Fireball
At six, my uncle took me to the St. Louis Zoo and passing the waterfowl and Turacos a gorilla caught on fire. An electrical cable exploded above her head and swung through her chest shooting bright red fireballs that made the woman to my left vomit onto the plaque in front of her. The gorilla was on fire and we all watched her burn. She stood on her back legs and raised her arms out, trying to keep them safe. There were about nine of us there, including my uncle and myself. It was silent. There was the snapping of flames, a shout coming from the female zookeeper.
My uncle slung me over his shoulder and rushed away. My head bobbed up and down as he climbed over twigs and shrubs.
She hadn’t moved.
It was awful. I Saw her land on her back
Dragging mud on her heels.
4.02.2009
Forthcoming: Glenn Beck
See this man to your left.Harsh criticism is coming his way via Ben Spanner.
I just.....he's just so......
awful.
More to come.
3.30.2009
The sun will respect every face on the deck, the hour the ship comes in.
I want to tell you
something short,
"I love you."
It's not
that I can't tell you in long form. I could go on and on, really.
I
can say you fill me up
with everything
I
didn't have before. You
make me believe I can sing
really
very
loud.
But that's not my style.
And it's sure as hell not yours.
So meet me in 20
and I promise
to remember your name
kind of
for always.
something short,
"I love you."
It's not
that I can't tell you in long form. I could go on and on, really.
I
can say you fill me up
with everything
I
didn't have before. You
make me believe I can sing
really
very
loud.
But that's not my style.
And it's sure as hell not yours.
So meet me in 20
and I promise
to remember your name
kind of
for always.
2.26.2009
Greenwald on Rove. Classic.
http://www.salon.com/opinion/greenwald/2009/02/26/rove/
Excerpt: Either way, Rove, as always, is the living and breathing embodiment of the limitless deceit which our political discourse not only permits but rewards. Just imagine what it says about our country that Karl Rove -- Karl Rove -- knows he can sermonize against people who "cheapen" rather than "enrich" the "dialogue of our age" without suffering any reputational damage for such side-splitting dishonesty. To the contrary, other than Matt Drudge, no individual is more adored by the establishment journalists of The Liberal Media. As Gloria Borger of CNN and U.S. News reverently put it: "when Rove speaks, the political class pays attention -- usually with good reason."
2.24.2009
Unedited Rant No. 1
Act 1: Outrage
You sycophant! How dare you jump me at the threshold, quarter after 11 with your pseudo adoration and your complete shimmering veneer, almost coated with sticky shitty shtick! I have a sudden flashback of when Mrs. Hohman would tell us to stand in the door frame in case of an earthquake.
It's like a play! Almost as if Arthur Miller wrote it with the skill of a fifth grader and the attention span of a 103-year old vocal sea turtle, shell cracked and swimming/floating on shoreline! My apartment might as well reek of carbon monoxide, but who's Willy?
Act 2: Homecoming
It's 11:45 pm. His boots are soaked. Half due to the Chicago bite and half because his walk from the blue is 15-20 and the webbing between toes is starting to drip.
He unlatches the door.
"Oh, hey!!!!!!!!!!! You just getting home too????????!!!!!!!?????????"
Just getting home - [juhst] [get-ing] [hohm]: to arrive suddenly, and generally within a time frame coinciding in a timely manner
Apparently this is not the case. In an attempt to show that the person speaking shares-in-the-14-hour-work-day, the person is obviously lying. If it was the case, the living room would not have her dinner (finished and probably well-cooked), her homework, and two beers deep while watching syndicated cop dramas.
But it does not really matter to him. He grunts and heaves his satchel onto his desk, knocking over a book and a bottle opener. Destination - bed, shower, beer. ETA - as soon as possible.
Another grunt and he is in the hallway. Almost to his room. Almost. And then.
"Oh hey, just a heads up, I had one of your beers. Sorry man, I just had to have one."
Flapping at the wind with helicopter arms, he's trying to make it to the fridge. Trying to see. Needs to know. Yes, he confirms it - the last beer is not there.
Act 3: Turn the key
He is now in the shower. The steam is rising high in the isolated space. Arthur Miller style. Only substituting waiting for death with sleeping, and the search for life fullfillment with being content to end the day with a frothy beverage. Both of which have escaped both Lohman and Spanner.
