On Writing

There are several reasons why I do not write as often as I should. Some are practical and some are just lazy excuses. Perhaps the most prominent is what I'll call selective writer's block. It seems that every time I sit down to write, all the great ideas I've had throughout the day have completely escaped me.

This could be due to long work hours and fatigue. Or it could be due to those great ideas not really having as much merit as I initially thought.

The second biggest obstacle is simple distractions. These could be video games or movies or TV shows or any number of other recreational and entertainment activities.

Lack of time is another hindrance. I have a nasty tendency to not want to start projects that I doubt I will be able to finish in one sitting.

Finally, the idea of writing about the mundane details of my own life is right about as unappealing as reading about the mundane details of other people's lives. So, if nothing profound has happened or I have nothing exceedingly insightful to write, I generally opt to just not write at all.

Not that this post is profound or exceedingly insightful. But rather, it's just an attempt to jump start the old writer in me.

we forget to move with time, and the universe left us for dead

I saw the passing helicopter, but only with my eyes. My mind was elsewhere, oblivious. Had I been paying attention, I would have wondered where the craft was headed, and who was inside it. That's the sort of thing I usually thought about, random and mostly unimportant speculations on the world around me. But now my thoughts were of something much more profound.

Fairy Tale

        Once upon a time, long, long ago in a kingdom far, far away there lived a princess named Violetta. Violetta was a most beautiful princess, with long, curly hair and pale, soft skin. She was an only child. Now, her evil uncle Edgar was not happy when she was born because the king was old, and sickly and everyone expected he would die soon. Edgar would become king, as long as Violetta remained unmarried. So, he had her placed in a tower. After a week of solitude in the tower, Violette devised a plan to get help. Using one of her hairpins she pricked her finger, and using her blood wrote a note calling for aid. She attached the note to the leg of a pigeon that had roosted outside her window, and sent the bird off. The following day, in the neighboring kingdom, young prince Vincent was out hunting with his page boy. The page boy, whose name was Alan, spotted a pigeon flying high above. Vincent saw it also, and drew his bow and let fly an arrow, striking the bird to the ground. When they went to collect their prize, they found a piece of white cloth attached to its leg. Written in dried blood on the cloth was the message, "Please Help, my evil uncle has trapped me in the prison tower of my own castle so that I may never marry. Princess Violetta." Prince Vincent decided at that moment that he would free princess Violetta from her prison. So he, and his page Alan, set forth for Violetta's castle to mount a rescue. They reached the castle in the dead of night and found the tower that held princess Violetta. Fortunately, they had in their gear a long rope. Vincent took one end of the rope in his teeth and scaled the tower, climbing all the way to Violetta's window. There he fashioned the rope to one of the bars of her window and helped her out onto the ledge. Then the two of them climbed the rope back to the ground and the waiting horses. They reached the bottom, and Violetta had just mounted one of the two horses, when the alarm went up in the castle. Instantly, guards rushed forth from the gates and seized prince vincent. As the guards pulled him to the ground, he called for Violetta and Alan to flee while they could. Violetta did not want to leave her rescuer, but, responding to their master's voice, the horses sped off into the night. When the horses finally stopped running, Violetta and Alan found themselves in a small fishing town on the ocean. They got a room at the inn, where Violetta sat down to devise a new plan to save her rescuer, Prince Vincent. After a few hours of thinking, she had her plan. She sent Alan to the market to purchase some men's clothing. She then cut her hair short, and when Alan returned, dressed herself in the fashion of a merchant sailor. The next day, she and Alan signed on to an out-going merchant ship that was sailing to trade with distant western lands. As the weeks went by, Violetta grew strong from the manual labor of manning the ship, and befriended the rough crew, all the while keeping her gender and identity secret. They taught her to fight and how to cuss and how to sing a fair sea chanty. Then one day, as they were sailing, a strange, dark ship appeared on the horizon. As it drew closer, everyone's hearts grew cold as the recognized its flag and markings. It was a pirate ship. The sea battle was fierce and hard, but the pirates were the better match, for they were led by the infamous, fearless, and undefeated pirate Sir Dracón. Alan was slain during the fighting along with most of the ship's crew, but Violetta and a few other survivors were taken captive. Most of Violetta's surviving crew mates were sold into slavery at the pirate ship's next stop, but Sir Dracón took a special interest in Violetta and offered her a spot on the crew of his pirate ship. Seeing that as a better alternative to slavery, Violetta accepted. The pirates of Sir Dracón sailed many miles, and burned many ships. They ransacked towns, and grew very, very rich. All the while, Sir Dracón had taken Violetta under his wing as a protégé. She became his most trusted confidant, and closest companion, and rose to the rank of first mate of the ship. Then one day, after dinner, Dracón invited Violetta into his cabin for a private discussion. When Violetta entered the cabin, she saw something that shocked her. There stood a middle aged woman in a beautiful dressing gown. And yet, there was something familiar about the woman, and Violetta realized that it was Dracón only that he was a she! Dracón told Violetta about a young princess named Angelina who had been driven from her rightful throne by a jealous cousin and had later been capture by pirates while sailing disguised as a man. She told about how she had risen through the ranks of the pirates to become the feared and loathed Sir Dracón. She also told Violetta that she knew who Violetta was and all that had happened to her. Then she told Violetta that she was planning on retiring soon and that she needed someone to take her place. So the devised a plan. The next time they stopped at port, Violetta went with Angelina to the inn. Violetta dressed in the clothing of Sir Dracón and found that under the disguise she looked exactly as Angelina had looked. So they made their goodbyes, and Angelina slipped quietly out of the inn, never to be seen again. The next day, Violetta, dressed as Sir Dracón, set sail with her new crew back to her home kingdom. They anchored their ship offshore and rowed silently ashore during the dark of night. Then the band of fierce pirates descended on the castle, and stormed through the gates. Violetta led the charge as the fought their way into the dungeons. There she found her original rescuer, Prince Vincent, bound in chains. She freed him, and together they marched up to the throne room and called for the evil uncle Edgar to be brought before them. Then with Edgar and all of the court as witnesses, Violetta cast off her disguise and announced her intentions of marrying prince Vincent. She then had her evil uncle cast into the dungeon, kept her faithful pirate crew as her personal guard, married Prince Vincent, and lived happily ever after.

