So, I'm going to talk about maintenance. I hate maintenance, I feel that if I make something, it should be just as good 50 years from now as it was when I first created it. Now, I know nothing works like that, but I, being Doug Wood, get to live in my own little world where everything works out just so.
Horseshit.
So, everything in life takes a little bit of work to maintain. Your bike tires need to be replaced, the springs in the suspension oiled, the brakes tightened or replaced. And that's just a small part of what it takes to maintain a bike. Imagine something larger. Imagine something with millions of moving parts. like a Space Shuttle, or an assembly line.
Or a person.
Physically, sure, it's pretty simple, eat a variety of food, exercise, sleep. Those three things make up a healty human body. But a brain, and the things those brains produce, like ideas, goals, feelings, those take far more work.
Especially when you've got something new. Something unique. Then you've created a whole thing for yourself. And to make it, you had to love it. And for it to continue to exist, you have to keep loving it. You have to love it with all your being, give yourself to it fully, because this creation came from you. It has, for all intents and purposes, sprung from your skull, like Athena from Zeus's head. It is your child, this creation, be it another human being or just a new way of interacting with them.
Maintenance is the key to continued life. And I hate it. I hate maintaining anything. So when I put effort into something, it really has to be something I well and truly love. Because if it's not. It'll die.
Love your creations, don't ever become too lazy to let them die.
-Doug
"We can't let them win."
Nicole Kidman
"We won't."
Hugh Jackman
-Australia
Friday, November 28, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
That guy: A Slight Plea
Ladies and gentlemen. I hate to use the blog for this. It's supposed to be a place to express ourselves, not beg, but with the circumstances, I feel it's a good way to get the word across.
I have a friend who's in quite a bit of trouble. He's having problems across the board. If everything works out, he's gonna be staying with me indefinitly until the next step comes along. What I'd like from you all is your help. I don't really have much space, and the space I do have is quite cold. I've also just been supporting myself until now.
Here's the scoop. If any of you have blankets, toiltries, or even money you can donate to the cause, I would be most apreciative. I'd do my best to pay you back over time. If you can help out, let me know. Plane tickets are pricey even when they're cheap.
Word.
I have a friend who's in quite a bit of trouble. He's having problems across the board. If everything works out, he's gonna be staying with me indefinitly until the next step comes along. What I'd like from you all is your help. I don't really have much space, and the space I do have is quite cold. I've also just been supporting myself until now.
Here's the scoop. If any of you have blankets, toiltries, or even money you can donate to the cause, I would be most apreciative. I'd do my best to pay you back over time. If you can help out, let me know. Plane tickets are pricey even when they're cheap.
Word.
Monday, November 24, 2008
That guy: That day
He blinked. Eyes opening gently, softly, he assessed the situation.
Where am I?
He was lying down. His head was on something soft, but there was nothing comfortable about it.
I’m in a bed. How did I get here?
He peeled his face off the pillow. The dry drool made an unpleasant crackling sound as it separated from the fabric.
What happened?
He tried to make sense of the colors and images floating through his head. The incomplete memories swirled around, hinting at things, but leaving him empty like wrapping his hand around a wisp of smoke.
He rolled onto his back. The warmth of the covers he was buried under sunk in. He stretched, feeling himself out. Everything seemed to still work. He waved his hands in front of his face. He lifted the covers and watched himself wiggle his toes. Excellent.
What’s going on?
He glanced about his surroundings. Everything was out of focus. He rubbed his eyes. It hurt. Everything hurt. The sudden realization of pain surprised him. His throbbing brain made everything blur further. He cradled his head. Reaching over, he found his glasses on the bureau.
I’m in my bed.
He put on his glasses, and the room cleared up. He looked at the clock. 7:18. Everything came back to him. The morning amnesia lifted. He understood why his head hurt so much. He understood why he felt so tired still. He remembered what had transpired the previous night. And it dawned on him.
It was that day.
He bridged backwards and reached behind his head, shuffling his hand about trying to find what he was looking for. His fingers brushed the glass, chilled from the night air, and he closed his hand around it. Bringing it to his face, he sat up at the same time.
I’m sorry.
This object that he had kept for so long had only one purpose. To burn.
He shook the covers from his body, and stood, feeling how cold the room was, and the headache creeping further into the depths of his skull. With the object still in his hand, he dressed, slowly, without a purpose. Once he was clothed, he plunged his free hand into his pocket. Finding a lighter, he placed the object on his windowsill. He pulled the curtain up, and was forced to turn his head to the side. It was too bright outside. But he would endure. There was purpose in this self-torture.
He brought the lighter up, and flicked. A tiny stream of flame jumped awake, and danced in his hand. He put the fire to the wick, and the candle he had been cradling came alive. He put the lighter back in his pocket.
I’m sorry.
He bowed. Gently. Ever so slightly. The flame bowed back. It acknowledged his commitment, and thanked him for his contribution. It knew that it would have to wait until next year to serve him again.
He turned away from the sight, with a solitary tear making its’ way down his cheek.
11/24/04
RIP Kris
Where am I?
He was lying down. His head was on something soft, but there was nothing comfortable about it.
I’m in a bed. How did I get here?
He peeled his face off the pillow. The dry drool made an unpleasant crackling sound as it separated from the fabric.
What happened?
He tried to make sense of the colors and images floating through his head. The incomplete memories swirled around, hinting at things, but leaving him empty like wrapping his hand around a wisp of smoke.
He rolled onto his back. The warmth of the covers he was buried under sunk in. He stretched, feeling himself out. Everything seemed to still work. He waved his hands in front of his face. He lifted the covers and watched himself wiggle his toes. Excellent.
What’s going on?
He glanced about his surroundings. Everything was out of focus. He rubbed his eyes. It hurt. Everything hurt. The sudden realization of pain surprised him. His throbbing brain made everything blur further. He cradled his head. Reaching over, he found his glasses on the bureau.
I’m in my bed.
He put on his glasses, and the room cleared up. He looked at the clock. 7:18. Everything came back to him. The morning amnesia lifted. He understood why his head hurt so much. He understood why he felt so tired still. He remembered what had transpired the previous night. And it dawned on him.
It was that day.
He bridged backwards and reached behind his head, shuffling his hand about trying to find what he was looking for. His fingers brushed the glass, chilled from the night air, and he closed his hand around it. Bringing it to his face, he sat up at the same time.
I’m sorry.
This object that he had kept for so long had only one purpose. To burn.
He shook the covers from his body, and stood, feeling how cold the room was, and the headache creeping further into the depths of his skull. With the object still in his hand, he dressed, slowly, without a purpose. Once he was clothed, he plunged his free hand into his pocket. Finding a lighter, he placed the object on his windowsill. He pulled the curtain up, and was forced to turn his head to the side. It was too bright outside. But he would endure. There was purpose in this self-torture.
He brought the lighter up, and flicked. A tiny stream of flame jumped awake, and danced in his hand. He put the fire to the wick, and the candle he had been cradling came alive. He put the lighter back in his pocket.
I’m sorry.
He bowed. Gently. Ever so slightly. The flame bowed back. It acknowledged his commitment, and thanked him for his contribution. It knew that it would have to wait until next year to serve him again.
He turned away from the sight, with a solitary tear making its’ way down his cheek.
11/24/04
RIP Kris
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Meghan: Sweets
“Would you care for a dessert?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that your house specials are to die for.”
The waiter smiled slightly as he poured wine into his patron’s glass, “To die for. Yes, I would say that.”
The portly man in front of him swirled the cup before wetting his lips with the drink, “I’ll have one. Bring it out when my friend arrives.”
“And will your friend be dining with us tonight monsieur?”
“No,” the man said shortly, “he will not.”
“I see.” The waiter started to turn as if to leave but then returned as if he had forgotten something, “One more thing monsieur, would you prefer your dish hot or cold?”
The customer raised an eyebrow at the peculiar phrasing of the question, but answered anyway, “Tonight I’ll take it hot.” He lit a cigar and dragged in a long breathe, “I’m not in the mood for cold.”
“Very good monsieur.”
The waiter strode away and barely avoided a collision with a thin man who threw himself down into a chair opposite the one with the cigar.
“What are you doing in my city?” he hissed to the beefy man across from him, “You are breaking things set down before your generation, who the fuck do you think you are?”
The giant man in the suit blew a huge lungful of smoke into the other man’s face, “Be careful boy,” he smiled, “You wouldn’t want to make me angry.”
“I don’t care if I make you—“
They both fell silent as the waiter wheeled to their table with a steaming silver tray, which he set in front of the first man. The shining dome slid back to reveal a beautiful fruit and chocolate dessert; with whirls of whipped cream and pudding making it look all the more sinful and delicious. The second man watched as the first loaded his elegant spoon with fudge and strawberries and thrust it into his wide mouth. A vein in the second man’s temple twitched and he asked the waiter, “What is it that my companion is dining on so voraciously?”
The waiter smiled peacefully and ignored the portly man’s meaningful look, “It is the house special monsieur.”
“If you would be so kind as to bring me one.”
“Of course monsieur. And would you like it served hot or cold?”
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed his companion’s steaming dessert, “Cold.”
“Right away monsieur.” The waiter left.
The first man smacked deliciously on another spoonful of his dessert, relishing the moment when he had something that the other did not, “Where were we?”
“You were about to tell me why you and your men are in my city.”
“Was I?”
The younger man slammed a fist on the table, rattling the delicate dishes, “Damn it. Stop playing games with me.”
The other gobbled another spoonful of his dessert and smiled, “Can’t even control yourself at the dinner table? A little child like you can’t control this much territory. You don’t deserve it.” Whoa, where had that come from? He was usually a little more tactful than that. “Just because dear old Daddy is turning up daisies doesn’t mean that his precious baby can run the show.”
Of course what the precious baby didn’t know was that the suit-wearing man sucking down pudding across from him had been the one who put daddy-dearest in the ground.
But we can’t tell him that, no, no. The man clenched his teeth on his spoon. What was wrong with him today? He couldn’t even seem to keep control of his thoughts. He looked up to see his companion’s eyes burning into him.
They were both quiet when the waiter came by with the tray.
“Here is your dessert monsieur.” He said as he set the tray in front of the second man. The silver had a dusting of ice crystals on it and as the top slid back puffs of frost were released. The slender man barely looked at the concoction of sorbets and sauces that had been set before him, he merely kept his eyes locked with his opponent’s and thanked the waiter. The waiter wheeled away his cart; knowing that neither of the men would see him nor need him for a while. Both of the men dipped spoons into their desserts; almost mechanically, tasting but not tasting. Whatever confectionary miracles the cooks had made that day were wasted on the two enemies.
The first felt his heart gripped in fire and rage and knew that he needed blood to set it free. But to do that the man in front of him would have to break, would have to attack him. If his enemy attacked him first then anything he said or did would be justified. His frenzied mind held onto that word as chocolate dripped down his chin; Justified.
The second was gripped in a world of ice, where the fire of anger burned carefully in a banked bed. Every bite he took made him feel colder, more alone, and yet he knew what he wanted (needed) to happen.
