a normal life anymore. You must know that. How can you
have a girlfriend if you can't remember her name? Can't have kids, not
unless you want them to grow up with a dad who doesn't recognize them.
Sure as hell can't hold down a job. Not too many professions out there
that value forgetfulness. Prostitution, maybe. Politics, of course.

No. Your life is over. You're a dead man.The only thing the doctors
are hoping to do is teach you to be less of a burden to the orderlies.
And they'll probably never let you go home, wherever that would be.

So the question is not "to be or not to be," because you aren't. The
question is whether you want to do something about it. Whether revenge
matters to you.

It does to most people. For a few weeks, they plot, they scheme, they
take measures to get even. But the passage of time is all it takes to
erode that initial impulse. Time is theft, isn't that what they say?
And time eventually convinces most of us that forgiveness is a virtue.
Conveniently, cowardice and forgiveness look identical at a certain
distance. Time steals your nerve.

If time and fear aren't enough to dissuade people from their revenge,
then there's always authority, softly shaking its head and saying, We
understand, but you're the better man for letting it go. For rising
above it. For not sinking to their level. And besides, says authority,
if you try anything stupid, we'll lock you up in a little room.

But they already put you in a little room, didn't they? Only they
don't really lock it or even guard it too carefully because you're a
cripple. A corpse. A vegetable who probably wouldn't remember to eat
or take a shit if someone wasn't there to remind you.

And as for the passage of time, well, that doesn't really apply to you
anymore, does it? Just the same ten minutes, over and over again. So
how can you forgive if you can't remember to forget?

You probably were the type to let it go, weren't you? Before. But
you're not the man you used to be. Not even half. You're a fraction;
you're the ten-minute man.

Of course, weakness is strong. It's the primary impulse. You'd
probably prefer to sit in your little room and cry. Live in your
finite collection of memories, carefully polishing each one. Half a
life set behind glass and pinned to cardboard like a collection of
exotic insects. You'd like to live behind that glass, wouldn't you?
Preserved in aspic.

You'd like to but you can't, can you? You can't because of the last
addition to your collection. The last thing you remember. His face.
His face and your wife, looking to you for help.

And maybe this is where you can retire to when it's over. Your little
collection. They can lock you back up in another little room and you
can live the rest of your life in the past. But only if you've got a
little piece of paper in your hand that says you got him.

You know I'm right. You know there's a lot of work to do. It may seem
impossible, but I'm sure if we all do our part, we'll figure something
out. But you don't have much time. You've only got about ten minutes,
in fact. Then it starts all over again. So do something with the time
you've got.

***

EARL OPENS HIS EYES and blinks into the darkness. The alarm clock is
ringing. It says 3:20, and the moonlight streaming through the window
means it must be the early morning. Earl fumbles for the lamp, almost
knocking it over in the process. Incandescent light fills the room,
painting the metal furniture yellow, the walls yellow, the bedspread,
too. He lies back and looks up at the stretch of yellow ceiling tiles
above him, interrupted by a handwritten sign taped to the ceiling. He
reads the sign two, maybe three times, then blinks at the room around
him.

It is a bare room. Institutional, maybe. There is a desk over by the
window. The desk is bare except for the blaring alarm clock. Earl
probably notices, at this point, that he is fully clothed. He even has
his shoes on under the sheets. He extracts himself from the bed and
crosses to the desk. Nothing in the room would suggest that anyone
lived there, or ever had, except for the odd scrap of tape stuck here
and there to the wall. No pictures, no books, nothing. Through the
window, he can see a full moon shining on carefully manicured grass.

Earl slaps the snooze button on the alarm clock and stares a moment at
the two keys taped to the back of his hand. He picks at the tape while
he searches through the empty drawers. In the left pocket of his
jacket, he finds a roll of hundred-dollar bills and a letter sealed in
an envelope. He checks the rest of the main room and the bathroom.
Bits of tape, cigarette butts. Nothing else.

