Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Brand New Kingdom chapter 1 redux

He awoke to the sound of purring emanating from the headboard of his bed. It was an alarming sound given that David Gibson owned neither a headboard or a cat. Leaping out of a bed that was not his in a manner that could only be described as "manic," David gained enough composure to survey his surroundings.

"This room isn't mine," he spoke in a tone of fright. He then went into the fairly typical tirade of statements that accompany such a situation. "Where am I's" and "how did I get here's" filled the modestly sized room along with a variety of other questions David knew would not be readily answered.

After he had calmed himself, David decided the best course of action would be to illuminate his surroundings. In his attempts to feel his surroundings for what his night adjusted eyes allowed, he tripped, catching himself as his body met the ground. The floor was carpeted, another foreign notion introduced to his already confused mind. His hands felt their way in the darkness until they found success in grasping what became a cord. Following the cord to its point of origin, David's elation became muddled by the lack of visuals as his eyes adjusted to the new found light. The incredulous look on his face wasn't from the foreign environment he'd been recently introduced to;

it was the fact that he occupied a room that had no doors or windows.

Monday, October 6, 2008

In an attempt to make the story much more riveting, I've come to the conclusion that it must be restructured, so for anyone who has followed the last two paragraphs, forget what you've read. Pretend it never happened. Make believe this is an all new joke and you want the punch line so bad it hurts.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Brand New Kingdom Ch1 part 2

They were in a state of panic. The experiment yielded a phenomenally different result than anticipated. In an attempt to create an entirely new infrastructure, a world dictated by electronic transcript,Dr. Ernest Suelov and Dr.Sarah Bartelt along with a number of colleagues and assistants designed a system that would transport an entity into what could only be described as a "pocket dimension." The parameters of this dimension were linked directly to an electronic device that resembled a book. Any input in said book would immediately be represented in the world, comfortably dubbed "Fictopia," ergo if it wasn't in the book, it didn't exist in the world.

They started out small. The first step was to put in a room, if dimensions weren't specified the book would apply the average room size of the country it was found in. The book was built with adjustable application options, a feature they would soon regret. In twenty-four hours they managed to decorate the room with all the constituents of a typical North American room, complete with cornflower blue paint and a classic decorative trim.

The first major leap was an attempt at transportation. The infant world posed a number of possibilities, one of which was to operate as a backup earth. Environmental corruption was on the horizon and Dr. Suelov and Bartelt posited that if they could develop a method of transportation, a route to place objects from this realm there, then that could be extrapolated across the world, allowing them to recreate the entirety of Earth and place it in a cleaner dimension, complete with parameters defined by them.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

"I wanted to tell her, I truly did. I wanted to communicate all that I felt. That with the entirety of me, I wanted her. That the word love didn't quite encompass what I felt, that if it were to try to capture what I had, it would be swallowed, consumed whole along with its surroundings. I want to share with her my dreams, to take my heart and place it in her hands so she'd be assured that it had no other home."

Joe's words trailed off, his ramblings meant nothing to his calico companion who found her best course of action involved resting herself within close enough proximity of his head to groom his trademark shaggy top. Nothing could be done to soothe his soul, he wanted his lady and that was an impossibility as it stood.

It wasn't his fault.

He was associated only in name, or at least 98% so.

It wasn't his fault.

That didn't change the fact that he now resides in fiction

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Red Devil will be continued in www.theredredkroovy.blogspot.com

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Red Devil chapter 1 part 3

After I knew that pig was dead, I grabbed his ammo clip and honest to God I had to stop myself because I didn't have a damn clue where to go. I guess I could go home, but then what? Not like I can stay in that shithole forever. I could hunt down my girl and my ex,but knowing her, she's already dead......or one of them. She was a good fuck but damn was she dumb, and I mean "Jessica Simpson chicken of the sea" dumb. She was probably at work and left Kylie at home with the babysitter. My best bet was to head to her place, which was a mile fucking away on 3rd street, but it's not like I have other shit to do. So I'm walking down Paulding because it's a wide, which gave me time to react to any crazies that want a piece, ignoring the violence around me. The mayhem would have been too much for some; a body impaled on a stop sign with several littered around it, my guess being a bunch of poor bastards lost hope when shit went down. Good riddance I say. Those panicked pussies would have just dragged the rest of us down. I'm not getting killed because of some suicidal cunt can't handle the shitstain life has become.

The whole street was a mess, I had to watch myself because it was so easy to step on some broken glass, shards of metal, hell slipping in blood was an easy bet since it was fucking everywhere. The place looked like a damn meat factory. Kind of smelled like one too at this point. Thank God it wasn't terribly hot today. I started thinking about my girl when I stepped in something, slipped and fell. It was a fucking intestine that wound up to its source, hidden between two cars like he was trying to get away. AS I got up, attempting to brush myself off, ringing what I could out of my newly crimson shirt, it hit me.

Where the fuck were all them?

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Red Devil chapter 1 part 2

So I'm running down the stairs knowing damn well those elevators are fucked. You see that shit in the movies all the time, some dumb nobgoblin goin on the elevator when shit goes down only to get caught with more problems.

Fuck that noise.

Anyway.

