The Place I call Home (A Poem)

The Place I call Home 

Neon glow of a street lamp reflecting on the damp pavement 

Cars driving by late at night breaking the silent restless air 

Clicking heels exasperating the emptiness and darkness

Windows lit by dull florescent bulbs hanging aimlessly 

This is where I call home and this is where I find my life 

dawn hints on the horizon a future date filled with hopes 

Only to be regained by the grips of dusk once again 

The cold rain falls upon the faces of sinned and sinner

Transgressions meaning little to ridged and stoned lives 

The paint peeling off age worn walls covered in scratches 

Sparse furniture dotting a glowing coffin of an apartment

Cold wooden floors covered in splintered ragged flaws 

They seem to symbolize my simplistically docile existence   

Loud appliances initiate a space of sound among shy reality 

Humming angrily as if to protest the squalor that permeates

Each corner a home for shadows and other vague concepts 

A dripping sink adding rhythm among a patternless orchestra 

Raise ones head and you can see the spotted stains above 

telling a story willing to evoke bitter and mirthless laughter  

Cracks spidering across an endless sea of greying white paint

Reminiscent of the worn and aged skin of a toiling farmer 

The window glares as light slowly scatters through stained glass

Images of cultists taking their lives within such light reels  

Slightly blurred images and a rocking unsteady camcorder

Catching the final moments of mentally deranged beings 

The moon shines mercilessly upon the reflective street below 

Its not that I think I can escape the reality I have set upon 

Its all about perspective and deeply intwined imagination 

Within a shadowy and ghostly place I still call my home 

  

  

     

Words (Thoughts)

The power and the meaninglessness of words perfectly epitomizes the contradictory nature of all human constructs. I attempt to use my knowledge and artistic sensibilities to build a structure of words which can convey abstract ideals into concrete creations within you. I have a friend who is struggling with internal and external misfortunes and I try desperately to use my words to help ease her struggle. The poor truth of geography we share has forced me to hold unto the power of my words to affect her life in a positive manner ya bish? But no, she doesn't understand for the power I am trying to convey through the wonders of a shrinking and continuously globalized world lies within herself and not within myself. I am attempting to pro-ject words that bring forth great emotions within me to repeat the feat within her, I am attempting to universalize a subjective truth through the hope of convincing her that her subjective truth is also my own, such minimizing and retracting the power of our individuality.

There is undoubtedly overlap that will occur. The power of art is its ability to burrow deep within its receiver, unearthing great truths that we had not realized existed. At the moment I am listening to a piece by Kendrick Lamar called Money Trees, a song that takes a hard and constructive look at the gang banging culture that exists within L.A. and other major North American metropolises, truths that occur because of racist economics and "the weight of history"; the term has just procured a few chuckles from myself, the context for which is completely subjective and plagiaristic in nature. What I am trying to say is that I am a white middle class male who by the very essence of his birthing was given a life in which I am free of all the turmoil that a black North American man such as kendrick has faced. Yet, despite the vast chasm between our social, economic, and racial differences I can relate to him. I can take in the power of his words and find a deep seeded emotion which we both share and I am able to let the flow of his ebonic lyrics flow through my soul and conscious mind. We share a basic humanity and a basic language (to an extent).

So I hope, beg, and perhaps pray that the power that kendrick has with words can also be the power I have with words, that I am able to dig deep within the mind and feelings of my friend(s) with the words I am unleashing through the unsubstantiated energies of my mind, fingers, and the social media we have all been dissolved within; that I am able to connect rather than redirect, that I am able to convey rather than refrain and that I am gifted enough to define rather than remind the realities we hold inside ourselves.

 

Vegetating (A Poem)

Vegetating

A pair of too high to fuck lovers 

Caught in the review mirror 

Star crossed and mind warped 

To the visual sensation of imagination 

Immobilized by societies expectations

Vegetating, basement infused existence

spider in the corner seemingly dazed   

Room illuminated by neon television glow 

"go fuck yourself" resonates within paper walls

Slamming doors, carbon escaping click snap

resounding feet ring poignantly to muttering 

"Asshole" screamed to deaf ears just below

A pair of too high to fuck lovers 

Caught in the review mirror 

Star crossed and mind warped 

To the visual sensation of imagination 

Flashing images invoking minimal response 

Sound receiving no attention of the mind 

Eyes filmed over, absent of emotional regret

"Fuck boy, get off that fucking couch, you shit!" 

