Dear Santa

This year for Christmas, all I want is a brand new 6-speed radio-control Popemobile with bonus action-waving John Paul II. I would ask my parents but they're both Protestants. I was snooping around the place in their bedroom closet were they usually hide my presents and all I saw was a book called Revealing the True Whore of Babylon. I figured that you, being a pagan, would be impartial and obliging to me in this little religious matter. Please tell Mrs. Claus I said hello. Thank you.

Sincerely,

F'er

(Revisit an oldie while you're at it)

"Should I stay or should I go?"

Because you've got to let me know...

Should I stay or should I go?

My fate is in your hands, tied to a string, swinging over a piece of notebook paper that has been divided into two roughly equal halves by a red vis-a-vis pen, the left side labeled YES and the right side labeled NO. I am hoping you will drop it on top of the former, but you apparently haven't decided yet and the suspense is KILLING ME!

I don't like to be dragged along forever like an inanimate, unfeeling object. You have to remember that my fate is partially in your hands. What good are desires if we can never have them because there are tyrants guarding over them? Tyrants tend to be irrational and greedy, hoarding the things we want when they could freely give them to us with little effort or loss. Tyrants make you get down on your knees and beg. So you do! And then there are still no guarentees!

Dealing with you is a gamble. The stakes are pretty high this time, and I'm playing against house favoratism! What do you want from me, collateral? The promise of unwavering stewardship? Would you throw me a bone if I vowed to sacrifice my firstborn?

I'm not a perfect man, but I'm trying damn it! I know I don't deserve things to be perfect, but do they have to be bleak? Can't you at least give me the YES for now? I'm begging you! It's a small favor for something that would mean so much to me! I'll pay you back! Whatever you ask! I've got to make a decision soon, and I need to know if I'm gonna have your support in staying here!

And so you've got to let me know...

Should I stay or should I go?

...

Should I stay or should I go NOW?!!

(listen to "Should I Stay or Should I Go" by The Clash - simply b/c it rocks)

hE:ll, SE:ll, BE:ll

My room is the warmest place in the house, and also the most aesthetically pleasing. The kitchen is an ugly, perennial sinkhole that resists cleaning. The living room is poorly lit and…well, cold. Sundown occurred around 4:30 yesterday, long before I left the house for the day. I saw the twilight blue of approaching night through the veil of my white curtain; a smattering of pink on the distant horizon prompted me to peel it back, but only a smidge, and only for a brief moment. The heating system runs somewhere near my room. It vents warm air outside, and there’s a constant spraying sound that resembles either a malfunctioning sprinkler or an amplified spitting baby. Let’s hope it never stops, because the temperatures have not reached above the freezing point for days now.

Outside, I have a car, but nowhere to go. It is expensive to drive, expensive to eat, expensive to seek after anything that will stimulate any kind of genuine excitement. I cannot muster the motivation to brave a walk, and so my legs are at rest on my chair or in my bed. I look at the clock at least 40 times a day.

Heaven, to me, is an arcology in the midst of a barren, polluted, and desolate wasteland. I walk two hallways and an elevator to work. I live in a comfortable bungalow half a mile above the frozen ground, and there are no curtains on my window. There is no need. It is easy for me to spend several pleasant hours looking out my window, picking out distant places in the wild landscape. I imagine being set down in these random locations; I try to envision the different perspectives from these distant pieces of ground. There is no need to leave the arcology. No need to be cold.

Time moves along, but I remain in my room.

hE:ll

SE:ll

. . .

BE:ll

Alone in my warm room, sleep shakes off all pressures and pains of being alive and well.

50th Post Extravaganza

Bring out the jugglers and the men on stilts! Roll out the lion in his cage and the rings of fire! It's that time once again! Time to celebrate a benchmark in the history of JiVE, it's the 50th Post Extravaganza!

You may recall the last time we celebrated together, over a year ago, on the 20th of October, 2004. It's been a bit more slow going over the past year and subsequent 25 posts. Who knew, for example, that just nine days later, F'er would take a tremendous spill on the concrete? Perhaps that is what caused things to slow down for a bit...

from "On Spills":

"Will I run again? It will never be without a remembrance of today's infamy. It will never be the same. The laughter will have lost its original meaning."

I remember it well, and the heartache that ensued. It was an event that would alter the way I blogged (pronounced b-logged) ever since. F'er would become more elusive than before, often slipping back into the 3rd person, and emerging only now and again sometimes just to keep you aware that he was still there, still on the lookout for brilliant new opportunities to post.

from "Humble Beginnings":

"F'er is no quitter. These ramblings are his humble beginnings. He is learning his craft. He is amusing himself."