“I’m going to destroy your company.” The first said it with a crazy grin, his teeth stained, “I will take everything you have and kill all of your men.”
The second just smiled.
He tried again, a little more desperate, “I’m going to kill your family; your mother, your wife and your little girl…what was her name?”
The other man sipped his wine.
“That’s right, Ana. Little Ana will die screaming.” He stared at his enemy for some change and saw that vein, pulsing lightly in his temple. He grinned like a mad dog, knowing that he was getting something
“Your little girl will die just like your father.”
The Second drew in his breathe sharply and his face flushed, “What do you know about my father?”
The First grinned, “What do I know about your father? I know he died like a coward, kicking and screaming like a little girl.”
Pulse, pulse went the vein, “That’s a lie.”
“Oh, I also bet you didn’t know that Daddy sold you all; the company, his family, everything, just if we wouldn’t kill him.”
“You’re lying.”
“But I’m not.” The man laughed, his belly jiggling, “Because I’m the one who killed him.”
Pulse, pulse, pulse
Come on, boy, feel that heat.
Ice, keep it together.
Burn, baby, burn.
The other pushed his chair back slowly and walked over to stand next to his enemy. He set his wine glass down on the table and leaned down until he was inches away; smelling the sweet-sharp scent of the chocolate sauce on the other’s breathe.
“You will not touch my family.” He said in a dangerously soft voice, “If you do, I will kill you.”
The other laughed, “Your threats aren’t worth much, because I’ve already killed in your family and what do you have to show for it?”
The thin man picked up his wine and sipped it, staring down his nose at the other, “Until you prove yourself no longer useful, I will keep you around.”
The big man barked out a laugh and downed his glass in one gulp, “And when would that be?” he asked sarcastically.
“Now.”
The big man grinned as he watched the other man reach inside his jacket with murder in his eyes; he finally had the little weasel! “WAITER!” He called as he clutched for the handle of a gun within his own suit jacket, sure that an attempt on his life was about to be made and he needed a witness close at hand for when he ‘defended himself’. But when he looked back to where the other man had been, he saw that he was sitting down and sipping his damned wine again.
“What’s the matter?” he grunted, “Attack me!”
“No thank you.”
“But I murdered your father; I’m going to kill your family.”
“I’m aware of that.”
The First man paused, confused, “Why don’t you want to kill me?”
“I already have.”
The waiter then came into the room, “Monsieur’s? Is everything all right?”
No everything is not all right, I’m dying! The First tried to scream at him as he stood up, knocking over his chair. But all he could manage was a choked sob as his throat swelled.
“I don’t know, I think something’s wrong with the food.” The thin man’s voice sounded concerned as he rushed over, knocking the other man’s wine glass from the table in his hurry.
“We have to call the police.” The waiter said in a panicked voice.
“Yes, could you call them?” The remaining customer grabbed his coat, “I’m going to go let his family know what happened.” He ran out of the room while the waiter pressed his fingers to the fallen man’s neck
“Let his family know what happened?” he snorted as he felt the pulse slow, “You have got to come up with better lies if you plan to run that company child.”
He heard heels clack on the tiles behind him, “Is he dead yet?”
“Be patient Yuki.”
Her heels tapped and she sighed, “Can’t I just take him down there now? I have some chocolate that needs to be mixed.”
The waiter looked up at the girl behind him; frowning, “You know we can’t let living customers down into the kitchens.”
The oriental girl smiled as she held up a glittering carving knife, “He won’t be living.”
The waiter sighed and got to his feet, “In the back, if you would. I have another coming at eight and I don’t have the time to clean up one of your messes.” The girl curtsied, spreading the folds of her pink dress out like the petals of a flower, and left the room to go find a gurney to transport the portly customer. No sooner had the sounds of her wheels dimmed into the darkness then the bell at the front desk rang. And that would be his eight o’clock reservation, party of five.
And how would you like your revenge monsieur, hot or cold?
-Meghan
“Yes, I’ve heard that your house specials are to die for.”
The waiter smiled slightly as he poured wine into his patron’s glass, “To die for. Yes, I would say that.”
The portly man in front of him swirled the cup before wetting his lips with the drink, “I’ll have one. Bring it out when my friend arrives.”
“And will your friend be dining with us tonight monsieur?”
“No,” the man said shortly, “he will not.”
“I see.” The waiter started to turn as if to leave but then returned as if he had forgotten something, “One more thing monsieur, would you prefer your dish hot or cold?”
The customer raised an eyebrow at the peculiar phrasing of the question, but answered anyway, “Tonight I’ll take it hot.” He lit a cigar and dragged in a long breathe, “I’m not in the mood for cold.”
“Very good monsieur.”
The waiter strode away and barely avoided a collision with a thin man who threw himself down into a chair opposite the one with the cigar.
“What are you doing in my city?” he hissed to the beefy man across from him, “You are breaking things set down before your generation, who the fuck do you think you are?”
The giant man in the suit blew a huge lungful of smoke into the other man’s face, “Be careful boy,” he smiled, “You wouldn’t want to make me angry.”
“I don’t care if I make you—“
They both fell silent as the waiter wheeled to their table with a steaming silver tray, which he set in front of the first man. The shining dome slid back to reveal a beautiful fruit and chocolate dessert; with whirls of whipped cream and pudding making it look all the more sinful and delicious. The second man watched as the first loaded his elegant spoon with fudge and strawberries and thrust it into his wide mouth. A vein in the second man’s temple twitched and he asked the waiter, “What is it that my companion is dining on so voraciously?”
The waiter smiled peacefully and ignored the portly man’s meaningful look, “It is the house special monsieur.”
“If you would be so kind as to bring me one.”
“Of course monsieur. And would you like it served hot or cold?”
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed his companion’s steaming dessert, “Cold.”
“Right away monsieur.” The waiter left.
The first man smacked deliciously on another spoonful of his dessert, relishing the moment when he had something that the other did not, “Where were we?”
“You were about to tell me why you and your men are in my city.”
“Was I?”
The younger man slammed a fist on the table, rattling the delicate dishes, “Damn it. Stop playing games with me.”
The other gobbled another spoonful of his dessert and smiled, “Can’t even control yourself at the dinner table? A little child like you can’t control this much territory. You don’t deserve it.” Whoa, where had that come from? He was usually a little more tactful than that. “Just because dear old Daddy is turning up daisies doesn’t mean that his precious baby can run the show.”
Of course what the precious baby didn’t know was that the suit-wearing man sucking down pudding across from him had been the one who put daddy-dearest in the ground.
But we can’t tell him that, no, no. The man clenched his teeth on his spoon. What was wrong with him today? He couldn’t even seem to keep control of his thoughts. He looked up to see his companion’s eyes burning into him.
They were both quiet when the waiter came by with the tray.
“Here is your dessert monsieur.” He said as he set the tray in front of the second man. The silver had a dusting of ice crystals on it and as the top slid back puffs of frost were released. The slender man barely looked at the concoction of sorbets and sauces that had been set before him, he merely kept his eyes locked with his opponent’s and thanked the waiter. The waiter wheeled away his cart; knowing that neither of the men would see him nor need him for a while. Both of the men dipped spoons into their desserts; almost mechanically, tasting but not tasting. Whatever confectionary miracles the cooks had made that day were wasted on the two enemies.
The first felt his heart gripped in fire and rage and knew that he needed blood to set it free. But to do that the man in front of him would have to break, would have to attack him. If his enemy attacked him first then anything he said or did would be justified. His frenzied mind held onto that word as chocolate dripped down his chin; Justified.
The second was gripped in a world of ice, where the fire of anger burned carefully in a banked bed. Every bite he took made him feel colder, more alone, and yet he knew what he wanted (needed) to happen.
“I’m going to destroy your company.” The first said it with a crazy grin, his teeth stained, “I will take everything you have and kill all of your men.”
The second just smiled.
He tried again, a little more desperate, “I’m going to kill your family; your mother, your wife and your little girl…what was her name?”
The other man sipped his wine.
“That’s right, Ana. Little Ana will die screaming.” He stared at his enemy for some change and saw that vein, pulsing lightly in his temple. He grinned like a mad dog, knowing that he was getting something
“Your little girl will die just like your father.”
The Second drew in his breathe sharply and his face flushed, “What do you know about my father?”
The First grinned, “What do I know about your father? I know he died like a coward, kicking and screaming like a little girl.”
Pulse, pulse went the vein, “That’s a lie.”
“Oh, I also bet you didn’t know that Daddy sold you all; the company, his family, everything, just if we wouldn’t kill him.”
“You’re lying.”
“But I’m not.” The man laughed, his belly jiggling, “Because I’m the one who killed him.”
Pulse, pulse, pulse
Come on, boy, feel that heat.
Ice, keep it together.
Burn, baby, burn.
The other pushed his chair back slowly and walked over to stand next to his enemy. He set his wine glass down on the table and leaned down until he was inches away; smelling the sweet-sharp scent of the chocolate sauce on the other’s breathe.
“You will not touch my family.” He said in a dangerously soft voice, “If you do, I will kill you.”
The other laughed, “Your threats aren’t worth much, because I’ve already killed in your family and what do you have to show for it?”
The thin man picked up his wine and sipped it, staring down his nose at the other, “Until you prove yourself no longer useful, I will keep you around.”
The big man barked out a laugh and downed his glass in one gulp, “And when would that be?” he asked sarcastically.
“Now.”
The big man grinned as he watched the other man reach inside his jacket with murder in his eyes; he finally had the little weasel! “WAITER!” He called as he clutched for the handle of a gun within his own suit jacket, sure that an attempt on his life was about to be made and he needed a witness close at hand for when he ‘defended himself’. But when he looked back to where the other man had been, he saw that he was sitting down and sipping his damned wine again.
“What’s the matter?” he grunted, “Attack me!”
“No thank you.”
“But I murdered your father; I’m going to kill your family.”
“I’m aware of that.”
The First man paused, confused, “Why don’t you want to kill me?”
“I already have.”
The waiter then came into the room, “Monsieur’s? Is everything all right?”
No everything is not all right, I’m dying! The First tried to scream at him as he stood up, knocking over his chair. But all he could manage was a choked sob as his throat swelled.
“I don’t know, I think something’s wrong with the food.” The thin man’s voice sounded concerned as he rushed over, knocking the other man’s wine glass from the table in his hurry.
“We have to call the police.” The waiter said in a panicked voice.
“Yes, could you call them?” The remaining customer grabbed his coat, “I’m going to go let his family know what happened.” He ran out of the room while the waiter pressed his fingers to the fallen man’s neck
“Let his family know what happened?” he snorted as he felt the pulse slow, “You have got to come up with better lies if you plan to run that company child.”
He heard heels clack on the tiles behind him, “Is he dead yet?”
“Be patient Yuki.”
Her heels tapped and she sighed, “Can’t I just take him down there now? I have some chocolate that needs to be mixed.”
The waiter looked up at the girl behind him; frowning, “You know we can’t let living customers down into the kitchens.”
The oriental girl smiled as she held up a glittering carving knife, “He won’t be living.”