When i hit the first floor, I see shit everywhere. Blood was all over the place, on the ceiling, on the tables as well as running down the doors like red rain. I didn't know what to do, I mean would you? As kids we did test runs all the time for disasters, tornados, earthquakes an all that but there never was a "world goes to hell" drill and you know it looked like hell. Men were torn apart, their limbs missing, their insides decorating the pavement. That shit didn't mess me up too much, it was seeing the little girl, her face carved out like a pumpkin with her pigtails still intact, her leg several feet from her body, covered in teeth marks and forcibly removed muscle. I have a daughter and that shit wrecked me. I threw up all over the sidewalk and man was that bad timing. The fuck was I thinking? The world ending and I'm just going to walk outside, where everything is happening. Yeah, I'm a pretty fuckin smart guy. I wiped my face off and looked around for some daddy hammers, you know weapons, because god knows whatever's goin down, I've gotta watch myself. Luckily I found a cop who wasn't needing his pistol. The weird thing was, he really wasn't touched. I mean he was dead, that much was obvious, the hole in his chest where his heart used to be spoke volumes, but I swore I saw him move a little bit, and you know when I buttoned his holster on his pistol, the fucker grabbed me. He had a hole in his fucking chest and he grabbed me! Of course by that time I had his pistol out aand put two in his head, but how the fuck did he move without a heart?

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Red Devil Chapter 1 part 1

These things always have beginnings. Shit just doesn't magically fucking happen, there's a build up. Whether we know it's there or not is to be decided, but it is most definitely there. And you know, if no one wants to tell this fucking story, what with the apocalypse and all, I bloody will. Shit used to get passed down by word of mouth, why not start it again. When in Rome, fuck a Roman, right?

For me it started while I was in a conference meeting where my boss was telling me pretty much how big of an asshole I am and how I don't do my job very fucking well. Who's the clown now you dead motherfucker. I digress. Anyway, he's yelling and spit is flying everywhere, it felt like he was hiding a fountain in his esophagus, and turns that shit on every time he wanted to speak with personally. Well he's bitching and moaning about some T.I.S. reports I failed to turn (read: didn't give a fuck about) when we both hear this collision. It sounded like something out of a Michael Bay movie, shit is just flying everywhere. People are screaming and sirens and alarms are going off like crazy. Pretty awesome, right? Well, we're both peering out when this guy, some quiet bloke who normally kept to himself and ate ham sandwiches on rye every fucking day, bursts in through the conference door and stares at us with bloody horror in his eyes. He looks at the two of us and screams "People are going mad in the streets! There's violence everywhere!" My first thought, is oh not again. There have been little riots in recent weeks, nothing spectacular, you know, a little violence, a little robbery, usual stuff. It was always weird to me though, because in the videos on the news you could see guys in those big yellow suits, the kind you would see on people handling biological shit, like viruses and what have you. The fuck would they be doing at a riot scene? That and they were spraying down the sidewalks with this weird blue chemical wherever these dark stains were that kind of looked like blood, only much much darker, leaning towards black. I was wondering whether the shit really hit the fan this time when I saw panic guy get tackled by what looked like a gangstered motherfucker, his chains swinging as he took panic guy to the ground. It hadn't registered, but a lot of the screams we were hearing were coming from inside the building as well. I ran to help panic guy, until I realized that G-Unit junior was ripping his fucking throat out with his teeth. It's pretty racist I know, but my first thought was "Oh shit, some rapper's gone and made a new fad." Then I looked around and saw a bunch of people just as fucked up as he was. Some lady in a nice, but bloodstained sun dress was nawing on this guy from accounting's leg while he was crawling to get away. You could see the blood trail from his wound, the bitch didn't seem to give a shit that her meal was moving. Hoping that gangster would stay with his meal, I did what any red blooded american would do: I grabbed a keyboard, crossfaced my boss with it, picked up a monitor, knocked that bitch out so that guy can get the fuck out and went to the stairs.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Instruction

The days grew steady as practice and delivery reached perfection. The chaos of battle broken down into fundamental form, then sampled out to the recruits inn hope that they can handle the taste. In retrospect, there was an antiseptic, antibacterial form to the SRS (Soldier Recruitment Service). Not literally of course, but the training sessions were meant to help develop a tolerance in the soldier, to build an immunity to the torrential, impassionate fields to follow.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Precipitation

The rain came in, as expected. Housing ourselves in state supplied tents, essentially a composite of Cervidae parts. The skin, sun stained and smooth, canvased the frame. A square structure made of bone, connected by a strong adhesive derived from melting the ligament and fat then mixing it with the inner lining of the Cervidae intestine. The typical Cervidae can create a tent that houses a unit of three. I see your face, curious as to how I know. I told you, I ask alot of questions and Sampson was always more than willing to supply me with an answer.

The war was never far from my thoughts. The battle of Sobral had just ended in State victory, thought casualty count was high for both parties. We lost 10,000 soldiers and Sampson always had a way to put it in perspective; " That's the entire population of the Callin District. Every person living in Kennedy: dead." Scanning the other soldiers present for his words, I noticed a realization in many eyes. For quite a few, this was their first batlle, their first taste of the reality that is war. The thought of everything they knew, their very existence being negated brought every facial gesture to a halt. The abstract gained recognition, personal. They could feel the lives they had taken gaining shape. What was once the enemy suddenly had a face, a family and meaning all their own. Existence brought battle to a personal level, placing fear and doubt into everything they fought for. The thought occurred to me; what was the intent behind Sampson's words?

Apprehension

There is a fear in me. I've only recently discovered it and yet it holds the sensation of antiquity, as if it was passed to me in ceremony. It eats at me in the quiet; the places in a man's mind where nothing else dwells. The place where hope dare not tread, lest it be swallowed by the abyss that is despair. It is sporadic in its exposure, a slow acting poison that never quite leaves the system, it merely allows the bearer temporary relief of symptom. Unfortunate that the cure exists always........and never.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Amore Dos Mundo

She spoke to me, quite frankly, and I wanted more. I wanted every word to become a part of me, to lay seeds that would spawn

"It's wonderful isn't it? Often times I would grow hostile towards the outside. Everyday I see death and destruction. I see the bodies of nameless soldiers littering fields that once served a purpose other than a makeshift cemetery. Those who still have a name rarely escape unscathed. The wounded arrive back to the City-State to be treated, but some wounds cannot be mended by medicinal means. Patches and slings hardly replace missing limbs, and those that return to the small, outlying village receive even less in the way of benefits. And really, what do you tell a blacksmith who's hands no longer function properly? What pittance can redress a lifetime of uselessness? I see all of this, the widows silently morning their broken bones, the disabled crying out for what had once been, I see all of it. I know you don't think so, I see it in your eyes; you think I'm some ignorant girl, lost in a world that doesn't concern the Insecta, but I assure you, my position as hunter and trader of the villages affords many perspectives of the City-State."

