I am left with nothing but insatiable awe. And no, it’s not enough, and it won’t be, at least not on this juncture of time. I don’t know if my linear prison will ever shatter, and conjoin the other trail, that runs parallel to this one. I wish it so. Because let me tell you, these tunnels run side by side, and I know them both soundly. And in the other, we waltz eternally to the harmony that echoes through our friction. I don’t know if the means for juxtaposition will be established, but I wish it so.
I do know, though, that purity finds solace within her eyes. Undoubtfully, grace in a method of upmost beauty flows through her. She was standing on the side of the road, with a certain inadequacy, a tender fashion, awkwardly, almost shamefully. And that, in itself, is the most unseen, but prized quality in this overwhelming sea of artificiality.
The seconds that I dared explore her smile were most generous in their illustration, in their precious illumination. Yes, the sorrow is daring, and unforgiving, but gorgeous in its display of innocence. There has not been a single moment of my trite existence that has basked in such an overwhelming desire to relieve and to protect. Never have I felt such a zealous impulse to somehow, and at any cost, salvage an endangered light-beam.
Darling, I would kill to lick your wounds.
Monday, March 17, 2008
momis
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Song to Tijuana
Another cold winter night spent crossing the border.
The cold steel of the car
juts and jolts
over broken by-ways
and
battered boulevards.
Down the main boulevard,
careful for children
that run in the black of night,
under the dim, yellow street light.
Round and round
the glorious glorietas
where yesterdays failed leaders
stand tall and proud
in rock and stone,
for all to see
on the merry-go-rounds
of carbon and steel.
And when you look at the beat up jalopies,
that surround and consume
in worn out colors,
the drivers
are
just
as
haggard
as the cars.
And that which burns brightest
are the advertisements;
the Coca-Cola billboards,
brilliant
dazzling
lights
in neon,
in LCD.
Electricity glows and flows first to these.
Stop signs are yield signs
as you swerve around
those too eager to
wait their turn.
And the car cracks and creaks over potholes
that come out of nowhere and force you to drive
zig-zag up dark hills,
where strangers walk
wide-eyed and bushy tailed
on dirt paths littered with
faded papers
and
green glass.
Past all the countless taco vendors,
where steam rises out of
rusted, oiled grills,
and the smell,
it permeates through the glass
and infects your nostrils
and instantaneously makes your mouth water.
And we drive to Libertad,
where an old woman – la guera – and her husband
makes tacos
out of their front yard patio,
covered by
faded,
stained
tarps
to keep out the cold
on freezing winter
nights.
And they always watch TV
silently,
obediently,
as they grill the food,
and she hands it to me
with hands covered
in masa and maiz,
and smiles as we say
"gracias."
We sip on rice water
that's sweet with cinnamon,
and goes so well with the spice of the salsa.
After,
we pay their son,
who's in charge of the money,
and wears a sweatshirt from our high school,
and is just a few years younger than we.
Then we leave Libertad's broken streets
(how funny that the neighborhood named Liberty is one of the saddest of all)
and make our way through
the congested arteries
in the city of faded colors.
On our way,
a column of police,
machine gun packin',
Kevlar packin',
packin' worried faces,
zoom by
lights flashin',
sirens ringin',
engines screamin',
off to fight a war
of America's addiction.
And sure enough,
moments later,
there's a burst of bullets blaring from blazing barrels.
And the eruptions continue
a moment or so longer
and then there is silence.
Absolute silence.
And then the city awakens,
and continues its erratic breathing,
as we cut off a bus caked in mud,
an old hammie-down school bus
converted for proles, peons, for la plebe.
Its so dirty you can't see through the windows.
And finally we make it to beautiful Chapultepec,
where a girl I know resides at the foot of the hill.
It's a place where the elite sleep peacefully
In mansions made for madmen,
built on the hilltop,
and a church a lies sanctioned
specifically for lawyers,
for judges,
for politicians,
for drug dealers,
who kneel and pray all under one roof.
Sinners and saints together at the table of
God,
to commune with the host,
to consume holy flesh and holy blood.
And they all pray for the same thing:
more;
more money,
more drugs,
more help,
more peace,
more blood.
And so it is there I am dropped off,
outside her apartment,
a residence of refuge,
an island in a sea,
a place where government, society has
no reach, no touch, no affect,
and I walk through the steel gate,
climb up the stairs,
and pass the bicycles for children
who don't know of streets without holes.
I knock on the door,
the steel rattles and rings,
with every tap of my knuckle
and I wait for a moment before her voice sings,
"Quien?"
I say it's me,
the door opens,
and it's a hug with a slight kiss on the cheek.
I come in,
we sit, talking for a while, sipping
coffee from Veracruz.
As her spoken words are sung from soft lips,
note the paintings hanging triumphantly
from nails on the wall.
Mind manifestations masterfully made
in swirls of paint,
come borne on canvas,
once blank,
once nothing
like the universe.
And when the coffee's done,
it's to the artists bed,
where we lie and continue conversation.
Then there's silence
as we listen to the static sizzle sound
from the phonograph's horn,
listening to spontaneous, spastic serenades
provided by the late Charles Mingus,
Tijuana Moods to be exact,
and we listen to the music man's fingers
strum across an amalgam of chords,
as castanets slap, clap in the back,
and the piano man's cascade of keys sing,
as the cymbals ring ring ring,
beautifully,
ecstatically,
absolutely beatifically,
all the while her head rests on my chest,
subtle, sweet smile,
beautifully,
ecstatically,
absolutely beatifically,
as our fingers dance,
they waltz in swirls of air,
jazz jiving with one another,
beautifully,
ecstatically,
absolutely beatifically.
Until finally the sheets swallow us
in black blanket sleep,
and we dive into unconsciousness,
souls freed and
sink
sink
sink
through the floorboards,
through the cement foundations,
into magical Mexican mud and dirt,
until we spring up in an ephemeral dreamland,
a supreme universe of absolute truth,
perpetual beauty,
love everlasting,
but in a clap is over,
and the rapturous reality is drawn
like curtains,
exposing the mad world dubbed real.
The needle raises and it's a glance of the watch,
and sadly its time to go,
untangle limps and lips,<>
and promise another visit and one last kiss.
Its out the door,
where the city screams, howls.
Down the stairs,
the corridor,
out the gate,
a glance back,
and back into the car,
back north
to the seemingly infinite line and file of cattle
that is the border line.
The feel is always ominous,
as you wait to cross,
and white men with boots and dogs
look into yours eyes.
Supreme suspicion,
guilty until proven innocent.
All feel like they've committed crimes for crossing.
Nervous guilt always seizes as the inspector
inspects the documents and sends a volley of questions
knowing that for the brief moment your with them,
they can grant passing or hell.
Theirs is a constant power trip.
And finally we're cleared,
and we're back in America,
instantly filled with the monotonous, synthetic, chemical feel of living
only the Land of the Free can guarantee.
A land where kicks are garnered through TV shows,
and people grow fat on milk and honey,
or die due to a lack of.
The most powerful nation in the world.
Ever.
And so it's a drive back through the mechanized streets
that run robotic like clock work,
back through the boring suburbs,
where police patrol pompously and loom around corners.
Finally I'm dropped off at home,
bid farewell from the outside the car, shake hands,
let's do it again next week
and then I walk in the house and go out the back,
grab the ladder and climb up to the roof
where I can see the dark hills of Tijuana span
like a beautiful black blanket
faraway, covered in shinning gems and precious gold,
her radiant lights pulsating, vibrating, singing
to me like sweet jazz playing on velvet vinyl.
talk
A café. The two of us. A completely chance meeting, my dear. I was one person behind you and the only thing that happened to be separating you and me was a white haired old woman wearing a frock and a dead look on her face. You might as well have been leagues away, as that immeasurable space between us was not close enough.
