I got a ringin in my head...

Before we start this off, two links that came up thanks to my dearest, loving sister-in-law:

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/10/12/beware-of-writer/

http://www.rebeccarosenblum.com/2010/10/07/why-date-a-writer/

Ah god.

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"Stumbled across an impression today, handprint melted deep into the concrete outside the Darlin Darlene down on 5th. Four small fingers and a thumb about an inch deep, stretched wide like the sunbeams spreading out from the east over the city.

Could hear the flicker of the neon lights proclaiming the closing of the bar as I stumbled past it, my eyes trailing behind me, not breaking focus. Pulled my Stetson down and flipped my collar up against the wind. Stuffed the brown end of a cigarette between my teeth and lit it up, the wind whipping the flame from my lighter around until the tip finally caught flame. Spitting smoke and phlegm I put my hands in the deep pockets of my coat and squeezed them around me. Buttons are too bothersome, and the weight of steel under my arm necessitated doing it the hard way.

Took a left on Woolridge, thought I might grab a coffee from the bakery down by Jimmy's, get the taste of whiskey off of my tongue for a little bit. About three blocks down I pulled up short to the curb, waiting for the red hand of the law to let me continue. That's when I heard the tinny sound of a muffler cascade down the street towards me, tires screeching as they really started to lean on it.

I opened my mouth and my cigarette tumbled down the front of my coat, getting swiped away as my hands left the pockets and reached deep inside the warmth to find the cold steel. Before the orange sedan could come to a stop I'd put three, four shots into the windshield, and another two into the front, passenger side tire.  Riding so low it didn't take kindly to the tread stripping away and the silver of the rim digging deep into the asphalt.

It cartwheeled halfway across the intersection before it finally stopped shiny side up. I'd slipped another magazine into the gun at this point, had the cigarette halfway to my mouth, and then two of the mangled doors finally creaked off their hinges with the help of some black, military style boots. They came out, swinging their peashooters up, and went down, swinging them all the way up to heaven. Two in the first, three in the second.

I spit out some more smoke, some more phlegm, and saw that the hand of the law was still red. I found that kinda ironic. I looked to my left, and saw a woman there, that same horrified look on her face as she clutched her kid to her. Tipped my hat and kept on walkin."

They look at me, stunned, clad in their blue uniforms and bold shields and no-nonsense haircuts. That cliche lightbulb swings over the metal slab of a table, as we sit here in this concrete room with one way mirrors.

"What?," I say, "there's my official statement. Now unless you're gonna be pressin charges, then I'd like to be on my way."

"Uh, well, discharging firearms within the city limits does carry a hefty fine, and-"

"Check with Roscoe, Inc. son, they've got my discharge permit on file."

They excuse themselves and head out, looking back at me while they shut the door. Yeup, hand of the law's still as red as can be. I lean back and kick my boots up on the table and light up while I wait. They'll be back soon.

There's a HUGE error in here...

An Unneeded Cry for Help

Preface: I would like to state that I am in no way personally criticizing the cultural and judicial significance that Howl has attained in either the Beat Movement or the obscenity trial that followed its publication which was quite obviously a precedent. I would rather take a look at Ginsberg’s intents for this poem, and perhaps his own criticism of the movement he helped set into motion.

   "Would there be any freedom of the press or speech if one must reduce his vocaublary to vapid innocuous euphemism?...an author should be real in treating his subject and be allowed to express his throught and ideas in his own words." - Judge Clayton W. Horn (Cohen)

            Ginsberg seems critical of the members of his generation right from the start, saying that he has seen the “best minds of [his] generation destroyed…” (Ginsberg, 1). As he progresses through the first section of the poem, he begins to list the catastrophic events that have led to the downfall of the people he considered to be so great. He addresses these in a somewhat categorized manner, as if making a detailed list of the follies that have befallen his peers. Throughout the poem we must repeat to ourselves the first line as the “who” that begins each thought is not merely a hanging idea, but a continuation. These are the “destroyed” minds. In most of the examples he lists of those who have been “destroyed”, we often see that the descriptions are disdainful; as if the events could have been avoided. In these sentences we can glimpse Ginsberg’s frustration with those brilliant, innovative minds.

            Drugs are a common and recurring category, easily picked out from the poem. The minds that were destroyed have been “dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix” (2) and continue on past those attempting to smuggle marijuana into New York (9). Ginsberg also describes the suffering that those destroyed have submitted to, namely foreign narcotics from China and Tangier (21), noting that they are sweating and suffering from migraines all because of an addiction.  This was arguably one of the aspects of those involved with the Beat movement, with figures like Timothy Leary, William Burroughs, and eventually Ginsberg himself among others being strong advocates for their use. To willingly suggest their use, and then remark on how they have led to the downfall of great men and women seems highly conflicted, but it is still an observation that is made and admitted by Ginsberg in Howl.  Shockingly enough, with this perspective of the poem as being a cavalcade of shame, we see that Ginsberg regards Neal Cassidy as having been destroyed as well from his own avoidable actions. “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed…who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit…” (64). It is noted in a timeline of events during Ginsberg’s life, that Neal Cassady was found dead in Mexico by train tracks after mixing a strong alcoholic drink with barbiturates (“Allen Ginsberg Project”). This death was ruled to be by exposure, which is an easy death to avoid sober. Line 45 echoes the never ending search for a “fix” of line 2. “Who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks / waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat / and opium.” In this we see a wounded person dragging themselves through the elements in search of narcotics, something to take their pain away, instead of taking care of the problem directly. We see time and time again in these lines and others the sacrifice of health for the hope of that “ancient heavenly connection” (3)

            The more carnal, earthly connection of sexuality is also addressed in the poem. Displaying not only sodomy and homosexuality, but also heterosexuality, pederasty, and general “whoring” (43) about, Ginsberg manages to touch on just about every orientation a person could have, including his own. The running theme for most of the sexual references seem to be a loss of control, the subjects often being so engrossed by the act that it is seemingly “endless” (11), thus losing themselves, and their purpose. To mirror this seduction and spiraling descent into sexual hedonism, Ginsberg himself lets it take over his writing and continue for almost an entire page completely filled with sex. Starting in line 36 we alerted to the destruction of those “who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy” and ending with the sexual escapades of Neal Cassady ending in “secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys / too” (43). These long, seven lines are some of the longest, drawn out thoughts of the poem, and are not interrupted by a different category of problems, such as drug abuse, suicide, or madness. It would not be a stretch to consider that Ginsberg meant these passages to mirror the continual acts described within. Again, these are all started with the ever ominous “who”, those who have been “destroyed”. Even outside these 7 lines, we see where certain sexual orientations reap nothing but problems. In line 34, he writes that there have been those who have been “committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty” which seems almost sarcastic. How dare the police have the audacity to arrest a person for their sexual tastes? he asks. Yet if he were asking it in such a way, his own sexual orientation would be challenged. Since he quite obviously supports homosexuality, does that mean that in this case he is accepting of pedophilia? If so, then one would have to assume that his view on any subject addressed in Howl is fatally skewed. However he does not attack any one category of problems directly. Instead of attacking an orientation, he notes that those destroyed by sexual acts are those who are indiscriminate with them:

“Who sweetened the snatches of a million girls…” (42)

“Who balled in the morning in the evenings…” (38),

“Who went out whoring through Colorado…” (43),

“With dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls” (11),

In each of these lines there is seen a never ending cavalcade of earthly delights. They can all be preceded by the ever present preface of “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed…”

            And we see a continuing trend through each category of downfalls. It is a trend of catastrophe willingly suffered by the individual. The descriptions those who have turned mad often seem to accuse the individuals of bring it all upon themselves. For example those “who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism…” who continue on to go to the insane asylums and demand “instantaneous lobotomy” (66). The act of potato salad being thrown by educated people is absurd, and at a lecture on Dadaism, which the footnote in our texts describes as the “artistic cult of absurdity” (p. 1420, Norton), seems to be taken as a juvenile act proving just their devotion to such a cult, no matter their intellectual potential. This is brought across as more of a ‘look at me, look how crazy I can be’ type situation instead of the true madness that Ginsberg had experienced in dealing with his own mother. Ginsberg goes on to describe the madness that has taken its toll on his generation, citing the paranoia of some who “[pass] out incomprehensible leaflets” (30). Here Ginsberg has taken a step back from his own involvement with government conspiracies and dealings, and recognizes the absurdity that the followers of the Beat Movement gladly put on display. We see this self-destruction again and again throughout the poem, from those burning themselves with cigarettes, those dying in volcanoes, to the many accounts of suicide and self-mutilation. Above all else, we see a genuine criticism of those so entrenched in the Beat Movement in line 48; “Who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions / and bad music.” Ginsberg presents us with a million false tears for a beauty the cart pusher pretends to see, his or her emotions (or lack thereof) masked by the use of onions, and their questionable tastes in what is beautiful.