Her words were bitter wounds of reality, carving into my very being. Funny though, the thing I felt more than my own discriminatory thoughts paining me, was the amount of admiration I held for her.

"You would think that I would be bitter as a result of these sights, but all it takes is one; one little girl to smile at you, to give you thanks for a trinket I made to pass the time, a flower and a smile, a smile filled with youth and absent teeth, the kind of smile that is so genuine that you cannot help but believe hope exists, that not everything is wrong or destroyed, that real faith exists and the world can be better. Wonderful isn't it?"

Desultory

"Have you ever observed an ant before, or any insect for that matter? Its movements are curious, at least to my eyes. It appears to come and go at random, its purpose and direction guided by the lay of the land. It cares no more about where it has been, ever focused on where it is going. That, then begs the question; where is it going? Does its movement warrant intentions, do its legs carry motives? Is it simply searching for the next meal, or does it simply meander and if it recognizes a useful piece of its life's puzzle, it acts accordingly? I seem to be full of questions, but it simply goes to show what even the tiniest of creatures can illicit in thought. What do you think, Garrison?

Sanctorum

We arrived in short time, the Sanctum brimming with practitioners ready to give their senses to the unknown. I was simply pondering the string of events that lead me here. In retrospect I knew, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not. Sampson and his wife wore typical garments suited for practice, purchasing myself some as well since I sold any superfluous items in my possession to become a hero (eventually). It was my only goal in life, what did I need of respectable garmentry when my armor spoke for me in all situations. The architecture of the church of state was incredible. Intricate designs in front with several pillars, seven to be exact, each plated with an outline of important people and the moments they created, a summation of the seven times, points in history that lent to the creation and success of the state. If this interminable war would ever end, that moment would undoubtedly become the eight pole.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Vicarious

The prey was mine that day, or rather I, as the prey, was made that day.  I ventured forward to establish dominance in the hunt, but the beast didn't move a single eye, or what I had imagined to be eyes on my preconceived notions of a head.  Without warning, it burst upward....She burst upward?  A well placed spear fell the Cervidae and I was left in a daze.  Did I see hair flowing from the helm?  Reality brought itself to my attention as I realized I was standing in the brush, gazing vacantly at an armored hunter who had just procured my dinner.  

Friday, May 16, 2008

Weaver

"Sir, if I may; Why do you tell these tales? I mean, I understand certain aspects, like illustrating to the men the meaning of battle, companionship, the story of man an all that rot, but what do you get out of it. I don't mean to be blunt, but.....I guess I feel like some of these stories pain you to tell." To him, my response was an eternity away, words that would finally release him from his burdensome curiosity. I'm glad to lead men like him, those that are aware of substance beyond the shallow skin of reality. " Is pain not a commonality of our profession? I don't mean being a soldier, or a Hero, I mean being of persona; the act of being a person. Stories to me are the ties that bind: they operate as an avenue, a connection to the moments in my life I want to know, as well as the ones I don't. They give me the opportunity to provide wisdom, be it in those decisions I made rightfully or ones that fall otherwise, either course they gain recognition and I cannot hide from the fact they exist no matter how much I want to hide from them. Knowing you know my story is enough for me to face the errors of my past rather than hide. You remember Phaea don't you? He was a very real man and a very real illustration of what I never want to be. I'd rather be a man faulted for his honesty, but lauded for his allegiance to his comrades rather than one who abandons the moment matters get difficult. When times are in their harshest state, would you rather be allegiant to those who were with you in difficult times or those who only know the joys of your company rather than the sorrows?

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

As surely as I've found my footing, illness has crept her withered hands into me, and I will be interred for the time being. Apy polly wogies.

Friday, May 9, 2008

She bore the armor of the Insecta, a tribe that modeled itself on what is normally considering the smallest of creation. The plates fit together seemingly perfectly, allowing movement and protection. I came across her the night prior, hunting in a wooded area just off our course. At first I had mistook her for a large animal, nestled into the ground, slumbering to the sounds of nature. The thought did occur to me to hunt it, but I restrained myself when I realized what adorned it was armor. Piercing it would be more pain than necessity. The movements were subtle at first, and since the beast was foreign, at least to me, I wouldn't have known the difference between that of the creature as opposed to that of imitation. When I found the creature's eyes with my own, there was a realization; we were hunting the same prey. i wasn't about to forsake the large Cervidae, the beast was capable of feeding a scouting troop if the hunter wrests properly, and today I was that hunter. In retrospect, the hunter and the hunted held many meanings that epoch of kismet.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

The One

Following orders can mean many things to many people. To some, it is a stringent stance, textbook in hand and the vocals of a superior resonating in the dome. To others it is a varied mistress who situates herself in the realm of circumstance. Trust me when I speak; no textbook will prepare for battle. None. And that means any battle at that, be it matters of love or matters of war. Preparation is only the art of fine tuning the senses to what will inevitably happen. A binding with never prepare you for the true nuances in life, this I attest with my life.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Intrusion