A pair of too high to fuck lovers 

Caught in the review mirror 

Star crossed and mind warped 

To the visual sensation of imagination 

Untitled #2 (A Poem)

Untitled # 2

Home alone, no where to go 

surrounded by, I don't even know 

I can't help think, I will fade 

enjoyment of life, oddly frayed 

I like to read, bout coming of age 

It reminds me, I turn the page 

if I fail, I'll survive my cage 

I'll glance to my gas gauge 

my car will run out of gas 

 between god, going to mass 

 the feeling of human beings 

I hate sensation, always fleeing 

how scary can death really be 

when you live, without seeing 

people you love, those that weep 

 your soul, not meant to keep

walk on down, the city streets 

find a coin, a couple of seats 

it won't take long, before you find 

everything ends, before your time  

that funny show and that great cd 

filled with scenes on that fav dvd 

I pack my bags to go to the bar 

I find her with another pair of arms 

Its funny, we love organic things 

we want something we can cling 

a way to kill time, before it kills us 

a way of saying, that life is a fuss 

So here I am, alone and sad 

 tragic ideas, life can go bad 

 I realized that it was a dream 

living within popular themes 

I existed inside another play 

a work of Shakespearean dismay 

 inside a mans simple mind 

its funny how I can't control rewind  

Seducing Sleep (A Poem)

Seducing Sleep 

Time slows down, if for a moment

I now know what you had meant

(When you said take me)

Locked inside our loving embrace 

Focused only on one another

(Eyes widen with movement)  

Each breath rasps in perfect unison

Each muscle works for one intent 

Our souls intwine our bodies 

We become joined in those minutes

Forgetting that the world exists 

(My point becomes your eyes)

Our skin seems to melts to become one

Our souls seem to morph into our love

(I need you as much as you need me) 

It all ends in a climatic understanding

Time stops and then moves faster

(Our energy seeps away with the night)

We will never be able to turn back

The connection has been created

(Its time to rest and let sleep seduce) 

Ode To That Beyond Beauty (A Poem)

Ode To That Beyond Beauty

The beautiful

I ask this of thee

What shall you get as time passes?

I will kneel to you in our youthful intrigue

but I expect a bow in our ancient reprieve

For as things change so will you

Your beauty will pass quickly 

along with your arrogance brought by birth

For though you flash in exquisite fashion 

My elegant words remain undeniably immortal 

As the erosion of time wears you down 

I shall be sculpted by the weathered winds of wisdom 

for you beauty will never bring respect nor validation

Your beauty shall never endow you with status

your allure shall bring you lust, till age morphs desire into contempt 

When your time has passed you will die yearning the past

Unable to look at yourself through the eyes of the old

I though, shall age with weathered eyes full of passion

I will gain that which shall never be yours

be it esteem, or comfort of what cannot be seen

I will hold death telling him of what I saw today

you shall beg death to remember of what you once where

So enjoy your time youthful beauty, for it is very short

It is but a flash

Indeed, just a flicker of what the talented will enjoy

Never Hide (A Poem)

Never hide

Im not just angry at you

Im angry at myself

Im not just alone inside

Im scared of the taboo

Of being in love with you

Im not just a white man

Im also a devastated minority

I see you and crave you

I would rock your sedan 

But how can we make a plan?

Its terrify to feel like Im sick

I just can't fight the urges 

they represent my humanity

As odd as they are cryptic 

As scary as society is phobic

So let me put on my lipstick

Let me slip into this gown 

I can't hide beneath this facade  

a women inside, not actually sick

Just burdened by gods cruel trick

So hold me tight and love me

touch me and show me tonight

What it means to be accepted

I wish we could find a way to flee

My male body, this genetic Plea

To be attracted to the wrong side

Is not just a burden but a fear

Just accept me for how I am

I was made this way, I have pride

So know that I shall never Hide 

I will never hide. 

Lucid retreat (A Poem)

Lucid retreat

Burying the vivid moments in my sub conscious

I thought you would be my last Adrenaline rush  

Everything I do is inexplicably linked to this feeling

I make sure to lay you face up towards the ceiling

Watching your eyes is like watching the end of a movie

The colors fade and the screen turns into a rich black

Usually I see myself walking away into the darkness 

Wishing I was like you, full of beauty and harmless 

They say every man has a talent he cannot escape 

He become a mannequin to that of which he does

I would like to believe that I didn't have a choice 

That I learned to handle myself with a stark poise

I do feel some hint of guilt and regret somewhere

I wouldn't be pondering my existence if I couldn't

I glance at the mirror and stare at my callused eyes

We all have our goals and fight for a certain prize 

I glance at you, laying there in an infinite stillness  

I had no reason to choose you over anyone else

There was something though that made me know

That today you where linked to my life's inane flow

Im just like everyone else, I wonder why I am like I am

I don't know If I was born this way or if It was parenting

sadly though, pondering such things are meaningless

I can't change who I am, Ill act with optimistic vigilance 

There is no such thing as the sweetest kill in life 

Only those that we remember with lucid abandonment 

They are not something to be enjoyed or rejoiced 

I wish more than anything else that I had a real choice. 

