I was told, yesterday, that my ability to take criticism is second to none. Let me begin by saying that I don't think this is true. But then I am reminded that this is one persons opinion. Thoughts arose this morning (it's 8:38 am) and I found myself wondering how anyone could possibly perceive in me the aforementioned. I suppose, before I begin, that presently I recognize a somewhat indistinguishable feeling which bids me to agree, so let the following be taken carefully. At the end of the game, the King and the Pawn are placed in the same box. We are all travelers carrying heavy loads bound for the same destination. To judge me and mine is in many ways, to judge the universe and the motive power which drives it. What I mean to say is, the standards of reality, morality, necessity, and belief by which you judge and criticize me must also be recognized by me. The standards by which I am judged are not my own and in many ways belong to an objective (yet unessential) entity which ambles around various customs and institutions of society. Because I know that, that this is a game wherein we are both the King and the Pawn (and Queen, Bishop, Knight and Rook), I know that the only thing which truly dictates the relationship between critic and criticized is context. A context which is governed by a universe whose choices we cannot possibly fathom nor hope to take credit for.
As I sit there on the third floor of the train looking out at the lake I can't help but feel that this action - of staring out into an incalculable vastness, expresses the entire process of our existence. To see, from one perspective or another, a great body of multitudinous mass made more or less out of no one thing other than it self. And to know that we the watching are not part of the audience off stage and aside but part of that vastness. The concept of that division is the most brightest form of ignorance. There is no human action which is unnatural to him or to nature. To say, at any time, that our actions, our thoughts and emotions occur separately and independently of that vastness is the most violent form of thought. For the division of self and other - of self and thing, are now and have always been illusion. Sitting here on the third floor of the train looking out at the lake, that division dims down.
This subway leads anywhere and everywhere. It travels through earth, flesh and aether. You're on it. You may be waiting between two points, or hurtling to another. But you're on it. The trains move inspite of your stillness and will move you inspite of you. They run on tracks and schedules of infinite variety, but they are bound to one final destination. We are all on our way and doing the best we can with the time in between. Be reminded by that, in the eyes of those passing by - we are all commuters.
Monopoly Deal
(1): Thou shalt constantly play draw cards… unless you can win in three actions. This rule is most effective at the beginning of the game but is generally recommended throughout (perhaps without exception). It raises your chances to acquire any two-part properties, better action cards, and properties for sets which may be near completion. In short, the more cards you draw, the more likely you are to win.
(2): Thou shalt not waste actions… there is no exception to this rule. Any turn wherein you can play property, steal property from an opponent, and place money in your bank, is considered a good turn. Any turn where you only achieve one of these, is a bad turn. Any turn where you can complete all of these is considered well played. This means that you must play the cards you’re dealt to their best potential inspite of how good or bad your hand is.
(3): Thou shalt not play ineffective cards – pass when you can’t… there is no exception to this rule. Everything played can help your opponents, from money to property, even some action cards (though this is rare) - especially property. Ineffective cards refer to cards that really have no part in your victory strategy or cards that cannot be used effectively to win. If you’re the first player, in most cases, it’s best to pass. You may notice that those who play first, will usually have nothing in front of them by their next turn. This is even more important when there are many players.
(4): Thou shalt count cards… there is no exception to this. You don’t have to be Rainman. At the very least you need to know that there are 3 Just Say No cards and 2 Deal Breakers. There are also the corresponding amount of solid colors for each set, and usually 2 bi-colors for every 2 sets beginning from brown moving up.
Example: there are 2 solid brown properties, 2 brown and aqua properties, and 2/3 solid aqua properties for brown and aqua respectively. There are 3 solid purple properties, and 2 purple and orange properties.
(5): Thou shalt not complete sets… unless you’re about to win or know that there are no Deal Breakers in play. The obvious reason is that you don’t want to get Deal Broken, even if you have a Just Say No, as that has made for many eventful game turns. Be very aware of the cards in play if you do choose to complete a set.
All in all Monopoly deal is a very light party game suitable for people who rarely ever play boardgames and still highly enjoyable for those who do. It is mainly chance based with a guesstimated chance/skill ratio of 7-3 (I just made that up). But it is highly chancey. As the game progresses it becomes increasingly harder for players who haven't established a strong bank to break into the game with any chance to win. This preserves the concept of Monopoly very well, as those who get ahead in this game generally stay ahead unless Deal Breakers or other effective action cards are played against them. At the same time, although you might have a great hand, how players use their own cards and when still has a substantial effect on your own playstyle. I would recommend this game to nearly anyone and everyone who is willing to sit down for half an hour to an hour and get a bit of table top gaming in.
(1): Thou shalt constantly play draw cards… unless you can win in three actions. This rule is most effective at the beginning of the game but is generally recommended throughout (perhaps without exception). It raises your chances to acquire any two-part properties, better action cards, and properties for sets which may be near completion. In short, the more cards you draw, the more likely you are to win.
(2): Thou shalt not waste actions… there is no exception to this rule. Any turn wherein you can play property, steal property from an opponent, and place money in your bank, is considered a good turn. Any turn where you only achieve one of these, is a bad turn. Any turn where you can complete all of these is considered well played. This means that you must play the cards you’re dealt to their best potential inspite of how good or bad your hand is.
(3): Thou shalt not play ineffective cards – pass when you can’t… there is no exception to this rule. Everything played can help your opponents, from money to property, even some action cards (though this is rare) - especially property. Ineffective cards refer to cards that really have no part in your victory strategy or cards that cannot be used effectively to win. If you’re the first player, in most cases, it’s best to pass. You may notice that those who play first, will usually have nothing in front of them by their next turn. This is even more important when there are many players.
(4): Thou shalt count cards… there is no exception to this. You don’t have to be Rainman. At the very least you need to know that there are 3 Just Say No cards and 2 Deal Breakers. There are also the corresponding amount of solid colors for each set, and usually 2 bi-colors for every 2 sets beginning from brown moving up.
Example: there are 2 solid brown properties, 2 brown and aqua properties, and 2/3 solid aqua properties for brown and aqua respectively. There are 3 solid purple properties, and 2 purple and orange properties.
