I kept a diary while in eighth grade middle school. I couldn't tell you why really, since I've never considered myself the journal-type: they are way too incriminating if (and when) your enemies manage to get their hands on them. Regardless, there was a time when a younger version of myself jotted down random ideas, short-story plots and philisophical musings on middle-school survivalism.
I specifically remember a short story involving doomsday robots and a semi-automatic colony of retro anthropomorphic goldfish. Another narrative explored the concept of zombie dinosaurs building a time machine and teleporting themselves to present-day Los Angeles, wrecking mad tasty havok upon our sleepy modern-day metropolis. Sweet, I know.
It was also during this time period that I began archiving chemical compounds necessary for the development of pipe bombs and other exotic explosives. This bit of extracurricular chronicling would eventually get me into a world of trouble. That, and an incident involving me, Arturo and a locker full of napalm, but more on that later.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Talking To You And The Intake Of Glass (A.K.A. Hell Is For Heroes Part I)
I saw Lydia riding her bike down the hill this morning on her way to school. In that split second I would have given anything to make myself disappear into thin air.
To be honest I don't remember much of our impending conversation outside of how each syllable burst into flames as it left her pretty pink lips. All I can remember thinking was, "We could build a mansion with our million dollar words."
Words aren't even real. They are simply a man-made conception proven worthless.
She led me by the hand to the gates of our old school, and everyone was already waiting. Into the arms of our comrades, the human wreckage we were once proud to know and love as our best friends. A halo of grinning mouths and azure skies, our words barely audible over the laughter and the screams.
(For the sake of anonymity, I shall list no names. In reference to your own reality, however, you will know exactly who these people are.)
The years did pass, and so did we, but this moment . . . it's not quite right.
"You never meet the same person twice," I warned her, once we had broken away from our audience. "It is physically impossible: The only constant is change."
Lydia reached for a notepad and pulled out a pen from her purse. After a moment of scribbles, she slid me the notepad from across the room. I picked the pad up and opened it, curious as to what it might say.
"It would be safer to converse in writing. Everyone is watching"
Something was not right, and it took me a second to pick up on it: The eyes - they were fucking everywhere. Like thieves peeking through windows, or the way a deaf man can hear a sound in darkness.
Something was definitely wrong. I rewrote my previous sentiment and quickly passed the notepad back to her. After several minutes of frantic writing, Lydia passed me the notepad.
"This is the part where the hopes and dreams that once kept us alive begin to slowly tear us apart. We built these dreams out of splinters and a fistful of scars, armed with the intention of them taking us anywhere but here . . . but this isn't a boat, it's a coffin. The end is coming like a flood, and I don't want to be all alone when these oceans begins to rise."
Words are bastards, in every sense of the word. A part of me wanted to stand up and deny everything Lydia had told me thus far: To call her out as a liar, a condescender, in front of this room full of murderers and queens.
But at the very root of me, I knew she was right.
So instead I remained anchored in my seat, upright and motionless, choking on my tongue.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, I calmly wrote her a response:
"In this part of the story we are the ones who die . . . the only ones."
To be honest I don't remember much of our impending conversation outside of how each syllable burst into flames as it left her pretty pink lips. All I can remember thinking was, "We could build a mansion with our million dollar words."
Words aren't even real. They are simply a man-made conception proven worthless.
She led me by the hand to the gates of our old school, and everyone was already waiting. Into the arms of our comrades, the human wreckage we were once proud to know and love as our best friends. A halo of grinning mouths and azure skies, our words barely audible over the laughter and the screams.
(For the sake of anonymity, I shall list no names. In reference to your own reality, however, you will know exactly who these people are.)
The years did pass, and so did we, but this moment . . . it's not quite right.
"You never meet the same person twice," I warned her, once we had broken away from our audience. "It is physically impossible: The only constant is change."
Lydia reached for a notepad and pulled out a pen from her purse. After a moment of scribbles, she slid me the notepad from across the room. I picked the pad up and opened it, curious as to what it might say.
"It would be safer to converse in writing. Everyone is watching"
Something was not right, and it took me a second to pick up on it: The eyes - they were fucking everywhere. Like thieves peeking through windows, or the way a deaf man can hear a sound in darkness.
Something was definitely wrong. I rewrote my previous sentiment and quickly passed the notepad back to her. After several minutes of frantic writing, Lydia passed me the notepad.
