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.

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."

"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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

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?

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?

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.

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.