So I live my life encompassed in a lucid retreat of defeat 

Caught living in past moments and future regressions 

Striking at just more than the humanity I attempt to create

I want an existence in which I have no need to self sedate

It's Just a Little Thing (A Poem)

It's Just a Little Thing 

She stood by the door leg bent 

Her hair was let down loose 

Her morals where locked up 

and her smile was evilly divine 

She took out a silvery blade

Lit a cigarette and laughed

A highball at the bedside table 

and a little gasoline on the bed 

The fire it roared and crackled 

as did the whiskey inside me 

and her body across my side 

and the knife inside my hand 

The red warmth invigorated 

As she lay in my steady hands 

and she closed her lovely eyes 

to take tomorrows nap everyday 

The scoundrels die most beautifully 

and revenge is a dish best served 

with a slice of meat and fire water

to keep ones stomach steady and full 

and so I killed my whorish woman 

and dumped her body in his bed 

I lit a smoke and sparkled some gas

and burned her corpse in his home 

So let us take a drink and celebrate 

the deaths foretold by the scholars 

and the lives forgotten by the public 

and the stories remember by the old 

  

In Love Wtih Another Mistress (A Poem)

In Love with Another Mistress 

Ive been on the move so long, I don't know what rest means 

My jeans are so worn, that my knees remain bear for all to see

The steps to my home are faded from the winter months as I remember 

It is odd feeling this nervousness before my own abode 

I held you on those steps, hands clasped tightly together 

Do you remember that nervous kiss before those timeless stars

I can remember wondering how many lovers have stared at those same stars

Feeling comfortably mortal and understandably transient before them 

Still

I ran away that october day scared of what you would think when you found out

Fire running through my veins, in love with another mistress of destruction 

Her name was cocaine, her name was addiction

I had your photo in my frayed wallet, held it every single day praying 

Even though I didn't believe in god, I still believed in you 

Gazing out that window, waiting for me to come and save us 

from the loneliness of our own broken hearted ways 

It had been so long since I looked you in those brisk blue eyes 

Your pain etched around your eyes and anger clenched between your fits 

My frail body swaying in the wind on top those fading concrete steps 

My hand Stretched out in desperate condolence for your lost years 

I trembled like I did before, all those years ago, ailing in body and soul 

Head bowed in defeat, life weighting on feeble shoulders 

Hands in my hair, firm and loving, holding me up before the strengths of time

Love never died between those years of trying to run from evanesce

Still

I ran away that october day scared of what you would think when you found out

Fire running through my veins, in love with another mistress of destruction 

Her name was cocaine, her name was addiction

Salvation I found in those arms, forgiveness in those stern bright eyes

You picked me up that day, feed me, and reminded me why I came back

But I will never become clean and I will never stay for too long 

I will break you heart again when I once again run for you 

I ran away that october day scared of what you would think when you found out

Fire running through my veins, in love with another mistress of destruction 

Her name was cocaine, her name was addiction

I returned a torn and broken man, only to rejoin the long road, back to her

In love with another mistress. Her name was cocaine. Her name was addiction. 

  

I Never Existed (A Poem)

I Never Existed

I walked home to something new

under my floor

was my only friend

She fell asleep to something old

how she cried 

to find my only friend 

I didn't mind being to near 

Though she tried 

To remind me why 

I used to hide under my floor 

to stay away 

From my fears deep inside

and Although I didn't know this

I was running from my very existence

So I told you I was fine today 

I would call

On another later date 

I hope you don't mind collect

I will be far 

From this very sad place 

So keep my lonely bed warm 

Under that floor

So that I may sleep again 

I just want you to know

Im am fine 

In this place I call home

And although I didn't know this

I was running from the truth 

Underneath your floorboards 

Underneath your floorboards 

I never existed   

Dream (A Poem)

Dream

walking down the abandoned hallway

the cold building wavers like broadway

got a feeling of dread inside my bones

this night don't feel right as i walk alone

the lights flicker above my sweating head

we reach a door that fills my soul with dread

its time to enter into the abyss of this place

the walls around me quiver as if to displace

the door creaks open followed by the scent

this is the smell of death and those hell bent

i walk into the place of my worst nightmares

this is where my soul is shown, this i dare 

on top of the table lies a blood soaked sheet

women lies underneath crushed like raw meat

she was the women i loved with all of my being

shes dead and i feel like there is no reasoning

i raise the sheet from her broken body and gasp

my body shakes and i don't care if i relapse

a smile slowly grows on her torn and shattered face

i cant help but feel that fate has shown some distaste

"dont u still find me beautiful my one and only love"

cant help but stare at the ceiling and what else above

this isnt happening this just cant be real i cant cry

struggles to lift herself from her position. let me die

the sheet falls to the ground and reveals her death

she died on a trip to edmonton in a car accident 

her body is mangled and her scalp was torn

she looked like an old doll that has been worn

i want to look away and find some peace around

but this is the price for my sins of which Im bound

i wake up in a cold sweat with a scream and a cry

this is the moment i wish i had said my last goodbye 

A Blackbird (A Poem)