The End

the sewers were muddied with a thousand lonely suicides

I've been writing flash fiction tonight. My friends have been giving me sentences, and I've been writing 500 word fiction pieces that use the sentences as the opening lines. Here's the two that I've done so far:

All Girls Have Assholes

All girls have assholes.

It's true. Trust me. I've checked.

I mean, not that I've checked all of them, but I have it on pretty good authority that they do.
That's not to say, though, that all girls are the same. Oh no, each asshole is unique in it's own special way.

Some assholes are real tough, strutting around talking shit, acting like they're the big black hole at the center of the universe. They spout off noise, grunting brutish challenges to establish themselves at the top of the hierarchy. They've got a grip that could cave in a lead pipe, and they're not afraid to use it to settle an argument.

Some assholes are real weak, sniveling, conniving, resorting to passive aggressive manipulations to control the environment around them. They dribble shit like a faucet, whining and making snide comments, undermining everything positive in their girls' lives with their own selfish, attention-grabbing antics. They've little tolerance for pain, though, and tend to shy meekly away from the slightest prodding.

Some assholes are real loose, wearing the appearance of an easy, carefree lifestyle, but stringing their girls along with little pangs of guilt over past transgressions. These assholes like to have all of the fun with none of the consequence, but tend to backlash when their girls try to reign them in. Theirs is a game of dominance and addiction that is subtle to the point of being imperceptible.

Some assholes are real showboats, sticking themselves out into the spotlight, pushing their girls unto the background. They seek constantly to take control of the scene, hogging the attention and glory until their girls are nothing more than decorative trophies to be hung on the mantel. These assholes posses a natural ability to make their girls proud of their objectification, convincing them that the true sign of strength and dignity is to always stand by their assholes, to be supportive and silent, and to let the assholes run the show.

Some assholes are real assholes, bloated egos that shit on anything and everyone, out of control, bringing nothing but agony and embarrassment to their girls. They live by the knowledge that they have a relationship that is inseparable and will go to great lengths to flaunt their secure position in life. Most girls with this type of asshole think they have a cure, a cream that will reduce the inflammation and bring peace to their lives.

My advice is to go in for amputation.

Contrary to popular belief, however, not all assholes have girls.

Some assholes are real bitter, puckered and dried out, jealous have-nots who constantly deride the haves. These assholes are the worst of them all, constantly pouring their shit onto the more fortunate, filling the air with the odor of malcontent, taking their self-absorbed suffering out on the world. They wail with obnoxious flatulence, torturing themselves and those around them with the ineffable desperate cry at the injustice, the tragic, soul crushing, undeniable fact: all girls have assholes.

---

I Think I'm In The Wrong Room

"I think I'm in the wrong room."

It wasn't the blood. Or the pale, broad, staring faces. Or the man spread across the floor.

There was something...

The door had opened with a creak, old, ungreased hinges bolted to heavy oak... a small, frosted square window...

The look of shock was fading from the line of faces. Drunk, yes, I was drunk, but I could still read a face. And these were starting to look pissed.

There was something... wrong.

I had stumbled from my bar stool... The hallway had been tilting to the right like a carnival fun house. I had marched on, though, faced with the inevitable... I had reached the door, placed my hand on the cold brass handle and pushed...

There was something... wrong with the door.

They advanced on me, carefully stepping over the blood-soaked, lifeless body on the floor. Their faces had hardened into stone grimaces framed by dark hoods. Their black robes dragged the floor, gleaming with a sticky wetness where their hems had soaked up the blood. I tried to think of a polite conversation to lighten the mood. The knives were definitely whispering nasty things, though.

There was something... missing.

Friday nights always end up the same way. I go out with a few pals, hit on some women, wind up at this bar. It's a real dive of a joint. The lighting is poor, and the interior looks like a barn. The tables are heavy and wooden, with deep grooves carved in them by the patrons. Billy loves Joanne. I'd probably have scratched my own name inside a heart, too, but... you know. I've never had much luck with the ladies.