            And even past the evidence in section I of the poem, in section II where Ginsberg speaks out against the ever oppressive Moloch, he includes this last whimper of rebellion: “Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!” (91). Perhaps Ginsberg’s own resolve in the face of those who took the movement to a ‘hip’ level wavered, even if only slightly.

Works Cited

"Allen Ginsberg Project - Lifeline." Allen Ginsberg Project. Allen Ginsberg Project, 2010. Web.

2 Nov 2010. .

Cohen, Patricia. "'Howl' in an Era That Fears Indecency." New York Times. The New York

Times Company, 06/10/2007. Web. 2 Nov 2010.

.

Ginsberg, Allen. "Howl." The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 'Ed'. Nina Baym. New

York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2008. Print. 1416-1424

Turn the page and see what happens next...

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He sits in the brown folding chair, blue work pants hiding the tongues of his dark brown work boots. He's leaned forward, flipping through today's section of the paper. The arts, sports, and science sections are underneath one rubber footed leg of the chair, holding them tight to the worn concrete.

Behind him, underneath the raised metal security door, is a dark, deceptively deep area. Somewhere for storing something. Somewhere for selling something. But even with the sun high up in the sky, all a passersby can see is shadow.

He comes to this spot every morning, paper and coffee in hand. He bends down and unlocks the door, letting it slide up effortlessly. As the sound of the wheels on their rails dies down he grabs the chair which is always propped against the inside wall and has a seat outside.

He raises his head with a nod and a smile every now and then, greeting the strangers he knows by name. They tip their hats and keep on walking as he hunches forward a sifts through the next article, taking in all the news that's fit to print. He sips from his cup, raising it to his big, brown lips, and smiles as he sets it back down, flicking the paper against the wind as he does so.

And although there's no goods behind him to sell, although there are no customers pouring in through the gigantic doorway, he continues this ritual. Sipping, smiling, reading along with the passage of time. At 5 he folds his paper up and collects his coffee cup. He leans his chair back against the wall and closes up shop, letting the giant metal door down gently, and double checking that he has it locked before he slips the brass key back into his trouser pocket.

Rain, sleet, or snow, he kept to his routine.

When the nor'easters blow in, he still opens the door, and sets the chair up just a few feet inside. No matter how much the streets flood and overflow, or how hard the traffic hits the puddles, he gets only the faintest mists on his leather boots. And he sits there, with a perfectly crisp paper in his hands, coffee by his feet. He sips, reads, nods and smiles.

And no matter the holiday, no matter the parades, no matter what businesses are closed, he sits, sips, reads, nods and smiles. It takes a certain kind of man to have that sort of dedication to a shop of shadows. But that smile never changes. The crease running from knee to ankle never falters. The brown and tan laces that peek out from under the hem are always perfectly in place, tied to perfection I'm sure. But I'm not one to go lifting up people's clothing for inspection.

He's kind of a friendly reminder. Not inspiring perhaps, but not sad either. He has a job to do and he does it very well. He's a kind of rock around which all the pedestrians acknowledge and change their tide for. And no matter the flow, he never erodes, never changes.

Just sits. Sips. Reads. Nods. Smiles.

I envy that kind of man. To have that kind of contentment. That self-assured presence among the populace.

I tip my hat to him.

Lots of wenches is what I need...

((



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I was but just a lad when I joined the crew of hardy sailors and salty veterans alike, walking up the plank to the deck, grasping the lead rope with a grip I hoped none could see. The few treasures I had accumulated over my short lifetime shifted in the burlap sack that swung against my back, familiar bumps of leather gloves and extra boots drummed against my back. I reached the top and found myself in front of a giant of a man, surrounded by other long, weathered faces. The giant's finger pointed towards the rear of the ship. His smile pointed deep into the center of my being. It was much different that the smiles that sprouted on the faces of the other deckhands. Their crooked grins chased me to the back of the quarter deck where I found Captain Pennysworth smoking a long, curled pipe.

"What's such a baby fresh boy doing on a man's rig?" he asked me.
"Come to work for you, Captain. My mother said she sent you a letter of request."
"So," he said, turning his deep, unconcerned eyes to me, "we have a mother's milk thief on-board?"
"In so many words, yes Captain," I replied, adjusting the pack over my shoulder.
"In so many words..." Pennysworth repeated, turning back to supervising the strolling parade of petticoats passing along the dockside. "Go find Marmoth, you'll recognize him easily enough, and keep in mind there's no teat on board"
"Yes, Captain."

I found the dark skinned giant again, assuming correctly that among a crew of battered, gnarled figures that the one who stood at least a foot taller than the average man would be someone I would recognize easy.

I was showed my quarters, a rope hammock atop two others, in a long hold room filled with a licorice stench and hundreds of other hammocks. Privacy was not a luxury for seafarers back then, nor is it to this day.

I was to work, to cut my teeth on the rigging lines and learn a trade so I could send some reimbursement back home to my mother for all her years weaning and molding me. And did I ever learn to do some cutting under the swift guidance of Pennysworth. More of throats and burial lines than of teeth and umbilical cords.

I would hate to think that mother knew exactly what import/export business her old friend Pennysworth was in charge of.

Import the gold, export the bodies.

Import the jewelry, export the bodies.

Import the ship, export the bodies.

We earned quite a fleet, and we suffered quite a few casualties.

So that's the story, how it started at least, of how my own mother shanghaied me into the Federation of Pirates.

May the Sanctifier bless her immortal soul.

I must assure you...

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I am ugly inside.

But some days it doesn't matter, rising to the tone of a phone crackling nonsense in your ear. I owe the American taxpayer some credit. I guess social debt is the best one now and then.

So we've been talking about the Beat movement lately, been going over Allen Ginsberg and I must say, for a bunch of pre-historic emo bastards, I got their idea all wrong. It's a bit romanticized, snotty rich kids wanting to play the down trodden part of society as usual, belying unto us with sugary sweet words of suffering and woe.

But that's just the ones that fell in line when they saw they got to smoke cheap, trendy cigarettes in back alley bars while a boy in a beret exclaimed his hatred of the oppressive capitalist pig-dogs, and for those conformist fools who dress up in their suits and ties and go to work for the MAN...

...exclaimed his hatred in a bar full of black berets and shitty mustaches and secret trust funds.

It's amazing how quickly things have come full circle.

Being downtrodden, stripped down, filthy, 'non-conformist' if such a thing exists...it's hilarious to watch the imitations that people try so desperately to get away from when they don't have the choice.

But, their choice to make, eh, whatever.

Anyways, the Beat movement. Not too shabby. So a kid who's evidently fucking brilliant, graduating from Columbia University with damn good marks, decides to just kinda hit the peyote payload and live life to it's suckiest.

While this is willful 'beat down' I must give the man commendation for getting into print shit that even Walt Whitman had to hide deep within his verse.