A Blackbird 

alone in a forest of vague, unsure loneliness 

I hear the fluting call of a shy yet forceful bird 

Young and diligently sewing together its nest 

Taking pieces from a previously broken lost home

the young blackbird sat quietly when I came to sight   

Skin and bones, but beautiful in its strength, dignity 

I call to it with my fingers and my hands stretched out 

I wish to feed her and to care for her till she is strong 

No longer shall the slight of build Blackbird be deprived 

I wish to see her fly and spread her lovely simple wings 

I waited until it flew down, wary of my stance 

It moved forward considering what is in my hands 

She glimpses at me and I saw myself in her dark eyes

I saw independence, yet acceptance of raw need 

One that I felt could be filled if she trusted in me 

quiet demeanour hinting at a quaint leadership 

lover of melody, the importance of ones self 

I waited patiently for her call once again 

black feathers and gaze glazed with a beautiful starkness 

I want only to hear her sing, to be my true muse 

Waiting

The lobby stood empty except for a few stools and a single man drinking. In his hand a glass filled with a smokey drink, perhaps a scotch or a whiskey. Its colour vaguely resembles the smoky air that hung in the lobby, stifling the room. The hand grasping the stained glass shook slightly, raising the glass to his lips, which parted slightly when the oaken taste of alcohol touched his tongue. There are few things like a good well aged scotch they say. The appreciation of alcohol goes through stages. At first, we are all disgusted by the taste. It is wrong. Bad. It makes us different, and it is far from enjoyable to drink. Overtime it has it uses. when drunk fast, and with the intent of experiencing the change in ourselves, we can learn about ourselves, if anyone is willing to tell us. As we age, we learn to experience the subtle tastes of a drink, and move up to more expensive examples. It calms us. It relaxes the mind and simplifies the nerves. The rim of the glass is moist. It is placed on a coaster that lays on the table. The thud of the glass is a measurement of time. It isn't as accurate as you or I would think it. Looking up at the clock it is clear it is that time again. Time for another drink, another thought and another reason to drink a little more. Raise a hand raise a fist and raise a toast to the men and women that go to it alone. A toast. When does that term come from? It seems funny of sorts to picture a party raising toast in the air, yelling in happiness. Warmed bread, crusted and hard, resting in hands raised in the air in imperfect unison. A toast. Reminds many of Rocky Horror Picture Show,

The lobby is still empty. It always will be. It stands as a testament to the human condition. With each passing hour it fills and empties. People come and go, and the juke box repeats the same song again and again. Like a rolling stone, the stone collects no moss as it makes its way down the hill. The Lobby is still empty. Purgatory? Perhaps the lobby represents purgatory? It seems unlikely they would serve alcohol in purgatory. It would make infinity a bit to enjoyable. The Lobby doesn't have that feel. It wavers to much to be hell and heaven would never be a lobby. Perhaps it is not the place between heaven and hell but the place between death and life. It would make sense to sit in a lobby, have a drink, and wait for death to arrive. In a coma. Of course. It all makes sense. The lobby is a coma, a waiting place for death. They would serve alcohol there. It is never fun to die, and what better place to wait then an empty lobby with a good glass of scotch. The sweaty and poorly tailor suit also fits the moment. The grey haired temples, and the shaking hand also fit the scene. Perhaps angels will come and take him away. 

The glass thuds once again on the table. Raising from the stool, the single man stands and stretches his old legs. The suit jacket is a couple sizes to small. Must be old. Girth is known to grow when one gets older. The jacket is a bit too long as well. One does shrink with age. Fitting. A five and a couple of crumpled ones leave the pocket of the poorly maintained pants. The soles of the shoes are worn at the front of the left foot, for it drags. The cane in the right hand also makes sense. It all makes sense. An old man, an old drink, and an old life. When in doubt, everything is old. The lobby is empty. The old man is gone, and there is no movement. From a distance you hear foot steps, and a young man sits at the same stool, orders a beer and waits.   

The Christmas Party

The cold cuts through like a knife, piercing the skin. Each pore is knifed by an icicle of air which penetrates deep into the muscles and further into the soul. The air hangs heavy, burning the throat when breathed in too deeply. Such is the winter nights in the mountains, which can be harsh, merciless, and beautiful. It is so cold that the door hinge is covered in ice, and the door has a thin veil of ice that covers the front of it, spidering across the oaken wood delving deep into the porous density of the wood. There stands a house, an old house with an old way of standing. A home is much like a man. Much can be understand about its age simply by how it stands upon the ground. The old home holds a majesty that compels you to nod in agreement at its age and its wealth of knowledge. Much can be understood by how a house sits upon the ground. The lights lightly splay across the snow covered ground from the back of the house, darkness maintaining its almost absolute monopoly everywhere else. The cold has not taken all. Youth fights its powers with acts of social dissonance and apparent individuality, wishing to break free from the confinements of nature, and more importantly, past failures, which hang lightly, like mistletoe, teasing with abject innocence. 

Voices cut through the air, echoing with greater power than if the sun was out and warmth was in control of the landscape. Although less is allowed to live in the cold landscapes of a barren mountainside, what does find a way to exist is magnified and is allowed to control its own destiny. through thinly veiled paned glass and plastic wrapping hugging tightly the wooden outcropping of an old window, the night looks into the home filled with both old and new stories asking to be told. Smoke, hormones, and voices hover as thoughts, ideals, and hopes attempt to mingle. Neon screens glow in the brightly lit rooms that hold to many people with to many urges and not enough time to expound on all the questions of life and petty pains. 

