Merci, mon ami, Etienne.

A voice out of cyber no-where, his words come to me like a dream undreamed. And if I had a mind that could be won by organized religion I'd be thanking whichever deity for a friend like that. A tugboat pulling me out of the churning spiral, at times we all go a little crazy. That he could look into a face so dead and still see something worthwhile.

Tonight I will send a lantern boat out onto the dark waters, the fragile supplication that this bond between us always remain. There aren't words for my gratefulness.

A Tergo, Lupi.

"Braced my body for a beating, a distant recollection from childhood coming back to haunt me." But fathers get old and weak, age steals the physical dominance and it was just angry words that were delivered instead of angry blows. How ironic that it was last night that we watched Les Quatre Cents Coups. Call me Doniel.

Alone in the kitchen you looked at me with the empty can of black olives in your hand and mouthed the words “olive juice.” A shockwave of sensation through my spine. A tunnel with just you and me. Thoughts of four years ago, the fear of this phrase, what to say, how to respond, panic buttons, sirens. Then the world came crashing back in and I realized too late that the last of the break walls has been smashed and it’s too late to do anything about it, just too late. Wondering when it happened, when did I let my guard down? What was I thinking when I said it wouldn’t hurt? This was my fear and of course, like a moth to a flame I find myself frying up, a faint “zap!” resonating through an otherwise quiet night. The despair and lunacy that registers with that zap, and the silence afterwards that sickens you. The fear that you will one day just be gone, the same ending to so many varied stories. I had tried keeping you at arm’s distance from my heart, but one night this weekend the sentinel fell asleep and the front door went unguarded. Oh this society teeming with facts.

And after you had gone the gravity of the statement sunk deep into my temples. “I just can’t take this anymore, going to snap, it’s like being in jail only there aren’t tangible bars there, which is worse, much worse. How do you attain freedom when the bars just follow you around all the time? When there isn’t even a consistent idea of what you’ve done that’s so horrible.” I searched in vain for something to say, and only mouthed “olive juice, too,” when there was no one there to see it.

25 Times.

It felt good to have her see me in my business duds, black wool trench coat, tailored skirt, sparkly earrings. And it’s all so surface but it was the first time she looked at me without that damn judgment in her eyes, there was the potential for respect. Stupid is as stupid does and it felt relieving, to be on an even keel for the first time. Dignen’s words echoing in my head and reverberating in my heart, "I’m not always as confident as I appear to be," and it always comes back to this pathetic cycle of insults and one-upping, cutting words said behind your back or under the cover of night, the loneliness system.

"And there are people who never go crazy, can you imagine how boring their lives must be..."

She’s saying things again, words with my voice, when I concentrate enough to listen. Stories about the wild geese and the being alive and the millions of adventures waiting to happen. Six billion of which I am one. (And how do you know how to act? Because you are you.) So much pressure sometimes, too much. I am not yet dead! Don’t forget that. Life is fucking long as hell, but still far too short for the unflinching judgment, the condescending, the belief that one person can possibly know how the rest of the world should live. I’ll go away before long, this adventure has grown cold and lumpy like oatmeal left out too long. Ahniwa embarks soon and I will ask to borrow some of that entrepreneurial spirit. I will stop being embarrassed to just exist, with all of these failings of the mind and human leanings and so many squelched and beautiful microcosms! Humanity and we never even had it.

How To Act.

i will always die,
i will always die
so you can remember me.

What A Weird Goal.

It's always an adventure waiting for this f***ing blogger new post page to load. Get a bigger d*** server *#$)@#*)

Too much coffee

I made a fake friendster profile. I haven't written anyone back yet but I've been getting some interesting messages. Does that make me evil?