I couldn’t hear your voice just yet, but you were talking to the cashier and he smiled as you spoke inaudible words to his ears. Who wouldn’t smile? I was smiling and I didn’t even know what you wanted to drink. You turned, and I looked at those eyes, those burning bright eyes as you rummaged through your purse to put away your wallet. I gazed, I gently gazed at your pouting lips, your brilliant, brown, almond-shaped eyes, and your choppy hair that spilled out of that gray fedora. How funny that we both wore the same thing, my love; dark blue jeans, a white shirt, and a black cardigan – sleeves rolled up. I thought to myself, how wonderful: we already buy everything in double.
And I rushed to order my coffee, and silently, shyly took my place next to you at the counter. We both simply stood there, staring off, my mind jumbling to try and think of some witty way to introduce myself to you. But instead, all I could do was stand frozen, staring off in the same direction as you, wondering what you were looking at.
What were you looking at? I was looking at you, as you took your coffee and said thank you, and for the first time, I heard your voice, your soft, whispered voice. I got my own coffee and followed you outside, taking my seat at the table next to you.
Then I slipped into a dream, a quixotic, poisonous dream, and I saw the future spread before me like a brilliant flash of green that appears as the sun takes its eternal dive into the ocean. I saw you and me, me and you, walking down life’s empty highways, with only ourselves for company. I saw beautiful, rain soaked days, spent listening to your phonograph in the shelter of your bed. I saw us, tangled in the white sheets, your brown skin such a contrast. I saw wonderful, sun soaked days, spent on the green fields of the countryside, peering up from that sacred spot near the willow tree, watching those sublime clouds pass over head. I saw us, sheltered by the high grass that kept such splendid, tormenting secrets. We were in love, madly in love, and I saw a constant glimmer of hope in your eyes, your endless eyes.
We talked, we always talked. We talked of everything I liked and everything you liked. The way you spoke with your hands, the way they fluttered and waltzed with the words they were coupled with. You laughed and you covered your mouth, though I don’t know why, because, my dear, you had the most beautiful laugh in town. And then there were times when we didn’t talk at all, and we sat there, simply, lovingly sat there, enjoying the music of our muteness, the mute sound that we ourselves created and basked in, my precious Marie.
A vision, a prophetic vision seized and crippled me. You, me, the feel of your head on my chest, your arms wrapped around me, and the endless sound of the sea crashing against the indestructible rocks of the shore. What a rhythm: the beat of my heart, the ebb and flow of our breathing perfectly synced, and the incessant splash of the waves like cymbals against land.
I fell in love. I fell in love with the moment. I fell in love with you.
I slipped deeper into the dream. We made love. Our bodies were vessels to another world. The point? We were one - a union of life, of movement, of frenetic energy. Two minds, two worlds, focused on one ecstatic ending. Our souls collided, for a moment their explosion stretching out to infinite proportions, to the tip of the honeymoon crescent that drip-dropped moonlight onto our skin, and the vibration of infinities crossed time and space to the dying stars that pricked the black canvas of the finite sky. They were the eyes of the universe that dazzled on like a thousand dying embers as they witnessed and recorded every conjoined movement of our imprisoned souls, incarcerated beneath our dying flesh. Our skin rubbed, creating hot, hot friction that burned like coals in the fireplace of our souls, producing sweet, static sweat that made us melt into each other. The clasp of hands, the bite of your teeth, the melody of a moan sent up to heaven to make the seraphs jealous – and then, in a moment that transcended all forms of boundary and restraint – a transient flash of heaven in all its splendor glazed in the glow of your eyes, the glow of your eyes.
But then the dream turned sour, my love, and I suddenly saw the apple rot before my eyes. My dear, I was the worm, a terrible, vile worm that ate your feeble core. Or so you told me. My addictions, my terrible, howling addictions became too much. And my sadness, my crushing, unconquerable sadness was too much of a feat for you to take. You swore you’d eat my sorrows and make me better, but you soon discovered you bit off more than you could chew.
“I can’t do this!” you screamed. Oh, how I hated it when you screamed like that. The way your voice trembled and broke, my dear, it was always such a crack that it snapped the chords of my soul. I promised, I promised I would change, but how many broken promises does it take for you to walk away? It took a great deal, my lovely Marie, but you finally did.
You finally did.
I saw it happen on a night that appeared like any other. We were in bed, listening to your phonograph once more, and you were staring into my eyes and I was staring into yours. I saw something turn, something fade. Once golden, it all turned a dull and ugly gray, a gray that I hoped I would never see. But then I shrugged it off, lied to myself that it was just a phase. So I took my finger, and traced your body one last time. I started with the soft, upward curve of the corners of your lips, then your almond eyes and across your furrowed brows, and finally worked my way down your neck. My hand ran across your soft, brown skin, making a journey of your body, back and forth, back and forth. Until, at last, I fell into a sleep, a deep and deadly sleep, and when I awoke, I was alone.
I was alone.
You took all you had, except for me, my love. Except for me and that phonograph that put me under a poisonous lullaby, as you packed all your belongings and slipped into the night, leaving me for the worthless trash I am.
And so I awoke from the dream, still next to you in the café. You were almost done with your coffee, and I was still there, weighing the good and the bad. I stood up and began to walk away. But then I turned, for one last glimpse, only to see that you were watching me walk away. How could I walk away? My eyes met yours and I could not resist. The honey taste of your skin was still fresh on my tongue, the sweet tulip smell of your hair was still clinging to my mind, and your euphoric laugh still ringing in my ears. You were worth the madness and the pain.
And so I turned around.
“Liam,” I said and extended my hand.
“Marie,” you said, and extended yours.
We talked, and we didn’t stop talking. We talked of everything I liked and everything you liked. The way you spoke with your hands, the way they fluttered and waltzed with the words they were coupled with. You laughed and you covered your mouth, though I don’t know why, because, my dear, you had the most beautiful laugh in town. And then we didn’t talk at all, and we sat there, simply, lovingly sat there, enjoying the music of our muteness, the mute sound that we ourselves created and basked in, my precious Marie.
On Sticky Floorboards
He sat on the torn and tattered couch outside, in the back yard, as he listened to the heart beat of the party, that is, the drums, the tambourine, the ecstatic foot-stomping he heard all around. His feet they were tapping too, but it wasn’t out of love of the moment. No, it was simply out of reaction, impulse, reflex. His head was not there – not in the bottle of cheap Russian vodka that was slowly emptying into his stomach, or on the psychedelic hash pipe being passed around and passed back, nor on the tablets he passed to the girl sitting next to him whose slurred words or rolled eyes didn’t tempt him in the least, but tempted the tattooed hipster sucking on a cigarette as he gently stroked her bare arms.
No, his head was faraway as he mindlessly navigated through the sea of broken beer bottles, broken dreams, broken nobodies. Friends were crowded inside as they danced on sticky floors, grabbing, grinding human flesh for a false feeling of fading partnership, fading fast into the night. The loud strum of the steel string acoustic madness emanated, burst from the beat and broken guitars and loud cymbals slap, and the clap of a dozen hands, the feet sweeping, the dervish whirl of the dance floor, and the croon of the strung out singer, strung out like the base chord, E chord. This, all this, had grown too tiresome, too heavy on the soul. So outside, on the front porch, alone with the lonely stars that hung isolated faraway, he lit a foul, filthy cigarette, and listened to the crackle of the burning paper, the drowned out madness inside, and the screeching tires, peeling on a turn topped with a magnificent grito, somewhere there, in the slums. For a moment he was far removed from the ugliness of this tragically beautiful lifestyle.
“What are you doing out here, Elias?” Walla asked, between hiccups and slurred words, clutching a glass of Andre. “The party’s inside!”
“I know, I Know,” Elias replied, taking a final drag from his cigarette.