When hovering above the home one sees two lone fingers filled with internal energies wanting to be releases. Braving the unforgiving cold, the two poorly dressed souls venture unto the cold landscape and attempt to knee step through high snow and higher passions. One runs quickly behind the tree, another follows close behind, grabbing the arm of the other. With a quick short giggle she escapes and flees behind another tree, allowing the cold to sink deeper into her fiery heart and her passionate mind. She is kept warm by the furnace within herself, working through her limbs, torso, and expelling from her pores. The other runs again, grabbing her, and pulling her into the snow laying on top of her, enjoying the success of her hunt while regretting the decision of falling into the gripping snow which drains life from her bare fingers and exposed neck. 

A squeal is expressed from the mouth of the young woman bellow the power and grip of the other young woman. The two women wrestle lightly before realizing the folly of their ways and enter the warmth of the old home filled with young souls. The home stands alone. All else is empty, cold, and unsurpassed in cruelty. With youth caught in a cycle of reinvention that plagues all generations with its reality of inevitable failure, laughter, hunger, passions, and urges are controlled, unleashed, and rejected within the walls of a home. Some will go home, some will stay. Some will forget, some will remember. Yet all will live, die, and understand. 

Pleasure

In the left corner of the room smoke billows towards the ceiling licking upon nicotine stained paint. In the shadow of an open window, a figure sits, looking upon an empty street lit by the light of human creation. Her eyes cast guilt and judgment upon each shadow and reflection that her squinted eyes pick up. In the back right corner of the room there exists a bed, though to call it a bed would be kind. It more accurately represents a space in which to lay. Laying beneath stained sheets lies another solitary figure. Although there exists two human beings within the confinements of four walls, there exists an intolerable loneliness which hangs in the air, adding a mist of despair and agitation. Both figures are naked. Both are silent. To the left of her there hangs a picture. The only picture. It is abnormally bright and cheerful with bright impressionist colours, and a robust thickness that conveys impatience, but mild reflection. It hangs at eye level, slightly askew. 

The rustle of crusty sheets interrupts silent thought. Eyes fall upon the sleeping figure in the back right corner of the room. A bare foot taps the cold floor, working in a strange rhythm. The room smells cold, heavy. A frost is noticeable on the thin paned windows. She lowers her hand, still holding the smouldering cigarette. The light glow of the end casts shadows onto her visage. Her lips are thin, with the left side of her mouth permanently risen, as if a string holds it in a half grimace. He hand is held aloft, echoing the same puppeteering image, with a finger out stretched in 50's elegance. 

The foot stops tapping. The heel is held upright, ridged. When looking at the foot alone it calls to mind the foot of a deceased, caught in rigor mortis, as if the departed was killed in mid-step, fleeing. He stirs. 

Her eyes widen, but not in fear. There exists a mist in her blue eyes. Some would call it love, others passion, but she calls it pleasure. Her leg curves, her back straightens, and her hand tightens upon the burnt filter. His head lifts, and he roles unto his back. Pale brown hair rests lightly upon a yellow pillow. Eyes lift open, beckoning her. A smile plays across his tired lips, matching his half opened eye lids. A man at ease. 

His eyes follow her. Her pale legs reflect in the morbid light, adding death like beauty to her youthful contours. Her walk, as her smile and pose, summons images of strings, delicately controlling her movement causing her to glide across the bare wooden floor, unhindered by gravity. Light plays across her bare back, bringing forth images of darkness, decadent playfulness. Jaws, teeth, and claws splay across her arched back, melding with the scars that lay painted and pale. 

She lowers herself slowly to the floor, her knees touching ever so lightly, grazing the frozen floor. A shiver wavers through her body, the only signal of her humanity, of her existence in this world. He raises his hand and strokes her cheek, resting his thumb upon her bottom lip. His index finger rests at the corner of her left eye, just below her brow. 

His eye lids lower, though his smile remains vaguely on his lips, ghost like. There comes the feeling that if one simply squints, they will be able to see the same smile laying transparently upon his lips. She climbs slowly beneath the sheets, feeling his body, his skin, upon her own. Her breath quickens, her heart beats faster. His presence sends fire and ice through he veins. She feels her entire being tighten. She lays upon the bed softly, stroking the air with her hands, with a puppeteers smirk curled over her yellow teeth.  

Jeremy

Day after day, Jeremy worked the line. He took a small component, which he didn't understand, and he placed it into a compartment of a device he didn't comprehend. He took great care at his job. He first lightly grasped the device, making sure to hold it between his thumb and middle finger. He tried his thumb and index, but he squeezed to hard and broke the mechanism. Once he had taken ahold of the machine, he placed it lightly into a square box, in which it snapped into a smaller box. He originally pushed with his thumb to insert the device into the perforated plastic box, but, as was the case with the index and thumb grasp, he broke the vital component. He learned to push on both ends, for the device was rectangular in nature, and as such the steady pressure allowed it to snap into place safely, as was intended. Once this was done, he had to lift his hand quickly, for it had to be prepared to repeat the process. 