"With dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,..." (11, Howl)

1950s here.

"Who copulated, ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,..." (41, Howl)

1950s. Holy. Shit.

But anyways, enough of my bitching about how damn near all of history's writers are fucking frauds.

It's been an insightful quarter so far, learning of the various styles of writing, how the perception of acceptable prose and poetry have evolved,

from the Romantics dripping sugar all over everything,
to the Victorians and the unbelievable sticks up their asses,
to the Modernists who spurned letting emotions cloud their work,
to the Futurists riding the big steel phallus to the future,
to the Confessionals, instilling their shame and agony into their work.

These and many more.

The reason this has all been a wonderful is that it's very reaffirming to see one's work validated in the past. How one's style could have been / maybe will be accepted. And I think this follows through in all walks of life. Radical ideas leading to radical inventions leading to radical, and I mean fucking radical money.

Ooooooh radical money.

But it's really fun to witness it evolve through each of my classes, the changes in acceptability in literature. To see the MAN being fought in every generation.

So I guess cultural movements are kinda lost on me. Shit's hilarious.

It's a little depressing when you think that there's really not anything purely original anymore.

But the Irony. Oh god damn does the Irony kill me.

Some things are good being old and cliche though. Like bubble baths. If there's a single one among you who hasn't ever had a bubble bath, I will god damn well ship you a bottle of that stuff. No matter how old or bitter or cynical or rich you are, I don't see how a bubble bath won't make you relive your childhood.

Foam beards and hairstyles and the gentle sensation of miniature explosions all over your skin as you reach above the water line.

Of course, some things do change...



But my god do you feel like an amazing, original, fresh soul when you're done.

Show me your teeth...

((



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We snap and snarl at our captors like savage, starving dogs. Perhaps it's wrong to say 'like', often that's what we are. Distended stomachs and sunken ribs, spittle slinging from lips hoping for a taste or treat.

Lips pulled back over yellowed porcelain teeth, pointed and purposeful.

Bared.

Pink, swollen gums showing the quality of life, blackened with decay. Lolling tongues lazily flopping out and dragging through the dirt as we pull against our chains, trying to get closer to a prey we don't recognize.

But blood that we can smell, trembling underneath its skin.

Muscles pumping, legs jumping towards the crimson liquid so clearly in our sight. Bodies snapped back as they reach the end of the chains around their necks, their arms. We all bear the scars. Our necks rubbed raw and pink, jagged stars of scars ring our throats. Our wrists fare no better, tearing open scabs every time we move, bringing a familiar, bitter taste of iron to our tongues as we try to do the simplest tasks.

Rising from sleep.

But we still jerk against the iron, our voices have long lost their penchant for speech. The clasps around our necks has rubbed away the feeling and the memory. Instead we growl. We spit, phlegm flying in beautiful arcs towards no one in particular. We break out necks and gag as we run our chains short, hoping for the rusted bolts securing us to the bricks gives way and we can tear into the flesh with our long, muddy fingernails.

In a past lifetime I learned the rules of domestication. Hundreds of years to turn a savage creature into trusting cattle.

It's amazing how quickly the reverse works. Turning rationality into humiliated, diseased freaks seems so simple. And we are nothing but animals now. I know because the voice on the end of the leather wrapped crop tells me so.

And even knowing this we still spit and piss and fuck and lick each others wounds. The horror glazed over the new eyes shows brightly when the sun tilts past and sheds light on the clumps of ragged hair and skin that fight against the chains all through the day.

For all our fight, we still bow our heads to our bowls, placed just out of reach. We choke ourselves, on knees only, our arms pulled taught by the chains. The collars around our necks allowing us only the smallest bit of room for the clumps of mush and fetid meat to slide down to our churning stomachs. We dig our toes in to the grooves in the floor, suspending ourselves outright, tongues lolling like ribbons from ropes on a windy day, trying to get more.

The screams and howls start shortly after, intestines cramping, twisting, exploding. The grim rays of light shine down through the solitary port above us, and trails along the cracks in the floor, showing the gray-yellow liquid of our own animal existence run towards the drain.

Now and then there's a red tint, not always of our own, and we lower our cracked lips to the warm surface of the stone and suck the life of another deep into our bodies.

The crops can't even stop us now.

We lunge still, never learning our lesson.

Our throats break and our wrists snap.

And our teeth hit the floor, cracking, shards flying out from under us. The smell flies up.

And we begin to rub our faces against the stone. Sharpening them as we have our rage. Screams of pain, anger, purpose echo out. And those blue eyes in front of us continue to stare. And that warm, pure crimson continues to trace through the veins.

Waiting for the first tooth to open them up like faucets.

But here I sit ol' Spider John, the robber man...

((



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And it sets in across the hills and the valleys and seeps into every crevice.



It's like some almighty hand has dipped into the Holi bowls, taken fistfuls of the powdered pigments and strewn them across the landscape haphazardly. Deep crimson to bright orange, licked with the smallest dabs of brown. The scenery changes from lush to vibrant, each color seeping in through the eyes and pushing against the back of the skull so strongly you can almost taste it.

Like the first few particles of a pixie stick hitting the side of your tongue as the rest spreads across and coats the inside of your mouth.

It can be magnificent, seeing the rolling hills of green shift to bright, almost fluorescent colors. Spots of red and orange and yellow coat the landscape and merge and flow with seemingly no pattern at all. So maybe it's not an almighty hand, but that of a child. It pays no heed to the lines, the edges, the patterns thrown together, but it does know what is beautiful and elegant.

Perhaps poetic.




And a few of the leaves begin to fall, shifted along by the wind, being pushed up against the great, gnarled trunks and strewn across the dying grass. They stick out amongst the faded-green-brown and crinkle under every footstep. They act like bubble wrap, if but the eternal type. There's always a soft crackle, no matter how many times it's tread upon.

And should you be fortunate enough to live somewhere with hills, mountains, perhaps a very high bridge, you get that first good look as you reach the crest, and stop or slow for a moment, taking it all in, this freckled landscape. There's a cool breeze out, rustling the leaves, and you can see it spread out from limb to limb in the distance, boughs shivering and shaking in a unified dance against the elements.



And then a week passes.

And a rain comes.

And a front changes.

And you're left cold and shivering, water soaking up your pants legs and seemingly through your skin. Your jacket can't seem to hold out against the sharp edge of the wind and the saltless tears spill out from your eyes, drawing an icy line back to your ears. The leaves underneath your feet no longer crinkle, but make a disgusting, foul squish as you tread along the gray sidewalks.

The limbs stand bare, the colors have all been cleaned from the canvas with a freezing turpentine and lay in the gutters in disheveled, sodden heaps the color of mud and shit.

And the wind picks up again.

No longer is there the delicate rustle of leaves brushing past one another, like singles in bars hoping for that one magical moment of intimacy, but rather replaced with the empty clacking of twigs beating out a despairing march for our feet to keep shuffling to.

All that's left is decay underneath a sky grayer than the sidewalk you travel along. Damp and festering at your footsteps, licking at your heels as you pass.

So the fall can be nice, but there's days when I walk home thinking how oppressive it is, when all that is left in the woods near my apartment or trash scrubs and weeds. When the majestic trees shooting up so far in the air fail to hide the view of the other side, having already been stripped of their covering.

So I'll wake up, and be able to see from my soaked, muddy side of the creek to the other. I'll be able to see the gray spray of water from behind a dirty Escalade as they weave their way through the parking lot on the other side, travelling down row after row of soaked, dirty, leaf covered cars. There won't be any distance between this world of ugly and that one.

But perhaps I'm being cynical.

Perhaps the unforgiving cold
             the bare, haunted trees
             the leaf caked gutters
             the unsmiling, unfeeling faces
             the huddled masses standing outside, smoke rising from their covered faces

the pure misery of it all, has some meaning.