(5): Thou shalt not complete sets… unless you’re about to win or know that there are no Deal Breakers in play. The obvious reason is that you don’t want to get Deal Broken, even if you have a Just Say No, as that has made for many eventful game turns. Be very aware of the cards in play if you do choose to complete a set.
All in all Monopoly deal is a very light party game suitable for people who rarely ever play boardgames and still highly enjoyable for those who do. It is mainly chance based with a guesstimated chance/skill ratio of 7-3 (I just made that up). But it is highly chancey. As the game progresses it becomes increasingly harder for players who haven't established a strong bank to break into the game with any chance to win. This preserves the concept of Monopoly very well, as those who get ahead in this game generally stay ahead unless Deal Breakers or other effective action cards are played against them. At the same time, although you might have a great hand, how players use their own cards and when still has a substantial effect on your own playstyle. I would recommend this game to nearly anyone and everyone who is willing to sit down for half an hour to an hour and get a bit of table top gaming in.
Beneath the skin was nothing more than more interwoven seams of red, blue and white. The flesh was torn in two places, deeply and unreparably broken. Somehow I knew he was still alive, if not only because he spoke to me. He said, "I have only ever cared about you, brother". And I knew he did. This was my brother, who shared my blood, from our mother. His face was young and unexposed to the gusts of lifes later winds. He was innocent and simple as he lay there dying. And as I woke in my bed, I wanted only to walk down the hall and kneel at the bed which once belonged to my younger self, lay my head down on his ribs, my brothers, and close my eyes.
Note to self: pay more attention to the feelings and thoughts evoked by dreams rather than the events
Note to self: pay more attention to the feelings and thoughts evoked by dreams rather than the events
I think, one day, when I'm on the train going to work. As I look from face to face between empty stares into space, I'll jump as suddenly, without any warning, someone gets up in force, looks around at everyone, now staring, and says, "I'm done". They'd get off the train at the next stop, they'd leave their bags where they were, and they'd leave. They'd go somewhere else, far, far away and never think about this subway again.
My grandparents had written their will and, split amongst the seven of us, the greatest portion of their estate had been given to Jarrod. But Jarrod was Jonathan, I knew that. No one could understand it, my dad most of all, and I remember feeling negatively. Then all things shifted. I was in a hospital bed with intravenous tubes, one in my hand below the knuckles and the other in my solarplex. My chest began to increasingly hurt and become uncomfortable. My family was gathered just beyond my bed talking casually. My cousin looked over to me a few times. I turned to the nurse to tell her the needle in my chest was becoming unbearable. And I knew it was time to take them out. The one in my hand slipped out, though I didn't look at it, but the one in my chest became detatched from the tube. The needle itself was lodged in my solarplex, buried deep, like a successful stake. I remember panicing a bit but the doctor, who was actually my managers manager at work, took a thin metal rod with a square ending and began to push at the edges of the needle in my chest. Slowly the skin loosened around the end of it and she picked at it with her thumb and index finger. She pressed it down, and I felt it move inside me. She pushed it up, and it slowly came out further. Then, very cautiously she pulled the stake out of my chest. It was a dull gold, and no longer a needle but almost a tooth or fang. Immediately after, blood and a clear substance shot out of my chest and onto my white shirt, which I was now wearing. My family was alarmed and paniced a bit, but I was calm and calmed them. Blood and that clear substance covered me and my shirt, but I sat upright on the bed as they began to leave the room. My cousin waved to me, and my lolo, from my moms side made a gesture towards the mess my open wound had made exclaiming, "mess, what a mess". I remember thinking of what to do next or what to want next, but as I did, my grandparents, my fathers parents, came to my bedside. They were the last ones in the room. My lola sat by my bed, and my lolo came and lay down beside me. I began to cry. Because I missed them, and I knew they loved me. As I woke up I was crying, and I lay there in bed, crying. It felt so good to cry, at probably 6:30 am, half an hour before my alarm would go off.
Go Touch a Tree
On my way home my bus passes through Guildwood. The trees here still maintain some of their wild ways. Though it's obvious many of their friends, family and acquaintences have been cut down to make space for houses and roads. They still retain their own order. Leaves fall, wander and gather as they please. And though the trees remember a time when they were a forest they are content with their existence. Along the road, by the lake, where the breeze that fills them is the same as years and years before. They are not like their city cousins. The trees in the business sector of Toronto. Those which exist in squared spaces in the concrete, covered in paint and posters. I imagine, one day, that the trees will raise their roots up out of the ground and stretch. The Guildwood houses and roads would be destroyed I think. These wild trees could do it. And here on the 116A that's exciting to me, that one day I might see the trees yawn and stretch then got back to sleep without knowing or giving a fuck.
he took my hands to inspect them
turning them over to look at my knuckles
"I don't have a gun" I say again
"that's because you're hiding it" he says
"here" he points
both index fingers at my chest
"I have no weapon on me, my hands are empty"
I turn my palms up
"maybe now, but your hands have fist potential"
turning them over to look at my knuckles
"I don't have a gun" I say again
"that's because you're hiding it" he says
"here" he points
both index fingers at my chest
"I have no weapon on me, my hands are empty"
I turn my palms up
"maybe now, but your hands have fist potential"
When I was in grade 5 or 6, for my birthday, by my mother, I received a computer game called, Age of Empires. I remember the day we bought it too. We drove to the Staples by my house, we went in, and I browsed their computer games with my mom. Staples, to this day, has the worst game selection, but that should of been obvious to me. I was in grade 5 (or 6).
So anyways, I played this game, a lot. I have a knack for all things ancient historical so I really took to the game, wherein, you choose a civilization, build shit, gather resources, and destroy shit. I played this game, a lot. So much so, that I would stop playing sometimes and feel like I wasted my time. I realized, too, that the game itself was boring to me, but I still played it. It wasn't even enjoyable, and yet, I knew that I would still play it. I wanted to do other things, and thought of doing them, but I always started up the computer, and played, Age of Empires. Yea, a lot.
So I get to the point where, I am able to see what I'm doing to myself, and so I decide to stop playing. Not only that, I decide to un-install the game so as to make playing it at least slightly more difficult since I'd have to go through the installation process again to play. It worked like, 3 days. I was back to playing, even though I wasn't really enjoying it, and it wasn't fulfilling. I re-turned, you could say. Soon after, I resolved, once again, to stop playing, only this time I went HAM.