If he hesitated, or wasn't prepared for the next identical action, he would slow down the line. He hated to slow down the line, as he hated when others did so. Didn't they realized what their job entailed? they where all trying to making a living. He loathed his co-workers. They complained about their menial responsibilities, and they always lagged in their work ethic. Jeremy was far from a simple man but he was neither complicated. 

He was handsome, though he bore some odd scars above his eyes, of which no one asked about and no one wished to know about. He had large, but deft hands, which possessed out of sync callouses which did not match his work. His shoulders where broad, but his hips where narrow. Jeremy had green eyes. 

Curiosity is a trait best hidden away if you wished to work at the factory. Names where useless to remember and friends where seen as a hinderance. For most, it was a short term existence in order to fulfil long term goals. Sadly, what they didn't realize was that the moment they took the repetitive and mindless work, they had sub-consciously given up on their dreams. Jeremy not only knew all of this, he choose the life. No one knows why. Jeremy, though seemingly stupid, was far more intelligent than anyone else in that densely populated factory. He choose ignorance, though why is once again a mystery. Jeremy though was good at what he did. He placed that single piece of hardware into its chosen place with the utmost care, speed, and dedication. He was meant for that single movement. His hands working mechanically, noticeably and understandably working on autopilot. 

During the entire 8 hours Jeremy thinks. One co-worker, a young man, looked him in the eyes, and he saw something. When asked, he simply replied that he saw answers, though what the questions where, he didn't know. No one wished to examine Jeremy, they where more than happy to accept the oddity of his creation and maintenance within the factory. 

One day Jeremy didn't come to work. That had never occurred, for he had come to work everyday for 20 years, placing that piece of plastic into another piece of plastic. Jeremy didn't know what he was building, no one did. They simply built it. One day though, someone found something on the floor. It was a slight strip of paper. It simply read "Create. Destroy. Create. Destroy." It was in jeremy's hand writing, though no one knew this. Jeremy never returned to work, and someone else came to replace him. He worked slower, less productively, and less carefully than Jeremy did, but it didn't make a difference. He was completely in tune with the macro-sum, and his individual actions were not going to change the reality of the factory. Still, Jeremy was missed by the machines he helped to create, for there once was a man that knew what it meant to place a piece of electronic plastic into another form of it. Where he is today no one knows, and no one cares, just as Jeremy would have liked.  

Goodnight and Good luck

There are fascinating nights. Some are filled with sorrow while others with jubilations. Below me three wonderful individuals are caught within a strong embrace feeling the warmth and comfort of each other. Although it craves sexual tension it doesn't. There exits a comfort which defines all of human interaction despite the explicit sexual sarcasm that envelopes all relations. It doesn't mean things will continue as they will. The future is not known and the past is a dull ache that is able to express itself in both constructive and destructive manners. With that in mind the moment is that which lends itself to itself. A cycle of subject experiences that follow a unique version of time. The touch of bare skin can feel as if it has lasted for hours while the brush of hair lasts less than it takes to draw a breath. 

Intimacy can take many forms. The sexual and the platonic forms would seems miles apart but in reality they are barely discernible. An embrace has many layers but they are all based on the basic principle of comfort and caring. With a friend in my arms holding me as one that loves the other I can't help but feel thankful for that small token of intimacy. It means more than anyone would know. It acts a release and a reminder that although I feel alone I am not. I am surrounded by those that love and distance does not apply. Distance like many other concepts is one of subjectivity and inherently dependent on technology. 

Listening to technological music and caught within each other the two lovers and the man away from his beloved lay in bed. They hold each other while remaining apart. It seems contradictory but it isn't and I ask only for your faith in my interpretation of events. I understand that certain things may seem unlikely but fact is stranger than fiction. I lay in my panda onsie considering the sight before me with a mischievous smile. Write what you know hemingway would tell me despite my lack of masculine traits. I unlike hemingway am not the man's man. I am still a child caught in a vicious cycle of sexual intrigue and moral dilemmas. Some will pass without beings unhinged while others will remain haunting my conscious. I am afraid of everyone and anybody but the ones that I need to fear the most which is myself. It is peanut butter jelly time. I am very lucky as I receive a kiss from the man to my right. Hands tangle together as limbs intwine between I and the rest of the people in the area. No dutch rudder for I replied silents and abstractly to the friend that stays below me.

Perhaps I don't exist in this world. Perhaps I am lost without a way towards happiness and more importantly perhaps I will never be allowed happiness for all those that remain bitter and sad shall receive my support before my own. I am that way. Forgetful and neglectful to myself. A shame. 

Goodnight and goodluck.  

Conversation

"Do you ever write happy songs?" With enough persistence a question which appears to hang in the air interminably will sink like a stone. It takes a lot of patience and a belief in ones inability to hear, either of which I do no possess. 