Walla grabbed and brought him into the mindless dance floor, in the midst of the sweat and the static energy, where he was swallowed alive by the magnetic swirl of the beehive. But once a sweet Mexican beauty with black hair, honey lips, and the slight smell of gin slipping with her words came and hung her arms around him, he stopped caring about the lunacy. Just like that, he succumbed to the beauty of the madness, the eloquence of sin, the apple. He bit down on the apple, on the neck, tasted her sweet sweat and she let out a soft moan. He forgot about it all – the bad, the sin, the emptiness inside; the black vacuum of that fabled area where the soul once dwelled; and the dilemma of losing faith with one’s self, his life, his salvation – it all was brushed under the bed, while an act of contrition was performed on the sheets above. The sheets, they tangled, they swirled among limps, among sweat, among human flesh and sounds – it was all blanketed in someone else’s covers, someone else’s bed where they would lie not caring and not knowing that two people joined at the hips and became one for a feeling of fucking. It’s a phenomenon of mutual consumption and abandonment, as they both moved naked with one another, completely foreign to each other, eyes closed, unable to stare the sad truth in the eye. And when they finished, they reach for cigarettes, as they talked as though nothing happened, nothing ever happened, a kiss on the cheek at most.
And they talked. They talked of yesterday, of the sixties, and she wished she lived in the sixties.
“Cause, you know they were wild times. Wild, wild times. People were free, and they felt good, before the government came and closed up the collective euphoria of the people, you know? This country has come run by fascists, you know?”
“Mhhm,” he said, and he listened to her drone about the fascists, then Marx, and then some how dived into Beethoven, and his ninth symphony and Ode to Joy, and how we’re all going to hell, and then spoke of Nietzsche, and how God is dead, and the true path is Buddhism, though she hasn’t completely made up her mind on whether she likes Zen Buddhism or one of the older, Indian variations more, which brought her to Kerouac and Snyder and their adventures in The Dharma Bums. He said Kerouac is full of shit, and she grunted and continued on as though he didn’t say anything. He didn’t care, he couldn’t care –she was just like the rest of them, as he watched her lips move and words stroll over pretentious sentences on subjects that didn’t interest him in the least – at least not after sex. She continued to talk as he stopped to look at her naked body in the light from the bare bulb that hung, swinging from the ceiling as people talk a thousand miles per hour outside their door. He looked at her soft brown skin, the freckles on her arms, and the tattoo on her forearm. It was of a Lotus Flower and had some Buddhist chant written around her wrist. He sat up and smoked a cigarette, and pretending to listen until her tongue grew too tired and she left. He put his clothes on, stood at the breach of the door, and watched the moths flutter, shriek, and dive down, down, down outside the portal. There, the world was burning and the moths were fluttering in the fluorescent halos of the electric lights, in a desperate attempt to achieve a false nirvana, a vain pursuit of eternal happiness, perpetual youth and beauty.
A View to Admire
The Franco-Czech novelist Milan Kundera once wrote this of love: “… loves are like empires – when the idea they are founded on crumbles, they too fade away.”
If I were to choose the single idea that held up the seething monument that was my first love, I would assume that it was innocence. Our love was that of two children who had never known the maps of other people’s body. We were each others cartographers and nobody else’s. Hence, after the split, we both reached out and grabbed the closest piece of flesh we could, and made love to the sin, and with each thrust into the other’s body, we snipped at the final strings of innocence. And so, the monument’s foundations were rocked like bedposts, until finally, it crumbled before our eyes. Up until that moment we shoved our respective tongues in other people’s mouths, I do believe we were still capable of fixing what we broke. But the damage was done. We stood in the rubble of what was our former love, blankly starring each other in the eye, incapable of comprehending the repercussions of the actions made in other people’s sheets. All we could do was stand in disbelief of what once was a love to swear by, holding bits and pieces of the grand puzzle, vainly attempting to find fuel in the fossils to rekindle the fire.
It was a view to admire.
July 25, 2007.
That is the exact date which will forever be engraved into the stone tablet that is my most infallible memory that Disney is full of shit. Yes!
Disney is full of shit.
Since I can remember, I grew drunk on the optimistic ideals promised to me through the innumerable movies produced, animated, and directed by the grand American ideological propaganda machine that is The Walt Disney Company (NYSE: DIS). They never once mentioned how cruel people could be when they are willing to wash two years down the drain for an older guy with a desk job and a new Mercedes Benz. They preached nothing but rainbows and butterflies.
October 16, 1923.
That’s the date when brothers Walt and Roy Disney created the hideous monstrosity of DIS. That was the beginning of the end for the respective sanity and love life of Americans everywhere. And people wonder why divorce is on the rise…
So here I am, sitting at a coffee shop, nervously tapping my fingers on top of the wooden table, trying to gather what ever coherent thoughts run across my jumbled conscious, into some linear train of thought. But as I check the watch, with every sweep of the second hand, the task grows more and more seemingly impossible. I look at all the others around and I can’t help but wonder if they can sense that two former lovers were soon to congregate for the first time in months, and all for some simple, idiotic reason (I’ll get to why later).
And as I’m tapping my fingers, I can’t help but think that this isn’t at all how I wanted our final goodbye to be like. I wanted something dramatic, perhaps set in some Paris café in the bustling Latin Quarter, on a dark, stormy day. I wanted rain to run down the window, I wanted an Export ‘A’ Light cigarette resting on my lips, and I wanted something wonderfully appropriate to be gently playing from the speakers – the Beatles, “I’ll Follow the Sun” off of Beatles for Sale. Yes! That is exactly what I would want playing. “One day you’ll know/ I was the one/ But tomorrow may rain so/ I’ll follow the sun.” Not too loud where it would drown our dialogue, but loud enough to where she and everyone would notice that someone’s heart was on the verge of breaking. But instead I have to settle for a cookie cutter Starbucks, a warm day in February, sun shinning through the windows, birds chirping outside, and some cheery Tony Bennet song blaring from the speakers.
That’s when she walks in, wearing dark wash Hudson jeans and a black Lacoste polo. She takes off her sunglasses as the door swings closed behind her and she takes a look around, her soft brown hair radiating in the sunshine. She should be drenched, miserable and cold, with mascara running down her face. Damn her.
She walks up and sits down.
“Hey, how are you?” she spits with a sassy smile, while chewing gum. Orbit probably. I hate how I know this. I hate how I know that at this very instant she is chewing Orbit Sweet Mint gum. I hate how I know that the only reason she hasn’t rushed to order the biggest mocha frappacino is because the squeeze of her jeans was a bit more than usual and she’s probably starting some low-carb diet. I hate how I know she probably isn’t wearing any underwear because she never wears underwear, and once upon a time only I knew this. Now the number’s rising.
This is one of the worst things about serious break ups: you still know everything about that person. You still know their mannerisms, their likes, their dislikes, their soft spots, their hot spots. You know them better than they know themselves and it doesn’t count for shit. All that time you spent admiring them, tenderly recording their actions as they observed yours – that’s all time you’ve got to spend erasing and crossing out when the break up comes. It all amounts to a mountain of mental paper work you have to put in the shredder. But even after you shred the papers, there are still bits and pieces that come up like lint in your jeans.
I don’t say anything in reply and instead retract a letter from my breast pocket. I hand it to her and, from under the table, I hand her a paper bag filled with ashes and soot.
“What is this?” she asks.
“A letter and a bag,” I say.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Read the letter.”
I wait a moment. I invested too much time to just walk away without reaping the visual fruit that’s about to unfold. And sure enough, within a minute of reading the letter, she pulls down her sunglasses over her face, just like I knew she would, and the tears start rolling down from underneath. I listen to the music for a second… Tony Bennet’s “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” Eh, close enough, I figure. And with that, I get up and walk away.