I un-installed the game, took the CD, and stood at the top of the stairs in my house. I remember looking at the disc itself, seeing a Centurian in yellow overlay and the silver from the CD itself. I remember even looking at it and then down at the door at the bottom of the stairs. I threw it, hard, like a ninja star, and it cracked and a piece or two broke off. I remember immediately going down the stairs to pick up the pieces and check the CD to see, well, if it was completely broken. It was, obviously. I knew that that was a gift, and that it had cost money, 50 or 60 dollars, and it was for my birthday. But, I had to get rid of it.
Why I'm saying any of this is because, well, switch gears, cause I'm about to get a little preachy. I believe, in life, as humans, we fall or place ourselves into circles. There are two types of circles. There are circles aimed at Heaven and there are those aimed at Hell. I don't mean the traditional Judeo-Christian idea of them where Satan, blah blah blah. I mean, Heaven as in, where we become greater, and Hell, where we become lesser than what we are.
The key difference between these circles is that circles aimed at Heaven are those which allow us to grow in a positive direction. In the direction that is aligned with our greatest selves, with our greatest potential, and ultimately, our greatest will. Circles aimed at Hell are aimed at the complete opposite.
When I was younger, I realized that I had fallen into a bad circle. Not a debilitating one, yet, but one which was keeping me from doing things that would/could of made me happy. To those who claim, we all do what we want, that's obviously not true. I won't get into it, but let's just keep it at the fact that, we are not always ourselves, most of the time, and that we consider a great many other things before ourselves. The circle I found myself in was a game, and, as young as I was, I was able to break out of it.
But this strength, I think, leaves us as we age. We become more content to say, that this is easy, or that this is safe, or that I am within my limits, or that I am better off in my circle. We betray the child who would of said and done otherwise. The child who considers himself, loves himself, and respects himself without regard.
These circles take a great many forms. They are, essentially, habits. But that's a terrible and narrow sighted way of describing them. Almost all of the activities we partake of have the potential to be circles. Things which, if repeated, can lead to greatness of either nature. I suppose, why I'm saying any of this, is because, I've identified circles, now, in my life, and thought that I should remember a time, wherein I had the power to break the wheel off the spoke, so to speak.
So anyways, I played this game, a lot. I have a knack for all things ancient historical so I really took to the game, wherein, you choose a civilization, build shit, gather resources, and destroy shit. I played this game, a lot. So much so, that I would stop playing sometimes and feel like I wasted my time. I realized, too, that the game itself was boring to me, but I still played it. It wasn't even enjoyable, and yet, I knew that I would still play it. I wanted to do other things, and thought of doing them, but I always started up the computer, and played, Age of Empires. Yea, a lot.
So I get to the point where, I am able to see what I'm doing to myself, and so I decide to stop playing. Not only that, I decide to un-install the game so as to make playing it at least slightly more difficult since I'd have to go through the installation process again to play. It worked like, 3 days. I was back to playing, even though I wasn't really enjoying it, and it wasn't fulfilling. I re-turned, you could say. Soon after, I resolved, once again, to stop playing, only this time I went HAM.
I un-installed the game, took the CD, and stood at the top of the stairs in my house. I remember looking at the disc itself, seeing a Centurian in yellow overlay and the silver from the CD itself. I remember even looking at it and then down at the door at the bottom of the stairs. I threw it, hard, like a ninja star, and it cracked and a piece or two broke off. I remember immediately going down the stairs to pick up the pieces and check the CD to see, well, if it was completely broken. It was, obviously. I knew that that was a gift, and that it had cost money, 50 or 60 dollars, and it was for my birthday. But, I had to get rid of it.
Why I'm saying any of this is because, well, switch gears, cause I'm about to get a little preachy. I believe, in life, as humans, we fall or place ourselves into circles. There are two types of circles. There are circles aimed at Heaven and there are those aimed at Hell. I don't mean the traditional Judeo-Christian idea of them where Satan, blah blah blah. I mean, Heaven as in, where we become greater, and Hell, where we become lesser than what we are.
The key difference between these circles is that circles aimed at Heaven are those which allow us to grow in a positive direction. In the direction that is aligned with our greatest selves, with our greatest potential, and ultimately, our greatest will. Circles aimed at Hell are aimed at the complete opposite.
When I was younger, I realized that I had fallen into a bad circle. Not a debilitating one, yet, but one which was keeping me from doing things that would/could of made me happy. To those who claim, we all do what we want, that's obviously not true. I won't get into it, but let's just keep it at the fact that, we are not always ourselves, most of the time, and that we consider a great many other things before ourselves. The circle I found myself in was a game, and, as young as I was, I was able to break out of it.
But this strength, I think, leaves us as we age. We become more content to say, that this is easy, or that this is safe, or that I am within my limits, or that I am better off in my circle. We betray the child who would of said and done otherwise. The child who considers himself, loves himself, and respects himself without regard.
These circles take a great many forms. They are, essentially, habits. But that's a terrible and narrow sighted way of describing them. Almost all of the activities we partake of have the potential to be circles. Things which, if repeated, can lead to greatness of either nature. I suppose, why I'm saying any of this, is because, I've identified circles, now, in my life, and thought that I should remember a time, wherein I had the power to break the wheel off the spoke, so to speak.
Niagara at 5:00 AM
i remember them roaring
out there in the dimmest light
the constant scream of water
unbroken streams of white
a risen mist unmoving
veils the farther falls
aside the barrier I stand
she on the other calls
out there in the dimmest light
the constant scream of water
unbroken streams of white
a risen mist unmoving
veils the farther falls
aside the barrier I stand
she on the other calls
I
"you know, your uncle, my brother" - he looked away
"no, I shouldn't mention it" - he smiled at me
but he said, "my brother..."