There was something... missing from the door.

They say that time slows down when you're facing death. I'd say that it's true, but I was drunk, so I'm probably not a reliable witness. It sure did seem like slow motion, though. Like, the sort of thing you'd see in one of those action flicks. You know, to build suspense. I couldn't see the guy on the floor too well, but I could tell he was laying on his back. He was naked, and a gaping cut ran from his groin to his chest. Organs were arranged around him in a circle. So that's what a liver looks like. It occurred to me to look for the spleen, since I'd never seen one before... but then, I'd never seen one before. It was pretty dark anyway, like I said, so it was kinda tough to make distinctions.

And then it hit me. The door, the one I had just walked through, the one that I had stumbled down the hall to, the creaky one with the brass handle... My fogged memory called up an image of a rectangular blue sign with a white silhouette of a man in a suit. The universal sign for "men's toilet." I glanced to my right, at the door still pushed open, resting against my hand. "Employees Only," read a small black sign with white lettering.

I'd always wondered what goes on back here.

kiss me, you're beautiful, these are surely the last days

The need for some sort of human interaction is overwhelming. Even if it's just to sit at a coffee shop at the corner of a busy intersection and watch the crowd pass by. It's like we need to be reminded that we are not alone, that there are in fact other humans going about their daily lives. Working, playing, eating, sleeping, talking, sharing, laughing, crying, being. It's as if to sit alone at home, we find ourselves gradually doubting the existence of anything beyond our own four walls. The physical enclosure becomes a psychological one.

I drove to Athens today. Wandered around Broad and College for about an hour. Found a little record shop called Wuxtry and found (and bought) a Secret Chiefs 3 album. I stopped at a coffee shop and had a chai tea latte. It was like a breath of fresh air. I felt like: Yay! Culture!

Not that Clarkesville doesn't have its own culture, but sometimes you just need to be around tattoos and piercings and dyed hair. It's always more pleasing to have a little color around you.

Now that I have ventured out and found a nice place, I feel the next step to establishing myself here is to develop a network of like-minded friends. Of the interesting and engaging variety.

help me get madonna off my bed, she's too drunk to sing

I had a dream about God last night. In it, It showed me the meaning of everything, the sum of the universe. I've always been a staunch opposer of the idea of solipsism, but that's what the dream God showed reality to be. Not the solipsism of, "I am the center of existence," but rather, the solipsism of, "I am a figment in the imagination of God." Paradoxically, though I was dreaming, I found myself the dream of a dreamer. Why would God dream us up along with the rest of the gigantic universe? Perhaps out of loneliness.

I imagine that God is the loneliest.

Which is a thought that brings about some pretty harsh introspection. Loneliness. Adina says we should get over ourselves, and I agree. But, then, what else is there? What would I write about? I feel horribly self-absorbed most of the time, but how can one not become self-absorbed when they have little to no close contact with people outside of themselves? Of all of the people I know, I'm the only one I feel that I know somewhat well. And even there, I wouldn't go so far as to say that I know myself well.

Maybe we're all just groping in the dark here. Or maybe we're all dreaming that we're dreams of the dreamer. Are there really people out there who have "gotten over themselves"? What does that even mean?

i am a little explosion

I find that whenever I make attempts and maintaining a blog, my posts inevitably will eventually consist of nothing but me accounting for how much time has passed between posts. It makes for very boring reading. I can't believe it's been a month since my last post. I can't believe it's been half a year. I can't believe it's been over a year. You get the picture.

I can't believe two holidays have passed since my last post. I have completely neglected my little budding blog through both Christmas and New Year's. How horrible a father I truly am. However, I have been without access to the Internet for over a week. In the past seven days I have spent 35 hours traveling over 2,000 miles of interstate. I have carried three car loads of my belongings the distance from Jacksonville, FL and Clarkesville, GA. In between, I threw as much, if not more, into the dumpster behind what used to be my apartment building. I donated two truck loads of furniture and various kitchen appliances to a mission church in Jacksonville. I didn't even ask for a receipt for tax purposes. Someone should give me a medal. As if it's really that challenging to have two guys carry all of your belongings out of your apartment for you.

The act of moving really did overshadow the holidays. Perhaps it's depressing, but who am I to complain? I guess perhaps my heart just wasn't in the spirit this year. I did buy a few gifts, though. Some artwork from my good friend Laura Eklund for my dad, for being so supportive during my four years at college, and for Nick and Danielle, for allowing me to be their official third wheel for the past year. I bought my sister a DVD. She gave me a knit cap. So, I guess everyone's even now.

Standing in an empty apartment is a strange feeling. Particularly an empty apartment that you have called home for almost two years. After the floors had been mopped, all of the counter surfaces wiped and the glass shower doors scrubbed, I stood there listening to the echo of 500 square feet of tiled floor, feeling the burn in my lungs from all of the cleaning chemicals I had just inhaled. It was at that moment, when everything was so white and sterile and hollow that I finally felt that I was leaving. At that point, it was no longer my apartment. I wasn't leaving home, but rather going home. I wonder if anyone has ever written a book on the psychology of "home." I'd be interested in reading it.