I've always wondered why heterosexual people always assume that homosexual people are attracted to them. Know what I mean? Like, when people learn that someone they know is homosexual, they're all, "i was in the locker room naked with that person." Sometimes I kind of want to be like, "wow, you're pretty cocky for someone who hasn't been on a date since hot pants were in! What, do you stare in the mirror at night and convince yourself that you're cleopatra?" except that's mean and I always feel bad for thinking it. But it's like god damn, get some common sense. If you're hetero and not attracted to every creature of the opposite sex that walks the earth, why the hell would you assume things to be any different for gay people?!!?! *#$)(@!##

I have a shoulder holster now, for the disguise I'm going to wear in my movie. Ryan found a hat for a drilling company that says, "your hole is our goal." I have no way to guage which thing is cooler.

So I think I will get another tattoo. That's like the trump card for coolness. Yeah, um. It's going to be a mac truck on my bicep with the words "keep on truckin'" in helvetica underneath. No wait, it's going to be an arrow on my forearm pointing to my bicep, and it'll say "ask me about my guns."

I can't stop listening to this new wilco cd. I think I might be driving everyone insane with it. Everyone being anne and pat of course.

I wish I had a way of contacting Jen Burtonshaw. Been feeling bad lately about how we said "goodbye."

This post is entirely pointless. [It's called a ghost is born.]

From Outer-Space.

Hallo to my friend. You have seemed sort of sad, or not sad, but maybe detatched lately and I wanted to tell you of it. My meditation for you is not from Marcus Aurelius, but I hope that you will like it all the same;

"Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things."

Right now -- whatever you are doing -- try to let go of whatever you're doing for a second and imagine life being the span of time that passes between your breaths. You aren't crazy because someone who is afraid of losing you won't talk to you in a way that's fair. And you're not crazy because you feel like you're the only bloke in your ofice that's doing any work. From wingtip to wingtip -- what's the meaning of any of this? We used to be alchemists! (We still are, by the way.) Only fight with ridiculous bravery to protect what alchemy's afforded you, that is, an an unwavering thirst for truth, understanding in the face of ignorance, and the ability to accept change, grow, move on.

[thank you.]

Thirty One.

fifteen miles of snow.
"i am getting older now,"
you said without pause,

"and it's not as easy as it used to be."

atlas let out a sigh and
we stood back to back,
of common purpose for as long as i could muster.

One Hour Upstairs.

"Suffering," is what i hear their eyes saying. At the crux of the entire thing: do you believe in reincarnation? My immediate thought is simply, wouldn't I remember something if reincarnation were an actuality? Otherwise what's the point? "well emily," she says to herself, "you could be an SUV driving corporate soccer mom." Certainly that's true. Have I forgotten how to think? This is my fear. THIS IS MY FEAR. "I got personality. I got interesting things to say."

In the feve bar not 5 minutes and I've gotten the phone number of some drunk bloke who says that he would "never rape me so hard for a tattoo." But Dan has the gentle touch, and he accomodates my yoga breath. Oy, this bar. Matt tells me that he will let me read some of his poetry when he's sober. He looks like a North African prince, piercings in the nose and ears, sleek leather jacket, he's here with Shiloh (the one who has given me his phone number) and some english fellow who keeps asking the cute barmaid for "black label and water." Matt tells me that Kerouac has been his companion for many years and he figures him a role model. I ask him if he ever writes when he's drunk. (When I arrived he was passed out on the table and his friends asked me for my tube of lipstick to adorn his face with the hieroglyphics that friends give the first one to pass out.) Beck on the radio. Matt replies, "Kerouac has a maxim: never drink outside of your house, and never write when you're drunk. And I abide." I want to retort with my one maxim from Kerouac, but before my brain catches up he says, "well you're writing, and I don't want to annoy you. What was your name again..." and it is forgotten as soon as I utter it but he offers his hand. And every ten seconds or so my mind races to thoughts of Ryan, of how much more fun this would be if he were here. But then these drunk and strange blokes probably wouldn't have approached me and I think of Candide. "All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds." Fucking myopic.

Shut up Beck, your melody is flat and uninspiring.