"he said, "I want to drink with all the generations"
he gestured at all of us
"and here we are" says uncle Bernie
"all of us, together" says dad
my grandfather shook his head
"not all here, though" he shook his head
"John is inside"
I look through the window
"he's here lolo"
"we're all here" says dad
i drink my beer
II
"oh, Jamie?" - he opened his eyes
"how are you?" - arm out of the blanket
"i just wanted to check on you lolo" - my hand on his shoulder
he coughs, shortly - then repeatedly
"are you okay?" says lola
he coughs, rhythmically
getting up
i reach for his arm
"don't help me jamie"
he ambles to the washroom
pukes a mouthful short of the toilet
"let me get tissue"
"no, he has some lola"
I reach for his arm
"Jamie, don't worry about me"
the faucet is running
"he's not used to the alchohal" says lola
"he cannot read and write"
he speaks to my reflection
"who lolo?"
"Jayden"
"how old is he now? 8? 11?"
"and to this day he cannot read and write"
he winces
"he can" says lola
"no, he can't" says lolo
lola walks down the hall
"you can read and write can't you?"
She walks back
"see, he can" says lola
"no, he can't" says lolo
lola covers her lips with a finger
"Jamie, you want to become a teacher"
still speaking to my reflection
"start with Jayden"
"okay lolo, i'll help him"
I help him back to bed
"Jaime, don't worry about me, I'm old"
"i am going to die"
"well, I'm not going to die"
he's back under the covers
"i know i am drunk, but i mean it"
"he cannot read and write, to this day"
"how old is he? 10? 11?"
"i'll help him lolo"
"how is he?" says my step mom
"he's doing fine, just drunk" says lolo
"oh, don't worry" says lolo
"just let him sleep"
"you should sleep lolo"
They leave us alone
"I'll help him lolo"
"What do you mean you'll help him?"
I sit down
"he has that" he winces
"what is it?" grasping
"ADH-"
"ADHD?"
"yes, that one"
his eyes are closed
"well, I'll figure out how to"
"what do you mean?"
"I'll learn"
"Jamie, you have to help them"
"don't worry about me anymore"
"i will"
"listen, Jaime, you are the best one"
"you have always been the best one"
"you have to help them"
"Jayden, he is the worst"
"you don't have to worry about Jacob"
"Alyssa, Sierra, Jonathan"
"but Jayden, he cannot read and write"
"how old is he?"
"help them, please"
"help them"
"i will lolo"
"but you rest now"
"i love you"
"bull shit"
"what do you mean?" - I smile
"oh oh, how many times do you come see me?"
"so you're saying you want to see me more?"
"yes"
"okay lolo, I'll come to see you"
"sleep now"
i grab my beer off the night stand
i walk down the hall way
i turn to my cousin
"you"
"i need to teach you how to read and write"
"good night lola"
III
"will John be there?" through the din
"I'd compete if he were" says tito Bernie
"hasn't played in the last few games"
"I doubt it" says tito Joe
"we haven't won since he played"
"never will again!" says tito Ted
glass shatters
"he's back"
"where was he?"
"not sure"
"but we have a chance!" says Bernie
"I remember when" he begins - drinking
"I remember when we all played"
"we owned the scrum"
"hell yeah!" says Joe
"but not since John" croaks Ted
"left" still croaking
"it's been, what?" pause
"10 years? 12?"
"of drinking" says Bernie
"we just don't have the bodies anymore"
"John does"
"he always will!"
"because he doesn't drink" says Joe
"but he does"
"ever since Michelle"
"and he has tattoos!"
"of a Geisha"
"what's that?"
"a hot asian"
"is she mixed?"
"of course she is!"
"with"
"what?"
"Thai"
"oh, damn"
"and a samurai" says Ted
hands over eyes
"and lions" says Joe
"also" starts Bernie
he raises a finger
"also, lions"
he lowers his finger
"damn"
"and an anagram"
"Joshua"
lying his forearm in front of him
"Jayden"
he raises his arm
wrist to forehead
forearm facing out
"more ink than a jellyfish"
"you mean clam"
"you mean calamari"
"fuck you!"
"fuck John!"
"why did he leave?"
"Michelle"
"she cheated on him"
"why?"
glass shatters
IV
the engine flexes
"you know" he starts
"yea" - I don't
"your dad never talks to me" says Kevin
"like, last night"
"when he was telling me to give Chels the finger"
"he never talks to me like that"
"I mean, we talk and all, but..."
wind-whipped hair hits my eyelashes
"but never about anything that matters"
"you know?"
"I do" - I do
"he always tells your titos he likes me"
"but I never feel it"
"he always says, "Kevin and I are buddies"
"but I mean, I don't feel that"
"we've been together for 5 years now" says chelsea
"and he's never shown any emotion"
"but that's dad" I say
sun scented street concrete glares
"all the alarcon males are like that"
"we got it from lolo"
"super stone skinned"
"strong, be strong"
"that's how we were raised"
I think of my onyx ring
"but dad does care"
"he only cares in his way"
"if he's patient with you"
"if he can stand your presence"
"that's how dad says, "i like you"
"yea, that's true" says my sister
"i've expected a lot from dad" I say
"i expected certain expressions"
"but that was my fault"
"he is who he is"
"i can't change that"
"i know he loves me"
"and that he'll try in his way"
"i can't ask for more"
the engine flexes
On the other hand, like you said, the internet is a form of escape and relief. That escape and relief can take many forms. Repression of real life problems can, and most certainly will, have effects on how people conduct themselves online. The door swings both ways. The girl could/should of realized what forms people on the internet can take. It's sad, and I'll repeat that, it's sad, that you can't come online and expect the same respect and courtesy you can while at a restaurant or on a train, or in an elevator, because the fact is, the body is not involved. The body is not at stake, shown, and in being so, it is not held accountable. That lack of accountability/responsibility is, to many people, escape, and relief. From the lives they live, from the bodies they inhabit, from the issues which berate them to and from their jobs and relationships.
The fact is, until people can healthily deal with their problems in real life, they will continue to exhibit the behavior aforementioned. This is ultimately a very vicious cycle wherein people simply exchange bad energy that slowly becomes more dangerous. Although, your post is aimed at a very concise and simple solution, the reality is in in reality. You are not asking people to change their conduct online, you are, by extension, asking them to change the conduct of their very lives. Unfortunately, the internet will continue to be an outlet for such energy and behavior since it is so entrenched within our nature at this point. The wires and phones, electricity and wifi sink deeper and deeper into our psyches.
Welcome to the future.