"This is the part where the hopes and dreams that once kept us alive begin to slowly tear us apart. We built these dreams out of splinters and a fistful of scars, armed with the intention of them taking us anywhere but here . . . but this isn't a boat, it's a coffin. The end is coming like a flood, and I don't want to be all alone when these oceans begins to rise."
Words are bastards, in every sense of the word. A part of me wanted to stand up and deny everything Lydia had told me thus far: To call her out as a liar, a condescender, in front of this room full of murderers and queens.
But at the very root of me, I knew she was right.
So instead I remained anchored in my seat, upright and motionless, choking on my tongue.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, I calmly wrote her a response:
"In this part of the story we are the ones who die . . . the only ones."
Thursday, January 1, 2009
The End Of All Things Will Be Televised
I don't need to watch the video anymore. Roll after roll of security film, edited and spliced for media-friendly consumption. "In other news . . . " the broadcastor's voice began again, barely audible over the faint hum of the transistor. By then my eyes were already bleeding from the grain, like witnessing nuclear fallout without proper precaution. I opened my mouth for air, gasping over a chorus of static and radio snow. More blood trickled into my throat, effectively choking off any attempt of escape. Like using an ax to remove an eyelid from the machine. Like having a seizure in a spacesuit.
I was there when it happened. I saw the scene unfold.
"This is between me and this blade, and my heart." That was the cold logic you gave to us, a sort of justification for future actions. Except . . . it wasn't. Not a single fucking word of it. Your words were a begger, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a temperamental ploy for sympathy - no one else saw the vengence in your eyes. "We see the parts, not the whole, and we're voting yes."
And then everything went straight to hell.
There was no murder weapon to speak of. No "Insert Knife Here," or "Let's Break Out The Shotguns" comraderie. It was unncessary: the situation was clean, and the intent was more than murderous. Bravo, you martyred pagan.
The holy ghost is torturous. Looking back into your panicked eyes, you had failed, and all of us knew it, yourself included. Hell, the whole thing might even have gone according to plan if your conscious hadn't pulled in. The conscious is a wolf. Deception wore its veil, but it was only a matter of time. Attempting to find beauty on a faultline only succeeds in breeding a swarm of chaos.
The centre does not hold. History proves this.
What were you hoping to achieve with his death, Kubrick? Falling out of an airplane and drowning is quite a way to die. A real work of art by any means. Murphy was an optimist to be sure, but Christ. There was a rumour going around that this guy could've been the real deal, the messiah to save us all . . .
Kubrick: "What makes a man start fires?"
Stephen: "Because a man cannot start ice ages."
Kubrick: "We will be the new ice age."
And to hold this secret from the press, from his fucking wife and family? Only to call a press conference weeks later, surrendering your innocence to the highest bidders. What did you expect? The media is an orchestra of wolves: The tongue is a flame, the microphone is the fuse.
Yes, I watched in stunned silence as it all came down.
But Jesus, I could only force my eyes open for so long. There was just so much fucking blood. This was an eviceration, a public execution televised for all to see. "Come one, come all, introduce knife to heart!" By the time it was all over, I didn't even recognize you. My best friend, the person I fell in love with . . . a beautiful angel, pulled apart in front of me. Limbless and helpless, begging for amnesty. And Lord help me, I couldn't even recognize your face.
I was there when it happened. I saw the scene unfold.
"This is between me and this blade, and my heart." That was the cold logic you gave to us, a sort of justification for future actions. Except . . . it wasn't. Not a single fucking word of it. Your words were a begger, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a temperamental ploy for sympathy - no one else saw the vengence in your eyes. "We see the parts, not the whole, and we're voting yes."
And then everything went straight to hell.
There was no murder weapon to speak of. No "Insert Knife Here," or "Let's Break Out The Shotguns" comraderie. It was unncessary: the situation was clean, and the intent was more than murderous. Bravo, you martyred pagan.
The holy ghost is torturous. Looking back into your panicked eyes, you had failed, and all of us knew it, yourself included. Hell, the whole thing might even have gone according to plan if your conscious hadn't pulled in. The conscious is a wolf. Deception wore its veil, but it was only a matter of time. Attempting to find beauty on a faultline only succeeds in breeding a swarm of chaos.
The centre does not hold. History proves this.
What were you hoping to achieve with his death, Kubrick? Falling out of an airplane and drowning is quite a way to die. A real work of art by any means. Murphy was an optimist to be sure, but Christ. There was a rumour going around that this guy could've been the real deal, the messiah to save us all . . .