"No, I suppose I don't" I answered after a pause of two or three minutes. She was to patient for me. Patience is the death of a musician who lives within moments. Patience for me exists between the space of two notes, and as can be imagined, the space between sound and emptiness is minimal. 

"Why not?" I looked in her direction. She was truly curious. I couldn't help but smile at her insistent nature. 

"Because when I am happy I can't write songs. The happiness is usually very great, much like the chasm of my sadness, and as such I just want to enjoy it before it goes away. Before It fades I suppose." I saw her face frown in contemplation at my answer. I have this way of making my answers appear deep in nature. It isn't very hard. I simply answer vaguely and truthfully, and when I am unable to do both, I answer truthfully but with a tinge of sadness. 

"You seem like a very sad guy." I looked in her direction and looked into her eyes. She seemed truly distraught. For some odd and unknown reason she cared about me. She wanted me to be happy. 

"You know why people play the blues?" My question seemed to surprise her at first. I don't think she expected me to add anything to our minimal and one-sided interaction. 

"No, I don't." I smiled. 

"Well, the blues is sung by myself and others to remind ourselves that life isn't so bad.  We sing to remember the lowest and saddest moment of our life. We are than reminded of what we have been able to endure, to survive from. We sing of broken hearts, lost loved ones and sometimes jail. I guess it is a reminder than we can overcome a lot. So it makes us happy and strong you know?" Once again her face pouted in concentration. She considered my words deeply. 

"So you sing your really sad songs to remind you that you are happy?" I laughed. I couldn't help but smile at her. She was sweet, kind, and deeply fascinated by all things, I could tell. 

"Exactly!" I exclaimed with a smile "for compared to those really sad moments, no matter how sad I am today, I am happy compared to that very sad day." She smiled with me as well. When she smiled her eyes seemed to scrunch up together. It was adorable in a way. It reminded me. "So how old are you?" I asked. 

"I am 20 years old." She responded with a smile. I could tell. She had the curves of youth and the hope in her eyes of a life not yet lived. I think I would write a song about her someday. Perhaps. 

"You have much ahead of you" I whispered to myself. 

"What?" She seemed confused.

"Thanks for coming over to chat" I responded "I like it when someone is curious about my music and music in general. Did you have a good time?"

"I did!" She answered happily "you are really good!" I frowned. 

"I know" I answered quietly, "I know."

The Doppelgänger Experience (Thoughts)

I saw a Doppelgänger. I am thankful to say it was not my own, for they say if you see your own Doppelgänger your death is eminently near. Instead I saw a woman who shared the same striking features of an old friend, a current acquaintance, future relationship unknown. It is fascinating to see another character sharing the same features of another who I once knew platonically-intimately. Much has changed in our relationship, and its unhindered decline is undeniably upon my conscious, I was the creator of its seeming demise. We are both happy though. I am sure she is and for that I am thankful. 

Seeing her Doppelgänger made me wonder what has changed and what has remained the same. Although the other woman shared her features I know she has not shared her thoughts, experiences, and memories and as such her outwardly exterior and aesthetics, as irrationally unnerving as they are, are but a sliver of what it means to be human. My friend, for although much has changed, how I see her within my heart has not, possesses, for I believe it still holds, a strength and feisty attitude I have grown to respect and love. I wonder though what about her has changed? Through the plastic connection of Facebook I can see her smiling face and busy life intwine with the cybernetic universe we both share. Her long term boyfriend has given her the stability she so deserves and her life seems to be filled with joy. 

If I came face to face with my own Doppelgänger I wonder how I would react. I have met individuals who have told me they have seen my Doppelgänger, and I have seen theirs, but I have never met someone who has met their own Doppelgänger, have had the Doppelgänger experience. It entails coming face to face with a seeming mirror image in the flesh, but more importantly, coming to look into the eyes of another human being who is eerily as perturbed by the image before them. At what point does the body and the soul depart? At what point does our image as perceived by others separate from the image perceived by ourselves? That is a question that has been studied in terms of identical twins, some who enjoy the Doppelgänger experience daily, and others who may learn of their seeming Doppelgänger many years into their lives, looking into genetically identical eyes but perhaps not a genetically identical soul. 

I believe I saw my friends Doppelgänger as much out of the reality that she shared features with her as I missed her and wondered what she was experiencing and what happened to the friendship we once shared. I know that in some respect I miss her, and I hope that one day our paths will cross and that that will correlate into the rekindling of something old but new. Perhaps our relationship will be that of a crocus, one of my favourite perennial wild flowers. The crocus is reborn every year, but over the winter when the cold settles in it remains dormant. I would like to think that our relationship is in dormancy before the coldness of our strained truth, one that I accept is of my doing. As the seasons of our shared experiences change, soon spring will reappear and our vibrant and shared affection will blossom within our hearts. As summer comes along we will flower and reach for the sun and the energy that flows beneath our roots and above our spreading pedals. We will pray that fall and winter will never take away what we have and perhaps that will occur, and the frost will never come, and our happiness will be forever caught in the Doppelgänger experience. 