Main points of the letter:
1. Don’t ever talk to me
2. I don’t care about you anymore
3. Our post-relationship friendship isn’t worth it
4. Ernest Hemingway once said (summarized) that you only write for two people: yourself, and the one you love, whether she is dead or alive
5. I no longer write for you, I write for someone new
6. The bag is filled with what’s left of everything you ever gave me
Call me vengeful but I think I’m allowed to be. So as I walked away, I looked at her blushing cheeks and the tears that ran down her face, as she looked through the bag and saw the ashes of all the artifacts I had ever accumulated throughout the history of our love. She was looking at our burned out innocence.
And it was a view to admire.
Monday, March 10, 2008
What do you see?
Live a life of destiny... what will happen?
Feel the pain of the reality... what does it feel like?
See through the eyes of a sinner...what do you see?
I see the lies and unshaken faith as a sinner.
I feel the pain of reality striking at my back.
And living the life of destiny is not what you’d expect.
The pain of sight.
The sinner's lies
The turning fate.
What do you see in the end?!
You can't play God.
You can't play God.
The tears on her face
Mommy, please don't cry, don't try to hide away and say all those lies.
Don't let daddy hurt you and never tell you why.
Mommy, please don't cry.
Daddy, daddy why can't you listen, don't you know what you’re missing?
Mommy can't breath and you can't see.
Get out of here and don't let her be just like me.
The tears on her face aren't so hard to trace to the path where they came from.
Mommy, mommy, it’s not your fault.
Daddy's just a piece of salt.
He just won't stop yelling, and all he is doing is failing.
Daddy's so blind and is not so kind.
His mind, we just can't find.
Please tell me why we're such a mess.
Is this life some kind of a test?
The battlefield of Good v.s Bad
Two sides battling for the light of being they rage inside of me. Fighting for what they have been told was a lie. The darkness fighting of judgment. Killing everyone in her path who claims to be her alley, but yet are really planning to destroy her and chain her to their fails rules. The other an angel of hope and light knowing only to love and help others. She is pictured as balancing on the bridge of grace. Oh what beauty, what purity she looks?! As glories as the morning star as it sets upon the world's darkness. Sated on a white horse, with pure white wings, and wearing a white flowing gown. Looking into her eyes and see the joy of the lord. She battles for the glory of her father. Her twin on there other hand, a vision of sorrow in its clearest form. She knows nothing, feels nothing, but the dark side. She does not hide what she feels for in her heart she knows that her emotions have the power to do so much wonders. The darkness hates the light. She thinks the light is weak and pathetic. She can not understand why the light never stands up for herself. She just lets other walk on her, just because her false hopes are that she might learn something about these pathetic little humans. She tries to tell her that their not even weather her kindness. The light restores the darkness because of our father that shows her kindness and she most need to show others that as well. The darkness can not stand how the light always does what daddy tells her what to do. The only thing they have for each other is the hope that one day the world will be like it once was with no more blood shade and pain.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Puppet Master
He moves the puppet to and fro, it comes alive in his hands.
"Look at him dance, look at him sing! Oooh hoho dance puppet dance!"
He loved his puppet, again and again, every day he would make it move, animate it into life!
"Ha-ha, puppet, you're so silly, so funny! Nicely done puppet! Again again!"
But one day the puppet rebelled!
"Yes puppet, move! That's excellent puppet, do it again! Hey! Grr, move! What is this? I move the strings yet he stays still?!"
Let go of me you fool!
"What? You speak? But you're just a puppet!"
Yes, just a puppet but you treat me as if I'm a person! Yet your surprised when I actually speak on my own? Day in and day out you control me, telling me what to do, well I'm sick of it!
"This is madness! You're daft! You're mad! You're insane!"
You're the one talking to a puppet...
"Shut up! Grr! Move puppet! Move!"
For 3 years you've had me, don't you think it's finally time...
"No!"
To cut...
"Don't say it!"
The strings!
"Noooooooooo!!! Never! I'll never let you go! I neeeed you!"
Let me go! Let me go! Don't you want me to be free?! Don't you want me to move on my own?! It's time... It's time for me to be me! It's time to be free! Release me from these strings, let me go!
"Puppet... I'm afraid I cannot let you go"
And he threw the puppet in a chest and never touched it again for three days. On the third day he was sitting at home, and his eyes peered over to the chest again. Scrrreeeeech. He slowly opened the chest.
"Puppet?" He picked the puppet up, it only hung from the strings, motionless. He poked the puppet, hoping it would move and talk again on it's own.
"Hello, puppet? Please move again! Please, I'm sorry." No response, the man began to cry.
"No! No puppet! I'm sorry! Please move! Please?"
Again, no response. The man desperately made the puppet move, he made it dance, he made it sing, hoping the puppet would come alive again. But it didn't. He took the puppet into his workshop and set it on the table, he then grabbed a pair of scissors from a nearby drawer. With a tear in his eye, he held the puppet up and sheepishly opened the scissors, ready to cut the strings.
SNIP SNIP SNIP
The puppet fell motionless on the table. The man stared at it for a moment then reached out and poked it a few times.
"Come on puppet, get up. Be free!" Still no response.
"Isn't this what you wanted?! Was it not you who desperately asked me to set you free?! 'Cut the strings!' you pleaded, and now I do so and you just lay there! What is the matter with you, puppet! Why won't you move? I free you, and now you trap me in this sorrow!"
The man shoved the puppet off the table, laid his head down in his arms and wept.
"Why do you hurt me so puppet? Why do you torment my soul?"
Days passed and eventually the man forgot about the puppet, until one day he was reminded of it, and the same sadness returned to him again. He went back to the table where the puppet had once laid, and it wasn't there. He searched underneath the table, he looked under his chair, he even proceeded to search throughout the whole house, the puppet was gone!
"Puppet! Where are you?! I want you back! I miss your company..." More days went by, and the man fell into a great depression. He didn't feel like doing anything anymore, all the things he loved to do, he stopped. He just laid there, strung out on his bed, like a motionless puppet without strings.
Finally, one day, the puppet returned.
Look at you, pathetic man! Strung out on the bed, just as I was once. You are hopeless without me!
"Puppet? Is that really you?" The mans eyes bulged, his ears perked up, he began to get out of bed.
Pathetic man, it was you who once controlled me, but now we see who the real puppet master is, it's me who controls you! I control you're feelings, you're every thought! When I am gone you are sad and when I'm here you are happy! Your feelings revolve around me! Without me you’re hopeless in abandonment, just as I am whenever you throw me about.
The man just stared in astonishment for a moment.
"I'm sorry puppet... I didn't realize what I was doing to you, controlling you for so long. Now I see, now I know what it's like... to be hung from the strings of another. I release you, be free! Leave me in my drunken stupor, You need not waste your time with me, I'm just an old lonely man!"
Thank you dear soul. I give you much gratitude for what you've done. But this is not just for me, but for you, now you can live your life without me, go out and be social with your own kind! Just be yourself, and you will find true happiness!
So the puppet left, and never came back, and the man eventually found true happiness.
Internet Goddess
She's an internet goddess,
got all her friends at her finger tips.
They just, wait around,
hoping she'll bless them with her presence
Because she's an internet goddess.
When she speaks it's in abbreviations,
and if you're lucky,
she'll put you on her top ten.
Because she's an internet goddess.
She's seen every web comic that exists,
and she's a moderator,
on every popular fan-fiction forum except for deviant art...
...cause she's a non-conformist conformist.
And she's an internet goddess...
She plays that one relatively popular MMORPG once in a while,
you know the one...
It has swords and big monsters and unicorns,
but not necessarily in that order.
You know she's got to be an internet goddess,
when her first love is Al Gore,
and her second...
is Archiebunckle853692.
Ooh boy she's an internet goddess
Yea, an interweb goddess
An internets goddess
And she knows,
the internet is more then just a bunch of dump trucks,
it's really more like...
a series of tubes...
