Sod can get expensive.

Bludgeon

Rays of light were scattering through the dirt as the sun peaked over newly formed ridges that had risen up from wild ballistics originating a world away. Each new dawn brings with it its own surprises, as every day's beginning is a whole new set of beginnings. For now, placed on this spinning marble, the beginnings never end, and time is only stratified to keep an humanistic order. So rather than tin-wrapped discrete burrito servings, a dawn is smooth and flowing, a blanket without end continuously wrapped around this globe in the warming embrace of a partly-remembered history written down in burned out libraries and long buried rock strata.
So no beginning is universally more important than any other, but in the relative, disagreements are bound to occur. Especially this beginning, this dawn. Not an ordinary dawn in the sense of the disappearance of the night, as it is well into the morning. It is just the sun was so late because this dawn is witnessed from the depths of a hole still smoldering in the ground. The shadow of the crater's edge slowly slips away, and the visitor's hand reaches out in response to embrace this new and exciting dawn, full of opportunity and possibility. This is truly an important dawn indeed. Like every dawn, this one quickly slips to the next beginning. A spectacular beginning filled with discovery and surprises.
It is surprising how strong an empty wine bottle is when used as a bludgeon. Cutting short any initial fears of invasion, and taking the first crude steps toward understanding foreign anatomy, the local feels his dominance over the yard is secure. Well manicured lawns are a valuable commodity, and not something upon which one should tread lightly, or land irreverently. Of course, not all discoveries can be directly applied to future actions, but at least an effort at precedent was made.

Forbidden fruits in holy books

Forbidden

A tiny surge of exhilaration reinforced with tactile feedback starts a spark. A spark, a flash, a tiny bit of energy flashing through organic distributor cables, beginning the slow turn of an ancient gear. Moss and rust have grown thick in an unorthodox embrace, and both are eager to capitalize on hesitation. Momentum, the beast that cannot be created, cannot be denied and each tooth bites into its subsequent place. Each bit of progress catalyzes the next and the slow dopamine drip begins transmission across calcium waves. Long closed doors begin to open, pathways and desires reveal themselves anew with each turning page. This was unexpected, but far from unwelcome, this dusty new tome that brings renewal for old thoughts to be discovered and young ones to lead the way.

Prophecy beats reality.

Revelations

There's a certain satisfaction with the known, a certain confidence that arises at knowing the parabolic path of the cannonball. A tinge of pleasure inebriates our brains with subtle shooters of dopamine as simple similes replace understanding and predictability is taken for granted. In the drunken haze fantasy and reality are mixed, shaken and strained, until our pleasure is poured into a pristine tumbler, and our pleasure is served up neat. The 'tender smiles, and we're happy to partake, pondering an adequate tip. But the metaphor is wrong. The jazz dies away and the images melt, because a new piece of this puzzle has been found, and the fantasy no longer fits. Beyond black and white, beyond good and evil, there is much more detail that breaks the story down. The discovered piece reveals the existence of the infinitely possible unknown, with all its potentials and disappointments. So the fantasy is gone, in the most unsatisfactory of ways, and we find complacence was time wasted as we were only just beginning.

rain

Today, rainstorms swept through the valley, and when they had ceased, they left a low level of clouds that hung just below the mountain tops, but just above the roads that passed between fields. The mountains themselves had soft, tendrils of clouds that still clung to the tree tops, misty looking fingers reaching back down to the herds of animals below, as if they were seeking the supple touch of life, to tenderly caress. The pale white fog was pouring forth from the sky like smoke from the lips of a wise and stately wizard, puffing away on his pipe. It flowed together through the mountain cracks as if to imitate the subtle nuances of gentle waterfalls. It was a momentary vision of peace, a fleeting touch of enlightenment that had to be delicately gathered in small sips, for big tractor trailers demand attention as well.

I'm building my house wherever I damn well please.

Stumbling

There’s a momentary panic that sets in when a displaced past is brought forward for remembrance. As the rogue memory steps onto the stage of consciousness, lucidity becomes a rising curtain as confusion sets the stage and self delineation is disrupted with the incongruities of the past. A little uncertainty never hurt anyone, which is good, because uncertainty fills the surrounding seats, packing the house as each individual doubt slowly takes a seat. As the mistruths of memory replace forgotten spaces, the characters in this play get a little more complex. The world doesn’t fit well inside the of a skull, so even as the memories are wrapping up you’ve already covered them in a light gloss and dulled the edges for easier consumption. Tomorrow a coat of paint, and some time with a sander will render it blunt and then the patiently built life can continue on as before. Tomorrow we can forget old stepping stones and stumbling blocks and reaffirm our belief in the here and now. Tell ourselves who and what we are. The past is past and we move on so we may become what we may eventually be, whatever that may be. However just now, just for now, remember that not everything went as hoped, remember the pains and remember the trials, and remember that all smooth surfaces and solid stones hide a multitude of cracks underneath.

