Our Great Guardian Angel Destroyer

It is large and black and it blocks the stars from view. The sky above appears as a perfect black velvet, devoid of light and considerably less infinite. It is like a cloud layer and it blends with the surrounding darkness seamlessly. It moves with a low key rumble. We ask what it is, but it would never tell a soul. It will only move high above us. It doesn't reflect light. It stops it.

Mountains last week. Mountains that rised above the collective sludge of suburban dwelling. There was a very visible layer of smog that made the distinction clear. Above the smog layer was a temporary romp through visual clarity. A different world up there in several ways. We rode the snow. And it was good.

If I were to get into alot of trouble, I would hide deep in the mountains. Don't tell.

A new year soon, and then school after that. My stomach twists into knots, and keeps twisting... past the knots. Don't become a spiral fracture of the tissue, stomach. It is possible, but they would not call it a spiral fracture. Fracture is for brittle substances like bone.

But then on a lighter note, 2006 is going to be a great year. Especially for music and videogames. I lick my lips in anticipation and then stop because they are chapped.

It is raining now. I wonder if it snows higher up? Right after the trip too. Nice. Yeah...nice.

-The Piece

1000 Happy Holidays (Intensity, not quantity)

Soon I am mountain-bound to enjoy the holidays with my family. Hopefully a little snowboarding will ensue as well. Along with a healthy serving of music and movies.

This Christmas may not be white, as it has been eighty freakin' degrees as of late, but that is ok. A brown and green Christmas can be just as charming. Let us just hope that it is not dirtboarding we partake in, instead of its snow counterpart. I mean, don't get me wrong, cause I like dirt, I like dirt, I like dirt. But with all due respect for dirt, there are better uses for the substance and its frictional properties somewhat limit the velocity and enjoyment of the individuals who slide over its surface. Snow on the other hand is sparkly and quaint...and what's the other word...zesty. And the frictional properties are much more favorable for the eliminition of certain shearing forces that may put an end to horizontal movement along its surface. You know what, I'll just stop talking like a dickwad now and just state that dirt fuckin' sucks to snowboard on, and snow is much better, and that is why they call the boards snowboards. End of story.

I wrapped some presents today, and they actually looked pretty good in my opinion. This is compared to my usual patch jobs that look like I actually put the wrapping paper into my mouth, chewed it into a fine pulp, and then sort of spit it up across the surface of the object like a sort of protective layer of paper-pulp-resin. I was proud of myself.

I will be traversing the river of metal and glass once again, for the hundredth time, and as mundane as it seems, I thought I would just mention it as something to say.

I would write more but I'm tired and the tissue under my eyes itch. Not even sure why, but it sucks. And I wanna go to bed. Good night.

-The Piece

Slips Through The Fingers

Its not even even tangible. Whatever it is.

There's a white Christmas in my head. It is blinding and pulsing, and you can see it from behind the mountain, casting that eerie glow in the winter sky. It silhouettes the outer trees that line the monolith before me, and they reach into the sky in an exhausted desperation, an exhausted desperation which I have seemingly always known. Its not light pollution. There's not even any lights out here in this place. They fly away in twos when the glow is brightest. Fly away in twos away from my outreached hands, and it all sips through my fingers. Eventually they become threes. I have seen threes before. Hell is a cold place. The heat is mythological.

Just need to hang in there a little longer.

Feel like a dying soldier with a slowly cooling rifle slug lodged deep in his gut, clinging to his own rifle and waiting for his oncoming savior in the fetal position. It is under a cold rising winter sun. The vapor clouds from his mouth are growing smaller and less dense. The light has a yellow-blue hue and is breathtaking. And he is in a euphoria that few will understand. It just started to snow. How delicate and soft...the falling of snow. Maybe just as much so as the human body. Maybe just as much so.

Of course I wouldn't know what it really feels like to be a soldier of any kind. The mere thought of the possibility is terrifying in the most primal way. For someone to die protecting the life of another. Incredible.

Maybe fate acts as a sort of loose-leash blueprint for our overall life plan. I mean, surely there is required even a bit of freewill for a human being to do some of the things that human beings have done in this world. That and there has to be a sort of design as well, as this place is ruled with mathematics, and if this place is ruled with mathematics than there is a design. Perhaps freewill and fate are reconcillable.

And all this thinking. Hopefully brains aren't like cars and become less reliable with more mileage.

-The Piece

who doesn't fit

You'll find me between the walls.