The guy at the bar who was giving me scotch 101 has left. "I stick to Glen Livet," I tell him. "Single malt."

"You've got to read this," I overhear Matt say to the english fellow, "It will change your life." My curiosity is piqued but not enough to get up. A bandana clad lesbian enters and Matt recognizes her. "Hey what's going on. We're just up here hanging out." She is non-plussed and chooses to sit at a table by herself. Like me. Thinking she can just shrug them off, she becomes my silent comrade across the room. Shiloh reenters the scene and I am thankful that he doesn't come back to my table and tell me more tattoo stories. "Let me see your tattoo again," I remember him saying for the fourth time.

This beer will be my last and the lesbian's reading is cut short by the table of the four drunk men. She tries doggedly to return to the book and her decidedly fruify drink but the drunk men are determined. "There's mediocre, and there's great..." but his thought is cut short.

Nate is at the bar, I think he's well on his way to a hangover tomorrow. But then Nate's natural state is drunkenness. "Are you a writer," they ask me, and the question seems so silly. "Well," I offer, "I write," and it seems enough. I am crazy, and confused, and my life feels up for grabs. That is such a fucked up thing to say! But there it is. Today. I checked New Zealand's tourism website to see if I could be a candidate for citizenship. "I've been jaded my whole life," Matt says to the barmaid who is losing interest.

Matt comes back to me and tells me to read Kerouac's "visions of cody," while Shiloh makes walrus faces behind him with two straws. We're talking about philosophical guide books and I tell him to read Notes From Underground. They get back to their table and Shiloh mouths something to me that I don't understand but I laugh anyway, lest he come back over here to explain.

They want to see my tattoo again and it's time to go. Long past time. The english guy says something to me but my mind is fixed upon leaving and calling Ryan. To hear his voice. One sip left and I'm down the stairs and out the door.

The First Step

The ring has been sitting dormant in the bathroom cabinet for I don’t know how long. She gave it to me when I moved out West, despite my hesitation to be responsible for a thing of such value. "Wear this and remember that love transcends the bonds of time and space," she said, with a mix of fear and excitement in her eyes.

This morning I stood before the mirror, examining. Wrinkles and creases and my eyes appeared sallow. "You don’t appreciate yourself enough, Emily," and I thought I heard a call from a familiar voice, like the one I hear in my head every time I read that letter that she sent last October, the one that once made me weep and now makes me celebrate.

"Is your connection to yourself so tenuous, then? So many ripples and your focus is surface rather than below. You are a warrior, from a long, long line of warriors. We carried out your promise to yourself, we fought for that green stuff which has us so transfixed. You are the result of all of our gnashing of teeth and bloodshed! How glorious a thing..."

And so I opened the cabinet, picked up the ring, and reunited it with its home upon my finger. "This unspoken promise to yourself," I heard my voice say out loud, "is why we warriors rise to face another battle."

Hey, Jindra:

Tell them what they came to hear
of elephant kindgoms, no-bottom

rivers, three-sided swords. Paint them
pictures of winning.

Tell them nothing of your rock cradle,
the air that sickens and incites you,

the silly men who seek
the directional star of a gassy day.

You lodge in your fuming rook
collecting a check while

the priests count carcasses.
No worries, they whisper,

she has long since lost
the list of your crimes.

...

For tomorrow: scared, anxious, fuming, all of this vortexing, all of these spirals coming together and he lashes out against the hand that would meet his hand, and it is a thing of disgusting beauty. I am too repulsed to hate him for it, though in the morning his face will certainly sicken me. If only I had a greater capacity for patience, and you a brighter flashlight for peering into those dark corners. If, if, and this is what it comes to. How many millions of years of evolution, and all you have to offer is this sneering cynicism, the quavering voice whose words don't match the tone. "I don't care," and I would cry if I had the capacity for it. Everyday in every way we make ourselves, we make the world.

A Warning Sign.