Education always has some value.

Corinthian

Some things never really serve an individual purpose, only existing to serve as part of a larger whole. Still, even small stones making up a path each have an individual fingerprint, fossil remnant, or some other individual signature that catches the occasional eye, something that sufficiently tugs on a strand of curiosity that gets drawn up and close to intense scrutiny. I guess what strikes a fancy is always individual, and what is interesting enough to pocket and take home is as well. After years have passed, and the little reminders serve their function, we can ponder the stone, whose path is still there, or we can ponder the path, that led us to where we are. Looking back some things always seem less important than others, as there are stones and memories that we did not take with us. Sometimes the memory we’ve chosen to remind us doesn’t always make much sense either. It just seems like a piece of a past whose significance blurred by the passage of time. I remember columns; Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, but I can’t think of the reason that this might be important.

A mutant gene in human thought.

Uncanny

Isn't it funny, how some things can be too sacred to be touched, so they are hidden away to protect them from familiarity. What is value, when it escapes an economist's hands and is held in mint condition, hidden away, and left unread. How is an idea so important that it cannot be questioned and must be guarded from doubt's cold hands. What of words whose consequences prevent utterance, like love and hate? When do people become untouchable and could we have another Houdini, or are all true heroes really dead? Through legend and lore and listening to the old folk's words there are certain things that take on a holiness all their own. Touching is blasphemous, and understanding is condemned as if it was a wrong to make uncanny heroes merely men.

I would like to add that this post in no way condones Indiana Jones IV.

King Author's court was never so innocent

Crimes

In a firm collection circled round in indiscretion, the old crimes fit into place. As the stories are passed out and roles are assumed, a vague unease gives birth to a new feeling of disgust and displacement, innervated by powerless thoughts. I suppose it didn't matter at first, but sin upon sin has changed the beast's nature, and now what was negligible in the beginning is full-fledged and daunting, a herculean task at the least. I guess all past skeletons clutter together, as no ligaments hold tight to keep the entities separate. It is so easy to open that closet door and have everything cold shut case come spilling out.

Impertinence

Impertinence

As long as history has been recorded, there has always been at least one of our species who just can’t seem to follow the rules. At least one who always has to go where we shouldn’t, who disobeys the sacred laws and draws divine wrath upon us all through the lightning rod of impertinence. It never seems to matter what deity is offended, Zeus or Odin, Shiva or Yahweh, but there have always been certain boundaries that man should not cross, and when they are crossed, the family, the clan, the tribe, or even the nation suffer. The odd aspect is that in a generation or two, it doesn’t seem as bad, and no divine being seems to be especially bothered. Maybe gods just aren’t as concerned as people seem to think. Maybe we were never actually kicked out of a garden, maybe lies don’t make baby Jesus cry, maybe Oppenheimer’s usurping of Shiva’s role wasn’t that big of a deal, maybe Muhammad really doesn’t care if someone draws a picture of him. Maybe it’s just us that condemn and blame and connect random occurrence with some sinful expression of physical frustration, while our divine overseers wait for our daily lives to go to commercial so they can heat up some nachos. If decadence was so despised, why would it be tolerated for so long without consequence? Maybe we’re supposed to learn how to deal with it, and leave the angels to more important things.

I met a traveler from a distant land.

Sand

Between two fingers, a single grain may easily fit, but joined amongst brethren held in palm it loses its idiosyncrasy and becomes one of so many, far too many to count. Turning the wrist, the particles find perspective, and all is lost to the backdrop of infinity. What better place to contemplate the vast expanses of particulate numbers than a beach, or perhaps a desert. Sometimes, an infinite expanse moves in waves, in imitation of the sea, driven by winds that scour stone to component particles that may scour skin from the unwary. Perhaps the sea flatters the continuum, following an exemplar we have not seen. Whether ocean or vacuum or Numidian coast, it is in the wake of infinity that all things lose meaning, with evidence including the works of Ozymandias. So does it matter in matter, when all's washed away and the next day we look upon works in puzzlement instead of despair?

Tuppence a bag, eh?

Mold

Creeping along on stealthy fingers, so thin as to be almost invisible to the eye, there is an unlikely progression that is lively and stretching and thus it is time to feed the birds. The unmistakable sign of life that is mold is vexing when found, though it is a wonderful sign that necessary and incredible processes still proceed. Nonetheless, life robs me, cheats me of my rights, for I bought that very bread this hour last night. So life gives in yeast and I guess takes takes in mold, completing a cycle that has me at the store once again.