Thursday, February 28, 2008
This Is Controversial (Sort Of)
I think it was
We were playing, and her plastic couple got married. Ken was kissing Barbie in ways I’d never seen before. She moved Ken’s body against Barbie’s as if they were having a seizure. Their perfect plastic bodies made noises every time she smacked them together. Well, maybe their bodies were not so perfect, since Barbie’s feet were all chewed up (and almost destroyed). But chewed feet are not important. This is not about that fetish. The important part of the story is that the dolls were making out.
After that day, I really wanted a Ken. Before, I didn’t know how to play with them. I wasn’t sure if I was going to play with him like
He said no.
I don’t remember why he said no, but one day I almost had one. He grabbed one of my barbies (the one who was wearing a Hawaiian bikini), he took a pair of scissors, and later I had a brand new Barbie. She was bald, and ugly. My dad said she was my new Ken. I felt confused. I wasn’t satisfied. He gave her to me, and asked me if I was happy. I don’t think I was.
I guess you could say I had a Ken. But none of my barbies wanted to have a bald boyfriend. I didn’t either. I tried to dress her up as manly as possible, but I only had cute pink outfits, and boys never wore pink back then.
My barbies were lesbians.
Most of my ex-boyfriends are bald.
I think it’s
Yes, off with her head.
Off with my barbies’ heads too.
It was dark the first time
(because) it was (a bit) forced.
I wasn’t sure (after all those years) I wanted a Ken anymore.
Plastic flesh
made me think about latex.
I wasn’t sure about smacking (or spanking).
I wasn’t sure about it
but I was horny. Being horny means yes (I think).
It was dark,
but not too dark because I could still see him grabbing,
touching, pushing, pulling
the yellow sheets
all over the bed,
and later putting it on (because I told him I didn’t want to end up like my friend Jessica, the pregnant one),
but still he left (a month later).
After I discovered how he played, I realized he wasn’t like my bald Ken. He was a bit chubby, but he didn’t have man boobs, and, unlike my plastic buddy, he wasn’t worth all the drama.
I wasn’t like my Barbie either.
She never whined about being undressed (I did).
She wasn't afraid because she couldn't get pregnant (I could).
She liked it (I wasn't sure).
I wasn’t sure because I didn’t want him to see me. I was embarrassed because:
1. I was sexually repressed.
2. My boobs were not big enough to make me proud.
3. I needed a wax.
The only thing I have in common with Barbie is vanity.
She’s mute, and narcissistic. I’m vain, but I complain.
Barbie didn’t have any excuses because she liked it because she’s a whore. Anyone can undress her. Anywhere. As many times as you like.
I was raped by a chubby version of Ken.
I wish I could use another word because I hate the word rape. That word creates conflict. The idea of it hurts my decency, my integrity, my fictitious virginity. Whenever I hear the word rape, I imagine a dark alley, and a barbaric man pulling a girl's hair. I imagine her pushing him away. Crying. Kicking. Screaming. I want her to win.
Maybe it was rape. I'm not sure if it was because in the end (I think) he convinced me. I wanted sexual liberation. Maybe it was liberating. I don’t know, and I can't remember. I edited that memory, and repressed the rest along with many other others.
-by Ana Carrete.
Read more!
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Every Day’s Just Like Tomorrow
Today it’s Tuesday but it feels like Wednesday, each day I go through my normal routine. My alarm goes off, 22 minutes later I literally roll out of bed, land on the floor next to my bed. After the initial fall I’m shocked to awareness realizing I’m going to be late and must get up and get going off to school. I eat; I dress, and slink off to my vehicle to start my long tiresome day. I must get to school at 8am to speak with my professor, it’s just not possible it’s already 8:37am by the time I get to school she will already have left to go to teach her class. I’m here 8:48am she’s gone, so left with no other source for help I sit and slip deep into thought, not know what the rest of my day will hold. I do have that odd feeling like tomorrow will be the same as today. Time passes now I have computer class; it doesn’t matter if I’m late ‘cause I get the material. So I head over to the lunch area to get a sandwich but then I realize I don’t have any money, I could always bum quarters off people until I have enough for some food, but no I don’t need to eat, starving will work just fine for me. I’ve been starved in my life before not really food wise but, friend-wise, soul-wise, smart-wise, love-wise actually my heart’s been shattered due to a lost love, well a rejected love, it just couldn’t work between her and I. Her disease would cause our relationship to rise and fall day to day her moods don’t stay in check they flare-up. Which has caused my heart to be torn in two on those days when she really loves me only to change to those days were she hates me, screams at the top of her lungs and tells me what a mistake it was for her to get involved with me. I loved her so much, I’d die for her, but I was dying each day I was with her. It was so hard for me to leave when I did, like I said I loved her with the full extent of my being. But her disease was just viciously tearing me up inside, not physically, but emotionally it was so bad. But my love was so strong, I thought that the four year bond we had in high school was enough to keep us together, when the pain is right there and there’s no escaping it, it proves that not even a 7 year bond could withstand that abuse let alone 4 years. A little part of me died that day I painstakingly cut myself off from her, but it had to be done, that saying, ‘it’s better to have loved and lost then to have ever loved at all’ is false at least it is in my eyes. The pain brought on after the break up for me was just unbearable, I would have faired better if I hadn’t of been born, then to deal with being separated from the love of my life. My days are now tiresome without meaning, these days I just linger though life, she is constantly on my mind, but in her mind I don’t know if she has even thought about me. My days continue on, but it seems like every other day after today will just be the same as today the future is told to me, the future holds the absence of my love, we both had disabilities but her’s was just to much for me to bare. So I continue on down this road that doesn’t cease, that just leads me further away from her, she’s far behind but I’m still here but all hope has died away from me…
…Every Day’s Just Like Tomorrow.
-R.M.G.
Fallen Angel 8/15/2006
I once was an angel high up in heaven,
I was a guardian angel,
Magnificent blue wings,
Flowing radiant hair,
Powerful arms,
My person was a beautiful crimson creation,
Pale white skin,
Eyes blue as the ocean’s vastness,
A figure of earthly perfection,
She was my conduit to protect,
I aided her in her ventures,
She never saw me or thanked GOD for my intercedance when I helped her,
Her beauty was unbearable; it got to the point were I desired her for my self,
I had to reveal myself to put aside my burning for her,
This is a dangerous path for me,
If I give into earthly desire I will be cast out of heaven; wings clipped and human,
She is worth the risk,
I make myself seen to her,
I reach for her; for a moment she sees me in my finest,
My exuberance exposed to her,
A light from above shines down engulfing me,
Fire scorches my back; my wings are gone,
The light subsides; she is there before me,
I reach for her again; but this time she pulls back from this crumpled heap in front of her,
No longer magnificent my body’s a ruined mess,
My beautiful crimson conduit is gone; she was my beast of burden,
Her beauty consumed me, made me give in to desire and evidently brought upon my
Demise,
I gave up my immortality and closeness to GOD for earthly desire,
Now I suffer the fate brought upon me by my hands,
In this world no one wants to know me or even cares,
I am not even fit to protect myself,
I am gawked at by passerbys day after day I can not move,
Days turn to weeks and weeks to months,
Months to years and years to decades,
The world knows me as, “the heap of mess that does not move yet lives”,
After centuries the ground beneath absorbs me,
Down to the deep I do travel to be ensnared by satan and his demons,
Stuck in a cage slowly being lowered into the molten lava below,
I see a movement to my left…no it can’t be my crimson conduit is before me,
She is down here because I was not there to guide her,
She suffers due to my down fall,
Lava all around me; my head about to go under but able to pray, “sorry father”.