Les Do This

Let's do this while I am in a good mood. Actually, to be honest, I have been in a relatively good mood overall for quite some time now. Despite some setbacks, my life has been on somewhat of an incline, and that incline is going up of course...on some sort of conveyor belt. A conveyor belt with ribs and studs and other catchy items so that I may not slip backwards or float in one place. Sure I may have no idea where my life is headed at this point, other than enjoying a steady increase in confidence and self worth, but I now enjoy the luxury of just not caring!

It is not apathy, make no mistake.

I still care care, its just that...well, I don't care. Over these past few months my perception on life has growed and mutated into this sort of superbeast that I am sure will fight on my behalf. I have learned to take the pressure that was unapologetically pushing my face into the cold concrete of expectation and sort of...lift it off of my back. How I came about this would take pages upon pages to explain, and I still have this sort of quasi-cold that is making me rather lazy and devoid of thoughts that are truly deep (like the ocean). I don't even know if I'll feel like working out tomorrow.

But who cares about how I am feeling. The fact is that my perceptions are changing radically. And change can be good. In fact, it is usually good. Change for the most part is good because at this point in time the world is seemingly at a natural state of discord. So any change will be a probing of the defenses and eventually we may reach a theory on how to actually extinguish this discord and hammer out the kinks. Progress through trial and error among conflict. It is not so farfetched.

Another mistake not to make is that I am invincible from all misery and anxiousness. No, I am still figuring it all out. And my heart stays in that "I'm going to die" mode, you know, that mode. Where you get the amount of adrenaline you are only supposed to get when you are faced with a mortal threat. And it's been like that for so long, you see, when I am actually calm, genuinely calm, it is like I am having a very delicious cookie or something. There's pleasure in it. That is motivation in itself.

The monkey is happy. So happiness cannot be unattainable.

-The Piece

The monkey

Oh Mr.Kong, I fear you no more.

This song stole the air out of my lungs before it could be pushed out in exhale. That's what they call taking your breath away:

The black paper between a mirror breaks my heart
The moon frayed thru dark velvet lightly apart
Steal softly thru sunshine
Steal softly thru snow
The wild goose flies from winter
Breaks my heart that I can't go
Energy flys thru a field
'n the sun softly melts a nothing wheel
Steal softly thru sunshine
Steal softly thru snow
The black paper between a mirror breaks my heart that I can't go
The swan their feathers don't grow
They're spun
They live two hundred years of love
They're one
Breaks my heart to see them cross the sun
Grain grows rainbows up straw hill
Breaks my heart to see the highway cross the hill
Man lived a million years 'n still he kills
The black paper between a mirror
Breaks my heart that I can't go
Steal softly thru sunshine
Steal softly thru snow

-Captain Beefheart



I saw King Kong today. Yeah, you know, the Peter Jackson remake. I expected alot, and I got alot more. I was terrified of Kong and his jungle. I was scared for the men and women at his mercy. I wanted them to be ok. And then gradually, as the long, undeniably beautiful 3 hour movie unfolds (much like a long, undeniably beautiful 20 minute song) I grow to love King Kong with a tenderness that is real. And as I loved King Kong and grew to despise the now-menacing men who wanted to take Kong down, I realized that I desperately wanted Kong to be ok, and I wanted the men to die, or just go away and leave Kong alone at least, if lives could be spared. And finally I sat wrenched in anguish through the final scene, and I wanted to cry for the beast. I wanted to cry. I was not thinking of how embarrassed I should be for started up the waterworks as an almost-grown man, I was thinking of the entire concept and premise as a whole, and just how fucking sad it really was. It is no small loss to extinguish something of such magnificence. And that is man. I reflected upon all of the feelings I had felt during the course of the movie, and all of the thinking I had done, even during the action, and I realized yet again, this is what a movie should do. This is how you know how goddamn good a movie is. Feelings and reflection and question! This is not the Kong I remember. Sure, even the original was great, and a classic, but to evoke the kind of emotion that this movie has just done. Personally, I haven't seen much else in this echelon, save the higher calibre movies in the upper tier of greatness. I think this 7 dollars was well spent.

Finally, to end the night with Pelican. A sort of instru-metal art rock flavor of music that brings to mind great snowy peaks and monstrous marine life shadows in great storm-blown oceans, and all the glory and awe that is the larger side of mother nature.

I bid thee a good night.

And now to fix my collapsed closet.