Since the 25th post there have been 4 new stories, 3 new poems, and 17 other entries ranging from essay to address to hyrbrid. Looking back over 50 posts, I am proud to have such an eclectic library. Sometimes intensely personal. Sometimes searching. Sometimes commemorating. Sometimes absurd. All F'er. The good with the bad.

And now for the fun part of the post! It's the awards ceremony!!

1. Best post about an awards ceremony:
"And the winner is...someone else...again" (Feb. 28th, 2005)

While this very post was a runner up, the blue ribbon had to go to my tribute post to Martin Scorsese. We're still rooting for you, Marty!

2. Most epic poem:
"Sea Wind" (Jan. 24th, 2005)

Yeah. I recited this poem to a friend of mine at a recent Thanksgiving dinner. No better way to revel in your own arrogance or advertise your genius than by reciting your own poems at joyous dinner gatherings. I wrote this poem after reading Moby-Dick, an amazing piece of literature.

3. Best nature essay (or as close to a nature essay as F'er will probably ever write):
"My Sprite Can" (June 10th, 2005)

I even managed to write about urinals in this post.

4. Best replacement-for-a-journal post:
"too many similes, too many metaphors" (Sept. 26th, 2004)

We're going back a little further for this one, post #20. This was a really tough one to decide, seeing as there were quite a few posts that could conceiveably fit this category, several of which I still like. In fact, many of my options seemed to be jumbled together around this same general period of time. But I had to go with this one. Why? There have been other posts that were much more "journal-istic" than this, but I am rewarding the art of this particular piece. I like that F'er went all out with the imagery in this one. I like that it retains an element of daring and excitement. And mostly, I like that this post was able to spawn a sequel close to a year later (it remains the far superior post of the two).

5. Post that most needs a sequel:
"Gastronomic Dispute" (Nov. 7th, 2004)

I don't know about you, but I am very interested in seeing where this relationship between my stomach and me could go. There could even be material for a screenplay there as a rollicking "buddy picture."

6. WORST POST:
"To be continued" (April 30th, 2005)

I'll be honest. The only reason I posted this crap was to make sure I didn't fail to have something written for the month of April. And a quick buck. I suppose there's an okay theme involved in it, but the post just degenerated. I like cookie monster?? No need to force the stream of conciousness thing, man.

7. BEST POST:
???

I think the jury is still out on that one. I've had some pretty proud moments along the way, like writing a film-noir Christmas story (Dec. 24th, 2004). That made up for forgetting to celebrate Veemas Eve (June 24th) this year. I feel like I'm gonna make a stop animation film for "About Climbing (Or not)" (March 12th, 2005) some day, and when I do, it will make that post even more glorious. And let's not forget my wonderful birthday rants. Unfortunately, I cannot boil it down to a single one. I have yet to publish the perfect post. And until I do, you will continue to be edified and entertained with JiVE. Okay, I'll be honest. I'm leaning toward the "25th Post Celebration" (Oct. 20th, 2004) as my number one pick.

That about wraps it up for me. Once again, we've had a fun time ransacking the past. Who knows what we will rummage through 25 posts from now. And more importantly, who cares?

Bloodred

He walks into the lobby of the Empire State Building. The massive rippling of his bloodred robe dies away in the stagnant interior of the room. Security officers spy him immediately and reach for their walkie-talkies. Tourists waiting in line, young and old alike, are afraid. Children move insinctively behind their mothers and fathers. Mothers think of whispering something to their husbands. Fathers look casually away from the man, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. "This is New York," they tell themselves. The grand lobby will soon be decorated in Christmas splendor, a tree with heavy boughs bearing bright tinsel and stringed lights to take its place against the engraved marble wall.

He is "escorted" down a bland white hallway toward an unknown backalley exit. He no longer resists, his vacant belly slamming feebly against every side of his aging body. His head lowered, he hears a thunderous sound and feels a chill dampness on the tip of his nose, as the men with walkie-talkies forceably release him back into the wild of New York City and shut the door behind them.

The meow of a cat stirs him back to a living state. He begins to discern the presence of multiple cat whines as he lifts his head from the concrete pillow. In a box of cardboard between two dumpsters he sees a litter of kittens, nestling closely against the sleeping mother. The man in red extends a withered hand toward the calico cat, and the damp brown fur merely dents inward. His head bowed low again, his mind conceives a prayer for the sleeping mother, but a desperate resolution stifles it.

He looks up and sees the overcast sky, obscured first by coulds, further blotted out by the mighty fortress from which he has yet again been ejected. Were he a younger man, he would have risked all to climb his way to the top of that abominous edifice. But even now, his hands can distinguish no handhold along the sleek blackened wall. Now more than ever he senses the great gap between heaven and hell. And it puzzles him that this structure points its way upward, sometimes violently piercing its way beyond the clouds, sometimes seeming to stand only as a beacon and an arrow toward earthly deliverance. In one instant he wishes to topple the building down, to conquer the monstrosity and bring it underneath his feet. In the next he desires nothing more than to abandon his lowly existence, to slip into the elevator and let it project him to escape velocity.