The waiter sighed and got to his feet, “In the back, if you would. I have another coming at eight and I don’t have the time to clean up one of your messes.” The girl curtsied, spreading the folds of her pink dress out like the petals of a flower, and left the room to go find a gurney to transport the portly customer. No sooner had the sounds of her wheels dimmed into the darkness then the bell at the front desk rang. And that would be his eight o’clock reservation, party of five.
And how would you like your revenge monsieur, hot or cold?
-Meghan
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Doug: Water
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water.
Her hair is soaked. It lies like seaweed on her head in straight yellow rivulets. Her back is against the porcelain wall of the shower, her head leaned back, eyes closed. All of her clothes are on.
“I hate you.” She whispers.
“I hate that you can do this to me. I hate everything about you. I hate that perfect half smile of yours. I hate that mussed up hair. I hate those gorgeous blue eyes. I hate the way you laugh when you’re right. I hate that you bite your nails when you think no one’s looking. I hate how easily I fell for you. I hate that you didn’t do anything to stop me.” She turns to look right at him.
“And most of all.” She says, her eyes locking on his. “I hate those bushy eyebrows.”
He chokes off laughter, staring down at her soaked body.
“Stop that.” She tries to stay angry, but fails, bursting into laughter as well.
“Why in the Hell would you take a shower with all your clothes on?” He asks, cocking his head to one side and raising an eyebrow.
“I hate that too.” She says, trying to do it herself and failing. “I wanted to see what it would feel like.”
“And?” he asks curiously, extending a hand.
She takes it, hauling her wet body to her feet. “Intersting. But also kind of pointless.” She begins to strip, tossing her wet clothes in the bathtub. As always, the sight of her body makes him breathless.
“Oh?” He tries to stay locked on to her face.
“Yes.” She says, moving up close and cupping his face in her hands. “Let me show you.”
Drip.
Drip.
Water.
Her hair is soaked. It lies like seaweed on her head in straight yellow rivulets. Her back is against the porcelain wall of the shower, her head leaned back, eyes closed. All of her clothes are on.
“I hate you.” She whispers.
“I hate that you can do this to me. I hate everything about you. I hate that perfect half smile of yours. I hate that mussed up hair. I hate those gorgeous blue eyes. I hate the way you laugh when you’re right. I hate that you bite your nails when you think no one’s looking. I hate how easily I fell for you. I hate that you didn’t do anything to stop me.” She turns to look right at him.
“And most of all.” She says, her eyes locking on his. “I hate those bushy eyebrows.”
He chokes off laughter, staring down at her soaked body.
“Stop that.” She tries to stay angry, but fails, bursting into laughter as well.
“Why in the Hell would you take a shower with all your clothes on?” He asks, cocking his head to one side and raising an eyebrow.
“I hate that too.” She says, trying to do it herself and failing. “I wanted to see what it would feel like.”
“And?” he asks curiously, extending a hand.
She takes it, hauling her wet body to her feet. “Intersting. But also kind of pointless.” She begins to strip, tossing her wet clothes in the bathtub. As always, the sight of her body makes him breathless.
“Oh?” He tries to stay locked on to her face.
“Yes.” She says, moving up close and cupping his face in her hands. “Let me show you.”
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Jasmine: The 4 H Club
An average looking man wearing a plain black t-shirt over blue jeans walks into a club somewhere. He sits down at the bar and orders a drink. On the dance floor a fight breaks out between two men. The fight is over a young woman they were both dancing with. The bouncers join the fight and take it outside.
A pair of thin, tall, light haired men enter the club. They are no more remarkable than the first except for that they are identical. They join the first man at the bar. A man and woman sharing a bowl of calamari rush to the bathroom. A few minutes later a thin girl collapses in the corner. Her friends carry her out of the club and wait for an ambulance. One of the two follows their departure with his eyes.
These three, completely normal looking men, seem to be enjoying themselves. They glance around the club’s thinning crowd and smile. A sense of satisfaction surrounds them. The bartender brings them another round of drinks.
A fourth man, of medium height and dark hair, pulls into the parking lot. The two men from before are now fighting club security. The fourth mean steps out of his vehicle. One of the security men pulls a gun and starts shooting. He kills both of the men and one of the other bouncers before he is shot in turn. A girl, lying on the sidewalk surrounded by her friend’s, stops breathing.
The fourth man opens a door to the club and heads toward the group of three men. They wave from where they are sitting. As he walks, a girl to the left chokes on a peanut, a man goes into cardiac arrest and a waiter trips and falls. When they turn the waiter over a fork sticks straight out of her carotid artery.
The forth man sits down at the bar and the bartender brings him a drink.
“You know, I wish you guys wouldn’t come here anymore.”
“Where else should we go?” asks the first man.
“I don’t care, go bowling, stay at home, just don’t come here.” A thread of rebellion rang through his voice.
The second and third man laugh together and the bartender’s knees buckled feebly.
“What do you think,” the first man turns to the fourth man, “want to go bowling?”
The fourth man grins and a man sitting a few chairs away slumps to the floor. “Sure, I haven’t been bowling in years.”
The four rise up as one and exit the club. Three ambulances arrive. The driver of one of the trucks hits the gas instead of the brake and flattens the doorman to the wall. The first man chuckles as the man from the passenger’s seat of the ambulance throws the driver to the ground. The passenger kicks the driver in the chest and curses him for his stupidity.
The four men walk away and go bowling.
A pair of thin, tall, light haired men enter the club. They are no more remarkable than the first except for that they are identical. They join the first man at the bar. A man and woman sharing a bowl of calamari rush to the bathroom. A few minutes later a thin girl collapses in the corner. Her friends carry her out of the club and wait for an ambulance. One of the two follows their departure with his eyes.
These three, completely normal looking men, seem to be enjoying themselves. They glance around the club’s thinning crowd and smile. A sense of satisfaction surrounds them. The bartender brings them another round of drinks.
A fourth man, of medium height and dark hair, pulls into the parking lot. The two men from before are now fighting club security. The fourth mean steps out of his vehicle. One of the security men pulls a gun and starts shooting. He kills both of the men and one of the other bouncers before he is shot in turn. A girl, lying on the sidewalk surrounded by her friend’s, stops breathing.
The fourth man opens a door to the club and heads toward the group of three men. They wave from where they are sitting. As he walks, a girl to the left chokes on a peanut, a man goes into cardiac arrest and a waiter trips and falls. When they turn the waiter over a fork sticks straight out of her carotid artery.
The forth man sits down at the bar and the bartender brings him a drink.
“You know, I wish you guys wouldn’t come here anymore.”
“Where else should we go?” asks the first man.
“I don’t care, go bowling, stay at home, just don’t come here.” A thread of rebellion rang through his voice.
The second and third man laugh together and the bartender’s knees buckled feebly.
“What do you think,” the first man turns to the fourth man, “want to go bowling?”
The fourth man grins and a man sitting a few chairs away slumps to the floor. “Sure, I haven’t been bowling in years.”
The four rise up as one and exit the club. Three ambulances arrive. The driver of one of the trucks hits the gas instead of the brake and flattens the doorman to the wall. The first man chuckles as the man from the passenger’s seat of the ambulance throws the driver to the ground. The passenger kicks the driver in the chest and curses him for his stupidity.
The four men walk away and go bowling.
Monday, November 17, 2008
That guy: just one this time
There is no escape
It drags you all the way in
The plauge, the gift....... bid
It drags you all the way in
The plauge, the gift....... bid
Meghan: Office hours
Office hours. Such a wonderful time in which we can get to know our teachers and bond with them. They even get to know our names. I don’t really understand the point of that because we’ll only be in their class for one semester but…oh well. Anyway, today I meandered over to meet with my Biology teacher to thrash out some issues with the circulatory and respiratory systems. We talked about the direction of blood flow, and pumping cycles, all very exciting things to behold (to Bio majors, I’m not sure how you people feel about it). And we started to talk about insect respiration. This may sound stupid, but suck it up, you have to listen to it. I was fascinated to learn that insects didn’t have lungs, they had lots of tiny vessels that opened into their skin by which they absorbed oxygen from the air. Sort of like amphibians breathing through their skin but…different.
“That’s fantastic,” I said enthusiastically, “So if you dipped an insect in honey it would suffocate?”
She just blinked at me for a minute and I thought over what I had said. Oh. That would be considered socially unacceptable, neh? Oops.
“You must have been a sadistic little child.”
I laughed. I liked this teacher, she’s fun.
-Meghan
“That’s fantastic,” I said enthusiastically, “So if you dipped an insect in honey it would suffocate?”
She just blinked at me for a minute and I thought over what I had said. Oh. That would be considered socially unacceptable, neh? Oops.
“You must have been a sadistic little child.”
I laughed. I liked this teacher, she’s fun.
-Meghan
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Jasmine: my fish hasn't been fed in a few days
September 7… eleven days later… September 18… seven days later… September 25… ten days later… October 5… seven days later… October 12…fifteen days later… October 29… and now… eighteen days later… November 16… yeah, I don’t write a lot, but this is the longest it’s been between writings. I just sort of found that amusing and thought I would comment. I toyed with the idea of putting all of yours up here, but frankly Doug ruined that for all of you, I’m not going to even try to document his posts or the rest of your posts except to say that Doug has 25, Meghan has 16, Sarah has 12, Abe has 8, and I have 6, 7 if you count this one, I didn’t count the few odd tech and welcome posts, but if I missed one, I’m not all that sorry, HTFU. Yes I was bored this morning, bored and trapped.
I’m writing this from my parents house, I like them now, but this is the longest period of time I’ve spent in this house since… when did school start again, a few months ago? And even then I didn’t spend all that much time here, I was always out with you guys or some other set of people that I also refer to as “you guys.” But I’ve been here since four o’clock Friday afternoon. And I will be here till this afternoon. I have this screaming urge to run for the hills before their tension infects me, but I know that it already has and that I would just carry the disease to the hills. The hills don’t deserve that kind of shit.
All of you know, or at least most of you know, that my house is just a screaming mess. My aunt and my cousin at each other’s throats. My cousin does it supposedly because she doesn’t know any better, but in my opinion she knows very well what she’s doing and is one of the most skilled manipulators I have yet to meet. My aunt does it out of habit, a habit built out of years of giving in to my cousin. My uncle is constantly trying to help my aunt in any way. He recognizes that the solution to the problem is out of reach, so he does his best. When I’m here we talk about the solutions and bemoan the fact that they are unattainable. Me and him, we’re a melancholy pair.
Anyways it seems that when I’m only here a night or a few hours I get placed beneath the guest umbrella of protection. Everyone is on their best behaviors. And that makes my house wonderful. It’s clean, it has a washer and dryer, it has home cooked food, and mostly pleasant people. But since I’ve been here for so long I’ve been placed back into the family, the fruitless, fighting, want to destroy parts of them, family. And I need out. One of the many reasons I need to live in the dorms over winter break. It’s just a few hours, just a few hours, I can hold out. I will.