The fact is, until people can healthily deal with their problems in real life, they will continue to exhibit the behavior aforementioned. This is ultimately a very vicious cycle wherein people simply exchange bad energy that slowly becomes more dangerous. Although, your post is aimed at a very concise and simple solution, the reality is in in reality. You are not asking people to change their conduct online, you are, by extension, asking them to change the conduct of their very lives. Unfortunately, the internet will continue to be an outlet for such energy and behavior since it is so entrenched within our nature at this point. The wires and phones, electricity and wifi sink deeper and deeper into our psyches.
Welcome to the future.
Very little is ever required to change the world. Usually the only problem is our own, and in being so, the solution is ours as well. Our problem is in thinking that this world is expansive, that it contains a great many people and it is host to many events. Ultimately, if we think about it hard enough, only a few people actually exist, and of those people, only a very few actually matter to us. At the same time, there aren't many events which take place in a day, perhaps, eleven. After that, what else matters? Let's be honest, our worlds aren't as large as most people assume they are, the world, as we percieve it, in our truest heart, is as small as we are.
It would be wrong for me to say, I saw a difference. There was no change in face or form. I cannot say, I felt a difference. Her skin was obviously soft. But I did feel a difference. Perhaps that is naive. But then who uses a word like naive to convince themselves of anything. Yet, her shoulder. Such a fickle part. A simple representaion of this girl who's more than just a shoulder. There is ofcourse, the elevator in which we wait. There is the small dog at her heel. There is the building which wraps around the elevator shaft, and there are people on each floor doing humanely things. There are clouds outside this building and cars, lights, planets and suns. There are tickets and bills, babies being born, people dying silently and people dying horribly. But I am in this elevator, and all I can think of - no, I cannot say I'm thinking - I am feeling, her shoulder. And if it wasn't for these black suits between us, I'd be feeling her shoulder.
So, here we are again. At the page with the rock behind us. Nothing special or serene about this particular occasion, just, another instance of writing. This whole formulation of words on a page or on a screen where there would otherwise be, nothing. Perhaps that’s what it is, Simmel's ideas of culture fulfilled. My subjective soul requiring more of itself seeks itself outside itself. And that can be true. But then, what if in this whole process we are, losing what we are aiming for. What if this process, which we had thought was for the purpose of living, for growing, was actually supplying us with falsity.
Ofcourse, that can’t be so. The whole idea that these things even come together or come apart creates the foundation of cultivation and attainment. How can I as a writer become better unless I write? It does not suffice that my thoughts are based on writing, this in itself is not writing. Although, we may recall the entire concept of billable hours. This is not the case. Let us suppose then that writing, must be exactly what it is, writing. It is the physical representation of a thought. It is a creation, in and of itself which lends its soul to a soul, that is, something intangible.
But then let us consider what it means to think for oneself, for ones own thoughts, how does one write for oneself and in doing so allow oneself to grow. If we consider the parameters of our endeavor, no, if we assume the existence of these parameters, then how much can we hope to accomplish. The confusion is silent, I suppose. But then it is not, it is inevitable, and in being so, it is loud. That is, it is undeniably apparent, and makes itself so. This confusion, if ultimately, not a confusion, is the primary effect of the process of writing. It is not a confusion in so far as it is misunderstood, it is a confusion because we cannot admit that we have, essentially mis-communicated ourselves to ourselves. We began with a thought, we allowed it to leave us, and on its journey from the metaphysical to the physical it changed.
The confusion occurs in our assumption that the travelling of one thought to a set of words carries with it our exact meaning, or even something that is somewhat like it, perhaps similar. But then this problem, if we can even assume it is one, is not a part of the process at all. It is the process. What we receive out of the process is what we expected, we expected that which was written to evolve a thought by making it more than what it was, and it did that, the thought was completed, in a way, it was made real and it was the thought that we required. The problem is our own problem, and that means, that the solution is our own.
My writing, once communicated to paper, is no longer my own thoughts, they are a representation of them, but they do not resemble my thoughts as they exist presently. So why then do I find, hate, when I go to feel my words. Why do I see them as they are written by some foreign, racial power that is not my own. This source, wherefrom my thoughts began still exists, it does, in me, but it is not the same. It has changed, but it still holds a sliver of that instance wherein I created it. This is why I hold such a heavy claim to it, even though it broke up with me a long, long time ago.
Ofcourse, that can’t be so. The whole idea that these things even come together or come apart creates the foundation of cultivation and attainment. How can I as a writer become better unless I write? It does not suffice that my thoughts are based on writing, this in itself is not writing. Although, we may recall the entire concept of billable hours. This is not the case. Let us suppose then that writing, must be exactly what it is, writing. It is the physical representation of a thought. It is a creation, in and of itself which lends its soul to a soul, that is, something intangible.
But then let us consider what it means to think for oneself, for ones own thoughts, how does one write for oneself and in doing so allow oneself to grow. If we consider the parameters of our endeavor, no, if we assume the existence of these parameters, then how much can we hope to accomplish. The confusion is silent, I suppose. But then it is not, it is inevitable, and in being so, it is loud. That is, it is undeniably apparent, and makes itself so. This confusion, if ultimately, not a confusion, is the primary effect of the process of writing. It is not a confusion in so far as it is misunderstood, it is a confusion because we cannot admit that we have, essentially mis-communicated ourselves to ourselves. We began with a thought, we allowed it to leave us, and on its journey from the metaphysical to the physical it changed.
The confusion occurs in our assumption that the travelling of one thought to a set of words carries with it our exact meaning, or even something that is somewhat like it, perhaps similar. But then this problem, if we can even assume it is one, is not a part of the process at all. It is the process. What we receive out of the process is what we expected, we expected that which was written to evolve a thought by making it more than what it was, and it did that, the thought was completed, in a way, it was made real and it was the thought that we required. The problem is our own problem, and that means, that the solution is our own.
My writing, once communicated to paper, is no longer my own thoughts, they are a representation of them, but they do not resemble my thoughts as they exist presently. So why then do I find, hate, when I go to feel my words. Why do I see them as they are written by some foreign, racial power that is not my own. This source, wherefrom my thoughts began still exists, it does, in me, but it is not the same. It has changed, but it still holds a sliver of that instance wherein I created it. This is why I hold such a heavy claim to it, even though it broke up with me a long, long time ago.