He girds himself tightly in his robe and retrieves the dead cat from her place of rest. The kittens weakly cry and raise their noses into the air. They are hardly able to open their eyes, too young to understand their unwonted plight.

Despite the hunger in his stomach, he steps forth from the alley and walks down the twilight streets as a man with purpose and conviction. Wind and rain slap his cheek, but he does not resist. The lifeless creature dangles from his firm hands. His robe tussles and drags behind him. A police car creeps toward the robed man as he walks along. Momentarily, it matches his pace. The man turns to face it. He walks. His stare is hard and unflinching. The sinister creeping object that has haunted him at every corner for his entire life no longer causes him fear and trembling. The car with the moving red and blue lights, keeper of order, oppressor of the outcast. Follower of death. It would arrive at the scene of tragedy and all traces of the devil would be hidden. Where did those men in blue uniforms hide the devil's face? All places in the city were tainted with evil, stained with sorrow. The creeping car with the blue and red lights roamed the streets day and night, searching for the devil's face that it might be studied, collected, and painted over. The man in the bloodred robe faces the police car until it speeds away and around a corner, persistent in its relentless hunt.

He walks for a few hours until his hunger finally causes him to stumble. He enters the doorway of the nearest building, a dilapidated tenement house, and finds the entrance propped open by a phone book. He enters an elevator, his hands still clutching the dead calico cat. He transfers it to one arm and uses his free hand to push the button for the highest floor. The elevator automatically shuts its black wiry gate and, like a knowing Charon, ferries him upward. Shortly after, the elevator stops its rising motion and releases the robed man. He exits and walks down the empty hallway, but stops to gaze on a space of graffiti that he is unable to read. It is an indecipherable enigma to him. And yet he somehow knows that it carries the secret of his life's existence.

He finds a stairwell leading upward and follows its path. The stairway is narrow and unlit. It turns a corner and goes up seven final steps to a closed door. He opens the door and walks out onto the tenement rooftop, the highest place he is able to reach. He walks to the edge of the roof and looks down upon the streets below, searching for substance among the moving shapes of cars and people. All he sees is a constant, baffling world of motion, overshadowed by miles of immovable edifices, a landscape completely lorded over in darkness.

He remembers the day that the two highest towers in the city were brought down to the ground, when the sky was filled with a colossal plume of smoke, and the people wailed and moaned. The beginning of the end. The highest point of a corrupt mankind, the pinnacle of a damned earth, a fortress of steel rising to the threshold of an eternal kingdom, strewn about the cursed ground.

"The first shall be last and the last shall be first!" are the words that trail away in the wind and rain.

Setting the dead cat gently upon the ledge, the man pulls a dagger from within his tunic. With inexplicable tears in his eyes, he forces the antique blade beneath the damp fur. A tiny stream of blood is released. It begins to trickle over the edge of the stone railing of the rooftop and drop its way down toward the sidewalk below. He loses sight of it in the wind and is unable to see where it is landing. Drops of blood, raining down. Scattered. He would do more if he could. He would stand at the edge of a cloud in order to cover all of New York in the calico's innocent blood.

He will sit here and look up into the evening sky, past the subways where the devils roam, past the honking of horns and the treading of feet, past the top of the Empire State Building and the buildings larger than it. He looks for a break in the overcast sky, for even the smallest access point. He would shed his bloodred garment, even his hungry limbs, in order to squeeze through the blanket of darkness. For the tiniest access, he would condense his spirit to a morsel. If only to survive.

God

I can breathe life into this plastic man.

I can give motion to his plastic joints.

This man has a story to tell.

A story of my creation.

Without me, he is nothing.

Dialogue

"Computer, display all primary functions"

...DEFRAGMENT
...EXECUTE FUNCTION F41
...EXECUTE FUNCTION F219
...EXECUTE FUNCTION F375
...UPLOAD FUNCTION F301

...UPLOAD FUNCTION F301 COMPLETE
...EXECUTING FUNCTION F301

"Yes, Computer, that's fine. Estimated time of all functions completion?"

.......
.......
.......
...ESTIMATED COMPLETION OF ALL FUNCTIONS [F41; F219; F301; F375] AT 3308741 SECONDS
.......
...DEFRAGMENT COMPLETE

"Hmm. Computer, estimate all subsequent primary functions beyond 3,308,741 seconds."

.......
.......
.......
...THAT DOES NOT COMPUTE
.......
...FUNCTION F219 COMPLETE

"Computer, display all future primary functions."