Because there are so many instances of irritation and it piles up. She can't tell me that she appreciates my work, or that she thinks I'm doing well, or even what I should be doing; instead she just piles on more to do, as though I have simply proven my status as competent, and nothing more need be said.

Because the past is where he exists, much more so than the present. And sometimes I can't breathe; the past is a tomb, uncharted territory, an ancient cruise liner long since shipwrecked, resting sleepily at the bottom of the ocean, waiting for the next unsuspecting diver to venture too close. Because it's a fortress that surrounds him. Because I find it ugly and obnoxious. Because things are so tenuous, and mental equals so put asunder. Because I would rather be alone than a part of something toxic.

Because that admission is corollary to the belief that I actually will always be alone.

Does anyone really listen anyway? Or are you always just sitting there thinking of what to say when it is again your turn to speak? It will make you a beast! Your ego exists to make you a beast, an ugly animal full of fear and loathing. It is not so insignificant and I will never be convinced that none of this matters anyway. It is folly to believe so, and a "get out of jail free" card for one who does not like the station in life to which his actions have lead him.

Because of that feeling that, as soon as you are out of earshot, you are being talked about.

Because I am better than this. So much so.

Brief Thoughts.

If you ever wondered how I could have devoted so much time towards an MMORPG, I offer the following:

The things that affect me emotionally are not the small moments, but the epiphanies I occasionally have about how virtual worlds allow for a greater expression of human hope and potential... how people can play, be free to express various aspects of themselves, and form amazing, supportive communities. I get emotional when I think about the people who don't have anyone in RL, are the victims of RL prejudices, members of conformist communities, or in other ways can't find meaning in their real lives. I find that sad, but then am happy that they at least have some place where they feel they can belong, are accepted and needed.

This is an excerpt from Nick Yee's five year study of people who play MMORPGs, the rest of which can be found here. And a day like today drives home the stark difference between how people interact with each other in an anonymous, virtual environment, as opposed to real life. Much more so than in real life, in online environments I found people to be caring, willing to help, and interested in building a feeling of camraderie. There are certainly exceptions to this statement, (ask chuck about a necro named Arkum,) but real life interactions are just so cutting and ego-driven in comparison. One would think that the opposite would be true; that anonymity would serve as a venue for people to be truly awful and obsequious, a place to let the demons take the reigns, as there's really no judge or jury to stop you. It is heartening to me, even encouraging, to remember that it was easier to find someone who would take the time to help me rez a corpse (sorry non-mmorpg readers,) and then refuse any type of payment than it was to find an Arkum.

For a time, EQ was like my little version of Cheers: a place where everybody knew my name, and they were always glad I came. The game was so purpose-driven, which is something lacking in post-modern life. I think about what Mike said, about virtues and vices, about following a noble path, and how this concreteness is so flagrantly lacking today. I think that underneath it all people want to be helpful, but more importantly, purposeful. Where am I going with this? More later, for now it's back to the grindstone.

To Please The Dead.

It changes, after awhile, it all does. What do they say? The only thing that stays the same is that nothing stays the same. Adapt; overcome.

My skin is covered with second-guessing and that sticky residue that comes from being unsure of one’s self. By evening I see a face that would have tried harder, it offers an apology to the mirror. "We keep getting off to a bad start," is the half-hearted explanation that I offer up. Pallid, blue, losing touch.

You look at your past like it’s a pile of cord wood, as though it can be inventoried and measured and gone over again and again. And thus this future that you work so doggedly at exists simply to likewise be measured, compared, chalked up to either progress or stasis. O these failings of language! I don’t believe in existing for what might happen tomorrow. Or for correcting what happened yesterday. Or for hardening myself because the world is callous and people assuming, and all these piles of cord wood will one day topple. Reach deeply.

The first step:
Don't be anxious. Nature controls it all. And before long you'll be no one -- like Hadrian, like Augustus.