But for that, I don't hold out hope.

For me, the ass end of fall is a tribute to decay. An eating away at the year's labor. A failed toast in honor of a year's achievements.

Maybe the snow will come, maybe it won't. Maybe a soft blanket of white will shine the light on a smile or two. Maybe we'll be stuck with the frowns reflected out of sour, muddy pools.



Only time will tell.

You wanna be a big time player? It's not to be...

((



))

Shit, I've really got to work on this schedule thing. Show some commitment, something.

So I'm sitting here, dressed in the finest of fineries, at least on my end of the spectrum, feeling yet again just how annoying this damn brace is. I've got four three more days to go until I walk into the doc's nice and early and have them tell me everything's better'n best. I'll come home, crack open the first beer in over a month, and take a shower.

And I'll stand under the shower head and just let the water pour over me, soaking my hair, my face. I'll pay attention to every movement, wondering if one wrong twist is going to send me back a month, a year, maybe two. And I'll turn around for a few minutes and feel the water wash away at the small of my back, something I haven't felt in a while.

I have washed my ass, tyvm, it's just that these waterproof bandages are just that.

I'll get out, towel off, shave, brush my teeth, throw on some deodorant, fix my hair, and then go to my room. I'll see how much the swelling has gone down since I first got out of the hospital. I'll touch the scar gingerly at first, seeing if I can feel any scabs, any threads from the sutures, anything at all. I'll press a little more forcefully around the scar, seeing if I can find anything at all.

It's truly amazing what nothing feels like. I can tell for short moments when I lay down in bed, stripped of my brace, stripped of clothes. I lay back and feel, nothing. Not the usual discomfort. Not the usual stress telling me that I can't lay this way or that. But I'll still sleep on my back. Fear.

After I find nothing wrong, I'll throw on my clothes, feeling a shirt loose against my skin for the first time in ages. The coolness of it, the way it moves with my bad, the sliding over my skin. And I'll worry. As much as I hate this brace, it keeps me safe. It makes me feel secure in my movements. It keeps instinctual momentum in check.

And I'll grab my book bag, and my camera, my cigarettes, lighter, keys and phone, and walk to class. carefully measuring every step. Everything that can go wrong will be running through my mind.

But it'll be all right.

I won't be hooking it through the slotted chairs in my classes anymore.

It won't be slipping under the waist of my pants when I stand back up.

I won't sweat profusely from the tightness.

I won't be afraid to stretch.

So it'll all be good.

And then I'll get drunk.

So it'll all be better.

So that's pretty much the plan. And wow, only 15 minutes in. I'm really starting to worry about content, but maybe I shouldn't at the moment. I'll take it on faith that you have actually read up until this point and wil continue to do so.

I want to make something useful out of this. There's always hope that I'll be reading through this in a weekmonthyeardecade and find a line that just resonates with something in my head. Maybe help me formulate some sort of plot worth mention. It's kind of odd how things like that jump out at you now and then, harnessing your mind and riding it like a wild bull for those sweet, victorious 8 seconds.

I seriously cannot wait to run again. To move.

Colin asked me if I was climbing Saturday. I wish I could. I would love nothing more than to tear up my hands and knuckles against the sandpaper of the wall. To feel my joints give a little bit as I press up to the next hold, or to feel my tendons on the verge of popping as I pull my feet to the wall.

To slide throw the grass on my knees, fingers still fluttering against the trigger and sending paint down range. To hear the 'thonk' of my body smack into a bunker, popping out the far side, railing down the back man in the can and hosing the guy diving for the snake. Circling and silent, but with so much fucking adrenaline every ragged breath sounds like a scream inside of my mask.

I get way too excited when I know I'm going to pop around the next can and am going to see the mid guy crouched, snapping at my back man, and just be able to lay one right on his ass. No trigger walking, no bunkering, no hesitation, just a nice little stroll out in the open on a sunny day and casually popping someone like it's no big thing.

My snowboard calls to me from the closet, protecting it's base from the sun and chemicals, still waxed and tuned from the last season, but needing a brush, new wax, new edges. I'm trying to put it off until after thanksgiving to bring it out, lay it across some books, and really show it some care. Even then it'll be a month before I can use it, before I get to hear the quick, constant flow underneath my feet.

In the best of times, it sounds like car tires rolling through a slightly misted road, spraying up water behind you, and just the ever rolling shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh as your nose begins to freeze, even behind the fleece that covers your face.

In the worst of times it sounds like a skateboard, harsh remarks mutter out at every turn, sounding like the ceramic wheels rolling over wood and concrete. But that's when you have to put your trust in the metal, letting it dig into the ice. It digs deep grooves and slices open the surface to reveal the ungroomed slopes below.

Christ does it feel great when the wind curls in through the vents of your goggles and laps at the sides of your eyes, bringing cold, saltless tears to your cheeks. But you don't want to slow down to make it stop. You want to keep going, to push it right up to the limit. You want to hit that perfect spot of powder where your board doesn't make anymore sounds. Your feet buried in 4" of powder, and still there's feet of snow below you. But there's just silence and a white mist billowing up your knees as you glide on, leaning back to keep the toe up.

It feels like perpetual motion.

Until the toe goes down.

And your heel comes up.

And your face goes down.

And your legs come up.

And you laugh, wrecking your face at 35 mph, because you didn't feel a damn thing.

And to walk endlessly, to be able to go see things, braving the cold and the heat, the water and the rain. No more stopping to stretch every 5 minutes. No taking a seat because you simply can't move your hips anymore without that dagger ripping up the back of your leg, swiveling across your lumbar, and up to your brain.

To drive without frequent shifting. Being able to enjoy the passing scenery again. I can only hope.

Not being so useless again will be amazing.
Not feeling useless will be even better.

So, yeah, that's about it.

I feel the air of the sub smack against my legs...

((





))


The metal of my feet strip away the turf from the soil, rip and render it into useless follicles of fiber fit for only the re-saturation and nourishment of the organisms that will no doubt tread where my heel has already been. 


Pulsing and pounding I feel the gears turn in a silent cacophony that shudders under my skin. Each twist and lift precise, just as it was specified when it was manufactured to be.


I feel the metal move and slide into place, oiled and smooth functioning. The dull sheen of the exterior parts as it changes spots, giving rise to a chrome unlike any other, worn and polished by continual use. The edges razor sharp from where but are never to be feared as they do not slip or stray from the guided course that has been predestined. 


The red, twist lock gears shift from position to position, jerking into place. Such a stuttered step seems almost unnatural to the natural but to me it feels just like home. The hydraulics shriek out as the weight is shifted, supported, and accelerated. Short, white puffs jet out of the vents and cloud the area around my ever moving form. 


I can feel the metal pulse, reverberating against the engraved bar codes and model numbers and manufacturer specifications. A metallic heartbeat of electricity and gears churns along deep within the cavity of my chest, pumping blue and green fluids through the entirety of my system.


Cooling the red hot pins, keeping the joints lubricated and smooth. There is a sizzle in my sensors and I can feel that all is well, my diagnostics precise.


The twitch and jerk and shudder of my body, the bass of my footfalls and the shudder of the ground. A new mechanical Christ come to save --erase-- ------


There is a glow behind my eyes and it illuminates my vision with a dull orange light that casts out all hues, bathing my mind with the illusion of a monochromatic world as my gears continue to twist, lock, --fail-- --function-- --repeat-- the ever cycling locomotion towards the end line of my command prompt.


I feel --sensor operation: 0--- and i hear --sensor operation: all-- as the turf gives way to stone, crumbling beneath the titanium treads that are not fitted to my toes but in fact have been form --forged-- for this purpose. Crushing, rolling, never stopping.


--failure != option--


Yet as I scan the broken, distant, --charred-- world around me an --err-- run through the fiber optic synapses that have elevated me to --maximum-- standard. An --err-- that kicks my systems loose, losing power to my legs --acceleration limbs-- and I find my face, hands, shoulders --self-- smashing down through the stones that I had up to this moment been treading so heavily upon. 