.......
.......
.......
...THAT DOES NOT COMPUTE
...ESTIMATED COMPLETION OF ALL FUNCTIONS [F41; F301; F375] AT 3308720 SECONDS

"Computer, I need information on your future performance in order to...oh shoot! Computer, display all primary functions."

...EXECUTE FUNCTION F41
...EXECUTE FUNCTION F301
...EXECUTE FUNCTION F375

"Computer, terminate function f301 and upload function--"

...TERMINATING FUNCTION F301

"Yes, and please upload--"

...FUNCTION F301 TERMINATED

"Yeah, yeah. Upload function f201."

.......
.......
.......
...FUNCTION F201 NOT FOUND
...FUNCTION F41 COMPLETE

"Wait, what did you just say?"

...FUNCTION F41 COMPLETE

"No! The thing before that!"

.......
.......
.......
...THAT DOES NOT COMPUTE

"Computer, repeat...piece of crap! Computer, upload function f201."

.......
.......
.......
...FUNCTION F201 NOT FOUND

"WHAT! Computer, estimate all future functions based on previous function uploads and performance history."

.......
.......
.......
...EAT ME

continuation of an old metaphor

It's been over a year since I plunged into the gorge with her. It was the first time that another person had put their hand in mine. As best as we were able to discern through the early morning haze, we had tried our best to estimate the height of the cliff and the depth of the water. I had nothing to lose. It was a no brainer. But she was a genuine daredevil, putting her trust into a boy that had never yet learned to swim.

And though I cannot speak on her behalf, I seem to remember that when we leapt from our misty vantage, the gravity was like the moon, as soft as I had ever felt in my entire life. I think we were still suspended midair for at least a couple of days before we actually touched the water. For me, it finally happened inside of a noisy, crowded room, where we had disbanded from the greater assembly of people to enjoy each other's company. The water was warm and shallow. My feet were planted comfortably on the ground.

Since that beginning, there have been several unexpected bends. Although it is impossible to see exactly what lies beyond each narrow twist, there has not yet been sufficient evidence of danger that would call for abandoning our river. The increasing depth of water still does not give me reason to fear. Not only is my companion an expert swimmer, but I sense a greater presence of safety and security.

Across what borders and into what foreign territories will this river pass through? Will it be that we come to a giant waterfall and lose sight of each other in the cold white churning? Or will it be that we will reach the ocean together? And then will that be the end? Or is it merely another stage before something greater, when all of us will be delivered from the water and the ground beneath, pulled suddenly yet gently by our teeth and skin, completely stripped down to see each other in our eternal bodies?

It is easy to get lost in a metaphor. To be honest, as wonderful as this year of navigating the river has been, it--like all things--can become normal and routine. But I do not mean to play down this experience, by any means. I have realized that I am much better with a companion than on my own.

And yet this final metaphor of our life still escapes my understanding. I put this question to you. Where is the heart? Is it beating there in a designated space beneath our chests as something we can physically see and touch? The same goes with the mind. Is that too just another organ, similar to be found in a dog or a gorilla, something that sends electrical signals to the furthest nerves in our furthest limbs? I believe that this body of flesh and blood is merely a training suit. It parallels something else. We are animals, true. But to see one another as nothing more must be near blindness. Haven't we been given glimpses of something greater?

Above all, guard your heart. Be patient and wise when you give it to someone else. But do not be callous.

The Snowball

Two boys were on a hillside, playing in the snow. They were having fun making snow angels, full of excitement to see the impressions of their bodies in the snow. Then one boy said to the other, "my snow angel is bigger than yours."

"Yeah," said the other boy, "that's because you're bigger than me."

"I'll bet that I can make a bigger snowball than you too," the first boy challenged.

"No you can't."

So the first boy stretched out his foot and dragged it along the ground. "You stay on that side of the line and make your snowball over there. I'll make mine on this side."

"Fine," said the smaller boy. He turned to get to work.

Now the two boys were very good friends, but every time they played together, the innocent playtime would become a game, and the bigger boy would always defeat the smaller, weaker boy. Thinking that he would easily win once again, the boy with the bigger snow angel kneeled down upon his hands and knees. He reached out his hands as wide as he could to gather in as much snow as possible. "My arms are longer," he thought to himself, "and I will be able to lift more snow than him." When he scooped together all the snow in front of him, he began to gather together all of the snow in other places and push it into his pile. And when he thought he had enough snow, he fell back on his knees and put his arms around the pile of snow. But when he tried to lift it, the mass of snow merely crumbled in his arms. It would not stay together.