Kubrick: "What makes a man start fires?"
Stephen: "Because a man cannot start ice ages."
Kubrick: "We will be the new ice age."
And to hold this secret from the press, from his fucking wife and family? Only to call a press conference weeks later, surrendering your innocence to the highest bidders. What did you expect? The media is an orchestra of wolves: The tongue is a flame, the microphone is the fuse.
Yes, I watched in stunned silence as it all came down.
But Jesus, I could only force my eyes open for so long. There was just so much fucking blood. This was an eviceration, a public execution televised for all to see. "Come one, come all, introduce knife to heart!" By the time it was all over, I didn't even recognize you. My best friend, the person I fell in love with . . . a beautiful angel, pulled apart in front of me. Limbless and helpless, begging for amnesty. And Lord help me, I couldn't even recognize your face.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Oh God / The Aftermath
I have a confession to make . . . I sold you to the state.
The CIA is infiltrating your house as we speak.
I caught a glimpse of the spy satellite as it passed over our heads.
Orbiting every 92 minutes, quietly collecting images for the city's records.
I saw the petrified faces of you and your family on the evening news. Helpless and full of sedatives, shattered in a sea of dialogue and flashbulbs.
I heard about your last words, and I can't say that I'm sorry.
You should've seen my face, I've been so bitter towards you.
Alex was there, as powerless as the rest of them.
(Why now, Alex? I'm less of a man as I depart.)
"Sign my name too, Love. Press hard, there are three copies."
The CIA is infiltrating your house as we speak.
I caught a glimpse of the spy satellite as it passed over our heads.
Orbiting every 92 minutes, quietly collecting images for the city's records.
I saw the petrified faces of you and your family on the evening news. Helpless and full of sedatives, shattered in a sea of dialogue and flashbulbs.
I heard about your last words, and I can't say that I'm sorry.
You should've seen my face, I've been so bitter towards you.
Alex was there, as powerless as the rest of them.
(Why now, Alex? I'm less of a man as I depart.)
"Sign my name too, Love. Press hard, there are three copies."
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Waiting Room / Flashbacks
We were sitting on a bus full of children.
I was drawing pictures of rocket ships.
I was climbing the powerlines outside your window.
There was a radio playing in the background.
Your father was a fat Southerner with blue overalls and a moustache.
Your mother was a black Georgia soul singer with friends who loved to cook.
I woke up in your house, your mother was whispering to me.
I could just make out your face through the crack in the doorway.
I was drawing pictures of rocket ships.
I was climbing the powerlines outside your window.
There was a radio playing in the background.
Your father was a fat Southerner with blue overalls and a moustache.
Your mother was a black Georgia soul singer with friends who loved to cook.
I woke up in your house, your mother was whispering to me.
I could just make out your face through the crack in the doorway.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose
"Hey dude, did you . . . see that?"
I am half asleep, idling in my thoughts of self-redemption, when the man next to me utters these words. I open my eyes to find this curious individual staring out his window and into the sky.
"Did you see it?" he repeats. Seeing as I am the only other passenger on this bus, I assume his question is meant for my ears.
"Uh, no. What is it?"
"The sky is filled with pearls."
I am awake now, trying to shuffle off the layers of sleep my mind so desperately craves. Pushing him aside, I take a look outside the window.
I am half asleep, idling in my thoughts of self-redemption, when the man next to me utters these words. I open my eyes to find this curious individual staring out his window and into the sky.
"Did you see it?" he repeats. Seeing as I am the only other passenger on this bus, I assume his question is meant for my ears.
"Uh, no. What is it?"
"The sky is filled with pearls."
I am awake now, trying to shuffle off the layers of sleep my mind so desperately craves. Pushing him aside, I take a look outside the window.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Angela (Remain In Twilight)
It's gotten late, and now I want to be alone. The weekend comes, Cedric throws parties, but the girl . . . she doesn't show this time.
I sit on the front porch for what seems like hours, my thoughts lost in the haze of the wine. All of our friends were here, they all have gone home. I remain oblivious to this simple fact until I look up and realize I am alone. The twilight is crushing; the situation is clean. Furthermore, it seems my ride to the party has ditched me for a look at the whores on Second Avenue. Weighing these unfortunate circumstances, I decide to start walking. As I stumble forth into the night, I can't help but wonder . . . "Are you avoiding me, Angela?"