By Robert Morfin Gonzalez
Space Short Story
Through space I travel, my ship’s long range sensors pick-up the faint echo of a distress beacon. I set my ship on an intercept course to the distance star cluster from where the signal appears to be coming from. A Direnean-5 code named Kilamenjaro is what I command, full crew 24: 3 engineer, a doctor, 3 cooks, 7 members of the Elite Krun Hunters Attack Force (E.K.H.A.F.), 3 Special Analytical Scientists (S.A.S.), 2 Alien Technology Technicians and 5 Bridge Command Officers; Commanding Officer: Captain Alex Watt, Corporal Roger Rogan 2nd in command, Lt. Haruk Kavi Ship Navigations, Lt. Ontu Unri Weapons Control, Lt. Shamee Warjv Life Support Systems and Communications Controller.
From the One World United Order of Earth, Captain Watt’s Direnean-5 and crew have been sent on a patrol and alien technology salvage mission on the outer rim of the Sontaru Galaxy 3.4 light years from Earth.
“Commander I’m picking up audio now, I think we’re within range to pick-up the full distress call,” said Lt. Warjv.
“…zzzz…pop…bzzskit…help s.o.s.…to any ships…zzz…this is Corporal Calvin Hidh, of Zycon Mining in the U-Crum Star Cluster, we are under attack by unknown forces requesting assistant,…zzbzkit. I along with four others are held up in the surgical bay attempting to travel through the air ducts to reach the launch bay. Several core doors have been breached, fail safes have set in, trapping those within living quarters...thump, bang, thump, boom, sheek…“move, move they’re breaking through everyone through the air duct hurry, they’re almost upon us,…boom, boom, sht…zzbk…pop…zskts… No they’ve broken through, it can’t be there’s no one there!?” ‘Don’t be fooled you will not see death, we will not give you the privy of seeing your demise.’…SNAP…zzbst….END TRANSSMISSION (TIME ELAPSE 22 MINUTES).
“Lt. Kavi, full speed ahead,” said the commander, “E.K.H.A.F. gear up E.T.A. to hostile territory in two hours, pack your infra-red.”
2 hours 13 minutes elapse
Mission Log: Direnean-5 shuttle docked 5 minutes ago at Zycon Launch Bay. The air within the launch terminal smells old and rancid, but does have a hint of life about it; life signs read out of immediate area come up negative though. Descending a ladder into a circular room, my feet step upon a slippery floor all around blood and torn bodies. I am Krugan Runtar, Squad Leader of E.K.H.A.F.
By Robert M. Gonzalez
Be Weary started: 10/2/2004 ended 9/19/2006
Be weary of,
The people,
That will come,
To take you away,
When I am not there,
When I die you’ll be alone,
And they will come for you.
You are the payment for the crimes I committed against them,
When I was there with you,
They couldn’t make a move,
But now that I no longer exist they will come for you,
The only thing that they don’t know,
Is that you are just the husk to the bomb concealed in your womb,
Your data processor holds the where a bouts of your true self who knows my true identity.
The she of whom you were made in her spitting image,
There is a code I insert into you every 12 hours emitted by kissing your neck,
Undressing you; pressing between your breasts until there is a pop and your chest unfolds to reveal your core system were I place my ear so your photonic eye within your chest can view the code numbers engraved into my ear drum.
Without my doing this every 12 hours,
Your self destruct will begin a 15 minute count down to critical mass implosion that will unleash a radiation bubble that will scramble brain waves as well as molecular atoms within a 3 mile radius.
This, set in place to protect your true self as well as my true identity.
When I die, you die, as do others.
-R.M.G.
Miscellaneous writings
When I was out for a walk one day I got the strong sensation that something was amiss. I could feel something just over my shoulder, at first I thought it was just the breeze blowing through this odd cemetery but no, it was a hand, the hand of the beast come to devour my sour and bring me to eternal damnation. I opened my eyes and saw a bright light to my amazement I was merely dreaming but the sensation was so strong. I thought to myself how and better yet why would I dream of such things in a world that doesn't seem to stop or stand to realize the happenings all around.
I stand in a pit, surrounded by pools of blood and body fragmentations. A small bloody child clings to my right leg shivering. And pointing foward while mumbling...ba da fama sha; this language I do not believe it to be a dialect of any kind resonating on the Earth but maybe with in it. I looked in the direction the child was pointing all I saw was the gleaming edge of something silver careening towards me, I feel the small bloody child bare its nails into my leg, and then felt no more. My head now on the floor, hair
drenched in blood, with one eye open I witness the child feasting on my heart...
-R.M.G.
Who Is To Say 12/9/2005
I sit here in a room,
Filled with 18 empty desks,
Just one other sits afar from me,
White-wash walls all around,
Closing in,
Intimidating the ones within,
A few papers, pencils and a calculator in front of me,
The papers have squiggles on them,
And they are to determine my future,
If I pass I may go on,
If I don’t I will die,
Who is to decide who sinks or swims?
Why do we put so much emphasizes on paperwork,
When there is so much more to life,
Then just school, school, school,
I take this test because I’m suppose to in order to pass this class,
This math is not going to help me in life,
It is stupid,
It is crazy,
If I am to be a rocket scientist,
Or the next Albert Einstein then I need this,
But I plan to live life,
Not frustrate myself and die young,
Who is to say, “I will die, I will sink, if this test, I do not pass,”
I spit on them and say,
Good day.
-R.M.G.
Be Weary started: 10/2/2004 ended 9/19/2006
Be weary of,
The people,
That will come,
To take you away,
When I am not there,
When I die you’ll be alone,
And they will come for you.
You are the payment for the crimes I committed against them,
When I was there with you,
They couldn’t make a move,
But now that I no longer exist they will come for you,
The only thing that they don’t know,
Is that you are just the husk to the bomb concealed in your womb,
Your data processor holds the where a bouts of your true self who knows my true identity.
The she of whom you were made in her spitting image,
There is a code I insert into you every 12 hours emitted by kissing your neck,
Undressing you; pressing between your breasts until there is a pop and your chest unfolds to reveal your core system were I place my ear so your photonic eye within your chest can view the code numbers engraved into my ear drum.
Without my doing this every 12 hours,
Your self destruct will begin a 15 minute count down to critical mass implosion that will unleash a radiation bubble that will scramble brain waves as well as molecular atoms within a 3 mile radius.
This, set in place to protect your true self as well as my true identity.
When I die, you die, as do others.
-R.M.G.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Quote of the Day
"They may say, those were the days....,
But in a way,
You know for us these are the days,
Yes, for us these are the days"
-Jane's Addiction
S coo leh
Is this a dream?
do we really know where we are going?
Of course! The meat grinder, right!
School was the place I felt the most confused. We were all bunch together in wooden rooms with teachers that had more problems that we could ever imagine.
What is this whole system, does it make sense?
No, but it works.
It kept our bodies from strolling off into parks and pizza places. It kept our parents Happy and the Principal with a job.
During silent reading time I would open my adventure book and pretend to read for one hour, what a waste. I would turn the page once in a while and make expressions to the bundle of words.
I loved field trips. In the museums I would stroll off by myself because the other kids were too boring and stupid to appreciate anything. I would wonder how all those things had been collected and if they were real or not. The world opened, it was mine to embrace.
I punch my friend in the face once before school started and the funny thing is that I don't remember why. He cried and ran to the bathroom, I stood there proud, while the others watched.
I don't remember the names of my best friends thanks to my useless memory or maybe I didn't have best friends. I do remember Arkbar. I was made fun of because he was my friend. He was the joke of the school, when I met him in lunch I did not know that, I liked him. I although he had a thick indian accent and I had a mexican one we communicated well. We played basketball together and when we played in teams he was always on mine even though he sucked at it. We always one, my competitor spirit never let us down.
The town was small and full of woods. They all knew I was Poor but I didn't give a shit! I wish I could go back for a minute and feel the strange feeling of school again.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Quote of the Day
"How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!The world forgetting, by the world forgot.Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d."