Earl absentmindedly plays with the lump of scar tissue on his neck and
moves back toward the bed. He lies back down and stares up at the
ceiling and the sign taped to it. The sign reads, GET UP, GET OUT
RIGHT NOW. THESE PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO KILL YOU.

Earl closes his eyes.

***

They tried to teach you to make lists in grade school, remember? Back
when your day planner was the back of your hand. And if your
assignments came off in the shower, well, then they didn't get done.
No direction, they said. No discipline. So they tried to get you to
write it all down somewhere more permanent.

Of course, your grade-school teachers would be laughing their pants
wet if they could see you now. Because you've become the exact product
of their organizational lessons. Because you can't even take a piss
without consulting one of your lists.

They were right. Lists are the only way out of this mess.

Here's the truth: People, even regular people, are never just any one
person with one set of attributes. It's not that simple. We're all at
the mercy of the limbic system, clouds of electricity drifting through
the brain. Every man is broken into twenty-four-hour fractions, and
then again within those twenty-four hours. It's a daily pantomime, one
man yielding control to the next: a backstage crowded with old hacks
clamoring for their turn in the spotlight. Every week, every day. The
angry man hands the baton over to the sulking man, and in turn to the
sex addict, the introvert, the conversationalist. Every man is a mob,
a chain gang of idiots.

This is the tragedy of life. Because for a few minutes of every day,
every man becomes a genius. Moments of clarity, insight, whatever you
want to call them. The clouds part, the planets get in a neat little
line, and everything becomes obvious. I should quit smoking, maybe, or
here's how I could make a fast million, or such and such is the key to
eternal happiness. That's the miserable truth. For a few moments, the
secrets of the universe are opened to us. Life is a cheap parlor
trick.

But then the genius, the savant, has to hand over the controls to the
next guy down the pike, most likely the guy who just wants to eat
potato chips, and insight and brilliance and salvation are all
entrusted to a moron or a hedonist or a narcoleptic.

The only way out of this mess, of course, is to take steps to ensure
that you control the idiots that you become. To take your chain gang,
hand in hand, and lead them. The best way to do this is with a list.

It's like a letter you write to yourself. A master plan, drafted by
the guy who can see the light, made with steps simple enough for the
rest of the idiots to understand. Follow steps one through one
hundred. Repeat as necessary.

Your problem is a little more acute, maybe, but fundamentally the same
thing.

It's like that computer thing, the Chinese room. You remember that?
One guy sits in a little room, laying down cards with letters written
on them in a language he doesn't understand, laying them down one
letter at a time in a sequence according to someone else's
instructions. The cards are supposed to spell out a joke in Chinese.
The guy doesn't speak Chinese, of course. He just follows his
instructions.

There are some obvious differences in your situation, of course: You
broke out of the room they had you in, so the whole enterprise has to
be portable. And the guy giving the instructions-that's you, too, just
an earlier version of you. And the joke you're telling, well, it's got
a punch line. I just don't think anyone's going to find it very funny.

So that's the idea. All you have to do is follow your instructions.
Like climbing a ladder or descending a staircase. One step at a time.
Right down the list. Simple.

And the secret, of course, to any list is to keep it in a place where
you're bound to see it.

***

HE CAN HEAR THE BUZZING through his eyelids. Insistent. He reaches out
for the alarm clock, but he can't move his arm.

Earl opens his eyes to see a large man bent double over him. The man
looks up at him, annoyed, then resumes his work. Earl looks around
him. Too dark for a doctor's office.

Then the pain floods his brain, blocking out the other questions. He
squirms gain, trying to yank his forearm away,  the one that feels
like it's burning. The arm doesn't move, but the man shoots him
another scowl. Earl adjusts himself in the chair to see over the top
of the man's head.

The noise and the pain are both coming from a gun in the man's hand-a
gun with a needle where the barrel should be. The needle is digging
into the fleshy underside of Earl's forearm, leaving a trail of puffy
letters behind it.