Nonetheless, my sink is full right now.

Scour

I’m a slow dishwasher; I always clean everything in a careful, pre-selected order depending on size, dirtiness, material, and personal preference. As long as I can remember, I’ve never deviated from this order. I think it was something set early in my mind by mother just before I took to doing chores. Something deeply seated and inconsequential such that I’ve never thought it was worth it to change. In a way, this order grants has its own freedom. As my body sets in to methods mechanical, my mind wanders with a freedom that seems accidental. Every wipe of a plate, every rinse of utensil, I scour away the dregs of the day and reset my own house in order. Feelings are churned and refined from jagged glass to smooth beads and events are accepted, if not understood. My lips often move in fragments of sentences from pieces of conversation, giving my voice to many. I find forgiveness, I find hope, I find reason, and when all is done I feel prepared for what is next. A small tension has relaxed; a small stress has been eased, for if nothing else is right, at least the dishes are clean.

Because at the end of the day, one doesn't really drink alone.

Ghosts

The strange thing about getting older that we never understood when we were young and rebellious and thought we could do anything, is that the weight of memories ties you down and makes you something new. Far from the Livingston Seagull, the memories solidify our being, like granite statues secured to the ground under an unforgiving gravity. Nights with friends, seeking mischief and stars, have turned to quiet and necessary moments by candle light. It’s been years since I was young, and each passing day has taken some part of me away, and the ever present smiles of ever present friends have all met their point of departure, somewhere along the way. Though eyes are long gone, their ghosts have stayed on, and this dense new companionship of wispy thoughts is a beloved burden I lay down at the end of the day.

Sometimes I prefer Pilates.

Stretch

The road is mine; at least that’s how I see it. There is nothing as singularly remarkable about America as its highways. This is what made Eisenhower great. This is what made America great. Vast tracts of transport linking together people of madly disparate locations and mentalities. There’s nothing more satisfying than the sense of freedom that comes from a long stretch of highway with nothing between yourself and the future. All you are is contained within steel and plastic as you hurtle through time and space. You could be anyone, anywhere at the end of this road, perhaps even dead, but most likely not. All the world falls away as my mind and eyes sharpen, watching the road for dangers and opportunities; my ears are fine tuned to match the radio and the hum of the wind flowing past; and I can feel the vibrations of tread, asphalt, and pumping pistons echoing deep within my soul, all the connections and obligations I adhere to are taken away. I cannot write that report right now, I cannot discuss promises and commitment, because right now, I am driving.

Pugilists pontificate perchance to perceive progress

Canoe

Some things we just can’t fight. Well, we can fight them, so perhaps it is best to say that with some things we just can’t win. I guess it is even harder when you don’t realize what you are fighting. It has taken me years of win-less fighting only to find out that most of that time, I was fighting myself. From Vermont to Philadelphia, then to DC and on to New Mexico, I always thought I was changing my life, changing the circumstances, and setting myself up for a brand new world. Then I’d fall into the same old habits, different people, the same personalities, and worst of all, the same me. I guess if you’re not growing, you’re dieing, and when you spend all of your time paddling your canoe up a flood, you don’t realize that you’ve been slowly killing yourself as you float downstream. You haven’t gotten to the place you wanted, because you spent all the time fighting a torrent of water. Life’s like that. When isolated from the world, out on a little boat, watching the stars or the clouds, the river can almost seem completely separate. A world independent from where we sit. I guess the river sees it differently, and here it is master. It isn't always worth it to fight the flow. Sometimes the best way to go upriver, is to get to shore and walk a different path.

Some things in this world, we just need.

Tremble

It wasn’t until the third day that we found him. His eyes were round and wide, staring into space as if he couldn’t tear his gaze from an invisible train wreck. Nobody knew what was wrong with him at first, not until he jumped up from the hospital bed to finally take the cure. He hadn’t shown up for work in a week and it was only the next Tuesday that his office reported him missing. As we turned onto his street to look for him, there was an audible hush throughout. No children or mothers were in sight, only empty staircases leading up to doorways. Papers fluttered in the winds and were blown every direction, but no noise heralded the passage of air. It was a cold street for a warm summer day, and empty and alone. Each step up to the landing made our hearts quiver, and the echoes of our feet on the stairwell resonated deep in our ears. I never thought we would reach that door, even at the end of the hallway. It seemed an eternity away, and even my partner’s usual banter could only be heard as if through a long tin-can phone line. The door itself seemed much larger than any of us, as if it loomed as a Kubrick obelisk and cast us all in its shadow. When finally the courage was mustered to open the door, the apartment seemed plain and quaint, but it was the kitchen where we found him. Cabinets were strewn open, their contents scattered about. A kettle lay on its side, knocked off the stove and to the floor. There he sat, trembling in his frightened state. We were hesitant to even touch him. What disease was this? What horrible thing had he seen? What had happened, and more importantly, what could we do? It wasn’t until in the hospital that the nature of his affliction became apparent. The cure was obvious once it was known. He lunged at a passing nurse, and was finally able to lay his hands on a cup of coffee.