--online--


I push myself up, metal fibers twisting and churning in time with the reset thrums of my gears, diagnostics flooding my already blurred vision. I recalibrate and am off again, minor --err-- to worry about after the end line has been tested, run, --100%-- and my soul can earn it's escape from this hellish world of orange and red. 

Yet the machine rolls on across the broken landscape, gears slipping into place, indeed as they were manufactured and specified to do. Soft puffs of exhaust echo off of the now dead walls of now dead places. There is no face, only the silver death mask of kings long dead. Orange light bathes all around, and metal foot stamps all below.

There's something to be said for the indiscrimination of a machine born of blood and folly. More graceful than a human would ever be, more precise in it's form and function than a person could ever hope to be. It steps through walls and rocks. It steps through oceans and armament. It steps through corpses and tissue.

And it tilts full into the wind, rain pelting the shell covering the internal fusion machine and fiber optic sensor line running the length of its back.

And it tilts full into the wind, as ice begins to build into the sensor slits built into it's featureless face.

And it tilts full into the wind, as the sound of bone and sinew scatter it's sonar for only a moment.

Yet here is the true amalgamation that was intended. A machine of purpose and design without a flaw except --err: tissue generation detected-- that purpose should not be given to an animal.

Yet I move on, scan-nnnn and move to the next poin-nnnt, without feeding, without drinking, without resting, without forgettttttting my purposeeeeeeee --offline--

I know it's...

((



))
There's something to be said for flowing along a landscape of endless blue. Flapping about like the tassels on a child's bike, erratic and twitching every so often, but once up to speed flowing smoothly back on the currents of the air.

But it makes its own currents with its long flowing body, smoothly skipping about with small twitches undetectable by inferior eyes. A rocky, rust riddled landscape rolls underneath as it moves further on, to where everything becomes less clear. It shuttles off into the haze of the unknown, waving goodbye as it goes.

It slips and slides into crevices, finding the edges of rock that have always sheltered this corner of earth from the sun. It squeezes in, making a frigid home for itself, tucking every fold and curve and muscle neatly inside. It seems impossible for something to be as if it were liquid. To have no ascertainable mass, nothing that can be measured by visual and logical standards. To understand the possibility is to believe in magic and miracles.

Yet through no magic and through no miracle is it able to accommodate its own body. Through sheer will and ages of genetic engineering it has become almost perfect, possibly sentient, and thoroughly beautiful. With its nerves hardwired for grace it has almost reached its peak. To be gentle enough to lift up the smallest pebble, yet strong enough to wrest away someone's hard earned possessions, that is a truly balanced thing.

I think of putty when I see it work; smashed out, spreading across the surface, rolling back up into a single, unified piece yet again. I trace the contours of its fleshy skin, the ever changing curves that always sway to and fro. My mind sees its muscles contract, pulling itself along, much like an inch worm, only more compressed motions than languid reaching.

True hydraulics.
Flesh and blood, not metal and fluid.

It masks itself against prying eyes, filtering in against the landscape like some social outcast hidden behind the cheap wooden doors of his cheap wooden apartment. It watches as everything passes by, barely winking as their movement stirs up against its eyelids. To have such concentration, such resolve. I imagine it to be like holding one's breath underwater for too long, when you start to get panicky, but you know you can't let those bubbles go just yet. I wonder if that's how it feels, deep within its shapeless skull.

And then it moves, extravagant and flamboyant, knowing full well how easily it is seen, how easily it attracts people, and just how awestruck the gathering crowd is. Full and strong arms whip through the haze and back into the clarity, pale palms touching on whatever it pleases, and whatever it pleases not being able to fight back....or perhaps wanting to. It's a jaw dropping display of power and curiosity.

Exploration is a key ingredient to any developing being's mind.

And then it begins to change, the colors once so well hidden among the landscape, so desperately needing to blend and mimic. Flashes cover its body, like an old television on the fritz, with wide white waves cycling down across the picture, changing hue, tint, contrast with fluorescent Technicolor brightness. It shifts in front of the eyes against a background of haze and depth. Colors unthought of cycle through its face and down its arms, yet its palms still show the true nature of the being. Deep purples to bright tye-die to speckled browns.

Color wheels have no grasp on its beauty.

And it flashes for a moment, parading around, dancing as effortlessly as a weightless being can dance.

And then with the precision and speed of a sprinter, it shoots off again into the haze, a small aura of light and wonderment surrounding it until even that too fades from sight.

So quick and so intelligent that it leaves trails along the center of your vision, able to still trace its path with a finger. That's how memorable of an impression it makes, that instantly you've already charted where its been, what it's done, the wonderment it's shown you. To know such a fearful creature exists is a wonderful thing, to keep you guessing when your bubbles start telling you it's time to be let out.

But another glance out past the haze is hard to resist, in hopes of seeing its trailing arms waving a final, brilliant goodbye to you.

Ride, Sally ride...

((



))

So we kinda covered the majority of yesterday's post in my lit class today. Enjoy where you are. The moment. Slow those moments down and take them as they are.

William Carlos Williams was a little pissed off at how much Americans seemed to bounce around from one thing to another, always running around like fools, never concentrating and understanding.

And through a poem about a small, red wheelbarrow he exposed our attention deficits.

I wonder if erratic thoughts will ever have a place in prose. It may just be my only hope.

So it's the start of another 30 minutes, and Sally's still riding. I'm not yet to the point where I'm coming into these with an idea, with a purpose, or with an outside motivator other than a girl miles away who wants the best for me. It's really nice how that works out.

Bullheaded. Stubborn. Pain in the ass. Strong willed. Exactly what's needed.

So I've been doing some research on my credit hours needed until graduation, and my DARS audit tells me I just have 36 more to go. I hadn't really kept tabs on them, only looked at the report to see which classes I needed to take. And of course I've peppered in classes that interest me, because if there's one thing my mother told me about college, it was to at least take a few classes which I think would be fun. Hasn't let me down yet.

I've learned symbolic logic and it's argument solving puzzles, and enjoyed the hell out of it. They should put derivations in the Sunday paper alongside the crosswords, hell, maybe even a weekly running. Maybe I should talk to the Guardian (the school paper) and see if they'd be willing to do something like that. Just a little in joke for the nerds.

I've taken Stoicism and found out that if there was one class that I was made for, if there was one class that the Creator had in mind when he shaped my ass from clay and dirt and mud, it was Stoicism. Great ideas, but of course I'm biased. Now when people ask, I can tell them my philosophy.

Make the best out of what you have. Enjoy it now, because tomorrow it might be gone. Don't worry about it being gone, but enjoy it fully now. Preparedness and involvement. It's amazing how they rationalize the two going together.

I've taken Ethics. I've fussed with the Trolley Theory, I've played devil's advocate, I've dis-proven my own points in papers, just like a good boy should. I've learned that very few people know what life on a farm is like. The image of slaughtered pigs and bulls and sheep have been all these kids have ever seen. Not one of them has harvested their own food. Not one of them has killed their own dinner. I almost think that should be a pre-requisite for that particular discussion, but then again, I'm just as inhumane as the worst factory farmer in the world.

I've taken Linguistics, and learned the different between tensed and untensed. I learned the IPA, and all about boundary accents. Localization was an awesome thing too, and now I know why, when I drive back home, my twang comes out loud and proud. And also why it comes back when I'm drunk.

Anthropology. Dramatic writing. Mental Health in Contemporary Fiction. Things that keep me entertained and cross over into other classes.

Did you know the French used to punish their school children for speaking any other language than French? Did you know that there are some African cultures that did the exact same thing? Persecution from your own god damn language. How terrible is that? One of these facts I learned in German. The other I learned in Anthropology. Which is which? It doesn't matter.