Earl tries to rearrange himself to get a better view, to read the
letters on his arm, but he can't. He lies back and stares at the
ceiling.

Eventually the tattoo artist turns off the noise, wipes Earl's forearm
with a piece of gauze, and wanders over to the back to dig up a
pamphlet describing how to deal with a possible infection. Maybe later
he'll tell his wife about this guy and his little note. Maybe his wife
will convince him to call the police.

Earl looks down at the arm. The letters are rising up from the skin,
weeping a little. They run from just behind the strap of Earl's watch
all the way to the inside of his elbow. Earl blinks at the message and
reads it again. It says, in careful little capitals, I RAPED AND
KILLED YOUR WIFE.

***

It's your birthday today, so I got you a little present. I would have
just bought you a beer, but who knows where that would have ended?

So instead, I got you a bell. I think I may have had to pawn your
watch to buy it, but what the hell did you need a watch for, anyway?

You're probably asking yourself, Why a bell? In fact, I'm guessing
you're going to be asking yourself that question every time you find
it in your pocket. Too many of these letters now. Too many for you to
dig back into every time you want to know the answer to some little
question.

It's a joke, actually. A practical joke. But think of it this way: I'm
not really laughing at you so much as with you.

I'd like to think that every time you take it out of your pocket and
wonder, Why do I have this bell? a little part of you, a little piece
of your broken brain, will remember and laugh, like I'm laughing now.

Besides, you do know the answer. It was something you learned before.
So if you think about it, you'll know.

Back in the old days, people were obsessed with the fear of being
buried alive. You remember now? Medical science not being quite what
it is today, it wasn't uncommon for people to suddenly wake up in a
casket. So rich folks had their coffins outfitted with breathing
tubes. Little tubes running up to the mud above so that if someone
woke up when they weren't supposed to, they wouldn't run out of
oxygen. Now, they must have tested this out and realized that you
could shout yourself hoarse through the tube, but it was too narrow to
carry much noise. Not enough to attract attention, at least. So a
string was run up the tube to a little bell attached to the headstone.
If a dead person came back to life, all he had to do was ring his
little bell till someone came and dug him up again.

I'm laughing now, picturing you on a bus or maybe in a fast-food
restaurant, reaching into your pocket and finding your little bell and
wondering to yourself where it came from, why you have it. Maybe
you'll even ring it.

Happy birthday, buddy.

I don't know who figured out the solution to our mutual problem, so I
don't know whether to congratulate you or me. A bit of a lifestyle
change, admittedly, but an elegant solution, nonetheless.

Look to yourself for the answer.

That sounds like something out of a Hallmark card. I don't know when
you thought it up, but my hat's off to you. Not that you know what the
hell I'm talking about. But, honestly, a real brainstorm. After all,
everybody else needs mirrors to remind themselves who they are. You're
no different.

***

THE LITTLE MECHANICAL VOICE PAUSES, then repeats itself. It says, "The
time is 8:00 a.m. This is a courtesy call." Earl opens his eyes and
replaces the receiver. The phone is perched on a cheap veneer
headboard that stretches behind the bed, curves to meet the corner,
and ends at the minibar. The TV is still on, blobs of flesh color
nattering away at each other. Earl lies back down and is surprised to
see himself, older now, tanned, the hair pulling away from his head
like solar flares. The mirror on the ceiling is cracked, the silver
fading increases. Earl continues to stare at himself, astonished by
what he sees. He is fully dressed, but the clothes are old, threadbare
in places.

Earl feels the familiar spot on his left wrist for his watch, but it's
gone. He looks down from the mirror to his arm. It is bare and the
skin has changed to an even tan, as if he never owned a watch in the
first place. The skin is even in color except for the solid black
arrow on the inside of Earl's wrist, pointing up his shirtsleeve. He
stares at the arrow for a moment. Perhaps he doesn't try to rub it off
anymore. He rolls up his sleeve.