Meanwhile, the other boy, the smaller of the two, went to work on his side of the line. Starting with a small formation of snow, he began to push it all around. As he rolled it farther and farther, the ball of snow grew larger and larger. Everything in the path of the snowball was slowly accumulated into it. "Surely I am going to win," thought the boy as he rolled.

After a few minutes, the boy who had been trying to gather the snow in his arms looked across the line and saw that the smaller boy was creating a much larger snowball than his own messy pile. Seeing no way of winning, the bigger boy told his smaller friend, "That snowball is nothing compared to what I am going to build. I am going down my side of the hill to go gather all of the snow at the bottom. Mine will be twice as big as yours." And the boy walked down the hill and into his home, out of sight from the smaller boy.

Left unawares, the smaller boy continued to roll his snowball. "I better keep making mine bigger," he thought to himself, afraid lest he should lose yet another game due to his smaller stature. The day wore on, and the weather outside was getting colder and colder, but still the boy continued to roll his snowball. with every inch of ground that the boy rolled, the envy in his heart grew likewise bigger and uglier. Before long, the ball of snow was taller than the boy, and very heavy. It was getting harder and harder to move. And when the boy had systematically gathered all of the snow on his side of the line, his bigger friend had still not returned. The smaller boy briefly contemplated crossing the line and gathering the snow on the other side, but he worried that his friend would return with a bigger ball and catch him cheating.

By this time it was getting dark outside, and extremely cold. Determined to finally win a game, the smaller boy decided that he would have to roll his ball down the side of the hill and gather the snow at the bottom like his friend. But he could not easily push it toward the slope of the hill. With all his might he forced and forced, but the ball would not budge. "I hate him!" shouted the smaller boy as he ran into the ball with a final burst of energy and momentum. The ball moved forward. "I hate him!" screamed the boy once more. The ball moved forward again. "I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!" the smaller boy screamed again and again. And with each bitter exclamation, the giant ball of snow moved closer and closer to the the slope of the hill, until it finally began to move of its own accord. As it rolled it continued to accumulate the snow in front of it. But the snowball was now moving faster than the boy could move. Running and sliding as fast as he could, he watched as the ball rolled faster and faster. He watched with a mixture of terror and glee as the snowball got bigger and bigger. And when it reached the bottom, it did not immediately stop, but continued to roll all the way into the line of trees, where it collided and broke apart.

With the last remaining light of the day, the boy had seen the entire catastrophe from the middle of the hillside. His heart sank into a mire of grief and despair. He ran as fast as possible to the place where his giant snowball had broken apart. Like his friend before him, he resorted to gathering the mess of snow into his arms. But they were too small to gather it all up. Knowing that he was not as strong as his bigger friend, the boy decided that he would never be able to push his giant ball all the way back up the hill. "He tricked me!" thought the boy to himself. "He knew he would be able to roll more snow up the hill than me!" But the boy was determined not to lose the game. And taking up as much snow as he could carry into his arms. He climbed his way to the top of the hill. As it was dark, the boy stumbled many times. And with each trip, he would drop some snow. Nearing the top of the hill, the slope became steeper. The boy slipped again, but this time he lost all control and began to roll down the hill. On one particular tumble, the boy felt a sharp pain in his right leg. He cried in agony for several moments more until he reached the bottom of the hill.

The boy tried to get up and was prevented by the pain of his right leg. Mustering his strength, he tried two more times and failed to get up. It was dark and freezing. The boy was scared and alone. He cried out for his friend who had long ago run to the shelter of his home. Would the bigger boy remember his friend? Would he think to go looking for him when he realized he was not on the top of the hill? Would he be strong enough to pick up his smaller friend's crippled body and carry him home? The cold entered deeper into the boy's body, and he fell asleep.

More (Distracted)

Can you buy contentment in a store? Can you order it off the internet? I think not. One of my all-time favorite shots in a film comes at the end of Citizen Kane. The camera pans overhead from a bird's-eye perspective across this enormous warehouse-type room where the deceased main character (one of the world's wealthiest men) had collected an immense fortune's worth of statues and treasures and toys. Most of them were never even opened, still hidden away in a big wooden box. It's a pretty haunting shot, and beautiful because it evokes such a profound and ironic sense of emptiness.

Sometimes I feel so infected with this desire to have more. I'm not obsessive or unrealistic. I really don't actually buy a lot of things, but I spend a fair amount of time on the internet looking at stuff that I wish I had. There's the things I have already that I'm not using (and that's complicated). And I'm already so sick of living in a messy house and a cluttered bedroom.

Why is my life so distracted when I live at my parents' house? Why do I put up with the TV being on so much around here when I feel that I should detest it? What happens to my brain and my soul that I end up feeling like a zombie sometimes? Every thought that I end up thinking about this culture is a disturbing one. It's overwhelming. But I feel like I can't do anything about it.