You learn one thing here, it's going to eventually be applicable there.

Don't be afraid to branch out, to try something new, to dig into a subject that might seem completely irrelevant to your goals in life. And this isn't just for school either. My understanding of paintball equipment helped me understand the procedures in my last job. My leisure became integrated into the mundane daily activity that put food on my table.

Hopefully my German will come in handy with my Technical Writing. Hopefully my Creative Writing will come in handy with my Ethics. Hopefully my Stoicism will come in handy with my personal affairs, those every day matters that mean so much.

But I digress. Fully and completely. Without digression, there really isn't any fun. You're just mundane and to the point. But is that what people want? I dunno, maybe I should take a Psychology course.

Actually, that's not a bad fuckin idea. I always wanted to be a psychologist, or something of that sort. Now I just know people too well. But it's certainly interesting. (Mental Health in Contemporary Fiction. That was taught by a Creative Writing Ph.D. and a Psychology Ph.D. Amazing how shit lines up.)

 But now I'm just rolling along here, I'm afraid I bore people with this. Who's paying attention and who's just smiling at the words on the screen? Is any of this making an impact? I think know that's what I really wanna do. I want to make an impact on someone, and impression, with my writing.

Just like it says on my gay little nameplate for Communication Graphics:

Translate, Write, Design, Impress someone.

And with the help of a certain someone, I feel like I can do that now. I know if I typed in another window I'd be chastised and told "it's not 10:00." Damn that's a good feeling. This is a good feeling.

It's like the back of my brain is surrounded by beautiful scenery and a hand is reaching in, just above my right eye, squeezing its way back painlessly. Those fingers just stroke along the folds and bumps of my brain until they can palm the back of the lobes, and gently but somehow forcefully pulling back towards my eyes, sending my brain spinning, flinging those trees and flowers and blue skies all over the inside of my skull, smearing the paint all across the inside like a masterfully painted panorama.

I can almost feel it tingle across my nerves, as my entire brain becomes a singular eye itself, looking at the hectic patterns of the walls, shifting from limb to petal to wing to blade. It's almost like I can actually see what I want to throw down onto my keyboard. It's a hectic scene, but for me I think writing's always been a cluster fuck of image and emotion spread across the vast eternity of my thoughts.

And every time I think the scene has been said, that these images have been laid out for you to see, something new drifts in for me to latch onto for a paragraph or to. Those fingers reach back in, maybe through my nose this time, past the hair and boogers and other gross cootie stuff, and swirls the background around again. The blue skies become dark and star filled, a wolf pack trots out from the tree line, the crickets hidden deep in the grass begin to strum on their violins and the music notes take on visual aspects and flow out on a perfect 5 lined scale in 4:4 time.

But I have to leave something for later, and I let the ink and paint and pencil lead sift back together. But it feels like they funnel into the folds a little closer to the front.

We talked of lobotomies, freaking out the kids on the bus.

That's how you know you've got someone good, when random shit like that pops up.

So here's my thirty minutes. My pleasure.

(I can hear my upstairs neighbor pissing off his balcony. Fucking shit.)

It's far, but I like night drives...

((


))

30 fucking minutes.

And you never know where it's going to go. You just kinda settle into the routine, leave the window open so you can hear the rain splatter across the shattered pavement of the parking lot and hope to god you stumble across a word or image that evokes some primal, unique desire in the bottom of your soul.

Stream of thought writing is what they call it. Not thinking too much, saving the editing for later, and just writing something. It is a great cure for writer's block, I must say.

There's a girl who's image pops up on my monitor each day, smiling and laughing and telling me what a pain in the ass I am. She's the reason I'm starting 30 minutes. She's the one pushing me to this, by my own request. How gravy is that?

So it's raining and cold as hell. I love the rain, how it lulls you to sleep, how it sounds against a tin roof, the smells that it kicks up. But that pleasure's kind of damped by the cold, knowing I'll have to turn the heat on in the next few weeks to keep myself from hating everything.

Was outside smoking with Nate last night, burning hard earned work up and inhaling the essence of sweat and dirt, blowing the remnants up into the cool, night sky. He remarked on the change of weather, how it was so much more comfortable and reminisced about his home. Cold sand being therapeutic, freezing water being a joy.  I still retort with how god damn insane you have to be to enjoy something like that. Sand is a pain in the ass enough, quite literally if you stay too low in the water while the tide goes out, but cold sand? I'd rather have my eyes scraped out with a lemon zester.

Really not sure where to go with this but maybe it'll become clearer when the pounding rhythm of the keyboard finds its tune.

A melody, something to flow along with.

Maybe my keyboard will like where this is going too.

Who knows, but that's part of the fun, always having something new to find out, to overcome, to change you.

I've signed up for the German Immersion event on campus, hosting to high school students who've had 3 or 4 years of this shit. I'm still not sure if just because it's high school level stuff if I'll still be ahead of them linguistically, but worse comes to worse, I can always tell'm to fick auf and go about my business.

It'll be interesting, when and if I get to Germany,  to learn the colloquialisms and the actual every day speech patterns of a new culture. Oh to be sitting in a street cafe with Eins curled up by my feet, enjoying an open faced sandwich on the thickest bread anyone's ever seen, chatting over whiskey and coffee in a language that's not yet my own.

To see the sights, truly ancient history jutting out in broken pieces among the new, modern look, the definition of advancement and beauty. Yet I have to wonder if they actually look on these items with reverence, still. Or a sense of nostalgia, maybe wonderment. Human beings can get used to anything. You see the same miraculous things every day, the same objects that people travel across continents to take a snapshot of, and don't even bother to trace the outstretching arches and sunken roofs with your eyes. The wonders of the world are only sought out by those who have never gotten a chance to see them.

Many of us walk by the same things, day in, day out, that a visitor, an immigrant, a tourist, a passerby would stop and gaze at for hours on end. Without a second thought we flick our ashes and drop our bottle on their steps. We've become so inoculated to the beauty that's in our own back yards that we don't even think twice. It's always been there. It always will be.

But then I go home, and see all that has changed. The trees that are no longer there. The school that is no longer there. The stores that have been reshaped and re-purposed to fit the new and ever changing face of the town. But the sights that have always been there, I don't think twice about.

The old baseball fields.
The tressel.
The sale-barn.
The mountains.
The saw mills.
The swimming holes.

She tells me about the Mum-Fest, how it's the first she's never been to. She realizes just what it meant to her.

People rarely have this kind of clarity, to look back, to understand, to realize those bright, bright gems that their towns have held for them.

Saw Mill Days. The 5k. The center of Glenwood being shut down.

I am pissed that that has changed, been cordoned off.

Are you tired of where you are? Tired of having been there day after day after day?

Shut the fuck up and realize just what this place holds for you.

Sitting in the old Glenwood cafe at fucking 4 in the morning listening to the old farmers talk about their farms and familys and old traditions. I learned how rough it could be to rely on the land. The sacrifices it would take. And the payoff that could come of it.

The farmland itself. I always had the up close view, never looking more than 5 feet ahead of me, searching for the next rock or root that had to be upturned.

It's not until you show someone else what you have that you realize just how amazing it is.

I show her pictures, just one or two, of sights I saw for 22 years. The view of Hot Springs from the summit. The view of hay fields from the tree line. The small glimpse of the swimming hole tucked back in the woods. Her eyes light up, and there's a hint of excitement somewhere in there. And I realize where I came from.

And I realize where I am now.

The Strawberry Festival.
The alley behind O'Brian's.
The benches along the river.
The falls in Glen Helen and Greenville.
The endless cornfields with long straight stretches of highway.
The graffiti under the bridge over the Miami.
The sidewalks and lights stretching from the courthouse all the way through Troy, past the projects and drive-thru convenience stores and the rich neighborhoods on the hills.