I cannot say I'm sorry. I don't hold myself culpable for any of the wrongs you accuse me of. I don't recognize the authority with which you seek to hold me accountable. I am vigilant. I have searched my feelings for any that may agree with you, some that may lead me back, but there are none. I suppose there are a few questions which you think might need answering, some explanations for the things I feel or don't feel. But let's avoid my tailoring of reasons to fit the feelings. I won't doubt or attempt to rationalize my way out of what I clearly feel or don't feel. And, above all, I am happy. I don't care if that gives you consolation. I am proud of who I am. I am proud of what I have and will accomplish. And I deserve to be loved for it and nothing else. I will not settle for weakness or for sadness, or for an idea of happiness that I don't believe in. I will not compromise my own sense of worth to accommodate your own. And I will never hide my passions to satisfy your idea of humility. However, I will say, thank you. Thank you for playing the games, for reciting the lines, and for playing the part. I'll miss you, and I thank you, but I cannot say I'm sorry. So, goodnight, and good life.
This train. The steel artery which flows beneath the city's skin and moves our blood across the lines. Hereon the train I sit between two points in life and smell my palm. My palm, because my fingers press against my forehead and so assume that familiar pose peculiar to the young and drunk. A couple sits to my left. Her head collapsed onto his shoulder, saliva mixed with something drips from her dumb mouth, but her eyes are open. His eyes are not. He clutches his stomach with his left hand, but his right arm is wrapped around her neck. Across from them sits a homeless man holding a brick, but he sits with such etiquette that he could only be insane. To his left, directly infront of me, sits Joseph. I named him two stops ago. Joseph is an anachronism, which means that he's sober. I wonder if Joseph has children, or if he's sporty and yet likes to paint minatures. Ofcourse he possess all of these qualities, Joseph is who he is to me regardless of reality. My senses, still familiar with inertia, tell me that the train is slowing. I look around, there's the highway. There's the stark night and the finger nail moon. Below is a valley, I know where we are. That's Thorncliff Park, or a piece of it. Despite the hour many apartment or office lights are still on in the distance. The train has stopped. It scared the shit out of me when Joseph, now looking at his watch, got up and turned to face the window behind him. Who moves on a subway unless they're getting off or sitting down? I didn't notice it earlier, but he was holding a large black gym bag. This bag was put down on the seat which was now between Joseph and the window. He unzipped the bag took out a pair of binoculars and proceeded to bring them to his face. I couldn't see his eyes, obviously, his back was to me.
Of course, he didnt know entirely what he was saying, and I can't say I do or did either. But I felt then and still feel like those words contained the very essence of a very peculiar struggle. He talked about love and his family. He used certain names which pertained to specific people, but it all lined up and formed sense, universally speaking. We either put the interests of the human race above our own or selfishly put them aside. Our subconcious attempts to decieve us, it forces us into love, and creates desires that make us contradict ourselves. As much as I respect him, I knew he didn't know he was saying any of that. I knew that he thought he was talking about himself, and his problems.
OKay
She bent my body, in a secret way, which I had forgot, but slowly remembered, as we pressed together, and I felt her form, beneath the fabric. Sinews shook, she held me tighter, I balanced breath, and accepted. Even though I was only stealing. Even though I'd of given everything. Even though we were in church.
Astral Projection Update: Wed, Novemeber 10. 2010
I'm quite certain that orgasms, or at least post-ecstatic relaxation is related to Astral Projection in some way. If not Astral Projection, than another metaphysical operation.
Perhaps, it has to do with the level of relaxation, that is, it is the ideal level of energy being produced by the body.
Aleister Crowley believed the same. Dieties came to him after sexual experiences and inspired him to write. Is that what's happening to me?
All I know is that after an orgasm my thoughts pass more clearly. My mind is far more tractive in being able to clarify, understand, and create out of conscious and subconscious material.
Thus far I have recorded two dreams. After a recent conversation I have also taken into thought the theory that dreams are created out of the subconsious at all. Even the question of the subconscious and its nature. Since the subconscious is, if not entirely, then primarily, the subject of this whole enterprise.
Perhaps, it has to do with the level of relaxation, that is, it is the ideal level of energy being produced by the body.
Aleister Crowley believed the same. Dieties came to him after sexual experiences and inspired him to write. Is that what's happening to me?
All I know is that after an orgasm my thoughts pass more clearly. My mind is far more tractive in being able to clarify, understand, and create out of conscious and subconscious material.
Thus far I have recorded two dreams. After a recent conversation I have also taken into thought the theory that dreams are created out of the subconsious at all. Even the question of the subconscious and its nature. Since the subconscious is, if not entirely, then primarily, the subject of this whole enterprise.
Chapter 1: On Pamela, cont'd.
Four cats live between the houses. They used to live in a house, until one early morning, when the sky was still yawning; the lights of the law skipped down the street. There was an exchange of space, a body displaced, and all at once they were left on the stoop. Nothing fancy, a mat with some cats on a porch in the sun. Another morning, nothing to notice, by the time the Mr. had kissed the Mrs. and shook the hair of his son drinking juice, the cats had left the mat. No one knows if they were heartbroken, although I think they were. For from then on they were never seen in the same place at the same time, probably because they reminded each other of home.
A few girls getting sparked by the park where our road takes a bend swore that a cat with red eyes climbed down a lamp post face first and told them to “run”. Of course, they did. In opposite directions, with fumes in their brains from the grass, one of them, the youngest, dashed onto the road as the Mr. was rushing home. A screech of tires, a cracking, some wind to carry a leaf past a lamp post.
The neighborhood took it hard; the girl was seventeen and had disproportionate dimples, she didn’t deserve to die. Mr.’s son went to high school with her, used to have gym class with her, used to comment on her dimples. Now he’s pinned down to the change room floor, forced to keep his eyes open while they spit into them. He doesn’t cry out. Mrs. begs Mr. to move them somewhere closer to his work, and for a time he talks her out, but his son talks him in, and they wrap up in old newspapers. In one of them, some two month old sepia renders a picture of the girl at her graduation. The boy notices it, tears it to a mess and his parents look on without pausing their packing.
...