"We don' want you around ere" she said. The words felt hostile and ignorant. We were simply trying to save them, to defend their village from aggressors. We had no need to, it wasn't a mission required of us, we just happened upon the active ransacking of their village on the way to Cinquedea. A local mafioso was attempting to impose its will on them, forcing currency out of them through violent method. I was the first to catch a glimpse of a girl, not more than five years of age being handled. Her taker, a Mudono, held her by the wrist and was guiding her to an end housing, long since abandoned and positioned on the end of the row. When my eyes met hers, i knew what had to be done. I left from our caravan, sprinting across the field wielding my twelve cutter. I reached the door, which in reality was nothing more than a warped piece of wood dangling from a single hinge, and arrived to find the her tear stained face screaming as he held her hands. Murder was in my eyes, I ached the possibility of beheading him where he stood but resigned myself to my position and unkindly removed him from the building. Being Mudono, his leadership status was evident by the Caroko skull on his shoulder. Seeing this, I dragged him to the square, in view of the other mafiostas and proceeded to fisticuff him mercilessly. I left him breathing, though barely, and in the hands of the locals. A mafioso doesn't function without their leader, so they scattered, like so much filth in the wind. Expecting a thank you, I instead received insults and sediment, a heft combination for a modest soldier. At the time I felt disdain for them and for their horrid response to what I felt was gallantry. Now I realize what it meant. A single act doesn't compensate for years of being ignored, cast aside by the State and left to fend for themselves. A single act can break a heart. The same cannot be said of healing it.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Interim

I know I declared a sabbatical, and as for the inkings, I have, but after watching the news concerning the polygamist sect, I found the need to put in print my sentiments on the matter. The video I'm speaking of is an interview of three ladies, Janet, Rosie and Sally, three women who are members of said sect who are pleading to re-secure their children after a raid of their compound yielded every child above the age of five in order to get a true testimony from the children, unadulterated by parental presence.
And so the circus begins. This cult has already been brought under fire time and again for their "beliefs" which include their approach to interracial marriage: "the black race is the people through which the devil has always been able to bring evil unto the earth." Guess they were tired of being beaten at Basketball and having their women satisfied by the help. They also believe in the doctrine of blood atonement. Don't know what it is you say? Obviously you're not a god-fearing Christian who subscribes to the philosophy that certain core sins can only be atoned for by the sinner's death. Not satisfied? Well let's look into their history of birth defects, that is to say they have the worlds highest rate of birth deficiency leading to mental retardation. Imagine that? Could it be that of the 10,000 or so inhabitants, 75-80% are descendants of one or both of the town's founders, Joseph Smith Jessup and John Yeates Barlow. Joseph Smith you say? That name sounds eerily familiar. Did I mention they were mormon. Not just Mormon, fundamentalist mormon. Oh sweet christ can such a travesty of existential doctrine exist? Why yes, but as I mentioned before, lots of re-re's so I wouldn't be too horribly concerned of it spreading, but trust me on this note that any amusement is superseded by the level of obscenity and abuse brought about by ignorance and years of interbreeding.
What spurned me to discuss this fundy mormon cult was the interview given to Janet, Rosie and Sally as well as a follow up by a separate news network at the "Ranch" itself. Janet, Rosie and Sally I think were optimal representations of the age bracket: early twenties, mid forties, fucking dying. It was their speaking mannerisms that drove me to pen. Their sentences were brief, and felt rehearsed, as if they were coached to make certain statements. It became quite evident when they made it a point, no matter the question, to talk about how awesome it is living there, often speaking in unison. When questioned on matters or when large words (see: relatively) were thrown at them, they had the purest look of ignorance I have ever found on anyone above the age of three. It was as if they were confronted with information normally left to their shared husband, as all they could do was feign a smile. With a limited vocabulary and knowledge of the world, there were moments that almost amused me. Janet the Mid-Forty was asked how long she lived on the ranch. Apparently she came from another sect, but made it a point to say "I lived in the outside world for several years," though she wouldn't divulge a specific number (god only knows if they even believe in numbers) and being an older women, I couldn't help but wonder. Several years? You are easily 45-46 years old, I'd like to believe at that point several years could easily mean the first 10 of your life. If it were the case where it was most, I imagine you would have said as much. Do you really think you can say you know the outside world based on childhood? My guess is she was moved to a ranch at a young age and recently relocated to that specific compound to....broaden the playing field. yeah I imagine being polygamist every guy wants like 8 wives, I'm sure sharing gets fierce after awhile, nobody wants sloppy 8th's and I doubt triple penetration is even on the menu. There have been cases of up to 400 men excommunicated from the group for various infractions and it is pretty easy to see that being a method to limit competition.
Send in the clones
Another media outlet managed to reach one of their bloody log cabins where the women of the sect put themselves on the forefront ( I swear it looked like a pioneer version of Episode 2) complete with women who are only differentiated by a pallet-swapped dresses. Not a man in sight, can't imagine why. The women were petitioning to receive their children back, then came the questions. Whoooooo boy.
Reporter:Are underage women married to older men?
Maureen: This is about the children.
Reporter: Well yeah, that's why they were taken. There were reports of abuse and statutory rape. are underage girls being married to older men?
Maureen: This is about the children. We want our children back.

Suffice to say the conversation didn't get very far. After watching clone after retarded clone dodge pertinent questions while pleading for their children, I began to realize that they probably use their children as a subconscious outlet for their fucked up state. their eyes carry a child-like gleam, with a strong shine of vacancy. As if any real soul was lost long before memory came into effect. They all look as if they are dying inside, actively, at every waking moment and are feigning happiness as a coping mechanism. The term Stockholm Syndrome comes to mind. I'm sure there will be more to come on this. Sadly.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Sabbatical

Sadly, though my comrades spurn me, I am incapable of producing any materials at this time. Business school is wrapping up, I have one single project, one group project and one exam this week alone and the next two don't bode well either. I apologize brothers, but this is not the end, it is more of a delay in the inevitable. Come May I will be back home and in full form, ready to dedicate myself to whatever ramblings may follow. The regime will be immense, but well worth the effort. Monday-Wednesday-Friday is how it will roll and trust me when, barring excursions such as WizardCon, it will be dedicated, be it here or the other 3 I will spawn related to a distinct story in each.