… time passes…
It’s afternoon now. And while my family is still frustrating I’m reminded of one of the reasons I put up with them. My aunt has made ribs, delicious amazing ribs smothered in barbecue sauce, the meat falling off the bone. And a chocolate cream pie. I ooze happiness on the floor so thick that it covers up my cousin and I can forget she’s there. Only a strangely shaped mound of happiness lay twitching in the corner of the room.
I probably won’t spend this long in my house again, not if I can help it. My parents are interesting people, or at least my aunt is, my uncle used to be, but he doesn’t talk very much anymore, and I do enjoy their company. Thinking about them and what they’ve become makes me feel tired, so I don’t do it very often, just as I don’t visit for very long.
But they’re my family, my blood. And fight as I will against it I share much more with them than a common genetic ancestor. They raised me. They tried to instill a sense of morals in me, failed entertainingly. It’s odd, my aunt and uncle are both very moral, they’ve cared for me since I was five, and yet I have mostly my mother’s morals. There are some serious deviations from her, but we are similar. Nature verses nurture, always interesting.
Hmmm, I can’t tell if I strayed from my original topic or not. I’d have to read through this again and I’m too lazy to do that so oh well. If I did, I did.
“When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points or it would be impossible to endure them.”
~George Bernard Shaw
“Family is just accident.... They don't mean to get on your nerves. They don't even mean to be your family, they just are.”
~Marsha Norman
“Blood's thicker than water, and when one's in trouble
Best to seek out a relative's open arms.”
~Author Unknown
I’m writing this from my parents house, I like them now, but this is the longest period of time I’ve spent in this house since… when did school start again, a few months ago? And even then I didn’t spend all that much time here, I was always out with you guys or some other set of people that I also refer to as “you guys.” But I’ve been here since four o’clock Friday afternoon. And I will be here till this afternoon. I have this screaming urge to run for the hills before their tension infects me, but I know that it already has and that I would just carry the disease to the hills. The hills don’t deserve that kind of shit.
All of you know, or at least most of you know, that my house is just a screaming mess. My aunt and my cousin at each other’s throats. My cousin does it supposedly because she doesn’t know any better, but in my opinion she knows very well what she’s doing and is one of the most skilled manipulators I have yet to meet. My aunt does it out of habit, a habit built out of years of giving in to my cousin. My uncle is constantly trying to help my aunt in any way. He recognizes that the solution to the problem is out of reach, so he does his best. When I’m here we talk about the solutions and bemoan the fact that they are unattainable. Me and him, we’re a melancholy pair.
Anyways it seems that when I’m only here a night or a few hours I get placed beneath the guest umbrella of protection. Everyone is on their best behaviors. And that makes my house wonderful. It’s clean, it has a washer and dryer, it has home cooked food, and mostly pleasant people. But since I’ve been here for so long I’ve been placed back into the family, the fruitless, fighting, want to destroy parts of them, family. And I need out. One of the many reasons I need to live in the dorms over winter break. It’s just a few hours, just a few hours, I can hold out. I will.
… time passes…
It’s afternoon now. And while my family is still frustrating I’m reminded of one of the reasons I put up with them. My aunt has made ribs, delicious amazing ribs smothered in barbecue sauce, the meat falling off the bone. And a chocolate cream pie. I ooze happiness on the floor so thick that it covers up my cousin and I can forget she’s there. Only a strangely shaped mound of happiness lay twitching in the corner of the room.
I probably won’t spend this long in my house again, not if I can help it. My parents are interesting people, or at least my aunt is, my uncle used to be, but he doesn’t talk very much anymore, and I do enjoy their company. Thinking about them and what they’ve become makes me feel tired, so I don’t do it very often, just as I don’t visit for very long.
But they’re my family, my blood. And fight as I will against it I share much more with them than a common genetic ancestor. They raised me. They tried to instill a sense of morals in me, failed entertainingly. It’s odd, my aunt and uncle are both very moral, they’ve cared for me since I was five, and yet I have mostly my mother’s morals. There are some serious deviations from her, but we are similar. Nature verses nurture, always interesting.
Hmmm, I can’t tell if I strayed from my original topic or not. I’d have to read through this again and I’m too lazy to do that so oh well. If I did, I did.
“When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points or it would be impossible to endure them.”
~George Bernard Shaw
“Family is just accident.... They don't mean to get on your nerves. They don't even mean to be your family, they just are.”
~Marsha Norman
“Blood's thicker than water, and when one's in trouble
Best to seek out a relative's open arms.”
~Author Unknown
That guy: 5/7/5 All new!
What happened to it
A twenty-five cent piece sucks
Not a subsitute
Fingers crawl and flow
The result is obvious
Beauty becomes sound
On the internet
No one is your friend at all
Trolls need to shut up
The SQI score
To a hangover, it is
Insignifigant
That's all I've got for now. More to follow?
P.S.
http://s94.photobucket.com/albums/l103/cheesecows666/?action=view¤t=mallratsflyer2copy.jpg
A twenty-five cent piece sucks
Not a subsitute
Fingers crawl and flow
The result is obvious
Beauty becomes sound
On the internet
No one is your friend at all
Trolls need to shut up
The SQI score
To a hangover, it is
Insignifigant
That's all I've got for now. More to follow?
P.S.
http://s94.photobucket.com/albums/l103/cheesecows666/?action=view¤t=mallratsflyer2copy.jpg
Friday, November 14, 2008
Meghan: unstable?
“If the defendant would please restate her case?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Hendricks, but I just couldn’t help myself.”
“You couldn’t help yourself Ms. Bentz?”
“She was asking for it.”
The man in the crisp grey suit who had been pacing in front of the witness stand pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Are you saying that your suitemate literally asked you to knock her unconscious with a hammer and tie her up in a closet?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure it made her a better person fundamentally. It was for her sake really.”
The man just stared at the bright eyed girl in front of him for a few moments, “If you would please explain?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“Well, it’s hard to sum up in just a few words.” She sighed heavily and clasped her hands in her lap, “I can only say that it built from many nights of loud music, phone conversations, and screechy singing.” A tear slid down her cheek, “I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
Titters could be heard from the jury, and a security guard came forward with a box of tissues.
“Thank you.” She said in a hoarse voice as she dabbed at her eyes.
The lawyer ran a hand through his hair, looking from the jury to the crying defendant, “Would you say that you are emotionally unstable?”
“Yes.”
He blinked, “Oh. Then…”
“But isn’t everyone emotionally unstable? It’s more interesting that way.”
“Would you say that this instability led to your attack on your suitemate?”
“No, I think she’s just irritating. Or maybe it’s the fact that we have to live together in tiny rooms with thin walls. Whoever’s brilliant idea that was, that is who is at fault.”
“But there are plenty of people who don’t attack their roommates and suitemates.”
“She’ll grow up with a healthy respect for noise pollution. In fact I’d like to counter sue.”
The man looked at her, confused, “What? What for?”
“Emotional trauma.”
“But you attacked her.”
“Physically. But emotional damage is so much more crippling than physical, don’t you think?”
“You are unstable.”
“See you in court.”
-Meghan
“I’m sorry Mr. Hendricks, but I just couldn’t help myself.”
“You couldn’t help yourself Ms. Bentz?”
“She was asking for it.”
The man in the crisp grey suit who had been pacing in front of the witness stand pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Are you saying that your suitemate literally asked you to knock her unconscious with a hammer and tie her up in a closet?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure it made her a better person fundamentally. It was for her sake really.”
The man just stared at the bright eyed girl in front of him for a few moments, “If you would please explain?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“Well, it’s hard to sum up in just a few words.” She sighed heavily and clasped her hands in her lap, “I can only say that it built from many nights of loud music, phone conversations, and screechy singing.” A tear slid down her cheek, “I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
Titters could be heard from the jury, and a security guard came forward with a box of tissues.
“Thank you.” She said in a hoarse voice as she dabbed at her eyes.
The lawyer ran a hand through his hair, looking from the jury to the crying defendant, “Would you say that you are emotionally unstable?”
“Yes.”
He blinked, “Oh. Then…”
“But isn’t everyone emotionally unstable? It’s more interesting that way.”
“Would you say that this instability led to your attack on your suitemate?”
“No, I think she’s just irritating. Or maybe it’s the fact that we have to live together in tiny rooms with thin walls. Whoever’s brilliant idea that was, that is who is at fault.”
“But there are plenty of people who don’t attack their roommates and suitemates.”
“She’ll grow up with a healthy respect for noise pollution. In fact I’d like to counter sue.”
The man looked at her, confused, “What? What for?”
“Emotional trauma.”
“But you attacked her.”
“Physically. But emotional damage is so much more crippling than physical, don’t you think?”
“You are unstable.”
“See you in court.”
-Meghan
Doug: A gift.
A blind, mad, despised, and dying Crone sits in her cave of bones. A man, just a man, nothing more, is before her. He is barely standing, his shoulders sag from a heavy weight, not upon his body, but upon his soul. He is clothed in the bare threads, it was an armored uniform. His hand cradles a weapon, a thing he has come to love. It has saved his life, he has taken it to this most bitter of ends.
What drove him here, down the valley of the shadow of Death, across the river Styx, through the dark wood with it's screaming trees, past the city of Pandemonium, across the burning sands, down below the lands of ice and skulls and into the last lower reaches of Hell? What was it that drove his dedication so? To who, or what does he hold himself so tightly that he has driven himself this far?
"I see Fate has brought you here at last." She whispers. Odd, he expected her to cackle, or scream or shriek as a banshee. Instead her voice is quiet, steady as a rock. This mad crone is perhaps not as mad as he believed. Was let to believe.
"Yes." He can't say anything else. He's just so tired. His body is shattered, the weapon he cradles is so heavy, but it's become his hand. Just like his hands became weapons, his weapons became his hands. He can't let go. He will never let go.
"It's been a long journey, but stand steady, we're not done fighting yet." She's so quiet, so calm. Not in control, just, passive, like She's accepted what She is.
His shoulders sag a little more, a horrible sound fills the echoing cave. It sounds like retching, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He is crying.
"I have fought so hard!" he screams; Her face is perfectly calm. "I did all you asked of me! More! I've fought like a demon, become a demon, burned cities, destroyed lands, fought on a thousand battlefields in a hundred wars! All I wanted was to keep them safe!" He falls to his knees, tears running clear spots in the grime on his face. "All I ever wanted was for them to live in peace." This last is said quietly, forlornly.
The Crone rises from her throne, only she's not a crone anymore, she's a beautiful Maiden with red hair and green eyes. She puts a hand on his shoulder, turns his chin up so he can stare through his salt tears into her green orbs.
"You sacrificed everything, gave every part of yourself, for them. I asked it of you, a long time ago, and you agreed. But did you ever consider the cost of this deal?"
His blue eyes lock on her, "Ah, Beatrice. I suppose I should have known all along it was you. Yes, I knew the cost, I know that I must keep fighting."
"You were very brave."
"No. I've never been brave. I still have a duty."
"You knew from the start you had a destiny, but it's time to rest."
"No..." He whispers, "No rest for the wicked." He looks up in misery, "And in doing what I've done, in protecting these I love, I have done things that tax my soul and strain my sanity. I've become a monster. I love them, but they can never love me again. But they are safe, and I must keep fighting, so that they will stay safe."