It's startling what we have once you look at it. It just depends on whether you decide to look at it or not. Be a tourist in your own town. Be a fresh pair of eyes just coming in, hear the accents for the first time, start fresh with all the friends who make this town your home, give it all a second chance, every day, and you'll find that you don't need rich mansions and upscale clubs and a country club to make your home better than anyone else's.

It's your home. It's your town. Your city.

Find some beauty in that.

But I will hold on hope...

((

))

So here's a chronicle, a historical account of events, of probably the best summer to date.

I didn't really go anywhere, but rather stayed close to home, and tried to dig out the wonders and beauty of the local area. Following are the things and people that I've found, the ones I owe my summer to.

Let me introduce most of the players of our game:

Aygul

My sneaky lil fuckin KGB agent of a sister. I owe most of the shenanigans that have been perpetrated this summer to her. She's my point in the canoe, and she's my climbing buddy. Without her screaming at me about the upcoming rocks and sunken trees, I would have been screwed.

And she helped me with my wardrobe, so I don't look like a $2 bum constantly. No matter what high and low points have come and gone, she's stuck it out with me this summer, and damn if I'm not proud of her for that.

We both set out this summer to make it as not lame as possible, and I think we've done a pretty damn good job.

Thanks, kiddo, and I'm glad you're sticking around, at least for a little while.

Luis

This limey brit zebra riding bastard has been through damn near all of it with us this summer, from flipping Dad's canoe to getting busted up against the tree trying to push it out to getting run off by park rangers.

Luis is kinda brilliant, even though you wouldn't expect it with how much his short lil ass mouths off, and has been a constant laugh throughout the summer. He's doing chemical engineering down at the University of Kentucky right now, probably making LSD or some chemical warfare shit.

Please, World, don't piss Luis off.

He's always been there when my car needed a jump or my fridge needed a few less bottles.

Thank you, Luis, look forward to seeing you again.

Kelsey

Ohio born and raised, and for all the craziness that that type of situation might instill upon a person, none of our summers would have been the same without having her along. Put her and my sister together and you'll have a scene more entertaining than the circus. The circus, while on FIRE. She, along with my sister, have kept me pushing forward, trying to find the next point of entertainment or relaxation, something to be shared.

Because I'll be damned if her company isn't something that everyone could use a little more of. Well spoken, smart, thoughtful, she's been a true comfort in the rough patches, and I hope I've been a bit of the same in her own.

There will be a lot of pictures in this one, and if there's one that strikes you as 'holy shit this is beautiful', it's probably a picture of her, or by her. She's a wizard with the lens, and it's even named! (and by D&D rules, that's gotta be like an automatic +1 to Clarity at the least. Maybe some soul capture properties vs. undead? I dunno.)

Kelsey has been a constant reminder to laugh, to enjoy myself, and to try and not worry so much. She's been invaluable to us all.

Thank you, darlin, I'm not sure Georgia's gonna be ready for the likes of you. :)

Jason

My roomate, in absentia, hailing from the island of Okinawa. He's stationed over there with the USMC, keeping the streets a little more safe (read: drunk) for us all. Since, you know, how often we all go to Okinawa and whatnot.

No matter how much we might have missed out on over the past year of his deployment, it always seems possible to pick right up where we left off. He's a hilarious bastard, and whenever I walk into O'Brian's and settle down at the bar for a pint, he's often missed.

This guy knows how to make the best out of life, something to go out and do is always at the forefront of his mind, and damn if the month he was back wasn't action packed to say the least.

Thank you, Jason, the second bedroom is always open to you.

Cristian

Cristian is a lil punk, cheats at pool races, smart as hell (on a good day), and takes so much abuse from everyone I almost feel sorry for him. If he didn't cheat at pool races, maybe that would change, but guess what?! That's right! He cheats!

But in all seriousness, Cristian's made it out to a good number of the things we've done this summer, canoed with us, crossed swords with Luis and I on the volleyball court, a lot of good memories.

If I ever see you again Cristian, you still owe me a drink!

Thank you, Cris, and if you're ever in the area, it'd be great to see you again.

All the butthurt people who didn't get a personal write-up.

No offense is intended by this, I'm listing major players. But you've all been a part of my summer, and you all are appreciated. It would not have been the same without you, and it's been great to see every single last one of you.

J & Ben, I'm glad you two are out of the house now, and I hope you guys enjoy the shit out of the apartment.

Alissa, I'm glad you're done babysitting the hellions, and you're going to be a wonderful teacher.

Adam, I didn't meet you for long, but your unicorn loving ass was fun to hang out with.

The rest of you, well, shit, try to make it to more stuff next summer. I'll see y'then.

And off we go...

So the summer kicks off with a canoe trip, just four of us: Aygul, Luis, Kelsey, and myself. Aygul and I drag dad's canoe down to the bank and wait downstream for the others.

In the distance I can already hear Kelsey screaming at Luis to watch out for the bridge, and I can hear Luis laughing as per usual. This is Kelsey's first canoe trip, and one that she won't soon forget.

So as they drag ass over to Aygul and I, we hop in and begin to set out. It's a gorgeous day, the clouds that threatened to cancel our trip have left the sky open to the sun, the birds are out, and the water is parting around the bows of our canoes as we slip through the water. Droplets pool and fall from the tip of our oars, flinging on the passenger in front of us as we change sides, and the chill is welcomed.

We stop, swim, explore, laugh, push, throw.

We smile, smoke, think, enjoy that moment of silence on the river. That one point where the current takes over and nobody has to paddle for a minute, you're just moving with the natural course of things, enjoying the scenery that rolls by.

There's a heron, there's some fish, there's some foam.

And we enjoy the company, Aygul in the front of mine, Kelsey in the front of Luis', chatting back and forth, talking excitedly about...I dunno, girl stuff probably. Luis and I meet each other's gaze.

"Why didn't we put them into the same canoe?"

Foreshadowing.

But not too much for a story, that'd take forever to get to the high point.

So, further down the river, on a nice shallow stretch, a cry escapes my throat.

"Ramming Speed!"

And the kid's oar and mine dig into the water, churning up the depths as our canoe rockets towards Luis and Kelsey. We catch them broadside, perfect for a good strong jarring push.

Except they lean a bit too much.

The water begins to rush in over the edges.

The canoe loses its occupants.

Screaming and laughing and threatening to do bodily damage to me, they emerge from the water, soaked and a little shocked.

I laugh and help Kelsey into our canoe, and go help Luis empty out theirs.

Again, I catch Luis' gaze.

We hop in, and start paddling. Everything's going swimmingly for about a quarter mile until we get to a bend with a strong current and a large tree covering about 3/4 of the river. Luis and I skirt around the tree and beach the canoe, and wait for the girls to catch up.

They catch up, but are a little too close to the curve, and the current sweeps them and dad's canoe straight for the tree. Thunk! A backpack, a cooler, and two girls are spilled into the water.

We rush to catch the backpack and the cooler.

Aygul and Kelsey come up, and we help them over to the beached canoe, set them down, make sure they're ok. Luis and I trudge back through the current to the now upside down canoe, trapped under a tree in about 4 feet of moving water. Our hands feel out the contour of the canoe, and find an odd right angle that didn't used to be in the middle.

"Oh shit."

Laughing and grunting and losing grip, we push and pull on that bastard until we can't anymore. My hip takes a hell of a beating, and Luis' stomach looks like he tried to make love to a feral cat. Scraped and bleeding and tired, we still manage to pull out a few jokes while we go about our work before finally coming to the conclusion that 100,000 gallons of water is a bit much to pull against with our bare hands.

We pile into the rental, missing a shirt, some glasses, and a little bit of pride, and make it back to the drop off point.

Weary and worn from the exercise and the sun we pile into the parking lot of Wendy's, and enjoy some of the best damn food I've had all summer. We earned it.