-Alexander Pope- Eloisa To Abelard
Bones Reek
Clear divisions is what we are, indeed! If I greet you please greet back and if I tell you to go to hell please smile.
I walk the streets in my strange walk, my toes are the only ones that touch the ground.
"Hey, how's it going" I greet an older man.
Man in the street, real man, regcognize each other without knowing who the other is. It is within our nature to stay together. The ones who are scared won't greet each other, they walk without lifting their faces. They face the ground and if they do catch a glimpse of the one in front they shove their face down quickly again.
I walk the streets in my disporportion walk feeling free from myself. I waste my time because I can, I amuse myself within the world bcause I care. I greet the greetable because they care, it doesn't matter to me who they are, they are my type. Spirit is all we reallly need. It can be of love, hate, joy, excitment, dispise or feeling fucked because Eventually all spirit becomes one big great ball of jelly for us to enjoy.
I walk the streets in my lonely ways, on the other side there's a stranger that yells at me "Fuck you",
"Fuck you too" I say back and we both smile.
Drive my way home, greet the little ones, play with them, feel their love and innocence then go to sleep.
I really Fucking love the U.S.A (Copywright 2008)
Monday, February 11, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Here is my first chapter: Henkou
Insurrection & Truth:
Many of the men in the meeting area were nervous and some fearful of what both men were proposing. It was just a surprise it was being said. Although the men were samurai of high nobility this did not make things any easier. The men addressing the peasants were: Yamagata Aritomo and Takasugi Shinsaku. The men were considering their words seriously, but also did not want to take them lightly. Isao Katsu was like many of the men during the meeting. He was a peasant, a farmer trying to make a meager living and have a family one day. He could understand why the others were apprehensive that these senior commander’s of the *Kiheitai would ask simple peasants to fight in their army. The peasants were just ordinary men not of noble blood to fight.
There was another with the troupe commanders, one that didn’t look like a samurai, but a commoner like him. Isao over heard Yamagata call him Shinku. Isao thought he was a body guard or some sort for Yamagata. When Isao asked his friend Hisoka who the mysterious man was, a shiver ran down his spine when Hisoka told him.
“The other men say Shinku is an assassin, but not just any sort of assassin. They say he’s a *Hitokiri. It’s been said he’s killed dozens, perhaps hundreds of men. He shows no remorse for it. The other’s think that’s why the Kiheitai brought him here, to scare us into joining them because they need numbers so badly.”
Hisoka was extremely worried about why the Kiheitai brought a would-be assassin in there mists. Hisoka didn’t want to think the worst, but seeing Shinku didn’t make that scenario go away. Isao himself wondered what would happen as well, but for now the more immediate problem of joining the ranks of the Kiheitai was his main concern. Isao spoke loudly to make sure that his questions were widely heard.
“Yamagata-San, I find it highly unlikely, that samurai would find alongside merchants, artists, or even plain simple peasants, we do not like the barbarians from the west, anymore than you or Takasugi-San, but how can you be sure that the samurai will accept us even gradually?”
Yamagata knew that it would not be easy recruiting peasants considering how much of a low opinion many in Japan considered the peasant class especially samurai in his own tier. He was not surprised of the skepticism in the room right now. Even he was raised to believe that peasants were just born to serve him and the rest of the samurai, but if Japan was going to be saved the old ways needed to be restructured or abolished. His task was going to be difficult. To attempt to take down the social barriers put up by the Tokugawa after the *Sengoku period was a feat he didn’t dream of taking down until now. It was maintained for two-hundred and fifty year’s, but that history of his nation was soon to be closed. If Japan was going to survive great changes were needed. Yamagata understood this and Isao’s concerns all too well and hoped he could alleviate those concerns as best he could.
“I understand your concern’s Isao-San. However, you must understand that not only are samurai joining our army, but also many like yourself. Such as men born as peasants, other’s as merchants, artists, and even poets. Do not be discouraged, because of my class or by Takasugi-San’s. The future of Japan is at stake and class can no longer be a factor. We all knew that when the black ship’s came so many years’s ago. Our world was going to change forever. Our nation was not ready for the outside world. Now, because of Tokugawa’s ignorance we are paying dearly with barbarian foreigners in our lands. The barbarians defile the very land that many of us worked so hard to govern, protect and cultivate. If we are to go against the foreign invaders we must first strike at the *Tokugawas first!”
The men in the meeting went into an uproar about what Yamagata said. Some were shouting that Yamagata sought the impossible while others were pronouncing that Yamagata should not say foolish thing’s as there were Tokugawa spies everywhere. Isao was horrified to see that barbarians were treating Japan as if it was there own. He had heard stories about China. Isao heard how it turned from a powerful nation to being cut up of spheres of influences for Europe. It disgusted him. Then he heard one voice over the chorus of noise. It was so thunderous that every person in the room fell silent. It was none other than Takasugi.
“The Tokugawa’s are not invincible! The blackship’s that came with Perry, the barbarian’s that run afoul in Japan are proof of that! The Tokugawa’s did nothing when Perry came; they did nothing when the barbarian’s came! If we let the Tokugawa’s continue to rule, our nation, our value’s and everything that we are will be destroyed. I have told many people about my days in China. I was saddened by what I saw, a great nation for hundreds of years. It is now nothing more than a colony for Europe. Yamagata-San and I will not allow this to happen, I swear to you all that Japan will not be colonized by the American’s ,the British ,the French or any other power, the time is now to do away with tradition and make new ways. Ways that will empower us and enrich us so that Japan will never have to fear being overtaken by another nation again. We must change Japan, before we expel the foreigner’s.”
Some of the peasants were still weary that the Tokugawa would hunt them down and kill them, but others were moved by Takasugi’s speech and expressed their support. Yamagata pronounced that it was getting late and they would re-convene tomorrow morning at nine o’clock as everyone would be well rested by then. As people were leaving the meeting, Isao stayed. He did not know what to do at this point. Was he to join and help all of Japan become a powerful nation again or would he continue working in the fields? He knew that if he continued working in the fields, nothing would be done and eventually all he worked for would eventually be for nothing since it would most likely be taken by foreign land developers or worse. As he was deciding what to do Yamagata approached him with a curious look about him.
“Isao-San have you decided to join us or not. It is of course your decision, but we must have an answer since Takasugi-San and I will be starting the meeting again tomorrow morning.”Isao was perplexed, but knew he had to give Yamagata something. He felt he deserved as much at least.“I do not know what to do Yamagata-San if I stay I will not accomplish anything, but if I go will I accomplish anymore than I would if I stayed? I do not have an answer for myself much less you.”Isao was confused on the look on Yamagata-San’s face it was of amusement.“Isao-San I understand what you’re feeling, I felt similar apprehensions when I first began plans to oust the Tokugawa’s, I cannot turn back, but you, you do not have to be a foot soldier in the front lines if you wish. Perhaps you need to see a different perspective of the war besides that of Kiheitai and the Tokugawa’s.”
Then out of the shadow’s Shinku appeared. At first Isao didn’t move and looked startled, but he quickly composed himself. Yamagata was not shaken, though Isao was wondering if Yamagata-San planned all this. Yamagata introduced Isao formally to Shinku.“Isao-San I believe you already know of Shinku. Shinku as you probably may have guessed is not his real name. His real name is Kioshi Subeta. His role in the Kiheitai is not important, but what is important is that he will show you another side to this war if you’re willing to see it that is.Yamagata look turned from amusement to coldness. He was deadly serious about this. Isao knew that. Isao also knew that whether he wanted to be in this war or not, he still needed to go with Kioshi. He needed to see it with his own eyes of what the future may or may not entail.
“Yamagata-San, Kioshi-San I accept. I want to see this third-side you speak. The times that will come that may or may not bring a future to Japan. But I only ask that I give you my answer then and not before”Yamagata nodded and said his goodbyes to Isao-San. Soon after Yamagata left, Kioshi-San looked at Isao-San and said something that felt like a cold chill.“Now you will see how Japan’s future will be shaped, not by men but by blood.”