He looks sadly at his exhausted arms, his many wounds. "But how can I go on? My eyes are dimming at the edges, I can barely see your face Beatrice! My wounds won't stop bleeding and I can't lift my arms to bring my weapons to bear!
"No, dearest, you can rest."
"But who will protect them?" He's so tired, he can't even stay on his knees anymore. His hand still has the iron deathgrip on his weapon.
"Another is standing watch. Holding the line. You held out long enough. You were so brave, so strong. You held the darkness off just that long, reenforcements are here. We're winning now." She's cradling his head in her lap, "You held the line."
He nodds, barely, and his eyes slip closed for just a second. Then they snap open again, "You said I was not done fighting."
She nodds, sadly. "You have one last battle, but it is different, you see, not a curse like all the other burdens I've placed upon you."
"I can do one last task, before I die." He tries to struggle to his feet, but she stops him.
"You needent stand for this one. You must herely let go of that." She places her hand on his weapon.
"No." he says flatly. "Even in Death I cannot let this go, leave this behind."
"I'm afraid you must." She whispers.
"I can't." He cries suddenly, "It's me you see, and I it."
"No, no," she strokes his cheek softly, "It's not you, it's what you became for them, it was the burden you had to bear, it was the cancer you had to hold within to keep them alive. You had to die slowly, so that they might never be harmed."
"You can't cut out this cancer." He whispers "It will just keep coming back."
"Let go. Please let it go. We have to take it, so those that replace you can fight."
"I wouldn't wish this on anyone."
She smiles softly, "That's what makes you so brave, You never wished the torch on others, nor shirked your duty to carry it. You, and the one who will hold it next, asked for it. Asked to sacrifice yourselves."
"Not brave..." his voice is weakening, the black around the edges of his vision is growing. "This new guy, he's all right?"
"Yes," Beatrice whispers, "Very strong, he's like you, a thousand years ago."
He considers, finally, slowly, ever so slowly, his fingers uncurl from the weapon. Beatrice smiles, and says, barely audibly, "Thank you."
His eyes slip closed, and his labored breathing ceases. Beatrice sets the weapon down delicately, holding him in her arms.
A black robed figure appears from the shadows.
"He fought so hard." Beatrice doesn't look up.
YES, HE DID.
"Did all I asked of him, more, a thousand times more. He was never in it for me, he was in it for them. The little love."
YES.
"I think," She paused, considering, "I think that you won't be needed for a while."
NO?
"No." She said firmly. "Away, I'm sure you're needed elsewhere."
YES. ARE YOU SURE? NO ONE EVER REALLY ESCAPES, NOT EVEN YOU, BEATRICE.
"Away." The Hooded figure fades.
Beatrice begins the long climb up the stairs, away from the cave of bones. Past the frozen wastes, past the burning sands, past Pandemonium and the Dark Wood, Across the River Styx, no fare for the boatman, To a valley surrounded by snow capped mountains. A small river runs through it, and there is a house, inside she can hear children, and two soft female voices.
She washes the Man in the stream, cleaning his body. Everywhere the water touches his wounds heal. Light white scars are all that remain. Memories. She dresses him, his armor is clean, and no longer ragged.
She finally cups some water in her hands, and brings it to his lips. Then, duty done, she leaves him by the bank of the river, and fades away.
He awakens slowly, sitting up.
"This isn't Hell." He states, "Thought that after what I've done..." He trails off as a voice whispers in his ear.
'You've done nothing but defend those in that house over there, and there is no greater honor than that.'
"What house..." he trails off seeing the house, and the child standing in the doorway, staring at him. "Beatrice..." He whispers, "That's my son..." A women follows the child out the door and stops, staring at him. A babe in her arms.
'Yes, here it is, take it, my gift, life.'
-Doug
"At what cost?"
"At any cost."
-Scribe
What drove him here, down the valley of the shadow of Death, across the river Styx, through the dark wood with it's screaming trees, past the city of Pandemonium, across the burning sands, down below the lands of ice and skulls and into the last lower reaches of Hell? What was it that drove his dedication so? To who, or what does he hold himself so tightly that he has driven himself this far?
"I see Fate has brought you here at last." She whispers. Odd, he expected her to cackle, or scream or shriek as a banshee. Instead her voice is quiet, steady as a rock. This mad crone is perhaps not as mad as he believed. Was let to believe.
"Yes." He can't say anything else. He's just so tired. His body is shattered, the weapon he cradles is so heavy, but it's become his hand. Just like his hands became weapons, his weapons became his hands. He can't let go. He will never let go.
"It's been a long journey, but stand steady, we're not done fighting yet." She's so quiet, so calm. Not in control, just, passive, like She's accepted what She is.
His shoulders sag a little more, a horrible sound fills the echoing cave. It sounds like retching, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He is crying.
"I have fought so hard!" he screams; Her face is perfectly calm. "I did all you asked of me! More! I've fought like a demon, become a demon, burned cities, destroyed lands, fought on a thousand battlefields in a hundred wars! All I wanted was to keep them safe!" He falls to his knees, tears running clear spots in the grime on his face. "All I ever wanted was for them to live in peace." This last is said quietly, forlornly.
The Crone rises from her throne, only she's not a crone anymore, she's a beautiful Maiden with red hair and green eyes. She puts a hand on his shoulder, turns his chin up so he can stare through his salt tears into her green orbs.
"You sacrificed everything, gave every part of yourself, for them. I asked it of you, a long time ago, and you agreed. But did you ever consider the cost of this deal?"
His blue eyes lock on her, "Ah, Beatrice. I suppose I should have known all along it was you. Yes, I knew the cost, I know that I must keep fighting."
"You were very brave."
"No. I've never been brave. I still have a duty."
"You knew from the start you had a destiny, but it's time to rest."
"No..." He whispers, "No rest for the wicked." He looks up in misery, "And in doing what I've done, in protecting these I love, I have done things that tax my soul and strain my sanity. I've become a monster. I love them, but they can never love me again. But they are safe, and I must keep fighting, so that they will stay safe."
He looks sadly at his exhausted arms, his many wounds. "But how can I go on? My eyes are dimming at the edges, I can barely see your face Beatrice! My wounds won't stop bleeding and I can't lift my arms to bring my weapons to bear!
"No, dearest, you can rest."
"But who will protect them?" He's so tired, he can't even stay on his knees anymore. His hand still has the iron deathgrip on his weapon.
"Another is standing watch. Holding the line. You held out long enough. You were so brave, so strong. You held the darkness off just that long, reenforcements are here. We're winning now." She's cradling his head in her lap, "You held the line."
He nodds, barely, and his eyes slip closed for just a second. Then they snap open again, "You said I was not done fighting."
She nodds, sadly. "You have one last battle, but it is different, you see, not a curse like all the other burdens I've placed upon you."
"I can do one last task, before I die." He tries to struggle to his feet, but she stops him.
"You needent stand for this one. You must herely let go of that." She places her hand on his weapon.
"No." he says flatly. "Even in Death I cannot let this go, leave this behind."
"I'm afraid you must." She whispers.
"I can't." He cries suddenly, "It's me you see, and I it."
"No, no," she strokes his cheek softly, "It's not you, it's what you became for them, it was the burden you had to bear, it was the cancer you had to hold within to keep them alive. You had to die slowly, so that they might never be harmed."
"You can't cut out this cancer." He whispers "It will just keep coming back."
"Let go. Please let it go. We have to take it, so those that replace you can fight."
"I wouldn't wish this on anyone."
She smiles softly, "That's what makes you so brave, You never wished the torch on others, nor shirked your duty to carry it. You, and the one who will hold it next, asked for it. Asked to sacrifice yourselves."
"Not brave..." his voice is weakening, the black around the edges of his vision is growing. "This new guy, he's all right?"
"Yes," Beatrice whispers, "Very strong, he's like you, a thousand years ago."
He considers, finally, slowly, ever so slowly, his fingers uncurl from the weapon. Beatrice smiles, and says, barely audibly, "Thank you."
His eyes slip closed, and his labored breathing ceases. Beatrice sets the weapon down delicately, holding him in her arms.
A black robed figure appears from the shadows.
"He fought so hard." Beatrice doesn't look up.
YES, HE DID.
"Did all I asked of him, more, a thousand times more. He was never in it for me, he was in it for them. The little love."
YES.
"I think," She paused, considering, "I think that you won't be needed for a while."
NO?
"No." She said firmly. "Away, I'm sure you're needed elsewhere."
YES. ARE YOU SURE? NO ONE EVER REALLY ESCAPES, NOT EVEN YOU, BEATRICE.
"Away." The Hooded figure fades.
Beatrice begins the long climb up the stairs, away from the cave of bones. Past the frozen wastes, past the burning sands, past Pandemonium and the Dark Wood, Across the River Styx, no fare for the boatman, To a valley surrounded by snow capped mountains. A small river runs through it, and there is a house, inside she can hear children, and two soft female voices.
She washes the Man in the stream, cleaning his body. Everywhere the water touches his wounds heal. Light white scars are all that remain. Memories. She dresses him, his armor is clean, and no longer ragged.
She finally cups some water in her hands, and brings it to his lips. Then, duty done, she leaves him by the bank of the river, and fades away.
He awakens slowly, sitting up.
"This isn't Hell." He states, "Thought that after what I've done..." He trails off as a voice whispers in his ear.
'You've done nothing but defend those in that house over there, and there is no greater honor than that.'
"What house..." he trails off seeing the house, and the child standing in the doorway, staring at him. "Beatrice..." He whispers, "That's my son..." A women follows the child out the door and stops, staring at him. A babe in her arms.
'Yes, here it is, take it, my gift, life.'
-Doug
"At what cost?"
"At any cost."
-Scribe
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Doug: GET SOME!
Dear Reader,
No, this post does not refer to the fact that It's been quite some time since I've managed to get a woman in bed. Nor have I finally scored with said nonexistant woman. No, today's post, like most posts, is about the Marines. Get Some.
I'm currently sitting down in my closet of a dorm room, dressed in quite possibly my favorite thing to wear, ever. That's right, I'm in camoflauge. I <3 camoflauge. Wearing camoflauge is just the kind of thing that makes me think that I'm Mad Fuckin' Dangerous. This is a fact that intellectually, I always know, but it's nice to have the outside mirror the in.
We, meaning the UW Marine options, have just completed the combat fitness test. The CFT was desingned to test Marines fitness level in simulated combat environment. Now, saying this, I know you're all expecting me to start talking about a screaming DI yelling at us, with fake rifle rounds going off above our heads and having to dodge through barbed wire fences, all while flashbangs are going off.
I wish.
No, the CFT consists of a half mile run, after which you do a 2 minute max repetitions 30 pound ammo can deadlift from your shoulders. After that is the movement to combat.
Everything before the movement to combat is pretty standard physical standards assessment bullshit, but the movement to combat is something pretty unique. It starts off with a thirty yard sprint, after which you j hook around a cone, drop the deck and high crawl another 20 yeards. after that you bear crawl another 20. After that you run in a snaking pattern through some cones, where you reach a simulated casualty. you must drag the casualty through the snake cones, then pick him up and carry him back to the start.