The arrow points to a sentence tattooed along Earl's inner arm. Earl
reads the sentence once, maybe twice. Another arrow picks up at the
beginning of the sentence, points farther up Earl's arm, disappearing
under the rolled-up shirtsleeve. He unbuttons his shirt.

Looking down on his chest, he can make out the shapes but cannot bring
them into focus, so he looks up at the mirror above him.

The arrow leads up Earl's arm, crosses at the shoulder, and descends
onto his upper torso, terminating at a picture of a man's face that
occupies most of his chest. The face is that of a large man, balding,
with a mustache and a goatee. It is a particular face, but like a
police sketch it has a certain unreal quality.

The rest of his upper torso is covered in words, phrases, bits of
information, and instructions, all of them written backward on Earl,
forward in the mirror.

Eventually Earl sits up, buttons his shirt, and crosses to the desk. He takes out
a pen and a piece of notepaper from the desk drawer, sits, and begins
to write.

***
        
I don't know where you'll be when you read this. I'm not even sure if
you'll bother to read this. I guess you don't need to.

It's a shame, really, that you and I will never meet. But, like the
song says, "By the time you read this note, I'll be gone."

We're so close now. That's the way it feels. So many pieces put
together, spelled out. I guess it's just a matter of time until you
find him.

Who knows what we've done to get here? Must be a hell of a story, if
only you could remember any of it. I guess it's better that you can't.

I had a thought just now. Maybe you'll find it useful.

Everybody is waiting for the end to come, but what if it already
passed us by? What if the final joke of Judgment Day was that it had
already come and gone and we were none the wiser? Apocalypse arrives
quietly; the chosen are herded off to heaven, and the rest of us, the
ones who failed the test,  just keep on going, oblivious. Dead
already,  wandering around long after the gods have stopped keeping
score, still optimistic about the future.

I guess if that's true, then it doesn't matter what you do. No
expectations. If you can't find him, then it doesn't matter, because
nothing matters. And if you do find him, then you can kill him without
worrying about the consequences. Because there are no consequences.

That's what I'm thinking about right now, in this scrappy little room.
Framed pictures of ships on the wall. I don't know, obviously, but if
I had to guess, I'd say we're somewhere up the coast. If you're
wondering why your left arm is five shades browner than your right, I
don't know what to tell you. I guess we must have been driving for a
while. And, no, I don't know what happened to your watch.

And all these keys: I have no idea. Not a one that I recognize. Car
keys and house keys and the little fiddly keys for padlocks. What have
we been up to?

I wonder if he'll feel stupid when you find him. Tracked down by the
ten-minute man.  Assassinated by a vegetable.

I'll be gone in a moment. I'll put down the pen, close my eyes, and
then you can read this through if you want.

I just wanted you to know that I'm proud of you. No one who matters is
left to say it. No one left is going to want to.

EARL'S EYES ARE WIDE OPEN, staring through the window of the car.
Smiling eyes. Smiling through the window at the crowd gathering across
the street. The crowd gathering around the body in the doorway. The
body emptying slowly across the sidewalk and into the storm drain.

***

A stocky guy, facedown, eyes open. Balding head, goatee. In death, as
in police sketches, faces tend to look the same. This is definitely
somebody in particular. But really, it could be anybody.

Earl is still smiling at the body as the car pulls away from the curb.
The car? Who's to say? Maybe it's a police cruiser. Maybe it's just a
taxi.

As the car is swallowed into traffic, Earl's eyes continue to shine
out into the night, watching the body until it disappears into a
circle of concerned pedestrians. He chuckles to himself as the car
continues to make distance between him and the growing crowd.

Earl's smile fades a little. Something has occurred to him. He begins
to pat down his pockets; leisurely at first, like a man looking for
his keys, then a little more desperately. Maybe his progress is
impeded by a set of handcuffs. He begins to empty the contents of his
pockets out onto the seat next to him. Some money. A bunch of keys.
Scraps of paper.

