Whispers in the cold scratch the thick air
a soft, quivering sound nobody but the keenest would notice.
It bounces off walls and echos off the ceiling
blanketing the small, lonely room with holy torment.
Pleas and confessions surf the static sound
bulging with liquid desperation
and moistening the air like a London fog.
Wisps of sadness and bolts of anger
hum and twirl as a defeated soul rests his head
on a damp pillow
with only a frightening silence to comfort him.
Whatever happened to running around in circles?
Energy overflowing like water in a cannonballed pool
the happiest you ever felt
was springing back and forth over a jet of water meant to water a lawn, greener than the salty ocean and brighter than a smiling face
Allergy bumps, skinned knees, knotted heads, scabs, scrapes, bruises, and scars.
Testimonials of fun and fun themselves.
An entire day poking rolly-polies and climbing impossible mountains
Playing in the invisible kingdom of maypretend
and humming to yourself the themesong of your favorite cartoon
while driving a race car along the wall.
I just finished Flink by the insurmountable Doug Tennapel, one of the greatest graphic novelists of all time. He’s one of the few authors (or creators in general, really) where I can just pick up his stuff and just know I’m absolutely going to love it. I own 6 of his graphic novels, all of them masterpieces, but my absolute favorite has to be Earthboy Jacobus. It’s about alternate universes and falling in love with comatos girls. But it’s also very much about what it means to be a father and what it means to grow up. Tennapel has an uncanny ability to wrap up really insightful views of humanity inside a blanket of weirdness and fantasy.
I’ve also recently become an addict to NPR podcasts. I know, I know… Just call me Mr. Johnny-Come-Lately. But, yesterday’s episode of Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me had me cracking up so bad I was literally in tears. And last week’s episode of This American Life was truely captivating. And I’ve also become a bit of a Garrison Keiler fanboy. I not only love the News From Lake Wobegone, but I’m also really into The Writer’s Almanac. It’s both really interesting and inspiring. Indeed, I even wrote that poem the other day after having listened to an episode.
On another note, I just found out that the new movie, Wanted, was directed by the guy who did the Nightwatch movies, which are the best thing to come out of Russia since Dostoyevski (okay, maybe that’s going a bit too far). But they are extremely entertaining movies. I had no idea. I, personally, thought the comic book was a bit mediocre (much like the rest of Mark Miller’s work) and Angelina Jolie is so thin in the previews she actually scares me a little (Seriously, it looks like her hair comprises half her body weight). But the movie’s got this awesome director and it’s 73% at Rotten Tomatoes (which is really darned good for an action movie, an action comic book movie.) So now I have to see it. Dang Summer season and your constant array of must see movies.
This is a very good summer for movie watching.
A poem is never born out of nothingness
like a storm over a midwestern field.
A poem rips and shreds its way into existence
devouring all it sees.
A plague of words and phrases fluttering about
and clouding the mind black as pencil dust.
A poem’s favorite dish is one like itself, another poem,
perhaps even greater than it will ever be,
echoing through the brain unaware that its scent has awoken the unrelenting beast.
And when the birthed poem is finally satiated,
gorged and satisfied on its comfortable paper couch,
it too will be plucked up by another curious soul. Eaten and digested
in a bloody display of beautiful, predatory cannibalism.
So…. I haven’t written in a good long while. Sorry about that all you faithful ITWAGBF readers out there (all 2 of you).
Anywho, a friend of mine recently posted about one of her dreams on her blog. It’s a common occurance, but, nevertheless, it inspired me to recount one of mine that I had recently. The fact that I remember it is really quite amazing because this rarely happens.
A couple of notes before we begin:
1.)I always dream in color.
2.)I always dream in the 3rd person. (I remember in the 3rd person, as well. I don’t know if this is common, but I’ve always thought it weird.)
3.)”Me” in the story does not always look like me.