But wait, there's more.
At the start you must then pick up a pair of 30 pound ammo cans, run back through the whole course, throw a grenade where you actually have to hit the target, (no, the grenades don't explode, once again, I wish)do three push ups, then pick up the ammo cans and run back.
Then you're done.
I'll give you a hint: if you're not exhausted after this little game, you're either a god, like SSGT Martinez, who got the best score and still had the energy to ream someone out for forgetting his cover, or you did it wrong.
I scored well. The only people that beat my movement to combat were the hardened Marines in the unit, the prior enlisted guys. You know what? That's okay with me, these guys have actually seen combat, so I'm all right with that. My run score was average, and my deadlift score was okay too.
The moral of this story is though, I eat this shit up. I can't wait to be an actual Marine, I have the best job in the world.
-Doug
"We aren't worthy to watch him PT."
Donte Larry, On watching Staff Seargent do the Movement to Combat course.
No, this post does not refer to the fact that It's been quite some time since I've managed to get a woman in bed. Nor have I finally scored with said nonexistant woman. No, today's post, like most posts, is about the Marines. Get Some.
I'm currently sitting down in my closet of a dorm room, dressed in quite possibly my favorite thing to wear, ever. That's right, I'm in camoflauge. I <3 camoflauge. Wearing camoflauge is just the kind of thing that makes me think that I'm Mad Fuckin' Dangerous. This is a fact that intellectually, I always know, but it's nice to have the outside mirror the in.
We, meaning the UW Marine options, have just completed the combat fitness test. The CFT was desingned to test Marines fitness level in simulated combat environment. Now, saying this, I know you're all expecting me to start talking about a screaming DI yelling at us, with fake rifle rounds going off above our heads and having to dodge through barbed wire fences, all while flashbangs are going off.
I wish.
No, the CFT consists of a half mile run, after which you do a 2 minute max repetitions 30 pound ammo can deadlift from your shoulders. After that is the movement to combat.
Everything before the movement to combat is pretty standard physical standards assessment bullshit, but the movement to combat is something pretty unique. It starts off with a thirty yard sprint, after which you j hook around a cone, drop the deck and high crawl another 20 yeards. after that you bear crawl another 20. After that you run in a snaking pattern through some cones, where you reach a simulated casualty. you must drag the casualty through the snake cones, then pick him up and carry him back to the start.
But wait, there's more.
At the start you must then pick up a pair of 30 pound ammo cans, run back through the whole course, throw a grenade where you actually have to hit the target, (no, the grenades don't explode, once again, I wish)do three push ups, then pick up the ammo cans and run back.
Then you're done.
I'll give you a hint: if you're not exhausted after this little game, you're either a god, like SSGT Martinez, who got the best score and still had the energy to ream someone out for forgetting his cover, or you did it wrong.
I scored well. The only people that beat my movement to combat were the hardened Marines in the unit, the prior enlisted guys. You know what? That's okay with me, these guys have actually seen combat, so I'm all right with that. My run score was average, and my deadlift score was okay too.
The moral of this story is though, I eat this shit up. I can't wait to be an actual Marine, I have the best job in the world.
-Doug
"We aren't worthy to watch him PT."
Donte Larry, On watching Staff Seargent do the Movement to Combat course.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
That guy: has something to say.
One more post about music and I’m going to shoot myself.
Even with Sarah’s desperate plea for us (or more specifically me) to write, I find myself lost in a sea of work and dull drudgery. In the few and far between moments when something writeable strikes me, I’m consumed by other things. I mull it over, compose in my head, and by the time I can sit down, uninterrupted, to carve my thoughts, it looses oomph, and drifts into the realm of mediocrity and nonexistence. I have at least half a dozen posts partially finished floating around on my computer, and in my email. And they will never be posted, because once I lose it, it’s really gone. It annoys me, but I think it helps me improve what I do write, as little as that may be. That being said, onwards.
As you all know, I go through infatuations with music. I hear something, and listen to it nonstop until the next thing comes along. The newest one is the song ‘The Devil Cried’ by Black Sabbath. The bonecrushing riffs blew me away the first time I heard it. I’m a huge Sabbath fan, but haven’t really heard any of their new stuff. (TDC is from 2007). Now, I’ve been humming the melody for the past few days, and decided that I need to own the CD, so I can play it in my car, because I have the internet in my room and at work, which is where I spend most of my time anyways. With the addition of this CD, I can listen to it on the go. This is where the story starts to get interesting.
I decided after hearing it on the radio, and listening to it on the Internet for the rest of the evening, that I should go get it after work. This was the first opportunity I’ve had in a while. What you guys might not know is this.
I’ve recently become involved with an organization called Threadspace. Being who I am, and knowing whom I know, which is EVERYONE (even still), I’ve actually known most of these people for a while. I’ve even known the building where we meet. It’s right next to my dentist, and for the longest time, I’ve always wondered what that building was used for.
It’s an organization of artists. They put on shows, play music, do their various forms of art, and have a good time. I was invited to attend a show, but had a prior commitment, so I didn’t make it until late. I ended up staying till 1:30 in the morning discussing plans for the next show, and the future of Threadspace. I’m essentially management now. Because of where I work, I get access to lots of machines that make designing, printing, and creating flyers and posters very easy. I created the flyer for our upcoming event, and doing that, I spent the last few nights out till the wee hours of the morning. Like I said, tonight was the first free night I’ve had.
So I was driving, and decided that instead of Borders, because they charge you more than an executive prostitute, I would go to Hastings. I walked in, and noticed that they had a Rock Band 2 demo set up. Although I prefer the ACTUAL guitar, those games are still pretty fun, and I’m decent enough to have a good time playing without smashing your TV in a fury of plastic and anger. I made a mental note to go back and play after I accomplished my mission, for which nothing would distract me. I charged to the CD section, and after being dismayed that they had rearranged the store AGAIN (seriously, more changes that Michael Jackson’s appearance), I found where I was going. It took a moment to find it, but the Black Sabbath section was littered with goodies. And then the thing I liked about Hastings most came back to me. They mix the used CD’s in with the new. You can compare prices without moving to a new section. And I found what I was looking for. Used. For waaaaaaaay cheaper then I was expecting. It rocked. I did a little dance, right there. In between rock/pop and whatever else was there. Michael Fucking Flatley Pfeffer. And I meandered back towards Rock Band. I waited as two retarded, useless cholos failed miserably, and after they left, plastic guitar in hand, I rocked. A few songs later, realizing that I was pushing plastic buttons on the middle of a sales floor, I wandered off to see if I couldn’t find a cheap movie as well.
Sidetrack time.
The World of Warcraft expansion comes out tomorrow. Fanboys have been preparing for days, hoarding Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and spare pairs of underwear, so that when they shit themselves at how fucking awesome the game is, they can do something about it. I hate WOW. It has caused Blizzard to ruin an absolutely outstanding franchise, and do their best to help mess up the other 2 that made them the company they are.
I was watching a video from an author I really like, and in the corner of his website, because he writes about video games, was a countdown for WOW. It was at zero days and some number of hours and minutes. I was like, ‘Wait…………………….how can it be zero days till it comes out?’ and realized that in all my wisdom and glory……………… I’m an idiot. Coming out on 11/13/08 means that it doesn’t come out on 11/12/08. Duh.
Anyways, I let it slip my mind, because fuck WOW.
This is how I came across my inspiration. Close your eyes, and imagine, if you will, Tommy Lister, from one of my previous posts. But change his name to Mr. Inspiration. Now, give him a bat the size of a zanbatou, and name it The Subject. And finally, send yourself down a dark alley, and get the ever loving fuck smashed out of you by The Subject of Inspiration. This happened to me.
How?
I was browsing the sale racks for a movie to watch before bed, and had just squatted down to read the back of a zombie collection when I heard the familiar crackle of someone about to speak on an overhead PA system. In order for this to work, imagine the voice coming out of the loudspeaker as the voice of God speaking to you. Seriously. It helps.
“Attention Hastings customers. It is now 10:00.”
Fuck, I thought. They’re closing, and I need to not find a movie, and go check out. Damnit.
“Due to the midnight release party of World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King……..”
FUCK YOU, I don’t wanna get kicked out of the store so that ¼ of a fat tub of shit can fit in here.
“We are doing a two hour sale. Everything used, including CD’s, books, and movies is going to be 30% off until midnight.”
FUCK OF…………………….. wait, what? Seriously? Hold on a second…….. the CD I’m getting is used! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
This scene involves me shooting my hands up in the air so hard that the CD actually launched upwards in my glee. I managed to catch it on the way down.
This blew my mind. My originally only $8.49 CD was now even more only $6.64. And………… oh shit…………. They said movies too…………. I’m trying to find a movie…………………
For the second time that night, in a public place, in the middle of display shelves, I was the Lord of the Fucking Dance.
Needless to say, I found a few movies to tack on.
The moral of the story? Don’t ever set a guideline on what can inspire you.
Are all the easily offended people and parents gone? Good. Enough of that sappy crap.
The real moral of the story is that even if you’re staying out till 3:26 in the morning drinking Red Bull and eating pancakes with smokin’ bitches, you can always find heavy metal to corrupt you further. No matter how far gone the world thinks you are, the Satanic forces known as rock and roll will always, always make you want to punch small babies and push elderly ladies over when they’re crossing the street.
This is where you need to picture Gene Simmons doing the tongue thing, and throwing up his horns.
-/m/
Like that.
P.S. Here’s a link for the poster.
http://s94.photobucket.com/albums/l103/cheesecows666/?action=view¤t=mallratsflyer2copy.jpg
Love you all.
Even with Sarah’s desperate plea for us (or more specifically me) to write, I find myself lost in a sea of work and dull drudgery. In the few and far between moments when something writeable strikes me, I’m consumed by other things. I mull it over, compose in my head, and by the time I can sit down, uninterrupted, to carve my thoughts, it looses oomph, and drifts into the realm of mediocrity and nonexistence. I have at least half a dozen posts partially finished floating around on my computer, and in my email. And they will never be posted, because once I lose it, it’s really gone. It annoys me, but I think it helps me improve what I do write, as little as that may be. That being said, onwards.
As you all know, I go through infatuations with music. I hear something, and listen to it nonstop until the next thing comes along. The newest one is the song ‘The Devil Cried’ by Black Sabbath. The bonecrushing riffs blew me away the first time I heard it. I’m a huge Sabbath fan, but haven’t really heard any of their new stuff. (TDC is from 2007). Now, I’ve been humming the melody for the past few days, and decided that I need to own the CD, so I can play it in my car, because I have the internet in my room and at work, which is where I spend most of my time anyways. With the addition of this CD, I can listen to it on the go. This is where the story starts to get interesting.
I decided after hearing it on the radio, and listening to it on the Internet for the rest of the evening, that I should go get it after work. This was the first opportunity I’ve had in a while. What you guys might not know is this.