Oh my brothers,

Testify.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Until now I had never heard him speak of the subject. In retrospect it'd make sense that he was a Practitioner, after all he excreted state mandate as if it naturally occurred in him. The state mandated attendance to ceremony through the mother, believing maternality to be intrinsically based in matters such as hope and faith which, in turn, allows the father to maintain his status, no matter the profession, as a stoic and upright figure, or so I believe. My mother died giving birth to me, and her absence wrought more than a simple complex. It's not to say I'm speaking negatively of her death, but the results were bore more on my father's shoulders than my own. The fact is, I didn't know her for it to reap the results it did on him. I don't know what he was prior, but I can tell you he now exists at half that capacity. Most don't notice, but few are as observational as I am. It would be difficult anyway to view the despair in the eyes of a man who moonlights as a bard. Strumming his steel hippodrome, painting tales with his voice of joyous times, moments in history where men saved the day, where good triumphed over evil, where the knight gets the girl. To me they were cliches, to the public they were memoirs. He had given up on the notion of Deity and, without my mother, found comfort only in the free drinks given by satisfied patrons. I was of the opinion that if God did nothing for him, he probably had little room for a child such as myself. As I grew I developed a sense of self reliance. In times of grief, others turned to the Church of State for advice and console while I simply moved on and dealt accordingly. I never felt as though I was missing something until I began my trials with Sampson. To me, being a practitioner meant weakness. A reliance on the intangible to relieve suffering, mandated to instill hope. They perked my curiosity after watching them commune before our meal. It wasn't simply practice to them. I could feel the passion. It was as if being a practitioner gave them unified purpose in being, bringing them to a level I wasn't even aware existed. I decided to pursue matters further.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Wherever Thorns May Grow

I'd like to preface this by declaring I know nothing of love. The word is as foreign as the enemies I've fought and given that I'm a mere 18 year old, having lived a life around the prospect of military service, the labors of passion are far seated from my personal junction. What I do know of it has been taught to me by my fellow officers through the use of quips and quotes that should, supposedly, educate me all I need on the subject. Phrases such as "Love is like war, easy to begin, hard to end." and "It is impossible to love and be wise" paint this portrait where I imagined love to be the highest state of suffering, where a man becomes accepting of his fate and resigned to live his days at the constant nag of another. Up until this point, it held the appearance of Pascal's Wager: no matter how terrible it was, life without it was undeniably worse. Then I saw her. Her first name, Contessa, was a contradiction to her gentle nature, a moniker generally reserved for the elite and the haughty. Born to a typical upper-lower class family, she was offered as a gift to keep her family's land from being claimed. Her beauty, however, defied her status. More than any gold could purchase, or deal that could be struck, it resonated to the very core of a man. There was something so natural, as if a deity had taken its finest ingredients, scarcity matched to their status, and molded this symbol of what man desires most. Heroes from across the land gathered, an event itself that remains a scarce spectacle, to lay claim to her as a bride.
In my youth I had heard tales of this majestic wonder. The conflict that came, all for her hand. What motivates heroes, figures who rest in the bosom of combat, who have dedicated themselves to the conflict to wage a metaphysical war.....for a woman? What purpose did they serve other than procreation? To my militant mind, any woman would suffice to act as a genetic vessel, and I found it silly to hold a woman above any other, nonetheless be willing to fight for her hand.
Now I see my own naivete. I see it in the way she cups the coffee she offers me, as if elegance occurred to her naturally. Even after several years of marriage to him, her poise and demeanor are still that of a humble farm girl, content to the simpler aspects of life rather than that of privilege. Her smile was remarkable, capable of healing any wound inflicted by the harsh mistresses of the land, offering respite to the battle weary, and to those such as myself, hope: hope that we may be so lucky as to be delivered one such as her.
i felt to be a child among men in presence, barely capable of audibility which forsakes the potential conversation that could ensue. Instead I admired, albeit meekly, from the shadows of his lavish house. Of course I say his house because, as with all the best life has to offer,it belongs to him, just as she does.
You can see it in her eyes, the glint whenever his name is mentioned and, most of all, when he arrives home from our sojourns. Her eyes evoke far more than any words could surmise. She looks at him as if she couldn't possible have existed without him, his mere presence making her whole again. That is when I realized what love is and for the first moment I felt something other than admiration for him: despair. No longer did I hold hope that one day she would forsake everything and depart with me to a place far from battle, a simpler life built on the foundation of our mutual adoration, because, as with all good things, her heart belonged to him and therefore could never be mine.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Conflagration

"So the fire burns in you I see. It's everywhere you know, fire that is. Mundis Ex Igne Factus Est. Latin, a beautiful language, it finds itself among the elite or dead. I envy those Latinites who once roamed here, calling the language their own. They have a way of encompassing what should be said into a wonderful set of syllables. Oh yes, I should probably expand on what I said before, shouldn't I? Mundis Ex Igne Factus Est. The world is made of fire. It is not only the symbol of struggle, but survival. It represents strength, it divides, it conquers, it pleases, it consumes, it destroys, it births, but most of all, it forges. It tempers the body and soul of what it touches, turning raw materials into tools, making what was useless, purposeful. If steel could feel, if it had sentiments as to what it goes through, I imagine its coherency would dissolve in a sea of agony but, eventually, it would regain composure and feel renewed, as if its life developed meaning, and it owes everything to the flame."