A round metal lump rolls out of his pocket and slides across the vinyl
seat.  Earl is frantic now. He hammers at the plastic divider between
him and the driver, begging the man for a pen. Perhaps the cabbie
doesn't speak much English. Perhaps the cop isn't in the habit of
talking to suspects. Either way, the divider between the man in front
and the man behind remains closed. A pen is not forthcoming.

The car hits a pothole, and Earl blinks at his reflection in the
rearview mirror. He is calm now. The driver makes another corner, and
the metal lump slides back over to rest against Earl's leg with a
little jingle. He picks it up and looks at it,  curious now. It is a
little bell. A little metal bell. Inscribed on it are his name and a
set of dates. He recognizes the first one: the year in which he was
born. But the second date means nothing to him. Nothing at all.

As he turns the bell over in his hands, he notices the empty space on
his wrist where his watch used to sit. There is a little arrow there,
pointing up his arm. Earl looks at the arrow, then begins to roll up
his sleeve.

***

"You'd be late for your own funeral," she'd say. Remember? The more I
think about it, the more trite that seems. What kind of idiot, after
all, is in any kind of rush to get to the end of his own story?

And how would I know if I were late,  anyway? I don't have a watch
anymore. I don't know what we did with it.

What the hell do you need a watch for,  anyway? It was an antique.
Deadweight tugging at your wrist. Symbol of the old you. The you that
believed in time.

No. Scratch that. It's not so much that you've lost your faith in time
as that time has lost its faith in you. And who needs it,  anyway? Who
wants to be one of those saps living in the safety of the future, in
the safety of the moment after the moment in which they felt something
powerful? Living in the next moment, in which they feel nothing.
Crawling down the hands of the clock, away from the people who did
unspeakable things to them. Believing the lie that time will heal all
wounds-which is just a nice way of saying that time deadens us.

But you're different. You're more perfect.  Time is three things for
most people, but for you, for us, just one. A singularity. One moment.
This moment. Like you're the center of the clock, the axis on which
the hands turn. Time moves about you but never moves you. It has lost
its ability to affect you. What is it they say? That time is theft?
But not for you. Close your eyes and you can start all over again.
Conjure up that necessary emotion, fresh as roses.

Time is an absurdity. An abstraction. The only thing that matters is
this moment. This moment a million times over. You have to trust me.
If this moment is repeated enough, if you keep trying-and you have to
keep trying-eventually you will come across the next item on your
list.

End.

this morning all my music sounded new, like i was listening to it for the first time,

this morning my headache seemed fuller, like it was the first headache i'd ever had,

this morning the sunlight seemed brighter, like i'd never seen the sun,

this morning my pain seemed deeper, like i'd never been hurt before,

this morning my love felt warmer, like i'd never truly loved before,

this morning waking up felt so much closer, like i'd never been awake before.

 

thank you, for everything.

pictures!  one of which is of solifugae! can you guess which are which? i think you shall be pleasantly surprised.

arrggghhh. ok, here we go. i stayed up in bed for 4 hours last night because i could not get this out of my head. eventually, i had to scribble it down by the light of my ipod and then knock myself out with a dangerous amount of alcohol to get some sleep.

 

love. it's good, yeah? makes us happy, keeps us going, problem is, it sometimes has limits. when you hit the limits, everything falls apart. hurts, a lot. seen it happen to so many people, and then they end up letting go of love all together. blech to that, says i.

 

first of all, a metaphor. love is like water. got it in your head. ok. shall we go?