I’ve recently become involved with an organization called Threadspace. Being who I am, and knowing whom I know, which is EVERYONE (even still), I’ve actually known most of these people for a while. I’ve even known the building where we meet. It’s right next to my dentist, and for the longest time, I’ve always wondered what that building was used for.
It’s an organization of artists. They put on shows, play music, do their various forms of art, and have a good time. I was invited to attend a show, but had a prior commitment, so I didn’t make it until late. I ended up staying till 1:30 in the morning discussing plans for the next show, and the future of Threadspace. I’m essentially management now. Because of where I work, I get access to lots of machines that make designing, printing, and creating flyers and posters very easy. I created the flyer for our upcoming event, and doing that, I spent the last few nights out till the wee hours of the morning. Like I said, tonight was the first free night I’ve had.
So I was driving, and decided that instead of Borders, because they charge you more than an executive prostitute, I would go to Hastings. I walked in, and noticed that they had a Rock Band 2 demo set up. Although I prefer the ACTUAL guitar, those games are still pretty fun, and I’m decent enough to have a good time playing without smashing your TV in a fury of plastic and anger. I made a mental note to go back and play after I accomplished my mission, for which nothing would distract me. I charged to the CD section, and after being dismayed that they had rearranged the store AGAIN (seriously, more changes that Michael Jackson’s appearance), I found where I was going. It took a moment to find it, but the Black Sabbath section was littered with goodies. And then the thing I liked about Hastings most came back to me. They mix the used CD’s in with the new. You can compare prices without moving to a new section. And I found what I was looking for. Used. For waaaaaaaay cheaper then I was expecting. It rocked. I did a little dance, right there. In between rock/pop and whatever else was there. Michael Fucking Flatley Pfeffer. And I meandered back towards Rock Band. I waited as two retarded, useless cholos failed miserably, and after they left, plastic guitar in hand, I rocked. A few songs later, realizing that I was pushing plastic buttons on the middle of a sales floor, I wandered off to see if I couldn’t find a cheap movie as well.
Sidetrack time.
The World of Warcraft expansion comes out tomorrow. Fanboys have been preparing for days, hoarding Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and spare pairs of underwear, so that when they shit themselves at how fucking awesome the game is, they can do something about it. I hate WOW. It has caused Blizzard to ruin an absolutely outstanding franchise, and do their best to help mess up the other 2 that made them the company they are.
I was watching a video from an author I really like, and in the corner of his website, because he writes about video games, was a countdown for WOW. It was at zero days and some number of hours and minutes. I was like, ‘Wait…………………….how can it be zero days till it comes out?’ and realized that in all my wisdom and glory……………… I’m an idiot. Coming out on 11/13/08 means that it doesn’t come out on 11/12/08. Duh.
Anyways, I let it slip my mind, because fuck WOW.
This is how I came across my inspiration. Close your eyes, and imagine, if you will, Tommy Lister, from one of my previous posts. But change his name to Mr. Inspiration. Now, give him a bat the size of a zanbatou, and name it The Subject. And finally, send yourself down a dark alley, and get the ever loving fuck smashed out of you by The Subject of Inspiration. This happened to me.
How?
I was browsing the sale racks for a movie to watch before bed, and had just squatted down to read the back of a zombie collection when I heard the familiar crackle of someone about to speak on an overhead PA system. In order for this to work, imagine the voice coming out of the loudspeaker as the voice of God speaking to you. Seriously. It helps.
“Attention Hastings customers. It is now 10:00.”
Fuck, I thought. They’re closing, and I need to not find a movie, and go check out. Damnit.
“Due to the midnight release party of World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King……..”
FUCK YOU, I don’t wanna get kicked out of the store so that ¼ of a fat tub of shit can fit in here.
“We are doing a two hour sale. Everything used, including CD’s, books, and movies is going to be 30% off until midnight.”
FUCK OF…………………….. wait, what? Seriously? Hold on a second…….. the CD I’m getting is used! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
This scene involves me shooting my hands up in the air so hard that the CD actually launched upwards in my glee. I managed to catch it on the way down.
This blew my mind. My originally only $8.49 CD was now even more only $6.64. And………… oh shit…………. They said movies too…………. I’m trying to find a movie…………………
For the second time that night, in a public place, in the middle of display shelves, I was the Lord of the Fucking Dance.
Needless to say, I found a few movies to tack on.
The moral of the story? Don’t ever set a guideline on what can inspire you.
Are all the easily offended people and parents gone? Good. Enough of that sappy crap.
The real moral of the story is that even if you’re staying out till 3:26 in the morning drinking Red Bull and eating pancakes with smokin’ bitches, you can always find heavy metal to corrupt you further. No matter how far gone the world thinks you are, the Satanic forces known as rock and roll will always, always make you want to punch small babies and push elderly ladies over when they’re crossing the street.
This is where you need to picture Gene Simmons doing the tongue thing, and throwing up his horns.
-/m/
Like that.
P.S. Here’s a link for the poster.
http://s94.photobucket.com/albums/l103/cheesecows666/?action=view¤t=mallratsflyer2copy.jpg
Love you all.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Meghan: What to do?
I miss you, I need you.
Music blasts into her ears, funneled into her brain from electric blue earbuds
Sweat is pouring down her back, her neck, her face; dripping and flicking onto the mats
Mirrors, mirrors every where
Shadows, shadows flicker
One light burns in the doorway; lighting the way should anyone stumble upon her refuge
The windows are blocked with shutters. No one can see
No one should see
Leaning her forehead against leather, crazy smiles, laughing, crying
What is she doing?
Drawing her fist back she slams it into the punching bag, again
And again
And again
out of breath, gasping, hair sticking out in crazy direction, she swipes a hand across her forehead and leans with an arm around the object of her punishing.
In this little slice of heaven she can do what she wants, act as she wants, be who she wants. In the dark no one can see her; judge her.
Only, perfect is not so perfect
There seems to always be something missing
In this blissful solitude she can be who she wants but the people she loves are not here
What to do, what to do?
She pushes the bag like a pendulum
Back and forth it swings
And again she hits
-Meghan
Music blasts into her ears, funneled into her brain from electric blue earbuds
Sweat is pouring down her back, her neck, her face; dripping and flicking onto the mats
Mirrors, mirrors every where
Shadows, shadows flicker
One light burns in the doorway; lighting the way should anyone stumble upon her refuge
The windows are blocked with shutters. No one can see
No one should see
Leaning her forehead against leather, crazy smiles, laughing, crying
What is she doing?
Drawing her fist back she slams it into the punching bag, again
And again
And again
out of breath, gasping, hair sticking out in crazy direction, she swipes a hand across her forehead and leans with an arm around the object of her punishing.
In this little slice of heaven she can do what she wants, act as she wants, be who she wants. In the dark no one can see her; judge her.
Only, perfect is not so perfect
There seems to always be something missing
In this blissful solitude she can be who she wants but the people she loves are not here
What to do, what to do?
She pushes the bag like a pendulum
Back and forth it swings
And again she hits
-Meghan
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Doug: A small request.
"Obama! Obama! Obama! Obama!"
I am standing on the balcony of my dorm cluster. Below me is a crowd of hundreds, all of them cheering. Cheering. Chanting his name.
At just past 8 pm last night, CNN called it for Obama. The room I was in, a common room for all the floors of my dorm building, consequently erupted in cheers. Slaps on the back were exchanged, people cried. People Cried.
My roomates are with me on the balcony. They're all wearing grins, not mad grins, not insane or relieved grins, but genuine, honest smiles. Two of them are holding up signs, shouting back at the crowd.
"Obama! Obama! Obama! Obama!"
I have never seen such a thing as this. My history books taught me about riots. About the dangers of massed groups of people. How people demonstrate against war, abortion, gay marraige. People cheering in the streets is something you hear in a fairy tale. Old legends about when the world was young, when men were men and gals were gals mention scenes like this. This doesn't happen in the real world.
The tune of the chant changes.
"YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN!"
Your vote doesn't matter.
How many times have we heard this? For whatever reason, we as a people had come to believe that our vote, our voice, what our soldiers fight, bleed, kill and most of all die for, doesn't matter. We, Americans, had been beaten into this belief that we had no voice. Our shouts against the dark night mean nothing.
Well, all these people, this crowd before me, belives their voice matters. And they're the cynics, or they were. College students. Half these people can't make it to class on time, but they turned out to vote. They believe.
And they believe in one man. Or maybe it's not the man they belive in, maybe it's the words coming out of his mouth.
Senator Obama tells us that we matter. That we can change the world. That we can grow up to be whatever we want to be. That our voice is his pillar. His strength.
Without us, he says, He is nothing.
Does anyone comprehend how powerful that is? Without us, this man, this one man who promisies us the world, says he means nothing. The words coming out of his mouth make even the most skeptical person believe in himself, that he has the power, his voice can change the world.
E Pluribus Unum.
From many, one.
He told these people outside my dorm that our individual votes will raise him up. And that once he is there he will fight for them, and for this country they all used to belive in. He tells them they can be better than themselves, that the United States, as a country, can be better than itself. That somehow, they are greater than the sum of their parts. That they are powerful, they are mighty.
All these people outside are not rioting, they are not protesting, they are not angry. They're overjoyed. Who would have thought it? Bitter, hopeless American youth, overjoyed.
All because this one man, told them they were mighty, and then asked them to show it.
They belive in him, or at the very least what he stands for. For the first time they're hearing a message of Hope. That they matter, that their will is indomitable, and if they believe, just belive, they can be better than ourselves.
Well Mr. Obama, they belive in you. I'm watching this crowd of people, grin on my face as well, and they believe. They belive enough to cheer your name in the streets until well past midnight. Some of them have tests tomorrow. Some have to be up in mere hours to go work hard. All belive.
I have a small request for you sir. Don't let them down. They've done it, they've used their power to make you their hope. They belive in something bigger than themselves.
And I belive too, you've made me belive.
Ball's in your court sir. Do the impossible.
-Doug
"We've done the impossible, and that makes us mighty."
-Mal, Firefly.
I am standing on the balcony of my dorm cluster. Below me is a crowd of hundreds, all of them cheering. Cheering. Chanting his name.
At just past 8 pm last night, CNN called it for Obama. The room I was in, a common room for all the floors of my dorm building, consequently erupted in cheers. Slaps on the back were exchanged, people cried. People Cried.
My roomates are with me on the balcony. They're all wearing grins, not mad grins, not insane or relieved grins, but genuine, honest smiles. Two of them are holding up signs, shouting back at the crowd.
"Obama! Obama! Obama! Obama!"
I have never seen such a thing as this. My history books taught me about riots. About the dangers of massed groups of people. How people demonstrate against war, abortion, gay marraige. People cheering in the streets is something you hear in a fairy tale. Old legends about when the world was young, when men were men and gals were gals mention scenes like this. This doesn't happen in the real world.
The tune of the chant changes.
"YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN!"
Your vote doesn't matter.
How many times have we heard this? For whatever reason, we as a people had come to believe that our vote, our voice, what our soldiers fight, bleed, kill and most of all die for, doesn't matter. We, Americans, had been beaten into this belief that we had no voice. Our shouts against the dark night mean nothing.