91 days until move out.
THE END
(Editor's note: This was not meant to be depressing, as it was a character study in the WHAT IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH IS WRONG WITH MY ROOMMATE sort of way. She's a nice girl, just out to lunch. Constantly)
You sycophant! How dare you jump me at the threshold, quarter after 11 with your pseudo adoration and your complete shimmering veneer, almost coated with sticky shitty shtick! I have a sudden flashback of when Mrs. Hohman would tell us to stand in the door frame in case of an earthquake.
It's like a play! Almost as if Arthur Miller wrote it with the skill of a fifth grader and the attention span of a 103-year old vocal sea turtle, shell cracked and swimming/floating on shoreline! My apartment might as well reek of carbon monoxide, but who's Willy?
Act 2: Homecoming
It's 11:45 pm. His boots are soaked. Half due to the Chicago bite and half because his walk from the blue is 15-20 and the webbing between toes is starting to drip.
He unlatches the door.
"Oh, hey!!!!!!!!!!! You just getting home too????????!!!!!!!?????????"
Just getting home - [juhst] [get-ing] [hohm]: to arrive suddenly, and generally within a time frame coinciding in a timely manner
dʒʌst
Apparently this is not the case. In an attempt to show that the person speaking shares-in-the-14-hour-work-day, the person is obviously lying. If it was the case, the living room would not have her dinner (finished and probably well-cooked), her homework, and two beers deep while watching syndicated cop dramas.
But it does not really matter to him. He grunts and heaves his satchel onto his desk, knocking over a book and a bottle opener. Destination - bed, shower, beer. ETA - as soon as possible.
Another grunt and he is in the hallway. Almost to his room. Almost. And then.
"Oh hey, just a heads up, I had one of your beers. Sorry man, I just had to have one."
Flapping at the wind with helicopter arms, he's trying to make it to the fridge. Trying to see. Needs to know. Yes, he confirms it - the last beer is not there.
Act 3: Turn the key
He is now in the shower. The steam is rising high in the isolated space. Arthur Miller style. Only substituting waiting for death with sleeping, and the search for life fullfillment with being content to end the day with a frothy beverage. Both of which have escaped both Lohman and Spanner.
91 days until move out.
THE END
(Editor's note: This was not meant to be depressing, as it was a character study in the WHAT IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH IS WRONG WITH MY ROOMMATE sort of way. She's a nice girl, just out to lunch. Constantly)
2.21.2009
2.09.2009
Air Fire
South Korean tourists watched burning pampas grass during celebrations for the first full moon of the lunar new year at Hwawang Mountain in Changnyeong, about 215 miles southeast of the capital, Seoul. At least four people were killed and 35 injured when the fire started and a mountaintop stampede ensued.-The New York Times
2.02.2009
Zombie Dream - last night.
Husk of a house - probably pre-built - maybe the blacken grit remains of my old house in Martins Ferry, Ohio. The more I think about it the more I care/then don’t care/then wish I had a real “hometown.”
It’s an epidemic. People are washing up on the hillside on cresting heapes of blood - the outline and the tide mark crusting over, creating a darker barrier in the grass. A sudden speedbump for corpses skidding onto the pavement, grey teeth grind like sidewalk chalk.
I am perched atop one of the higher beams of my house. There are no walls, no ceilings, nothing except who I am and what I am afraid of. I shake off cold hands, reminded of touching the seaweed and coral reef when my Dad and I had the “pure-luck” vacation in Oʻahu. I miss him.
I grab the ankles of man, jumping from a rafter. How did he get that high? I swing his body down through a floorboard with surprising strength - he cracks and breaks. Cracks and breaks. I am covered in him.
The setting changes and I am in my room here in Chicago. Seated behind me, my girlfriend, her sister, and her sister’s young 3-year-old son. Other survivors are there as well, and one comes into the room after using the hall rest room. The coast had been clear for the person to exit, but she did not shut the bedroom door behind her properly and a young zombie slides through the door and into the room. He does not go for any of us, but looks tirelessly beneath my dresser for something. He is whining and crying. Rag Clothes. It was an underground feeling, some odd sense of animalistic urgency. I grabbed him with my strongest arm around his neck and tugged him off the paneling, kicking into the air.