Monday, February 25, 2008

"That is what he calls entertainment?" I spoke in my ever exuberant sense of curiosity and respect. Curiosity for the information being granted and respect for he who grants. "He is not alone in his enjoyment of the sport." Can you even call it that? I left my thoughts to myself, lest I receive the reward ignorance deserves. "That look on your face, it's the same I had when I was first exposed to the notion of the Federacy. There is more to it than you think." If only he knew my thoughts. The images of men parading about in an infrastructure reserved for real combatants, costumes designed to fit the character they are meant to portray, a ballet of sorts for men, that is what I thought. "There is more to it than the oversimplified public view on the subject. There is depth and breadth found only by the fan, the observer willing to look past the mock combatry and see the story within. The excitement, the progression of character, there is much you could learn and enjoy from the sport. true the combat itself is questionable, but the amount of attention, focus and athleticism it takes to put on such a show on a regular basis. To entertain the crowd, get them involved without actually being physically involved, the dedication and adoration, that is what it's about. To some it is a pageantry of men, to others combat incarnate. Those who appreciate it, recognize the truth in its presence and why it would call Cinquedea home. Though the combat isn't completely real, what it represents is. Through stagecraft and show they facilitate the needs of its audience: the desire to indulge in the art of war.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Sweet dreams are made of this

I want to inspire. Anymore, I believe that is what I'm good at. Though I have many passions and a wealth of knowledge in fields that are really not pertinent or applicable to anything profitable ( an encyclopedic knowledge of fighters and key fights they've been hardly reaps any kind benefit on my part, monetarily speaking). The inspiration thing wafted into scope about an hour ago when I spoke to a friend, encouraging her to go to college. I helped pay for her to get her G.E.D and she has a penchant for website design (read: she's damn good at it) and she's living, essentially in destitution right now and has been since the age of 17 when she emancipated and began living on her own. I help her whenever possible and believe that college would be the best course of action for her. The ease of spurning others to better themselves comes to such a degree that I wonder if being a caustic, sarcastic, combative and somewhat abrasive motivational speaker is a viable option. Dennis Leary has a job I guess that should incline me to concede, but the reality is I'm not entirely sure what I want to pursue in life. With many loves comes a certain amount of mediocrity in each, neither excelling nor retarding in any one of them. Makes me wonder if I'm capable of any. Business isn't bad, in so much as it's an avenue to pursue other endeavors. I could utilize it, to some degree to seek a number of opportunities, but far too often each opportunity leads to certain questions. How will it be different, what will make me successful or the business as a whole in comparison to those who specialize in the field? It's easy to get caught in the tides of thought towards the future. Focus too much and you drown. Sometimes it is difficult to put faith in tomorrow when today fails you. They seem to hold a kinship as if one slowly grows, becoming the other. I'll depart to bog and all his lovely angels on that note.

Testify.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Death Before Dishonor

"What the hell does that even mean?" I spoke with every intention of sounding like the rugged group of peers I've traveled with, but my lack of facial character and a voice that borders on naive lends to a far different opinion. "Omerta? It's a code of silence. Randall Blythe once spoke to me at length on the matter." Whenever Randall was spoken of, it rarely deviated from the topic of violence, especially when concerned with province he called home. Cinquedea started as a den of thieves, a haven for the less than savory fringes of society gathered together. Since its inception it has grown into its own industry, a place where I've been told anything can be secured. Anything. I had heard tales of the lawlessness and moral desolation that found respite there but I hadn't the faintest clue there was structure to the madness of Cinquedea. Mr. Hightower continued.
"I believe Randall stated it as such:
Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward.
Whoever cannot take care of themselves without the law is both.
For a wounded man shall say to his assailant,
If I live I will kill you, if I die, you are forgiven.
Such is the rule of honour."
By his posture and tone, it was evident that the phrase was recited verbatim, as if it had been reposited to be soliloquized on command. I imagine this "code of silence" held some kind of authority in its own right, a recognition of those privy to what it entails.

Monday, February 11, 2008

I'm taking back control (with my knuckles)

The statue seemed less imposing than the figure itself. If you were to ever stand next to him, consider yourself negated. His presence alone is domineering enough to punctuate any sentence in his vicinity. His smile is facile at best, I can attest to this because I have seen him there. The battlefield breeds a very different beast and I believe the only proper way of describing his methods are of "animalistic origin." Savage doesn't even begin to encompass what this man does on the field. Felling men as if carving a path in the jungle, he leaves a trail of limbs, much akin to bread crumbs. There are two possibilities to this method: either in his rage he becomes lost to his surroundings or, in a much darker tone, they act as a reminder of the cost, the payment he makes every day he fulfills his duty. The portrait he paints during conflict have made it impossible for me to discern the man from the soldier. For every handshake he makes, and every nod and amicable response, I half-expect the poor sod to be partitioned according to the angle of his blade. Is this what I want to see? Am I responsible for the corrupt effigy of him or has the all consuming reality of his nature tainted me? I want to believe the former because he is more than a man..... he's a hero.
As name's go, you will hardly find a more fitting one for him than Samson Hightower. His appellation alone acting as an imposition in his absence. It was as if his parentage decided during conception to predispose him to greatness. And though I am compelled to ascribe a figure of tremendous magnitude, the truth is, he had a figure consisting of a little more than 14.6 stone, but the length and breadth of his shoulders and the sheer amount of weight that they could carry is enough to challenge anyone unfortunate enough to be set before him. A writer best surmised him as "the monster within far supersedes the monster without."
You'll forgive me if I reminisce a bit when describing Samson, putting into ink my thoughts conjures images of our shared past, events which shaped not only our lives but those in all of Fort Henders. It was my first battle, the first of three at Hiros. A fierce three day long reckoning filled with conflagration, and towards the end, decay. At the time, I only knew the role of Hero as a figurehead. A general in battle designed to lead through action, to aid the city-state in its defense against foreign prosecution. Idol, rallying symbol, soldier and leader rolled into a single profession. Few choose hero as a profession because it entails so much. An undertaking only a select group can survive. Post-battle, Samson burned a look into me that haunts me to this very day. With the angle of his head positioned to what I believe is a three quartered gaze, he responded to the words I had yet to speak: "No mercy is the way of the fist."