-The Piece

An Absence of Desperation

Shit

I've been trying very hard to think of something interesting or deep (like the ocean) to write about lately and I can't really come up with anything. I have just about pinpointed the problem, or so it seems. My head has been a sort of vacuum as of late, and there haven't been any real concrete thoughts inside my head all day. It is acting as a sort of a rest from myself, that is for sure, and it allows me to free up space from the thought juggling and concentrate on more important matters like getting all gold medals on the slope challenges in Amped 3, which is a genuinely enjoyable game if I don't say so myself. I am pretty sure it is this orbital sickness that has been hovering over my head for a few days now. The problem is I am not ok and I am not sick. It is some sort of surreal period of limbo in which this sickness is cruelly waiting above to strike, as if savoring every moment of my confusion and frustration. In addition it is causing this absence of thought and reflection like some bizarre, crackling high altitude electrical storm.

But now I am writing now, so I must be doing some sort of thinking.

I admit to sometimes thinking in writing when I drift off into myself, and it is then that I see my brighter moments being put down in a sort of floating written account, and then I am dismayed when the entire paragraph that I had etched into my mind fades away into the darkness, never to be seen again. I remind myself that paper is slightly more permanent than short term memory. It is then that I wish I carried with me a pad of paper that I could use to write down my thoughts that would make good blog material. But of course I am usually doing something active at the moment, something that would become dangerous if it was mixed with another involving activity, something such as driving or standing in the shower. Colliding masses and wet paper, respectively.

I leave the living room to wind down for the night, and as I turn off lights I reflect on the lights themselves. The bulbs flicker out and darkness engulfs the room. The heat from the rods dissipates into the atmosphere and the bulb becomes cool once again. The heat and light fade in my wake. I can't help but wonder...is the cold and darkness the resting state of space and matter in this universe? It must be, since without the sun (which is a source of heat and energy and was created to exist apart from nothingness) the universe would be a cold and dark place. And you don't need energy to create the cold and darkness, that is if you are not fighting against a heated environment of course. Pointless really. But it provides some mental stimulation nonetheless. Now what is not exactly pointless is the nature of our relationship with heat and the light. Why do we need heat to maintain our body and light to see? The answer could be
biological/evolutionary and it is, but what about past the physical history of things? What about the bigger picture? Could this suggest a ticking clock structure? The end of heat and light is the end of life? But some life can function without. Can it? Or does it take even miniscule amounts into consideration? Goddamit.

Well for the most part I have not been thinking too deeply or clearly, and I have been enjoying a somewhat decent absence of desperation.

-The Piece.

Headaches

Headache this, headache that. I don't feel like writing right now.

Maybe its cancer? Maybe its a daughter that I ate that I didn't know about? Maybe she will split forth from my skull using some sort of very heavy hammer?

But that's just a story! A myth!

Ah Ha!

Oh ho!

I'm coming down with something. And I don't like it.

The River Of Metal And Glass

I do alot of thinking in my car. It should be viewed as a bad trait to do too much thinking in the car. Sometimes I am so distracted and aloof that I startle myself back to concentration, my knuckles white from gripping the wheel. I am amazed at the passage of such complete vulnerability. It would only take a lane change just a shy away of predictable, or a sudden braking, and perhaps my reflexes would fail me for that brief second in time, and my car would collide with the car in front, and my body would keep moving that same speed and become one with the now-ductile substance surrounding me. It would cave in like a hungry mass of surging dark water, engulfing a breached pocket of air to meet an equilibrium of space and density. It would be fast. Maybe it would happen before the activation time of the entire body's surface of nerves, before the brilliant crackle of lightning hot pain.

I try not to think of these things.

I grow excited when I merge into the river of metal and glass. It beckons me as if it has flowed for eternity, waiting for my inevitable assimilation. I find it fascinating that it sustains itself based on one simple principle: that every driver in the flow is a rational human being with decent coordination and reflexes and that each driver not interrupt this delicate balance of such high speeds with a human mistake. And this happens of course, or we would never have to worry about 50 car pile-ups. There is a certain loneliness within the confines of the car you occupy; there is a zen-like solitude that can be experienced, even admidst the many other bodies that surround you, and this solitude is what gives way to the dangerous periods of vulnerability that sadly grip the unfortunate and compel them to make the one simple mistake that initiates the chain reaction of collision and causes a momentary lapse in this great river of transportation. But sometimes I can admit that I enjoy freeways.

Concentrate baby, concentrate, there's no need to be afraid.

The clouds were spread across the failing sky today, they were spread with some unseen airbrush along great walls of cotton, and their soft, rippling surfaces were painted across with gradients of the colors of the setting sun. Where is my camera when I need it?

My hair was buzzed off today. It feels fantastic.

-The Piece out

I Live Again

It will start slow. Slow, and maybe dull. And then the words will come. They will come because they are there.

I'm looking forward to frequent bouts of writing again.

First Light

I am here, I am not queer, and there really is not that much to get used to.