 

 

the moment you can say how much you love some one, is the moment you can say how much you don't. to put an amount on your love, is to give it limits. somebody who limits their love is like a cup, hundreds of people can shower them in love, but the cup will always hold the same amount. and when people drink from the cup, it will run out. so. solution? get rid of the cup. whatever water you had in that cup, becomes immeasurable, essentially infinite, because you have nothing to measure it against. the limits are gone. sweet, eh? so now, your love is one big ocean. everybody's love flows into it, it just keeps getting deeper and deeper, no limits, just this huge resovoir of compassion, kindness, happiness and love. you good so far? i hope so. now, you gotta work on this, because you really do need to drop the limits. ok? if you have reasons why you love people, you'll get reasons why you don't love them too. opposites follow each other around everywhere, you will never get only the best half of a deal. or the worst half, keep that in mind . so, you gotta accept everyone as they are, just love and love and love them, just for who they are. now really get the image here. your love is an ocean. limitless. everybody elses love streams into, it gets bigger. people's souls come to bathe in it, to heal in it, and you can give it freely to whoever comes for it, and never run out. work on this. every quiet moment you get, imagine it, conjure up all the love you can possibly handle and focus on nothing but it, feel like you are bathing everyone you know, even total strangers in it. just love and love and love. got it? awesometastical. i really like your work so far, you're going well.

 

now, not many people think like this, right? i'm guessing you didn't (or don't, if yu think this is all really stupid. if you do, good on you buddy, you have a really easy life ahead of you. enjoy the fark out of it) so, remember what i said earlier, about how love with limits is like a cup? and no matter how much you water you pour into a cup, it will still only hold the same amount. get ready for that. no matter how much you love those around you, they will only be ready to accept a certain amount, depending on how much love they can handle. which is why it is essential that you are utterly happy with simply loving them with all you have. expecting huge things back is foolish, because it will never happen exactly how you want it, and it will blind you to the little gifts that you get. the love you fill people with, slowly it will stretch the limits of their heart, and slowly, they will love more and more. maybe, one day we can live as a single ocean, and our water will be one and our hatred will drown, lost and forgotten like a tool we can't even remember how to use. or, maybe, people are making me too emotional. what do you think? comment, or something.

 

if there was anybody i could tell this to, it would have to be the kind, loving gentle readers of this blog. i love you all. peace out.

 

 

and i added a bit, at the end. we are all capable of choosing what we want from ourselves, inside us we have the entire spectrum, and we control which bits come out.

 

"but, here enters the problem of duality. where there is love, so too will there be hate? yeah, probably. now, i would say ignore it, but true love does not come from ignorance of hate, it comes from accepting it, then neutralising it. we are capable of a complete spectrum of behaviour and emotion, we can act in utter hatred, or we can act with infinite love. the fact is, it all exists inside us, but through thought, and understanding, and awareness, we can see what is truly useful to us, and what is pointless, destructive and distracting, then make a choice as to which ones you wish to express, and use, and those which you don't wish to express and use. they will define each other."

we strive because we have been raised with the idea that the answers we look for are really out there, that they can be attained if we work hard enough. we never thought to look for the things we want inside ourselves. we were too scared.

 

 

strange that we were given ourselves, and a universe large beyond all comprehension, and we felt that we were the more intimidating choice...

a new blog!
 
with new pictures! can you feel the excitement? the hermit crab can! (seriously, the little bitch is tearing up and down his container, it's nuts)
 
so, umm, philosophy, and shite right?
 
 
ok, here goes.
 
people, see problems. and they go, "oh fucksocks, look at all these problems, all this stuff is wrong with the universe". see, things is, no, there isn't. i mean, black holes do not feel remorse about the matter they suck into oblivion, suns do not develop notions of love and affection towards the planets that surround them before they collapse into a singularity and kill every living thing nearby. galaxies do not break up and have fights before colliding and forming a broken array of super-heated matter and cold, dead rocks that stretches across thousands of light years. the universe just is.
 