The second step:
Concentrate on what you have to do. Fix your eyes on it. Remind yourself that your task is to be a good human being; remind yourself what nature demands of people. Then do it, without hesitation, and speak the truth as you see it. But with kindness. With humility. Without hypocrisy.

You're Aggrivating, And You Shut Up Now.

So predictable and it strikes me as funny (in that way you laugh to stave off the crazy times.) It was pointless, meeting you for coffee, because all you really wanted was an audience to waft your buddhist bullshit out at. It's really sad, and it reminds me of Brett (one time I asked him what his goals were, and he gave me this arrogant look and little chortle and said, "i just do the next thing to do." was he trying to win me over?! Yeah, that strategy is aces. wtf, you can't have a "mindful" philosophy and exist without your head in the clouds?!), and it (the culture-usurping part of it) leads to this level of infuriation. Smug look like you've gotten the world figured out when you're not yet even 25. And I think perhaps you really just wanted to meet so that I could report back to Anne? Well, report back I did. Though I don't think you would really approve of what I said, as our conversation mostly contained belly laughs. Harsh, yeah? Emilys sometimes have large talons.

Has everybody all of a sudden decided that I'm really just not very intelligent? Like I just won't pick up on details, like I won't put two and two together, like I don't have a tangible breaking point? Did you expect me to stay and sop up all of your posturing? And then a call to a familiar voice, and it's just rudeness on the other end, did you really expect me to call you back? I'm not a waffle, and you are no mainstay. Let's not presuppose anything. This is my advice to you. I have a scorpion's tail that I'm not proud of. (But it's there regardless.)

In America, Every Puddle's A Gasoline Rainbow.

There is so much superficiality. So much rendering of thought, and posturing, and the strict adherence to a charicature. And I wonder, is this what it looks like towards my satellite dish as well, from the outside looking in? We humans are such incredibly foolish and egotistical creatures! And even when we believe ourselves to have gotten beyond all of that. So quick to send a cockeyed look towards the drunken stranger making an idiot of himself on the street, and so loathe to acknowledge our own obnoxious character traits. There are several facts that we must come to agree are axioms.

• Everyone assumes that they are right, and that the rest of the world is wrong. Everyone.
• "Right" is always necessarily subjective.
• Most people desire (quite fervently) just two things: compassion, and respect.

My use of the word axiom is perhaps hyperbolic, but you get the idea. Things could be so simple if we'd shave off the layers of egoism. And I think of the word "simple," and how the human animal has no place for it despite all of our clearance-rack zen gardens and travel size aromatherapy kits, and I find myself to be quite naive indeed. Jerry Springer certainly wouldn't be the millionaire that he is today if it weren't for this human desire to complicate things. We are Rome, and we will make the same mistakes over and over, and many of us won't learn a single thing out of all of this mistake making, and we will fall, we will fall. Stop viewing yourself as an island, detached from and unaffected by those around you. Where is our Marcus Aurelius to leave a beacon for future generations to uncover, the shred of evidence that says we had some redeeming qualities, if only a few?

"How to act: Never without forethought, under compulsion, with misgivings."

There truely are things that go "bump" in the night. 

There aren't exactly words for a picture like this. 

What I Would Say

Yoda is peeking out from the plant on my desk. He's in Degoba, training my robot. Sometimes I see the robot lifting my keyboard with his mind.

I am working on my first film. It doesn't have a title yet, but it features Rugby the Dog as one of the main characters: an aligator hell bent on destroying a small college town (and the two 70s detectives who pursue him.)

Life is about change, and compromise, and awareness. We invite trouble when we try to let our reign of control (thought) span so far into the future, arranging, synthesizing, building a case for things to happen or not happen. Each moment is a lovely thing. Listen to your heart, if you've got one. That's what Napoleon Dynamite does. Perfection is a myth on par with justice -- just the vain hope of a fool too feeble minded to see a thing through to its logical conclusion. Chernyshevsky, or Doestoevsky...? We are human beings for a reason, after all.