*Kiheitai: Calvary*Hitokiri: Man-Slayer*Sengoku: Warring States*Tokugawa: Governing body of Japan
Isao was following Kioshi for almost four perhaps even five hours until Kioshi led them to Dekai forest. The foliage was not dynamic, but it did offer them protection. There was a reason why it was called Dekai forest. The trees were so large it could blot out the sun; fortunately it was during nightfall away from prying eyes. Isao had heard stories that this forest was a place for the poor and misfortunate, and sometimes the dead. Isao followed Kioshi for almost another hour until they reached an area deep inside the forest. Kisohi stopped and turned himself around straight toward Isao and bluntly asked him several questions which put Kioshi off guard.
“Why do you want to fight in this war? Why do you personally wish to fight? Do you have a personal stake in this war? Do you have altruistic values? You should not fight a war if you do not have a reason too.”
Isao was confused he did not know what to say or how to begin to answer. These questions were important for sure, but what if he had no reason. Isao had no aspirations for glory or fame. That was not his way. It had seemed a whole new opportunity opened up for him. An opportunity to fight for the Emperor, but that was not a true reason to fight he mused. He would not be fighting for me he knew. He was but a simple peasant, a farmer. A person who for the better part of his life let the whole social tier of his people is accepted. Many people including him came to view the Samurai as such. The warrior nobility, just second to the Shogun and the Emperor, but now this was not true anymore. Times have changed and war would soon be upon them. Why would he fight? He couldn’t answer Kisohi since he did not know himself. Isao looked at Kioshi and mused over what to say. As Isao, started to speak Kioshi interrupted him and spoke first. Isao stared blankly at him.
“You don’t know do you? Did you think I would not know that? Many people who fight in wars do not know. But the most simplistic aspect that all people have when they fight is one thing: survival.”Isao was wondering where he was going with this line of thought since he didn’t believe Kioshi was a man of words, but obviously there was more to this man than he perceived. Then sometimes strange happened Kioshi was smiling.
“Just because I do not speak much does not mean I cannot speak at all. I can speak, but I reserve that in the appropriate times. Such as now, since it is important I speak to you about this upcoming war. Which side will you be on? What Ideals will you fight for? Will you fight for blood, to kill, to relish it or to bring a new era, an era of peace and prosperity?”
Isao didn’t know how to answer those questions, but he felt he might not have to as. Kioshi pulled out his katana from his sheath and was wondering what he was going to do with it. Kioshi’s expression turned ice cold.“Look at this blade; it has served me well, because I refined myself to serve it well. The symbolic relationship serves us because we have purpose we know what we must do. We are both disciplined. If you falter at any second in your convictions at a crucial moment you will die. The war should not concern you, so why does it. And do not believe that I will accept your claims that you were persuaded by Yamagata-San.”
Isao was paralyzed he didn’t expect such talk especially not from a Hitokiri. He didn’t want to just stand there and say nothing, but he hadn’t said anything, so he if we going to say something he would try to make the most of it.
“You are right Kioshi-San, I do not have any reason or conviction to fight in this war, and yes I am not totally persuaded by Yamagata-San’s words. They do not pierce me; I am not charmed by their speeches. If I fight, I will fight for my own reasons. My own conviction’s, but as to what they are who is to say since I do not know. I am a simple farmer who minded his own business with the intention to maintain a farm and have a family one day. Now I am called to fight in an army for the Emperor? The war is none of my concern. I am not affected by it my village is not. The artists and merchants are not affected by it. The Samurai and the Shogun are affected by it. It is there war, why should they involve the rest of us. They have shunned us and looked down upon us. Now they seek our help. I’m sure many will be persuaded, but I look at it and see that when it is done and gone. We will be forgotten and shunned again. My reason to fight should be important enough to as you say hold strong convictions and maintain a focus, but I fear I have none of that and if that makes me unfit to be in the emperor’s army then so be it.
”Kioshi looked at Isao for moments until, something unexpected happened. Kioshi laughed. He laughed not at Isao, but how honest he was with him. Kioshi didn’t expect Isao to be this honest, in fact did not know what to expect from Isao. Now that Isao told Kioshi of his own explanation of what he thought of the oncoming war it amused him. Kioshi believed he could work with his man, even train him. Kioshi was a master of iaijutsu and Battōjutsu, but Kioshi believed iaijutsu would be best suited for Isao, and perhaps later teach him Battōjutsu have him train under other’s. Kioshi sheathed his sword as he approached Isao.
“You surprise me Isao-San, but a welcome one. I don’t think you should be in the regular army no. I have something else in mind for you. Something you might find to your liking. It will teach you to give your mind discipline and focus in your life. I’m not asking you to be a Hitokiri, but with my help I can train you to give you reason’s to fight, make those convictions count and give you a high aptitude for the ultimate success: survival. This war will not be easy. Even then if we win, Japan, will never be the same because. If you accept training will be difficult and if you succeed, it will not be an easy life.”
Isao had a hard choice to make, difficult. Shedding this old life, and begin a new. This new life could be wondrous, or disastrous, but at least he would be making the decision, not the Shogun in Edo, but him. This was his choice, but as hard and indecisive as it is to make, he knew that he would never have a choice like this again. A decision like this was difficult. He would have liked more time to think it over; however he knew that he crossed a path of no return when he chose to follow Kioshi. Perhaps he always knew his destiny was elsewhere away from the village, from his current life, or fate simply swept him somewhere else. Isao could not honestly say. Though as hard and difficult this life-changing decision was. It was a new door , and perhaps he wanted more out of life than that of a simple peasant, but time will tell. It may have been a split second decision, but to Isao it was an eternity. Kioshi was not surprised when Isao finally answered which was not surprisingly brief or long.
“Kioshi-San, I accept, I wish to be trained and become like you and the rest of the Hitokiri.”Kioshi-San nodded his head. He had a thin grin, but showed made it clear that Isao was doing the right thing. Kioshi placed his hand on Isao’s left shoulder.
“Your old life ends here Isao. Be proud in the choice you made today. No one told you couldn’t or could make this choice. You decided it. Always take solace in that fact. You made a choice. Isao-San, the samurai, the peasants, the artists and merchants, have less to choose than you. The reason is because their lives are already pre-determined, their families from start to end, know what they will be doing. That right to choose what they want was taken before they were born, but you. You chose to make to do this and be it better or worse. You chose this path. Your new life Isao-San start’s now.
Friday, February 1, 2008
So nobody's posted yet...I guess I'll go first. It's called "Hands", and it's probably about you.
It’s not something I tend to notice on a girl.
Actually, that’s a lie. But it’s only something you notice unless it’s really wrong, otherwise it’s just minutiae. Like a shirt tucked into your underwear, or a bad cheeseburger. It's a piece of meat you roll around your mouth until you decide to spit it out.
Her hands were easily eclipsed by mine. My thumb larger than her littlest finger; the flesh under her fingernail a fine pink. Diminutive and perfectly proportioned like a Hollywood actress, it felt like i was warming up for a game I wasn't going to play anyways. I rolled it around for a while.
I’ve seen small hands before, no doubt. Hands of a child on the body of a woman. Thumbs with impossibly small finger nails that you think, “are these of any actual use?” I’ve held hands that gripped back as I pulled them closer.
Hands long and slender of white porcelain china. Hands of week old black nail polish. Rustic. Real. Lived in.
Hands of naivety and questions. Hands in love with Dora the Explorer colouring books. Hands Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite.
Hands where everything is so new that they are nothing but a pure symphony of sensory ecstasy. Hand and foot in mouth.
No, these weren't the hands I was looking for, but I held on anyways.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Introduction
Welcome to the Other Writers Guild blog, where there will be no strikes. Officially.