No one remembered the cat, even though it attended the watching every night until the mortician came in the morning to prepare the room. When the girl’s family had left for the night, with all their sniffling and contorted throats, the cat would sit, alone, in the dimly lit room of the funeral home, and with its red eyes, watched over the body. Eyes closed, dressed dark with the shades of death, there was no confusing it for sleep. Her grey skin made to look warm by the mortician, her form, unitary, like all others have been and will be. The makeup on the hands, oily, smeared with tears from moist fingertips that caressed the dead limb for one last time. Unseen by all her relatives,two native coins lay under her palm atop her unmoving chest. The uncle who placed them there when no one else was looking but his son, looked down at the boy and said, “she loved money.” I like to think that the coins are for Charon.
A small Christian service was held for the girl the night before her funeral, all quotation of sympathetic scripture and feigned remorse. But when the vestment had finished speaking, a cousin was left standing between the body and the mourners.
He sang, amazing… his throat caught, snagged like a fish. … grace… his voice shook… how sweet… he was barely mumbling the words, his breath staggered… the sound. As the rest of the family joined in, tears appeared out of every surface of the room. That saved… a wretch… like meee… Misunderstanding children looked up at their deconstructed relatives … I once… some of them trying to cry … was lost… some of them staring… but now… all of them being scarred for life… am found… on a level they’ll never recognize … was blind… until it’s too late… but now… I seee.
On the morning of the burial, the immediate family was allowed to make their final goodbyes. Her mother, morbid, a fountain of salt water, kissed the girls forehead softly, getting some of the makeup on her lips, but no one cared to tell her. Her sisters holding onto each other for support, trembled like two autumn trees. Her father, worst of all, couldn’t stand, he couldn’t look. He knelt, on his knees, in front of the body with his face buried in his hands that rested in a steeple against. He barked in sorrow. When the time came, the mortician, well practiced in dealing with the grief of others, gave a silent indication that the casket had to be closed. Of course no one could have noticed, but as they slowly fixed the cover of the coffin over the body, the coins, that I think are for Charon, were gone.
...
The house, from which the cats set out, was not the dilapidated set of four walls wherein one expects to find tragedy. It was not neglected in anyway. No gutters choked with leaves, no bathroom tiles shattered, no anonymous stains in the carpet. Bloodless walls, nothing foul could be read in the floor boards. When holy water, which came from the Jordan, was sprinkled throughout the rooms, no demons sizzled and the paint didn’t bubble. In fact all that was left were moist surfaces. So don’t bend my meaning when I say, it was simply, a simple house. I would be told, by my wife, that it previously belonged to the last Wickett. A family name altogether without origin, in this world. I only know, because I dreamt it.
A few girls getting sparked by the park where our road takes a bend swore that a cat with red eyes climbed down a lamp post face first and told them to “run”. Of course, they did. In opposite directions, with fumes in their brains from the grass, one of them, the youngest, dashed onto the road as the Mr. was rushing home. A screech of tires, a cracking, some wind to carry a leaf past a lamp post.
The neighborhood took it hard; the girl was seventeen and had disproportionate dimples, she didn’t deserve to die. Mr.’s son went to high school with her, used to have gym class with her, used to comment on her dimples. Now he’s pinned down to the change room floor, forced to keep his eyes open while they spit into them. He doesn’t cry out. Mrs. begs Mr. to move them somewhere closer to his work, and for a time he talks her out, but his son talks him in, and they wrap up in old newspapers. In one of them, some two month old sepia renders a picture of the girl at her graduation. The boy notices it, tears it to a mess and his parents look on without pausing their packing.
...
No one remembered the cat, even though it attended the watching every night until the mortician came in the morning to prepare the room. When the girl’s family had left for the night, with all their sniffling and contorted throats, the cat would sit, alone, in the dimly lit room of the funeral home, and with its red eyes, watched over the body. Eyes closed, dressed dark with the shades of death, there was no confusing it for sleep. Her grey skin made to look warm by the mortician, her form, unitary, like all others have been and will be. The makeup on the hands, oily, smeared with tears from moist fingertips that caressed the dead limb for one last time. Unseen by all her relatives,two native coins lay under her palm atop her unmoving chest. The uncle who placed them there when no one else was looking but his son, looked down at the boy and said, “she loved money.” I like to think that the coins are for Charon.
A small Christian service was held for the girl the night before her funeral, all quotation of sympathetic scripture and feigned remorse. But when the vestment had finished speaking, a cousin was left standing between the body and the mourners.
He sang, amazing… his throat caught, snagged like a fish. … grace… his voice shook… how sweet… he was barely mumbling the words, his breath staggered… the sound. As the rest of the family joined in, tears appeared out of every surface of the room. That saved… a wretch… like meee… Misunderstanding children looked up at their deconstructed relatives … I once… some of them trying to cry … was lost… some of them staring… but now… all of them being scarred for life… am found… on a level they’ll never recognize … was blind… until it’s too late… but now… I seee.
On the morning of the burial, the immediate family was allowed to make their final goodbyes. Her mother, morbid, a fountain of salt water, kissed the girls forehead softly, getting some of the makeup on her lips, but no one cared to tell her. Her sisters holding onto each other for support, trembled like two autumn trees. Her father, worst of all, couldn’t stand, he couldn’t look. He knelt, on his knees, in front of the body with his face buried in his hands that rested in a steeple against. He barked in sorrow. When the time came, the mortician, well practiced in dealing with the grief of others, gave a silent indication that the casket had to be closed. Of course no one could have noticed, but as they slowly fixed the cover of the coffin over the body, the coins, that I think are for Charon, were gone.
...
The house, from which the cats set out, was not the dilapidated set of four walls wherein one expects to find tragedy. It was not neglected in anyway. No gutters choked with leaves, no bathroom tiles shattered, no anonymous stains in the carpet. Bloodless walls, nothing foul could be read in the floor boards. When holy water, which came from the Jordan, was sprinkled throughout the rooms, no demons sizzled and the paint didn’t bubble. In fact all that was left were moist surfaces. So don’t bend my meaning when I say, it was simply, a simple house. I would be told, by my wife, that it previously belonged to the last Wickett. A family name altogether without origin, in this world. I only know, because I dreamt it.