Well, all these people, this crowd before me, belives their voice matters. And they're the cynics, or they were. College students. Half these people can't make it to class on time, but they turned out to vote. They believe.
And they believe in one man. Or maybe it's not the man they belive in, maybe it's the words coming out of his mouth.
Senator Obama tells us that we matter. That we can change the world. That we can grow up to be whatever we want to be. That our voice is his pillar. His strength.
Without us, he says, He is nothing.
Does anyone comprehend how powerful that is? Without us, this man, this one man who promisies us the world, says he means nothing. The words coming out of his mouth make even the most skeptical person believe in himself, that he has the power, his voice can change the world.
E Pluribus Unum.
From many, one.
He told these people outside my dorm that our individual votes will raise him up. And that once he is there he will fight for them, and for this country they all used to belive in. He tells them they can be better than themselves, that the United States, as a country, can be better than itself. That somehow, they are greater than the sum of their parts. That they are powerful, they are mighty.
All these people outside are not rioting, they are not protesting, they are not angry. They're overjoyed. Who would have thought it? Bitter, hopeless American youth, overjoyed.
All because this one man, told them they were mighty, and then asked them to show it.
They belive in him, or at the very least what he stands for. For the first time they're hearing a message of Hope. That they matter, that their will is indomitable, and if they believe, just belive, they can be better than ourselves.
Well Mr. Obama, they belive in you. I'm watching this crowd of people, grin on my face as well, and they believe. They belive enough to cheer your name in the streets until well past midnight. Some of them have tests tomorrow. Some have to be up in mere hours to go work hard. All belive.
I have a small request for you sir. Don't let them down. They've done it, they've used their power to make you their hope. They belive in something bigger than themselves.
And I belive too, you've made me belive.
Ball's in your court sir. Do the impossible.
-Doug
"We've done the impossible, and that makes us mighty."
-Mal, Firefly.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Doug: Vote Che
Dear Readers,
Today, if I finish this today, which I hope I do, is election day.
oooh.
About an hour and a half ago I was biking through a sick mix of rain and hail to cast my ballot at St. Benidict's Church. My voting site. It was coming down hard, and the first place I found wasn't the right area. I walked in, soaking wet, and handed my voter's registration card to a guy who looked like he was older than Methuselah. His buddy eyeballed me like he considered spitting me on a stick and roasting me over his cigarette.
"You're in the wrong place son." John Wayne's accent assaulted me from across the table. "You need to be about five blocks down the street."
I muttered under my breath and his buddy's look changed from irritated to reassuring. "You can vote here if you like, but your ballot won't be counted until last."
"Nah, I'll head down there." I thanked them and turned around, heading for the exit.
"Do you know what's wonderful about this country?" I paused momentarily, looking around. But the speaker wasn't addressing me, he was talking to his two children, who looked to be below age five.
"What daddy?" The more articulate kid asked, big eyed, looking up.
"I'm going to use some big words, so just ask me if I say something you don't know."
"Okay."
"We're a Democracy. Do you know what that means?"
"Nooo." The kid is speaking in the cutest of voices, the kind that makes you want children, even if you know better. I stand stock still, fascinated by the exchange.
"A Democracy is a country that gets to vote for their leader. Have you heard about Kings?" Apparently this guy doesn't read his kid bedtime stories.
"Yeah..." The cute kid voice is starting to get to me. I try and remember that I'm an emotionless robot, but it's making me want to cry with the cute.
"Kings don't get elected, they just say they're the King. So bad people sometimes become Kings, or at least people the King rules don't like the King."
"Okay..." Seriously kid, cut that out, or I'll have to light you on fire.
"But here in America we get to pick our leader. And that's what makes this country wonderful."
"Yay!"
Spell broken, I move quickly to the outside, a drop of moisture running down my cheek. I just watched a guy explain to his kids America's democracy. In the most dumbed down possible way, but still. I feel like I've been an intruder on a most intimate moment between child and parent.
It starts to hail as I bike up to the place I'm supposed vote. A lady walks up to me and I clamber off my bike. "Do you know where to vote?"
"This isn't it?"
"No!"
I mutter four letter words and hope the nice lady I'm talking to can's hear me.
"Let's ask her!" I point to a woman just turning the corner. Pieces of hail run down my back, freezing me.
She doesn't bother to talk to us, she just points in the direction of a lighted doorway. The hail makes it impossible to hear anyway. I feel like Alice, about to enter wonderland.
A warm blast of air hits my face, warming my frozen body. I can't find a place to lock up my bike, but at this point if anyone argues with me about it I'll pull their damn spine out through their skullcap.
The guy directing us all takes a look at my bike, Looks at my face, and smiles warmly. "You can put it in this room." he says.
I almost hug him.
The tempest outside lashes like some angry God, but inside this voting precinct, all is quiet, all is warm, I actually feel comfortable.
I've got a choice here, like a lot of other Americans. I'm not going to comment on who I think you should have voted for. According to CNN it doesn't matter. The polls are closing in about ten seconds. But if you didn't vote, if you didn't make a choice, well, I think you should have.
A wizened old lady hands me my ballot, and I move to the polls.
-Doug
"His whole life was a million to one shot."
-Rocky
Today, if I finish this today, which I hope I do, is election day.
oooh.
About an hour and a half ago I was biking through a sick mix of rain and hail to cast my ballot at St. Benidict's Church. My voting site. It was coming down hard, and the first place I found wasn't the right area. I walked in, soaking wet, and handed my voter's registration card to a guy who looked like he was older than Methuselah. His buddy eyeballed me like he considered spitting me on a stick and roasting me over his cigarette.
"You're in the wrong place son." John Wayne's accent assaulted me from across the table. "You need to be about five blocks down the street."
I muttered under my breath and his buddy's look changed from irritated to reassuring. "You can vote here if you like, but your ballot won't be counted until last."
"Nah, I'll head down there." I thanked them and turned around, heading for the exit.
"Do you know what's wonderful about this country?" I paused momentarily, looking around. But the speaker wasn't addressing me, he was talking to his two children, who looked to be below age five.
"What daddy?" The more articulate kid asked, big eyed, looking up.
"I'm going to use some big words, so just ask me if I say something you don't know."
"Okay."
"We're a Democracy. Do you know what that means?"
"Nooo." The kid is speaking in the cutest of voices, the kind that makes you want children, even if you know better. I stand stock still, fascinated by the exchange.
"A Democracy is a country that gets to vote for their leader. Have you heard about Kings?" Apparently this guy doesn't read his kid bedtime stories.
"Yeah..." The cute kid voice is starting to get to me. I try and remember that I'm an emotionless robot, but it's making me want to cry with the cute.
"Kings don't get elected, they just say they're the King. So bad people sometimes become Kings, or at least people the King rules don't like the King."
"Okay..." Seriously kid, cut that out, or I'll have to light you on fire.
"But here in America we get to pick our leader. And that's what makes this country wonderful."
"Yay!"
Spell broken, I move quickly to the outside, a drop of moisture running down my cheek. I just watched a guy explain to his kids America's democracy. In the most dumbed down possible way, but still. I feel like I've been an intruder on a most intimate moment between child and parent.
It starts to hail as I bike up to the place I'm supposed vote. A lady walks up to me and I clamber off my bike. "Do you know where to vote?"
"This isn't it?"
"No!"
I mutter four letter words and hope the nice lady I'm talking to can's hear me.
"Let's ask her!" I point to a woman just turning the corner. Pieces of hail run down my back, freezing me.
She doesn't bother to talk to us, she just points in the direction of a lighted doorway. The hail makes it impossible to hear anyway. I feel like Alice, about to enter wonderland.
A warm blast of air hits my face, warming my frozen body. I can't find a place to lock up my bike, but at this point if anyone argues with me about it I'll pull their damn spine out through their skullcap.
The guy directing us all takes a look at my bike, Looks at my face, and smiles warmly. "You can put it in this room." he says.
I almost hug him.
The tempest outside lashes like some angry God, but inside this voting precinct, all is quiet, all is warm, I actually feel comfortable.
I've got a choice here, like a lot of other Americans. I'm not going to comment on who I think you should have voted for. According to CNN it doesn't matter. The polls are closing in about ten seconds. But if you didn't vote, if you didn't make a choice, well, I think you should have.
A wizened old lady hands me my ballot, and I move to the polls.
-Doug
"His whole life was a million to one shot."
-Rocky
Meghan: Rain, rain, don't go away
The sky is falling
The angels are crying
The girl is laughing, blow wind blow.
My hair is in ringlets from the humidity and it clings to my forehead in a sweat left over from the gym. Later I’ll have to dunk my head in a bucket of water to calm it down, but now I just let it form its gold whirlwind. The world smells like wet cement and drenched earth, and all of the colors seem too intense, too bright. I’m drinking with my eyes while butter yellow leaves twirl down with the buckets of rain. Is it overwhelming? Oh, yes. But would I drown in it? Never, not in this richness. If I meet the eyes of other people while I’m wandering I probably look like some half-crazy fiend spinning through the rain. But they don’t matter, not when I’m searching, looking at everything. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t care, I’m just looking; experiencing. And I love it.
-Meghan
The angels are crying
The girl is laughing, blow wind blow.
My hair is in ringlets from the humidity and it clings to my forehead in a sweat left over from the gym. Later I’ll have to dunk my head in a bucket of water to calm it down, but now I just let it form its gold whirlwind. The world smells like wet cement and drenched earth, and all of the colors seem too intense, too bright. I’m drinking with my eyes while butter yellow leaves twirl down with the buckets of rain. Is it overwhelming? Oh, yes. But would I drown in it? Never, not in this richness. If I meet the eyes of other people while I’m wandering I probably look like some half-crazy fiend spinning through the rain. But they don’t matter, not when I’m searching, looking at everything. I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t care, I’m just looking; experiencing. And I love it.
-Meghan
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Meghan: pride
Hey there hey
Got a light?
Get out of my face
Unless you want to die
I’ll rip your heart and drink your blood
Ha ha
Hey now hey,
Calm down little girl
Think now think
Whatcha gonna do to me?
What do you want old man?
What do you want little boy?
Leering, sneering, snarled thing
Reaping suffering, sewing hate
Stop, just stop
Out, get out
Won’t, child, won’t
Can’t, child, can’t
You keep me
You hold me
You tie me to you
No, no
Yes, yes
Out, out
In, in
I will kill you
You will love me
I will die
Ha, ha
Hey now hey,
Who cares?
-Meghan
Got a light?
Get out of my face
Unless you want to die
I’ll rip your heart and drink your blood
Ha ha
Hey now hey,
Calm down little girl
Think now think
Whatcha gonna do to me?
What do you want old man?
What do you want little boy?
Leering, sneering, snarled thing
Reaping suffering, sewing hate
Stop, just stop
Out, get out
Won’t, child, won’t
Can’t, child, can’t
You keep me
You hold me
You tie me to you
No, no
Yes, yes
Out, out
In, in
I will kill you
You will love me
I will die
Ha, ha
Hey now hey,
Who cares?
-Meghan
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