The Enlightening of My Youth (Thoughts)

This afternoon I walked home from work taking a well worn path I used to trek during my early adolescence. For those that are well versed in the geography of the Crowsnest Pass there is a path that is situated behind the Cinnamon Bear, down the road which leads to Bush Town. I used to walk that path almost twice a day to see my then Girlfriend Sage. That summer, and later on through that year, I came to a sexual and intellectual awakening, learning much about myself and who I wished to be and who I was. I was caught within the grips of young love and youthful confusion. The simplicity of my life at that point still appeared unseeingly complicated filled with treacherous paths and possibilities. I was scared but characteristically bold wishing to embark on a journey of self discovery. I was unaware of the doomed reality of my love and the difficulties I was about to face as I decided to move to calgary with my meagre possessions in tow and a small financial goose egg I had been able to squirrel away during my first foray into the work force. 

I was caught in a love intwined within economic class warfare. We where blind of it of course. I lived at the top of the hill among the upper class contingent while she was down below among the hard working but downtrodden world of the poor, and yet we converged, caught in an embrace as right as it was odd. Our convergence taught us about the many human qualities we where able to share within silence, the beating of two hearts that worked under the same rhythm, our blood as intwined as our arms and legs. In time we would grow apart as much through geography as through emotion. Our class distinctions became more apparent over time and we would see our convergence become a divergence, an undeniable separation of lives. It seemed unimportant who would cut the final tie for the rope of our affection was already strained. We would fall apart as our rope is severed, each falling in different directions never to see each other again, never to share a thought. 

It is hard to believe how I have grown since those years. Now I am closer to a man than a boy and I have met and lost many in my life. Some have left of their own accord and some I have let go myself, wishing to be lightened from their burden. Other friendships and relationships have grown stronger, acting as stabilizing pillars on which I depend. I have also met new people who have bolstered the foundation of my social well-being allowing me to become a better person by showing my virtues and uncovering my flaws. Yet the summer of adolescence stays with me. As I walked along the physical path of my early awakening I perceived youth much like sage and myself; youth trying to find themselves in a quagmire of echoed lives. I am reminded that my own path is well worn and shall be continuously walked until humanity ceases to exist. 

I wish I could tell her story, not just my own, but that is not an option, but perhaps someone else will tell her side of the story through another life that parallels what Sage and I experienced those handful of years ago. Two young lovers walking down the path behind the Cinnamon Bear trying to understanding while never knowing what they where trying to understand in the first place.  

Breaking The Ice (Thoughts)

The term "breaking the ice" has many connotations and seems to possess numerous layers. When I hear or consider the term I think of risk, reward and failure. If we successfully break the ice we are allowed to swim in the river of our own successes, but if we fail to break the ice successfully we are caught underneath a sheet of cold reality that drowns our hopes. The above term perfectly epitomizes the double edged risk of social interaction, and rarely does it fall within a grey area of neither success nor failure.

I despise ultimatums and as such I have little to no fondness of the need to "break the ice" with anyone for any reason, yet I must, for I am in all intents and purposes a social creature who struggles for the need to socially interact. I have grown successful in being able to minimize my time trapped under half broken sheets of ice through the negligible art of educated guesses and risks, except for in one specific area ... romance! Oh the dreaded word which I have once again uttered from my quivering lips. Yes romance and all its follies have proven to be as treacherous and seemingly insurmountable as the poets and writers of great have warned! It lies within us the need to experience the splendor of touch, sexuality and intimacy that can only be experienced through the darkened woods of romance and love! How easily it is to be lost within the forest within brightened skies.

I don't despise romance. The act of romance is filled with a beauty and a need for exploration I greatly enjoy, romance does not exist within ultimatums. Yet the creation of romance, the catalyst and birth of that impermanent concept is usually one of ultimatums. And for that I despise the risk of romance, the risk of "breaking the ice" and all that entails.

Today I am meeting with someone who I wish to break the ice with romantically. I want to be able to kiss her, hold her hand, and hopefully hold her in her entirety but I am afraid that if I do I will be faced with a rejection that would spell the end of our relationship. I fear this ultimatum; romantic affection or none what-so-ever. Such is the constant continuation of my new blog posts main theme, that of fear. How fear stifles the mind, the heart, and the soul is undeniable and undefinable but we all face its grueling realities and some of us are strong enough to overcome that fear, to hold it at bay and to plunge within that frigid river and attack the drifting ice until it breaks before our will or until it breaks our will. I do not know if I possess that strength, bravery, confidence, stupidity or all the above. One thing is certain though, there are no absolute truths in life. I was once faced with a similar situation in which I had fallen for a dear friend and I endured romantic rejection and for a short time social rejection yet the ultimatum faded and we once again grew to love one another as was meant. The reverse had also occurred. To fear the unknown is normal, if not expected, and that is something I must accept about my humanity, but I also possess an insatiable and truly insensible curiosity for the unknown which may bring upon my untimely end. That is life. That is how I wish to live.