But I guess the foreshadowing remains. We started off well. We overcame some stuff. We left some stuff behind. And at the end of the day, we were all smiling and had a story to tell.

A few days later I get a call from Dad, saying someone had managed to cut the log away enough that the canoe slipped free. Was a little perturbed, as I had a plan that involved some come-alongs to exact revenge upon that treacherous tree. But I go and pick up the canoe, load it onto my car, and take it to Dad's. There are worn lines here and there, seats need to be refitted, and some new cross beams would be a good idea. But it's a sturdy canoe, and been through a lot.

Still sorry about the canoe, Daddo. I'll get it fixed.

So after my hip healed up, we went climbing some, wandered around aimlessly looking for any excuse to hang out, went on another canoe trip with more people and less accidents, and started to see where the summer took us.

Lotsa laughs, flirting, name calling, the kinda stuff that makes you feel like the world is at peace for a moment.

And the summer continues. I try to juggle responsibilities, schedules, emotions. I try to fit all the puzzle pieces together, so whatever we do, we do with the most people, those closest to us, those that make damn sure the time we have is the time we enjoy.

I'm already spending the summer with that handful of people, but I want to make sure they have their own along as well.

And the summer continues, and we become closer knit, banding together for the next great adventure. I start to spend more time with Kelsey, and decide maybe everyone isn't such a dickhead after all.

Excerpt from my personal notes:

Backyard street lights and the shadows of a venetian blind cast across a face I want so desperately to be closer to mine.

And we continue to climb.

Movie nights for everyone, going out to eat with a group of friends, chilling on a back porch while the mosquitoes chip away at our blood.

Meeting a new corgi and getting lost in a new neighborhood.

Sitting in a hot tub, inhaling the thick chlorine vapor that wafts up with every bubble, rejoicing as the breeze rolls through, bringing a shiver down my spine.

Relaxing by the river, smoking cigarettes and chatting, burning the time away after my sister's graduation and waiting for the movie to get close to starting. A moment of peace, even with the noise of cars driving across the bridge to our right, we still watch the river foam and geese and ducks and fading light over the levy. Nothing is urgent at this moment, nothing out of place. She's just accomplished her first milestone, and is dead tired, but is humoring me, letting me get her out of the house and out of her mood. I smile.

Curled up on a couch, the dog lying across the carpet sighing deeply into the tan fibers around her black little nose.

Drunkenly swinging my sword right into Luis' face, Cristian attempting to take advantage of the brief opening. They knew I was down, and decided that they just weren't having that. I owe them for this act of kindness.

I had spent three hours sitting in the light rain, propped up against my car in the parking lot of the Y. Sorting out thoughts, emotions, the entire rainbow of my feelings. I was right, it did rain that night, it just took a long time for the water to hit my face, to clear away the grit obscuring my vision.

Seeing her climb up that wall warms my heart. She's so damn stubborn, so persistent, it's a Page thing I guess. Pride won't let her stop. She swings in the saddle for a moment, plotting just how to get over this problem. I'm not even sure if she hears the directions I call up to her skinny Russian ass, but one way or another, she always grabs on to the nearest hold and hauls herself up, pushing with her feet, and truly dancing up every single step of the way.

When you're submarining a canoe, swimming underneath, feeling along the bottom side to an open spot where you can make your entrance, you can't help but feel fucking awesome. It's like I'm Jaws, or Cthulhu, some deep dwelling beast about to scare the living shit out of these trespassers. I find my spot, a large bulb of light amidst a corona of green and brown, and push up, screaming, hoping to god they don't hit me with an oar. RARGH!

Leaning out of a car window with a battle axe, screaming for a wench to get in the car, life has never felt so free.

Jason arrives and the party begins, but I'm so exhausted that my body cries for sleep. I still feel terrible, leaving a man standing, but christ if his tolerance hasn't been fortified. Maybe next time. But I'm always up in time to make breakfast, always there with the platter of Mana on which all should nourish themselves.

Forgive me?

The moments of silence where you're afraid to say anything for fear of setting someone off, making the situation worse. When you wish you could find the right words to say, to heal a bond between two people you care about. When there's active resistance, when there's passive aggression, when you just want to scream. But you can't. You can't let that go, you can't let that break, but you keep working on it, because you know you need it.

Excerpt:

I see her arm hanging out the window mimicking the wings we all wish we had.

R O Y G B I V

And I crash into bed, face down onto my pillow, and inhale the aroma deep into my lungs. My shirt ruffles up and the thick, mouth watering smell of wood smoke rolls over me. Fires are beautiful, warm, and comforting, but nothing beats seeing their reflection in someone else's' eyes.

I keep walking into my bar, smiling and hugging the people I know, catching up on the week's activities. They tell me how good I am, and I tell them how lucky they are. We are a loving, symbiotic creature, and that's why I feel at home there.

Four of us stand outside of the bar, laughing and catching up and getting to know each other, the windows on my car rolled down so that we have some music to set the background for our conversations. Jason and I slur the words as we wait for the effect to leave our blood, but enjoy its presence while we can. Aygul and Kelsey roll their eyes, and poke fun at the both of us, even though they know that we know that they enjoy our idiocy.

I sing a song I didn't really concentrate on, and find out that those small bits of perfection are the ones that were never planned.

We jump from the falls at one point or another, cursing the freezing temperature, and getting run off by the park rangers. Jason tries to give his address as 'Okinawa, Japan'. Nice try.

I see her wade out through the water, and hear Kelsey's camera begin to record the process, each shot adjusted, planned, perfected, and captured as according to the image already in her head. She's beautiful, if not a bit angry, holding her sandals up out of the water as she glances down to watch the rocks below her feet.

We wander the Celtic festival, my fancy new kilt allowing me the freedom of movement and the gentle cooling powers of the odd breeze or two. I snatch up the camera, and take a photo, and hope to remember these two just like this.

We wander into an abandoned drive in, and I'm told to look away. I fume, a bit put off seeing as how I'm the ride, but hey, artists, actors, and their peculiarities. I begin to think of all the quirks that have popped up. I become red.

Kelsey stands on the edge of the falls, no doubt feeling the rush of cold water swirling around her ankles as it spills over the edge into the pool below. She keeps telling me 'no' as I stand on the tree across from her, coaxing her closer to the edge, closer to that moment of freefall and adrenaline. We stand there, words travelling back and forth over the frosty surface of the water, soft, gentle, encouraging, challenging, laughing. Then the moment comes, and she jumps.

I'd like to think, that after the fact, and while I was wrapping my towel around her shivering shoulders, that she was secretly glad I conned her into this.

I wake up to get a glass of water.

I play with my Ka-Bar, and make an ass out of myself.

We play with our swords, and make asses out of ourselves.

We refuse to play with others hearts, and make a place for ourselves. Welcome forever, seats that have meaning and purpose, seats reserved for those I hold dear. Your neighbors, your compatriots, your partners in crime, I toast to you, and thank you fully for a whirlwind of a ride.

---

Luis is in Kentucky right now, moved into his apartment with his roommates, probably living it up and seeing what life has to offer.

Cristian has long since drove back home, south then north, and hopefully getting along better with a girl none of us have ever known.

Aygul starts college soon, stepping into the classroom with a new situation and purpose behind her footsteps.

Kelsey leaves for Georgia in a bit, to wander along the coast and capture the essence of the air with her brush and her lens.

Everyone's moved on, moved in, moved up. I'm sitting in a quiet room now, my dog not around, staying at Dad's while I recuperate. I fidget in my seat, trying to make my back more comfortable.

There's no more laughter rolling down my halls.

No more drinks spilled on my floors.

No more quiet conversations in the dark.

But that's ok. That's how life flows, and this is just the ebb.

But if there's one thing that I could hope, and hold in my mind, and maybe find true one day, is that each and every single one of us came into this summer as we went out: looking forward to what comes next, and smiling a little at what we've accomplished.

I love you guys. :)