His skin was translucent and his sunken eyes black and flush against his brain. I saw it pulsating like a kick-drum behind the plastic forehead and his mouth clattered. His lower jaw, worn down to his molar, was smacking against my hand. I flung open the door and threw him overhand like a hatchet into the hallway - his body twisting then busting against the wall like a bright red paint can.
Slam. Lock. Re-lock. Look.
They were staring at me. I was staring at my wrist. There weren’t bite marks, but there were weak impressions like a pattern of reverse brail. A bite meant infection. Walking dead. Dead. But what was this?
I looked at her, she looked at her sister, the young boy was wailing, crying, and clamping his ears - trying to shove the memory of moments prior back again.
I remember from my dream, a distinct and sickening feeling. First, the overwhelming emotion was selfishness: I was not bitten. I will not turn into a zombie. I am a survivor like you. I promise. Then slowly, the bubbling thoughts of: What if I turn in seconds, and kill the people. I love them.
Silently, to no shouts or arguments, I unlatched the lock hammer, took a step out of the door, and waited in the dark. Waiting.
It’s an epidemic. People are washing up on the hillside on cresting heapes of blood - the outline and the tide mark crusting over, creating a darker barrier in the grass. A sudden speedbump for corpses skidding onto the pavement, grey teeth grind like sidewalk chalk.
I am perched atop one of the higher beams of my house. There are no walls, no ceilings, nothing except who I am and what I am afraid of. I shake off cold hands, reminded of touching the seaweed and coral reef when my Dad and I had the “pure-luck” vacation in Oʻahu. I miss him.
I grab the ankles of man, jumping from a rafter. How did he get that high? I swing his body down through a floorboard with surprising strength - he cracks and breaks. Cracks and breaks. I am covered in him.
The setting changes and I am in my room here in Chicago. Seated behind me, my girlfriend, her sister, and her sister’s young 3-year-old son. Other survivors are there as well, and one comes into the room after using the hall rest room. The coast had been clear for the person to exit, but she did not shut the bedroom door behind her properly and a young zombie slides through the door and into the room. He does not go for any of us, but looks tirelessly beneath my dresser for something. He is whining and crying. Rag Clothes. It was an underground feeling, some odd sense of animalistic urgency. I grabbed him with my strongest arm around his neck and tugged him off the paneling, kicking into the air.
His skin was translucent and his sunken eyes black and flush against his brain. I saw it pulsating like a kick-drum behind the plastic forehead and his mouth clattered. His lower jaw, worn down to his molar, was smacking against my hand. I flung open the door and threw him overhand like a hatchet into the hallway - his body twisting then busting against the wall like a bright red paint can.
Slam. Lock. Re-lock. Look.
They were staring at me. I was staring at my wrist. There weren’t bite marks, but there were weak impressions like a pattern of reverse brail. A bite meant infection. Walking dead. Dead. But what was this?
I looked at her, she looked at her sister, the young boy was wailing, crying, and clamping his ears - trying to shove the memory of moments prior back again.
I remember from my dream, a distinct and sickening feeling. First, the overwhelming emotion was selfishness: I was not bitten. I will not turn into a zombie. I am a survivor like you. I promise. Then slowly, the bubbling thoughts of: What if I turn in seconds, and kill the people. I love them.
Silently, to no shouts or arguments, I unlatched the lock hammer, took a step out of the door, and waited in the dark. Waiting.
I saw a man on the El today, this is probably his story
He climbed the snow bank and checked the Shawnee compass his uncle had given him. Due south. What did that mean?
He was pressing, hard, the graphite tip, and muttering to himself, “What was Dad listening to on the news? What is the capital of that country?” Slipping away from the answer, which was Pyongyang, he began to daydream about Angela, the girl sitting in front of him. He swore he’s smelled that smell before. He thought she was pretty, the kind of pretty that would cause flattened pressure in this chest. But that smell, that purposeful smell....
Aunt Ellen.
He would ask Samantha to homecoming instead.
He would marry Elizabeth at age 37, a hasteful yet delightfully sobering decision. He’d missed the chance several years ago to pay for Emma’s coffee, which had cost him. He didn’t know her last name, or her hometown, or even the way she liked her coffee. But she had smiled at him. She has smiled, and he slinked out the door, late for work.