Anyways, the dream began with me and a group of people I didn’t know going into a theme park. But this theme park turned out to be a cross between Jurassic Park, the island from Lost, and the underwater empire of Bioshock, Rapture. Basically it was somewhat jungley, full of deteriorating equipment, dangerous creatures (including dinosaurs), and 2 factions of people out to kill each other.
Anyways I got separated from my group and kidnapped by the “bad” faction of people along with the “good” faction’s leader and a bunch of others. These were all denoted by their orange jump suits and the “bad” guys had blue jump suits. We were all in this compound which reminded me a lot of an open air version of the bunker from Lost. Suddenly, several of us escaped, including the leader and I, and we booked it into the jungle towards the other faction’s compound (which was sort of a long, large, and underground pipe). Once there I met someone I recognized from the first group I entered the park with, and realized I knew her from way back when (she looked a bit like this girl I knew from college, Emily). I also realized I was desperately in love with her. But, before we could talk, I found out the leader was set to bomb the other compound and I thought, “That’s stupid, his people are still there.” So I ran off towards it, and I got there just in time to see the explosions and people running out wearing both blue and orange jumpsuits. I thought that it was lucky that nobody got hurt by this stupid maneuver. And, suddenly, I decided to run into the compound that was exploding.
Inside it was chaos. People were running around everywhere and things were exploding all over the place. I ran to a platform where the “bad” faction’s leader was and quickly jumped on it as it descended underground (it turns out it was a freight elevator). As I stood up, everybody realized that I was actually the son of the other leader. (at this point I should tell you that now everybody is wearing normal clothes). Both my “dad” and my “mom” were glad to see me, and this was the reason why I decided to go into the compound rather than back into the jungle.
Once we were underground the chaos continued and my parents and I decided to run out of there and try to quickly escape the theme park before the whole compound fell apart. My “dad” said he knew where the “flattrack” was and we could use that to escape. “The flattrack?” I asked, “Isn’t that a myth?”
“No,” he said, “It’s been lost for centuries, but I know where it is.” And then we proceeded to run through various rooms and tunnels full of old and dirty cafeteria equipment (dirty dishes and trays, mostly). Each door we ran to we closed behind us, and I would pick up a metal bar and fit it into the conveniently placed notches attached to the door and then bend it around so nobody could remove it. This is when I realized that my dad was Superman and I was Superboy.
We ran around with several people until we reached the top of a parking deck. The people around us were looking for cars to break into and escape with, and my “dad” was trying to run through to get to the flattrack. I hung back and decided to reveal my Superboyness to several people. I did this by opening my shirt in the classic superman style. They all looked at me in astonishment “You’re Superboy?” And I smiled and started to float. And then one of them said, “Wait. You could fly all this time and you didn’t tell us?” And I said, “Oh yeah! I forgot. Why don’t you get in one of the cars and I can fly us out of here.”
This is when I disappear from my dream and, instead, my dream is now about groups of people in cars escaping from the parking deck. They drive down into the lower level and out to a large door which slides open, only to reveal another door, and then another door, and then a final door which doesn’t open right away but does after the cars wait for a little bit. This final door opens up to a department store and one by one the cars all escape out into the street while some construction workers in the front of the store all stare in awe. One guy lingers in the store for a bit and hands one of the construction workers a coin out of gratitude. The coin is like a quarter made of bronze except George Washington is a Native American and the words “Not for Reproduction” are printed on it. Then the last guy to linger in the store is another Native American who’s wearing a head dress except instead of it being made out of feathers, this one is made of leaves. The construction worker turns to him and says, “You’re a funny looking guy.” And the Native American laughs and nods.
And then I woke up.
That’s it. I hope that wasn’t too long or crazy for you.