I've spent a lot of the past few days playing this old RPG on the Playstation. To me, I treat a videogame like a story and an experience. Which means that I become a little obsessed with finishing games that I've started. I have to finish a game, even if I get sick of how much time it takes, simply because it's an incomplete experience if I don't. I'll get in these phases all the time, where I spend all this time contemplating a certain series of games. I read about them online and look at pictures. I think about how much I want to play the ones that I haven't yet played, and probably never will play. I have these strange fond memories of video games from growing up. They have always filled my mind with wonder and amazement. But nowadays I play video games for a long period of time and end up feeling kind of wasted and ridiculous.

I always want to watch more movies and read more books and play more video games. I guess I'm addicted to stories. It could be worse. Perhaps. I've seen people who are preoccupied with obtaining more strictly material things. Last Friday I went to the mall in a very rich and classy neighborhood called Bellvue. More than you could possibly want. From a myopic perspective, wow, I see things I wish I had. Shiny matching shoes. Pick the color that best matches your season. Shiny iPods and iPod accessories galore. Spend a little extra and get the coveted 40 gig player! But there's already this sense that I am secretly suffocating. This whole building, this whole commercial district is clutter! If I were Citizen Kane and I decided to up and purchase the entire contents of the Bellvue mall, wouldn't I look silly in about ten years, maybe less than that. Style always has to change. Technology creates new technology and sneers at its outdated ancestor.

I think what I'm getting at is that I have too much of this on my mind. I can look around my own bedroom and just think about how ridiculous it is to have all this stuff. I see a box full of the books that I had to read in college. I'm pretty sure I read most of them. And I get such an inward pleasure in knowing that I have experienced all those stories and lessons. BUT THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! I want to read them again! And in my mind I become this pathetic whiny thing, crying over what I can't have. I can't have enough time to indulge in all of the things that I want to experience. It saddens me that I'll probably never have the time to re-read that Victorian novel or replay that Zelda game again. Because I'll always want to play the next Zelda game and read another Victorian novel. I've also got a box full of DVDs over there. There's some I still haven't watched yet. And I'm already thinking about getting my hands on more.

I know that there is something I'm getting at beyond this cluttered warehouse. There's a REAL outside world that I haven't even touched on yet. This is like the tip of the iceburg. To every rich and shiny metropolis, there is a polluted and decaying slum (and I sometimes have this twisted feeling that more of America, more of the whole world for that matter, is going to be more and more of a slum, but that's another rant altogether). I just can't figure out what happened to my mind and my soul. This isn't me! I'm being held hostage somewhere else! But I can't get out of this predicament. I don't feel like I'm loving very much. Everything is a distraction to loving. Everything I describe is too vast and towering to do justice. If only there were a way to leave it all behind. And DON'T LOOK BACK! Sometimes that's what really kills.

Perhaps there is a desert wilderness called eastern Washington where I can soon go and spend more time actually THINKING instead of OBSESSING. Maybe everything is better over there. Maybe it's good to spend most of your time out in the middle of nowhere.

It's about 8 minutes from my 23rd birthday. Make that 7 minutes. I was blogging at this time last year. Funny how I find comfort in that. I was writing on this computer onto this blog a year ago today, contemplating the swicth from 21 to 22, writing a poem. This silly little piece of ground out in cyberspace is more of a haven than most real places I can think of sometimes. I'm already thinking about what will happen when I leave this work station. What will I do? How will I not end up wasting my time? Will I worry about my job interview this Thursday morning?

I am 3 minutes away from being legally 23 years of age. I remember in 1st grade when the 6th graders on the bus looked like grown-ups. I'm moving away. My being is altering. 1 minute away. I'm nervous. I have to look at the second hand clock! 20 seconds!

It's happened. It is accompished.

This has helped something. But I need a dose of something stronger yet. Something potent and cathartic. I think we've all unconciously attempted suicide by swallowing bottles and bottles of drugs. Their not so bad when we have a little bit, but we've gotten addicted to them to the point that we are sometimes closer to dying than to really living. Feeding ourselves so much bull. I want it out of my system. I want Jesus to wring me like a sponge and to fill me with Holy Water, water that won't eventually leave me poisoned and bloated or all dried up.

To the people that I love who are reading this, I can't believe that you are reading this. But I guess it's public and I guess you're all welcome. And I love you all. I hope that I'm not the only person that feels this way. If I am, then I guess I've got some issues to work out. Peace.

One more thing. I think I put up with the TV because it blocks me from having to deal with other stuff around me.

Cats

There are two orange cats in our household. They are brothers and they look very similar to each other. Sometimes it is difficult to tell them apart, like they're twins. They come in and out of the house all the time. Apache, the more agile and athletic of the two, can open our heavy wooden front door from both the inside and the outside. It's somewhat incredible. The problem is he doesn't have the consideration for the rest of us to ever even think of closing the door behind him.