"This was supposed to be the chance I never got . . . to make a move." Instead, I bum another cigarette from one of the ghosts I pass in the streets. "You knew this was going to happen. The taste of failure must greet you sweetly. You still sleep alone."
Guitars and violins paint their melodies so beautifully inside of my head, as fragments of my skull begin to fall like pixie dust from these bruised scalpel skylines. This is the part where I'm supposed to bury my head in my hands and sink into myself. I jump a subway train into the city instead.
"Just what are you so afraid of?" the voice in my head whispers. "You're staring truth in the face, so come on down." I have no intentions of coming back down. "You can't do this night after night after night." I hate the me that I've become, the useless and forgetting one.
My body is lost at sea. I don't even notice, as I mutter this entire conversation out loud to myself. Strange, I haven't spoken in days, and the voice that escapes my lips sounds foreign to my ears. (I'm too engrossed in this revelation to notice that everyone aboard is looking at me.)
Doors slide open and my legs walk out, taking my body with them. There is snow here and for a split second I can't remember where I am or why I am here. Nothing but soft little secrets and failed attempts.
It all comes flooding back to me, once I catch a glimpse of her face.
It is time to make a choice: I can stretch this moment out forever, remain in twilight, content yet not truly satisfied. All I have to do is turn around and walk away. Or I can walk up to her and seal our fate with these words.
Voices now, many of them. "Just turn around and walk away!" (How long has this been going on? Has it always been this way?) "Don't do this, not again!"
The wind carries my words. This girl, Angela - she hears these words. I watch her eyes disconnect from their intended target and turn in my direction. Our eyes meet, holding each other for what seems like an infinite heartbeat. Then slowly, very slowly, I watch the remnants of a smile form at the corners of her mouth, and the look that crosses her face, defeated but cool. Smoothly, she walks up to me and slips her hand into mine. "Let's go inside," she says.
Snowflakes fall in perfect little circles above our heads. The wolf is at the door, and she's waiting for me to make a move.
Fuck it. "The problem with me . . . is my problem with you . . . you're everything."
Oh, shut the fuck up, you bloody idiot. You did this to yourself. Find us a fucking table. I'm not letting you escape this. You get what you put in. This time, you're getting what you deserve.
"Let's get a bottle and drink alone," Angela offers. I slap a fifty on the counter and ask the bartender for a bottle of his personal favourite. The bartender returns with a chilled bottle of absinthe liqueur in his hands. Satisfied with this offer, Angie thanks the bartender and grabs the bottle. "Keep the change," I mutter as I follow her out.
An abandoned bus stop on the corner sits illuminated beneath the streetlights. Stephen and Angela take a seat as I crack open the bottle and we both take a sip.
Several minutes pass. "My head is spinning, but isn't that the idea?" Angie says aloud, a dazed look in her eyes. "Absolutely," I say. "Who wants to be sober at their own execution?" She doesn't respond to this musing. She doesn't even smile.
The silence that blossoms between us is murderous. For minutes all we can do is stare at each other, hopeless and debating on how to proceed.
I break the silence first: "Do you want me?"
Angela's eyes break away from mine. With crossed arms and glassy eyes, she clear her throat.
"No."
Her voice is a razorblade to my bare flesh. I watch the tears freeze on her cheek and know full well it is only a reflection of my own face.
"It's not you, it's me. God, Stephen. How can you afford the price of wanting more? Tell me that much. These misunderstandings are killing us."
"I don't know, is this what I get for wanting more? Angela, you are my last request. Don't make me feel so contradicted."
Silence.
"Fine, spell it out for me," I whisper between gritted teeth, eyes closed.
She complies. With a ballpoint pen and a restaurant napkin, I watch each word form with a deadly precision:
1. I don't like you.
2. Yes, there is someone else.
3. Everything was fine until you started working here.
4. But . . . *You* like me.
5. And the guy I want has no interest in Me.
6. So I'm deciding whether or not to Give up and be with You.
I lift my eyes to the sky, watching my time float away. It's all been a blur and none of this will ever change. I was lying. This is my defeat. I lower my eyes to the ground and open my mouth to scream, but my breath carries no shadow.
Angela's expression never changes.