The Astral Projection Project
I think, I'm starting to understand a bit of this astral projection business. I remember taking in two breaths, I was scared to, I was inhaling demons, or something. Something that was necessary for me to be aware of both worlds, that is, the physical and the astral. A catalyst? An inhibitor?
I was absolutely still under the covers, I could hear the people who live in my house go about their routines, and at the same time I was somewhere else. I would check on my body, and knew that I was projecting properly. Although, not with full control.
When you're in that plane, you are both the watched and the watcher. That is, you can see yourself, what is around you, and you can see from your own perspective. You have no set place in the astral plane, you are wherever you imagine you are. Dream of something and you can experience it through every sense.
That is why, I think, that astral projection is first and foremost, an explorative activity. One which goes beyond the five senses and incorporates, a sixth sense, if you will, one which feels by way of the astral body.
In that place all types of learning are available to you. Things that you may never be exposed to in the physical world you can experience in the astral, and if you're disciplined enough, you can retain that experience to use in the physical world.
The mind never sleeps, it is always learning, always active. If we can connect our consciousness to the material explored by our projections, or better yet, direct our astral body to learn things that we designate, imagine the possibilities then.
I will sleep with a pen and paper more often and see what else I can learn. Perhaps I'm crazy, but psychology has taught us that something can be learned in dreams. I simply believe that there's a lot more possibilities than that.
I was absolutely still under the covers, I could hear the people who live in my house go about their routines, and at the same time I was somewhere else. I would check on my body, and knew that I was projecting properly. Although, not with full control.
When you're in that plane, you are both the watched and the watcher. That is, you can see yourself, what is around you, and you can see from your own perspective. You have no set place in the astral plane, you are wherever you imagine you are. Dream of something and you can experience it through every sense.
That is why, I think, that astral projection is first and foremost, an explorative activity. One which goes beyond the five senses and incorporates, a sixth sense, if you will, one which feels by way of the astral body.
In that place all types of learning are available to you. Things that you may never be exposed to in the physical world you can experience in the astral, and if you're disciplined enough, you can retain that experience to use in the physical world.
The mind never sleeps, it is always learning, always active. If we can connect our consciousness to the material explored by our projections, or better yet, direct our astral body to learn things that we designate, imagine the possibilities then.
I will sleep with a pen and paper more often and see what else I can learn. Perhaps I'm crazy, but psychology has taught us that something can be learned in dreams. I simply believe that there's a lot more possibilities than that.
Soft foot falls in the attic, like children running, struggling, and heavy objects being moved across the floor. That floor, that is, the ceiling, above my bed. I've lived here for twenty one years and no one has ever been there. I've seen the door to the attic, in my grandparents room, sealed, untouched. I have no reason to think anyone's up there. Only mold, I'm told. And yet, I hear them, and I think they want me to. Sometimes I hear their plotting, they don't try to whisper. Soon they'll come down, wait in my bed and sneak into my head, and I don't know if I want to stop them.
The soul has no grammer, it only feels. ...Oh! and my dreams have been teaching me so much more than this education
... which is a pity because it costs so much more.
An Age of Creons
If it wasn’t for the glass between us, I would have run by now. To where, I have no idea. I was too transfixed on what was in front of me to avert my eyes. And yet, it was blinding, desensitizing, like a drug. In front of me was a red bloody old man carrying a red bloody boy. ‘Armed’ would be a better description, for he held him the way a hunter carries a shotgun. Light could not touch them; crimson shaded made them perceptible, shadows and red, shadows of dead, shadows of dread. I couldn’t tell from their expressions what relation they had to each other. Their eyes were open, completely white, striking, lightning. “I shot him, and then I shot myself,” said the old man. When he spoke, his cracked lips exposed black teeth. Deep, dark, soulless. He breathed demons that man. Wraiths danced damned in his throat and swirled on his tounge. There’s a story here, a godless one. If it wasn’t for the glass between us, I would have run by now.
The Project Renewed
I haven't seen these words in years. I hope they remember me. I remember them. Let's hope they aren't so frugal as some, and more generous than most... I hope they remember that together we thought we could be something more then just two seperate compartments in the same soul. Lets see now.
Oh pressing darkness! In this infinite prison of onyx
Where cold is cold. It’s jealous and unrequited. Love fills the room
Silhouettes formed out of the black, paradigms of space
As I, under the cover of blankets, trace my steps into the day’s itinerary
Time finds no existence in this sable pitch, only
A blue zero, six, semi colon, three and one, floating in my periphery
Senses surface and silently rally to their banners of memories
I taste my tongue, feel my fingertips, hear my heartbeat, and know that
There, they, these, are the triggers, we find ourselves in
Black bullets remind me. Not only do I live, but that I am different
Denying death with the depth of a deep waking breath
Suited slick with sulfurous suffering, my brain branded with burden
As I, the sun starved subterranean, slips out of bed
And remember my mourning appointment with the Necromancer
Waiting with the sorely mist on a cruel day that does not smile
A black procession of metal and death wherein each heart carries a coffin
Miss Direction to my right. A limb collector I’m sure
If only dreams had died in waking we would not feel any pain
In this we are all murderers. Asleep or awake we bury our dreams
Set them to new tunes
Oh pressing darkness! In this infinite prison of onyx
Where cold is cold. It’s jealous and unrequited. Love fills the room
Silhouettes formed out of the black, paradigms of space
As I, under the cover of blankets, trace my steps into the day’s itinerary
Time finds no existence in this sable pitch, only
A blue zero, six, semi colon, three and one, floating in my periphery
Senses surface and silently rally to their banners of memories
I taste my tongue, feel my fingertips, hear my heartbeat, and know that
There, they, these, are the triggers, we find ourselves in
Black bullets remind me. Not only do I live, but that I am different
Denying death with the depth of a deep waking breath
Suited slick with sulfurous suffering, my brain branded with burden
As I, the sun starved subterranean, slips out of bed
And remember my mourning appointment with the Necromancer
Waiting with the sorely mist on a cruel day that does not smile
A black procession of metal and death wherein each heart carries a coffin
Miss Direction to my right. A limb collector I’m sure
If only dreams had died in waking we would not feel any pain
In this we are all murderers. Asleep or awake we bury our dreams
Set them to new tunes
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