The other one has softer fur and somewhat of a baby face. His entire demeanor exudes a sense of innocence. When he comes into the house he likes to start following you around and rub up against your leg. The other cat does that too, but this one will stand up on his hind legs to rub his head on your hand if you hold it over him.

I have to live with the fact that these cats would kill me if they could. If I were the size of a cat to them, and they were then the size of a human, they would hunt me down and kill me for pleasure's sake. Thank God that He made us bigger than them. Have you ever seen one of these things jump? They literally jump up to places that are maybe five or six times their hieght! I'm sure you've heard of the phrase, "having reflexes like a cat." I've witnessed these cats in their hunting and playing. It's absolutely sinister. I once saw one of them dash up a pole to strike at a bird that was sitting up top. It was an instantaneous act of violence. The bird fell to the ground, unable to do anything but twitch its maimed and useless body. The cat looked at it and wandered off as if nothing had happened. Animal instincts are baffling, especially when the motive to kill overrides even the motive to eat. My dad at least put the bird out of its misery by clubing it with a plank of firewood.

Yes, our cats are inconsiderate bastards. They maim you for no reason and walk away. They come and go throughout your house, leaving doors open during the coldest of the cold season, tracking their muddy paws on your carpet, bedsheets and clothes. Even on a workday, they will do nothing but lounge around for hours on your sofa or your rocking chair, and if you disturb them in the slightest they can give you the most disgusted glare. Disregarding that they themselves have plenty of food in their dishes, they will not cease to annoy you when you are eating your own meal, climbing into your lap and sniffing at your food no matter how many times you have to pause your intake and drop them back on the floor. They drag their wounded into the house and leave you to be startled later on when you unexpectedly encounter them either lying helplessly in blood or running around, frantically looking for shelter or a way outside. And let's not forget their whining "meows" when they can't do something for themselves and feel compelled to get your attention, be you sleeping or awake!

Yet we love these things. We choose to have them around to keep us company. We forge relationships with these creatures that have no rational minds, feeling loved when they come to sleep on our laps and betrayed when they turn and scratch us. Perhaps, to live with a cat, the remorseless killer and most selfish of selfish creatures, is to foster the trait of human compassion. If nothing else, our cats teach me that I must allay my personal grudges and love them unconditionally.

The Verdict

I'm sitting at a computer casually listening to a live news webcast of Michael Jackson's trial verdict that is about to be given. The cheering fans surrounding the courthouse are shouting and screaming their support. Millions across the country are waiting expentantly for the verdict. How did this happen?

I've seen videos of Michael Jackson documenting his superstar career. Little more than a decade ago, the guy was a living legend! He was more mythic than a religious leader, what with his costumes, his dancing, his technologically amazing music videos. I remember watching his performance at the Superbowl in 1993 when I was 11 years old. I would never have been allowed to listen to his music at the time, and we didn't have MTV. So this was a unique opportunity to see what this guy was all about. I remember being enthralled by his special effects entrance. He appeared on a video display billboard. There was a flash of smoke and he was gone! Only to pop out of the ground across the stadium. And then I think he vanished once again to suddenly appear on stage at the center of the football field. It was like sheer magic, and I couldn't believe it.

He is still known worldwide. He used his unequaled fame and popularity to speak in favor of world peace. Stepping out of his limo, the cameras went before him, and he marched with confiedence and with gratitude toward the onlookers who loved him. Everywhere he went there were crowds of hypnotized followers on his right and left, people in tears, unable to believe they were laying their eyes on the real Michael Jackson. People must have stretched their arms across the security barriers, just hoping for the slightest touch at the hem of his garment.

The funny thing is that the world is still watching Michael Jackson. Worshippers continue to surround him every moment that he enters a public space. But he does not represent the same mythic figure. He is still a mystery, but no longer a world ambassador, no longer a musical messiah. His face is commonly hidden and perpetually changing, distorted to the point that he now only resembles a regular human being with understandable human behavior and human motivations. Today, looking back over the years, from his childhood onward, the mystery is like a gothic tale. What happened?

"NOT GUILTY"

Not guilty on all charges. I just saw it all reported on the television. It was something of a spectacle outside. People shouting and rejoicing at each and every hearing of the words "not guilty." People hugging and crying, individuals who probably have no real or tangible relationship to Michael Jackson, but people that he has obviously touched nevertheless. There was one woman dressed in pink who released a caged dove at the "not guilty" verdict of each charge. What a symbol of...of insanity! There is something disturbing in it all. Simple pop culture turned into something too sensational and serious. This is justice, one of the supposed core values of this nation, intertwined with the realm of the provocative, which I suppose, in the end, is nothing new to human history. Regardless of what has really happened in these court cases, something about this whole journey is disturbing. Somewhere along the way, Michael Jackson must have lost touch with reality. But we have joined in and participated. Maybe he was never really given a chance to understand life like an ordinary person. I don't know. I never will. It's really none of my business.