I sit on the front porch for what seems like hours, my thoughts lost in the haze of the wine. All of our friends were here, they all have gone home. I remain oblivious to this simple fact until I look up and realize I am alone. The twilight is crushing; the situation is clean. Furthermore, it seems my ride to the party has ditched me for a look at the whores on Second Avenue. Weighing these unfortunate circumstances, I decide to start walking. As I stumble forth into the night, I can't help but wonder . . . "Are you avoiding me, Angela?"
"This was supposed to be the chance I never got . . . to make a move." Instead, I bum another cigarette from one of the ghosts I pass in the streets. "You knew this was going to happen. The taste of failure must greet you sweetly. You still sleep alone."
Guitars and violins paint their melodies so beautifully inside of my head, as fragments of my skull begin to fall like pixie dust from these bruised scalpel skylines. This is the part where I'm supposed to bury my head in my hands and sink into myself. I jump a subway train into the city instead.
"Just what are you so afraid of?" the voice in my head whispers. "You're staring truth in the face, so come on down." I have no intentions of coming back down. "You can't do this night after night after night." I hate the me that I've become, the useless and forgetting one.
My body is lost at sea. I don't even notice, as I mutter this entire conversation out loud to myself. Strange, I haven't spoken in days, and the voice that escapes my lips sounds foreign to my ears. (I'm too engrossed in this revelation to notice that everyone aboard is looking at me.)
Doors slide open and my legs walk out, taking my body with them. There is snow here and for a split second I can't remember where I am or why I am here. Nothing but soft little secrets and failed attempts.
It all comes flooding back to me, once I catch a glimpse of her face.
It is time to make a choice: I can stretch this moment out forever, remain in twilight, content yet not truly satisfied. All I have to do is turn around and walk away. Or I can walk up to her and seal our fate with these words.
Voices now, many of them. "Just turn around and walk away!" (How long has this been going on? Has it always been this way?) "Don't do this, not again!"
The wind carries my words. This girl, Angela - she hears these words. I watch her eyes disconnect from their intended target and turn in my direction. Our eyes meet, holding each other for what seems like an infinite heartbeat. Then slowly, very slowly, I watch the remnants of a smile form at the corners of her mouth, and the look that crosses her face, defeated but cool. Smoothly, she walks up to me and slips her hand into mine. "Let's go inside," she says.
Snowflakes fall in perfect little circles above our heads. The wolf is at the door, and she's waiting for me to make a move.
Fuck it. "The problem with me . . . is my problem with you . . . you're everything."
Oh, shut the fuck up, you bloody idiot. You did this to yourself. Find us a fucking table. I'm not letting you escape this. You get what you put in. This time, you're getting what you deserve.
"Let's get a bottle and drink alone," Angela offers. I slap a fifty on the counter and ask the bartender for a bottle of his personal favourite. The bartender returns with a chilled bottle of absinthe liqueur in his hands. Satisfied with this offer, Angie thanks the bartender and grabs the bottle. "Keep the change," I mutter as I follow her out.
An abandoned bus stop on the corner sits illuminated beneath the streetlights. Stephen and Angela take a seat as I crack open the bottle and we both take a sip.
Several minutes pass. "My head is spinning, but isn't that the idea?" Angie says aloud, a dazed look in her eyes. "Absolutely," I say. "Who wants to be sober at their own execution?" She doesn't respond to this musing. She doesn't even smile.
The silence that blossoms between us is murderous. For minutes all we can do is stare at each other, hopeless and debating on how to proceed.
I break the silence first: "Do you want me?"
Angela's eyes break away from mine. With crossed arms and glassy eyes, she clear her throat.
"No."
Her voice is a razorblade to my bare flesh. I watch the tears freeze on her cheek and know full well it is only a reflection of my own face.
"It's not you, it's me. God, Stephen. How can you afford the price of wanting more? Tell me that much. These misunderstandings are killing us."
"I don't know, is this what I get for wanting more? Angela, you are my last request. Don't make me feel so contradicted."
Silence.
"Fine, spell it out for me," I whisper between gritted teeth, eyes closed.
She complies. With a ballpoint pen and a restaurant napkin, I watch each word form with a deadly precision:
1. I don't like you.
2. Yes, there is someone else.
3. Everything was fine until you started working here.
4. But . . . *You* like me.
5. And the guy I want has no interest in Me.
6. So I'm deciding whether or not to Give up and be with You.
I lift my eyes to the sky, watching my time float away. It's all been a blur and none of this will ever change. I was lying. This is my defeat. I lower my eyes to the ground and open my mouth to scream, but my breath carries no shadow.
Angela's expression never changes.
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