Sunday, February 10, 2008

The Rookie

Traversing the web seems to be my new secondary profession, next to, apparently, consoling victims of faulty ipods, making irreverent commentary about my new boss (deemed Jewvis due to his physical appearance being the lovely man child of a jew and the king of rock and roll), and general tomfoolery. Recently, I've ventured into the realm of the oft-dreaded R word: religion. The subject is a realm well traveled in my circles, footprints of myself and me droogs trample the landscape, so much so, it visually lends the belief that we in fact vacation there, or at the very least visit often. The specific religion in question (they seem to be as numerous as stars in the sky) is Atheism. Yes, you read that correctly. Atheism. I have always held the notion that atheism was a belief (as opposed to a lack thereof) much in the same vein as black being a color instead of being vacant thereof and if the pattern that is emerging continues at its pace (as fast as a distinctly small sect, especially here in the activist oriented nation of Merica) Atheism will supersede Mormonism and Scientology in pure idiocy of following. Bucolic tendencies are obvious to the deity loving crowd, be it goddy god god or Captain L. Ron himself, but to unite in nothing under the guise of "intelligent mental faculty," crusading against those dreaded theists and their fundamentalist rhetoric. In order to combat such a notably large beast, a group has been assembled. An ambitious, rag-tag group with everything to prove, they seek to confront these theists in open forums in order to sway the populace into subscribing to their ideology. they are on a mission, you could go as far as to call them "missionaries," seeking to educate these mal-informed, barbaric heathens into the ways and methods of civilized society.
Sadly, where this wonderful portrait of colloquial life ends is in the inspiration (or lack thereof). I'm rather curious as to how one goes about motivating the masses into....nothing. Fiery sermons, choirs in an uproar, organs blasting, and the coffers fill. All because they have a subject matter that allots such a privilege. There's a mythology backing them, a story told time and again about this fellow who seems to be universally recognized in some regard as this bearded fellow who had a penchant for speaking and died horribly, the very image of his death pasted bloody everywhere. He most certainly is not alone in his sphere of influence, however his impact cannot be denied, for better or worse. The detractors of the poor fellow seem dead set on negating his words, even at the cost of (especially at the cost of) the people who found respite and influence in his words. Granted, his name has been used in everything from the mundane to the absurd to the downright obscene, but, as a whole, has it really been that bad? For every zealot and denouncer, there is a former addict or otherwise downtrodden who found rest in him. For every ignorant creationist there is a caring citizen who donates 5% of their income to aid those in foreign countries. With every abortion clinic bomber there is an aid volunteer working in destitution in another country. I could go on and on, but time seems to be communicating with slumber, and both have it out for me. The question is then asked to this upstart rookie, this greenhorn in the veneration game, how will you rally the fickle, capricious masses into bettering humanity as a whole? What tools and figure will you use as a battle cry to ignite the embers in the ashes of fields you laid waste to get there?

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

Grindhouse (warning: not for anyone with a sense of decency or humanity)

As my growing love of the grindhouse genre of moviedom grows, so does my exposure to the seedy underpinnings of society. Cases and concepts such as the snuff film have been brought very much into focus and the "car wreck effect" has been superseded by a much more malicious syndrome of "deviant fever." I can't bloody stop researching the vile, detestable natures of man. Much of my realization is centered on the fact that a strong portion of what has been conceived and produced has been so outside of the U.S. And here I thought we were the sickest fucks around. take the Japanese for example. Mine eyes have lain upon a concept that unsettles even me, if not for a moment. for those with fortitude, will and the capability of handling concepts so far beyond macabre or pornographic that they would be extraterrestrial in origin, read on, otherwise, watch kittens play with a sock on youtube. Here we go:

While perusing encyclopedia drammatica, one of the greatest sources of untapped entertainment, I accidentally clicked a link to the article "skull fuck." Now I know, you may be wondering what I was reading that entailed the combination of the words skull and fuck, but in my defense, it was the article on Bill O'Reilly, and really that should have skull fuck written all over it. that aside, it brought me to the article on " Ero Guro," otherwise known simply as "Guro." Before I could even click the back button, the image of a naked woman being decapitated flashed on my screen with the caption "the single most erotic image ever created." For those of you unaware, encyclopedia drammatica is the anarchist's wikipedia. Anyone and everyone can literally put whatever they want there in regards to the topic at hand. Having just spent an hour and a half reading on snuff films, my deviancy fever was at a boiling point so I ventured on. Suffice to say the article brought the arctic hands of reality to my flushed state. A surgeon general's warning for those curious, the mind cannot undo what has been done. The image of a little boy picking up his sister's guillotined head then practicing fellatio on aforementioned severed skull put me in a stupor. I can't unsee that. The deed is done. At that point I decided it would be best if I attempted to re-align my karma and cleanse myself of that hideous beast. The damage was deep. I will never be able to look at japan the same again and this is after finding out they have vending machines for used schoolgirl panties. If you think I'm joking, snopes it.
Europeans seems to want to go into a different direction. While looking up grindhouse fair for my viewing pleasure, I came across Cannibal Holocaust for the second time in my life. The first was a discussion with me hermano on truly frightening movies, mentioned in the same sentence as August Underground Mordum. For those less familiar, it is an Italian faux-documentary on a cannibalistic tribe and is known both for the realistic death scenes (see: real) of various animals as well as a pivotal scene involving a woman impaled and presented outside of the village, the spike protruding from her mouth, creating the image of a vertical roast. Outstanding. It is a wonderful piece of filmography, comparable to Gone With the Wind, the Casablanca for cannibals if you will. Of course I could scour the globe tying some form of taboo-destroying production to its native environment, but, at least for today I've settled on ending in Germany.
If you're like me, when you see the phrase "based on a true story," you're curious about its origins because man is far more fearful in reality than fantasy. Well the movie in question is titled "Cannibal." You can imagine its premise. I discovered it whilst perusing netflix while conversing with Robin. To surmise it, a gent puts out an add asking for aid in helping his dilemma. He wants to eat people. A man answers said add and allows the first fellow to consume him. Based on a true story. I looked into the real story. A man named Armin Meiwes really did place an add stating the following: "looking for a well-built 18 to 30-year-old to be slaughtered and then consumed." The person responding to the add had a history of obsession with mutilation (to be expected) and was involved with the local male prostitution ring. I will not go into the details of the situation (I'd rather absolve them from my own mind anyway) but rather bring to point the aftermath of the incident. Mr Meiwes was arrested for manslaughter, but it begs the question: If a man accepts being eaten and does so voluntarily, is it a crime? A quandary to be true and I don't believe there are any stare decisis to help guide the courts to such a decision. Another complication brought to the incident was the fact that Germany had no pre-existing laws banning cannibalism (not that there was a demand for such). Curious side note, Mr. Meiwes is now a vegetarian in prison. He himself approximated about 800 cannibals in Germany. Given Germany is about the size of Montana, it begs the question: How many are on our own terrain?

Monday, February 4, 2008

A Letter to my mistress

Though studying should be on the agenda, the truth is the concept of studying has been a pariah for the better part of my college tenor and I'm going to go ahead and say that theme is more prevalent than not. I hold entertainment responsible. It needs to stop being so damn tasty. Its been enveloping me, amusing me, then leaving me for dead come class time. Fuck you I say, fuck you in futility as you continue to please me and tease me with your mere presence. Reality, however, is a different kind of bitch.
Not as much pleasing to the senses as revolting, she only shows herself at the most inopportune moments. Really, how do you expect me not to resist an entire torrented season of the Ultimate Fighter? Do you really think I can resist a show that puts fighters in a house, then has them train with legends and fight each other, one match per respective episode? There is a smaller Badd Blood figure, complete with missing tooth who talks an exorbitant amount of shit, an Athens, Georgia born germophobic nurse Jew, a Hawaiian, Canadian with the maple leaf carved into his very hair line, a poet with an Orleans drawl, and not one but two Brits. I can't stop saying "you know what I mean?" The brits have it right orally. With all of that said, do you really expect to resist that coupled with the WII, PS2, comic shop across the street and shitty weather outside? I know, I know, you're honest, to the point of brutality, but do you really have to wait until the matter is current and active to massage me jubblies with your cold, piercing hands? Would it hurt to give me heed, maybe a kiss on the neck, a lil rub-rub, hell, I'll take a punch if it means you stop with the continuous barrage of facts and figures and for the love of all that is holy, stop revealing pivotal information to me that I should have been aware of at moments past the point of no return. You know that point, I've taken you there many a time, it should be a road map written on your fucking blossoming bosom, but whenever I'm driving, it seems to slip your mind until we reach the destination. Is it that you're jealous? You know my relationship with entertainment. You know our relationship. We're friends with benefits, you said it yourself. You know she's like a drug to me and is essentially inescapable, considering we're living together and her presence can be found all over my apartment, so how do you expect me to properly manage the situation? You're suppose to hook a brother up, still you have yet to actually do that and I can't help but wonder if your envious nature will ruin us. How about we sit these issues aside and finally put the benefits in friends with benefits? I'm sure we can come to some kind of compromise, warm your hands up a bit, maybe ease up on bdsm. I understand, we have to take things one step at a time and that this is a progress, but for the both of us, could you at least try?

Sunday, February 3, 2008

And so begins the winter of our discontent

I bloody hate ice. Thankfully this is Indiana where the weather is consistent in as much as it's never consistent. Sadly today is an inverse of days prior where I honestly can think of very little to write about. Maybe due to my tired state, maybe due to my concern with the impending finals, regardless the words aren't coming. I want to say there's always tomorrow, but that seems to be the modus operandi of the writing enthusiast.

Testify.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Alpha

A Thousand fold. That is about the pace of which my thoughts travel when confronted with creating my own literature, even if it may be described as a "blog." I wonder what to focus on, be it the quirky situations I find myself in at work, the curiosities of the world I wish to expound upon or the pulpit I wish to create espousing a half-hearted belief in a long established or long forgotten cause. My awkward sense of perfectionism hinders any real attempt at novelization or serialization of the rampant thoughts that occur to me and cry to print on a day to day basis, but I'm working on them. My strength lies with working off the creativity of others. I do love nothing more than to discuss, establish and put into play the creative energies of a tandem or group. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts an all that rot.

I've become prone to enveloping myself with entertainment. A means to preoccupy my time resulting in a rather abysmal g.p.a. I've long since realized it's sensory overload as a coping mechanism. Due to the unique circumstances of my arrival to Bloomington, acquainting myself with the populace at large has been met with minimal success. I did not stay in a dorm as my peers have, which, incidentally creates the ideal situation for making friends and I hold my droogs to such a high regard, it is difficult to believe there are very many worthy of such a title and given that I see different people every single day, it is difficult to imagine any kind of worthwhile encounter. I do, as always, have hope though.

I want to create universes.

Amen.