I love slow motion cameras

Gossamer

Every little breath, every movement is reflected in vibrations that travel across the surface of a droplet of water. So miniscule when normally viewed, but it is seemingly infinite when so close. Momentarily, it dances to an invisible shudder, though the originating twitch is too small to see. Despite rippling movements, the drop remains in place, at least for the moment. In an eye blink the droplet is tossed, taking flight, as it spins and changes shape in the air. Molecules jockey for position as the droplet’s mass feels out a new place to center itself within the amorphous air-borne blob into which it has converted. It never takes long, as in the end gravity takes over and the downward pull is asserted. The droplet is pulled together, still spinning as it rapidly passes leaf and stem, pushing through light currents of air to a final destination below. It strikes stone, and divides itself in collision to seek lower ground. Separated now, it slides down stony surfaces seeking soil in to which it may be absorbed. A dragonfly heads in a different direction, its gossamer wings reflecting in the light.

This is not an argument for creationism.

Creation

Honestly. What are the odds? I’m not asking in the typical manner of out of millions of possibilities what is the likelihood that everything works out just so. Again, what are the odds? How many separate little factors could possibly be involved? Even almost infinitely complex ecosystems boil down to only so many phenomena that determine its existence. A collection of dust collects itself in the middle of space, a waving of an academic’s hand, and a star is formed. Yes, there are many different types of stars, I can appreciate that, but what fine haired difference could possibly be of importance in a roiling mass of fusing hydrogen an eternity away from anything else in the universe that it finds no need to produce planets that are not trapped in a frozen atmosphere or covered in boiling seas of lava? Even the stars that look like our own have shown no tolerance for a temperate world. What possible event, or series thereof, could cause such drastic changes in an object that dwarfs everything of which we can conceive? Only the emptiness within which it is set is greater than a star (or one collapsed). What butterfly’s wings flapped forth the cosmic ray storm that could cause such differences in creation?


Perhaps an explanation. I read today about a planet around a sun like star, but the planet is hypothesized to be covered in Lava. I started thinking of the exasperation of an astronomer searching for Earth like planets, and decided to run from there.

Wes Craven gets his ideas from somewhere.

Furnace

There was once a time when homes were heated using fireplaces or perhaps stoves that burned wood in the middle of the kitchen. But that is ancient history to many and now homes are heated by devices that are sealed away for various reasons (many quite practical) in the obscured regions. You find them in unfinished basements and sealed closet rooms, the secret parts of our lives that a neighbor over for tea is never shown. Likewise, skeletons and shame are hidden in the obscured regions of the mind, which, not surprisingly, serves as a home all its own, though built of stranger stuff than wooden cross beams and polyvinyl insulation. The darker parts of our lives are hidden away, so our neighbors can’t see, hidden in the house of mind, tucked away in the basement or the closet. No surprises come then, when physical objects become threatening, so close to the spirits of hidden memories. Even the dullest object suddenly becomes sinister, hidden in half light, where bare light bulbs connected to dangling strings are enough for maintenance, but little else. Emotionally linked as both are ignored and somewhat repressed, mental shadows merge to become one with the physical, and the kids are told not to play there, as the parental shunning is passed on to the next generation, easy fodder for a prop in a horror movie. Thus a common and useful contraption can become a furnace of nightmares when we forget to shine light throughout every corner of our house.

Some like to write.

Scribe

These are the things that matter. They can be given permanence, they can be given meaning, and they can be given power. Of course, they would be lost without him, but he would be in that same boat without them. This is a life, tucked off to the side as if of little import, but always kept close at hand. A little gray man of no consequence tucked in clothes that bring him no special attention, though he may be surrounded by royal finery or legal garb, his world has no need of such gaudy detail. Wire-rims glasses serve as his jewelry and his sign of station is only in the quality of his tool. His is the world of words and quotes, the historical details that track our movements, passions, and resolutions, and then possess the ability to confine or to free us. As if specially plucked from the twilight zone, these men misfit well in the theatrical environment we construct, and help tie down the determinations of thought. The very words they use give them purpose, and thus a scribe is given reason to be.