I’ve always wanted to be Punk
I’ve always wanted to be Punk
I’d shave my head into a tall green mohawk
Held tight together in spikes by glue
Not that white Elmer’s but the blue stuff
That gets harder than stone
I’d light up my last cigarette
After snuffing the previous on
The Surgeon General’s warning emblazoned
Upon the crumpled corpse of the pack I’d just destroyed
I’d take a swig from the bottle of Jack
I’d pilfered from Thom down the street
Because he spelled his name with an H
To accent his cool sideburns
I’d wear striped golfer’s pants
And two different kinds of combat boots
Spray-painted black despite the fact
That the left one came in black anyways
I’d wear a metal studded trenchcoat
Over a tattered T-shirt I found on the ground last week
It says, “It’s Hard To Be Humble When You’re Scottish”
But my great-grandfather was Welsh and his Irish.
Whoever makes safety pins would owe me some gratitude
They’d hold up my pants
Accessorize my ear
And, apparently, affix my eyebrow to my face
I’d flick off roadsigns and puke on walls
Angry about the goth girl whom I loved
And met at the party last night
She wore checkered Chucks and liked Weezer
But only the first album because the last one sucked
I’ve always wanted to be Punk
But really I’m Mark Twain
After he’s had a really bad day
After he scratched on the nine-ball,
Put out the stub of his last cigar,
Laid down in bed,
And wishes he was still Sam.
_______
Music Party
Rock and Pop dance in the middle
Secretly thinking they’re better than the other
Metal and Hip Hop sneer at each other
I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a fight
Reggae philosophizes with Ska
Who cracks jokes and tells him to relax for some reason
Blues tells country that his girl just left him
Country tells him the same thing but adds something about his dog and truck
Emo cries in the corner
Grunge lights a cigarette and tells him to shut up, he doesn’t care
Classical tries to organize the whole thing
Nobody really listens
Punk drinks himself into a stupor,
Kicks down the door and goes outside
Yelling, “Fuck You!” to anybody who’ll listen.
I secretly want to be Punk.
Luck is a rather common topic in my thought life. Mostly because of how non-lucky I am. And I say non-lucky because I can’t necessarily consider myself unfortunate and I’m most definitely not lucky. Really, as a Christian, I shouldn’t believe in luck at all. I mean, I know that luck is a relic left over from a conglomerate of pagan and defunct religions hailing mostly from the island country of the United Kingdom. And I also know that God is out there and He also happens to be in control of pretty much everything. So, whether good or bad, things that happen in my life can’t really be outside of His grand scheme. But I just can’t bear to blame God for all the stupid and bad crap in my life, so I tend to blame myself. Or, at least, I blame the part of myself I have absolutely no control over: meaning, my fortune. So, when something good happens in my life it’s God’s blessing and when something bad happens outside of my control it’s my bad luck. And, I know I know, that is a pretty stupid and depressing outlook on life.
Well, I think, on that uplifting note. I shall end this first, disastrous blog entry and call it an evening. Maybe Old Sam’ll inspire me tomorrow.
So, as you might have surmised, this post just so happens to be my very first post whilst posting to this very blog.
I always have no idea how to do these first posts. Should I start out by describing myself as a wonderfully charming individual with facial hair that would make Ambrose Everett Burnside himself jealous or should I just jump right in with a witty,yet poignant, post about something that you, the audience, hopefully care about?
Hmm… perhaps I should do both.
First, there’s me:
I live in Raleigh, North Carolina’s colorful capital city. It’s home to The Hurricane’s, NC State, and, of course, Finch’sFamily Restaurant. And that’s as much as I’ll say about my place of residence so that Anton Chirgurh doesn’t catch up with me. (I’m sorry for all the linkage.I’m in an extra linking mood tonight for some reason). Anywho, as you can tell, I’m also a big fan of movies, odd references, and asides. I also really enjoy food, girls, God, and comic books (not necessarily in that order). I believe that one of the most telling things about a person is their likes and dislikes. For instance, I love fiction, yet I tend to dislike most sports. This says a lot about my penchant for escapism and my disdain for reality ( a defining characteristic in my personality). And, before I begin to despise this paragraph even more than I already do, I’m just going to stop here and get straight to the actual blogging. This one should be titled, “Thoughts on Luck”