He’s 48 now, on the glimmering white squares at Target, quickly buying a blow up mattress. Elizabeth and him are nothing now, not after she took charcoal sketching. Or at least charcoal sketching with Dave. Either way, he’s got to buy an extension cord.
He began to write feverishly on the bus back to his flat. Rolling down thick brick banks by the river, the graphite again skimming the blue lines of loose leaf, the Gherkin in the background hiding the spiraling downfall of his optimism, until the No. 2 came to a rest in the middle of the page. Due south was that way, and he had wasted too much time already.
He was pressing, hard, the graphite tip, and muttering to himself, “What was Dad listening to on the news? What is the capital of that country?” Slipping away from the answer, which was Pyongyang, he began to daydream about Angela, the girl sitting in front of him. He swore he’s smelled that smell before. He thought she was pretty, the kind of pretty that would cause flattened pressure in this chest. But that smell, that purposeful smell....
Aunt Ellen.
He would ask Samantha to homecoming instead.
He would marry Elizabeth at age 37, a hasteful yet delightfully sobering decision. He’d missed the chance several years ago to pay for Emma’s coffee, which had cost him. He didn’t know her last name, or her hometown, or even the way she liked her coffee. But she had smiled at him. She has smiled, and he slinked out the door, late for work.
He’s 48 now, on the glimmering white squares at Target, quickly buying a blow up mattress. Elizabeth and him are nothing now, not after she took charcoal sketching. Or at least charcoal sketching with Dave. Either way, he’s got to buy an extension cord.
He began to write feverishly on the bus back to his flat. Rolling down thick brick banks by the river, the graphite again skimming the blue lines of loose leaf, the Gherkin in the background hiding the spiraling downfall of his optimism, until the No. 2 came to a rest in the middle of the page. Due south was that way, and he had wasted too much time already.
1.13.2009
Umbrellas
Anger has no place in constructive thought and neither does the ability (or inability) to explain yourself. Thinking isn’t speaking. It isn’t even monologuing. Sure, we may, from time to time, convince ourselves cognition is some perfect sentence. I can catch myself saying, “At noon I’ve got to go get sauce for dinner tonight,” but that’s rare and (quite frankly) boring.
What supersedes language?
Sure, emotions are the “true” answer. I’m even sure if I ended up pontificating about them you’d turn to your friend (or pet) and say, “Why am I reading this shit if I can get it and a plot line (somewhat) from a Ms. Steel novel?” (1) - that's a footnote, go ahead, check it out.
Think about it, we give things names that aren’t relatable. For example, imagine an umbrella. It’s utility, at its most essential, is to keep rain, sun, snow, or frogs, from tumbling down onto your clothes (2). Take that same umbrella and poke holes in it. It’s suddenly lost its function and is deprived of meaning. Yet, if the fabric is torn away and the parasol is like the rusty skeleton of a bird, we’ll call it an umbrella. What's the deal? From name to moniker, I guess.
I had a rough day today. I don’t know why, but I can’t explain it. Sure, I could give you a sense of what happened - tell you about how work was frustrating, how I wished some things in my life were different, but it wouldn’t give you the exact feeling of what I think. Sometimes the “rough” days are the worse because you realize, with growing maturity, that you’re healthy, loved and well - and that some things aren’t worth stressing over. But we all do it anyway. In fact, this evening I had a small conversation with a friend about how “people just want universal relate-ability. Every medium of human discourse, interaction and social dynamic is saturated with a lust for relate-ability.” My friend was one the wiser, and reminded me of the beauty of it all - this feeling and its relentless pursuit creating originiality and brilliance. She was right, I was wrong. Typical outcome.
So language fails me on days like today. Hell, it fails me most days. Sometimes I even feel like it fails everyone and every good line is just parallelism - words that run side by side with the real emotion; and we reward them
every time
for being “ooooooooo just so close.”
Footnotes:
1. I assume Danielle Steel, however “oooooo just so close” with romance and her uncanny ability to process it, is not married. I was going to look it up, but then I saw a shirt (probably going in the hamper anyway) that needed folded and had to make a decision. I flipped a coin.
2. P.T. Anderson reference. Look out!
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