humans walk through life, utterly convinced that some things exist. they say "good and bad exist, right and wrong exist, real and fake exist" these are points of view. i could go into the hitler example, with the whole he was a bad person, and yet a whole nation believed what he did was good, so what does that say to good and bad? the whole duality thing, not that great. because we tend to only see one side. we go, "oh hell yes! my life is crap, because of this this and this" we go and blame life. and life is just shrugging and going "look buddy, i'm just colliding galaxies and shite, you're the one who's turning this into a bad thing"
 
now we can sit for a while and talk about fate, and it is undeniable. everything has to pre-determined, from the very start of the universe the laws of cause and effect grabbed hold of everything like so much vulnerable testicle, and everything became a result of another thing, meaning everything fell into a pattern that can't be altered. so, are we in control of our lives? people go "well john, no, fate is in control of our life" but i say, what is fate? fate is everything everybody does mixed up to make one big plan. so, is fate controlling you? or are you controlling fate? the answer, is that it is the same thing either way. so, take a bit of control. what can you control? nothing else, you can't say "galaxies stop colliding, black holes please do not suck so much, and sun please do not implode and kill me". these things happen, and you can't change that. you can't change other people either. you can't say to somebody, "be more cool, or wear this piece of clothing, or say the word "groovy" as a way of describing things you like". now hang on, i hear you say, what if they do start trying to be more cool? what if they do start wearing that piece of clothing? what if they do say groovy when the see a pigeon or other animal they approve of? the answer is, they did that, because you offered a choice that they CHOSE to accept. same applies to you. you choose to see or do things in a certain way. you are in charge of yourself, only you. not your body as such, your lungs could develop a massive number of lesions ad you would die rather effectively, but you would CHOOSE how you saw that.
 
a lot of you probably do not feel in charge. this is probably because you have no idea what you are in control of. that is, who you are. so who are you? well, you really aren't much. no offence. people say "oh, i'm a really complicated person" fact is, no. ferk complicated, it is stupid. does a planet construct a mathematical equation with billions of variables to predict its spiraling course into the heart of a dense cluster of stars carrying its entire population with it to a fiery death? no, it just spirals. so, if you say i am a complicated person, you are just making a series of elaborate and confusing excuses for something that is just going to happen anyway. make sense?
 
so, stuff all this complicated business. one person says "i am emo". why are they emo? because of what they wear, and what they listen to. the fact is, this is bullcrap. what you wear means nothing, what you listen to means nothing. do you gauge your personality on things you own? look around you, the clothes you wear are nothing, your car is nothing, your music is nothing. your body is nothing. all these things are on a planet that is probably spiraling into something very hot and not thinking about why it does so. you can't let your clothes define you. you must define your clothes.
 
just let everything go. everything you think you own, everything you think is a part of you; just throw it in the bin of your mind. because it is gone anyway, it is already sitting inside the belly of the black hole, you just haven't realized it yet. make yourself utterly simple, totally detached from all the things you call important, and then you will be in a much better position to control yourself, otherwise you are letting things control you.
 
so, if you think something bad is happening, slap yourself on the face and go, "this is not a bad thing, this is just a thing. i decided it was bad. i decided it would make me sad" so, just drop it. just chill, let it run, and remember, be happy. for god's sake, it is so important that you stay happy, ok? makes stuff a lot easier.
 
so, have you let go? are you in control? you know who you are? if so, let's keep going. (this is a long one, if you get bored, just go to the bottom and you'll find some pictures  )
 
what should you do? i say, do whatever you want. you are free, to do whatever you want. you just have to know why you are doing something, and that it makes you happy. nobody can tell you these things, nobody can tell you why you are doing something, only you can. only you can tell whether it makes you happy.
 
also, you got to know that you are going to die. this will put it all in perspective. tell you what is truly important. take a fight, for example. people choose to fight, and hold grudges, shite like that. i say, what is the point? are you going to lie on your death bed, and say "oh boy, i wish i had been angry at that guy for a bit longer, i can't believe i forgave him, i was totally getting my hate on and everything, it was mad" i'm guessing not. so, just forgive people, i mean, it's not like they really hurt you or anything, i mean, if they did, you let them.
 
i might have more to say, but that could come later. basically, i am trying to say to y'all, just chill out, be happy, take control of yourself, work out who you are, get some perspective happening, and learn from nature. trees, n shite. just look at it all go. i mean, that right there, is how it was meant to be. right on.
 

 
pictures!!! 

 

 

yay!