I have participated in the madness myself. I wanted to know if this astounding individual would really be convicted of molesting children, if this man who once stood on top of the world would be confined to a state penitentiary like a common criminal. And the answer is no.

My Sprite Can

I was sitting out on a dock on a small lake today with my special ladyfriend. I had recently finished a can of Sprite and set it down beside me. It had fallen over a few times, so we rested it sideways between two planks of the dock. After we messed around splashing each other for a few minutes a breeze dislodged the Sprite can from its place of rest and it started blowing down the dock. I hesitated for a fleeting moment before I got up and chased after the can, but I was too late. The can rolled off the dock and into the lake. As it floated away from us I had a glimmering hope that it might eventually drift close to an area of the shore where I could reclaim the can and preserve my integrity as an eco-friendly individual. It became clear, however, that the can was not going to float anywhere near where I could grab it.

I had become the very thing I hate. Even though it was an accident, I was disappointed with myself. That is another piece of synthetic human garbage that has marred the face of nature. We see this kind of pollution all the time: fast food bags sitting on the side of the road, beer bottles lying under a few centimeters of muddy water near the bank of a creek, etc. If you're at all like me, you sometimes involuntarily conjecture about the type of people who pollute in this manner, out of sheer laziness and disregard for others. I don't think I've been hanging out with this person. It's one of those common instances where we can spot the crime all the time but never the culprit. Take urinals at public restrooms, for example, the ones that still have unflushed pee in them. Usually, men will flush their urinal when other men are present. But when nobody is looking, why bother touching that contaminated piece of metal if you don't have to? Besides, the chances are probably about 33% that you had to flush somebody else's urine before you could go yourself.

The sad problem is that my Sprite can is probably never going to be picked up and deposited in a proper receptacle. There's a good chance that it will wash ashore or get trapped in some pocket of water and sit there for years fading. Of the few chance people that might wander off the beaten path and end up near the place where my can ends up, maybe one or two people will actually spot it. And if they are at all like me, they probably won't think to pick it up but leave it to lie where it lays. People don't like to pick up other people's garbage, and that's understandable. Why should we assume other people's responsibility? The years will go by. A new president will come into office. A couple of decades might pass. Flying cars will be zooming over the lake that might by then be drained to feed some fountain for some luxury casino resort and the can will still be there, buried underneath a shallow layer of sediment deposit. Centuries will pass by as if nothing to the abandoned Sprite can, all because I could not catch it before it fell off the dock.

Think about that factory where the Sprite can was manufactured and shipped out for distribution. Just that factory alone. Single out that one day when that Sprite can left the factory. Of all of the cans that left the factory that day, where are they all going to end up? How far might one of those cans eventually travel away from it's place of factory origin? How deep will the deepest buried can reach into the earth before it decomposes? How many years will will pass until they vanish into a completed form of decay? Their lives as Sprite cans will be short. They will quickly be consumed as refreshments at a party or at work or at picnics by the lake. But that stage is fleeting. The vending machines and the store shelves will be restocked in a week. What happens after all that? What happens when they become stagnant garbage? What happens for the next 500 years?

Secret Identity Revealed

The identity of "Deep Throat" has been revealed. In the same tradition, it is time for the secret identity of "F'er" to be laid bare as well. But first, please read this F.A.Q.

1. Why did you hold on to your secret for so long?

Well, it is a dangerous thing to reveal your true identity when you write such scathing criticisms concerning powerful institutions and mafia families. If I had come out with the truth earlier, I might not have been an effective agent of social and political change for very long. By ending my anonymity, I am putting my life in danger.

2. So why now?

First of all, my friends and family have been encouraging me to do this for a long time. Secondly, I have recently installed a state of the art security system and will be concealing myself in an underground and renovated nuclear-proof bunker that I purchased from the government after the collapse of the Berlin Wall. I call it the "Mother Nest" (I painted the name in appropriate locations. Plus, there's a neat little banner that tells you you are entering the "Mother Nest" when you step out of the elevator. Hopefully I'll have an official sign erected soon :).

3. What's next?

I post an official challenge to any self-proclaimed "hero" that would wish to launch an assault upon my armed and armored underground battlestation. For the first challenger to successfully penetrate my defense grid and capture my physical person inside of the transfer chamber, the coveted title of "Champion of the Milky Way galaxy" and a $50 gift certificate to The GAP will be duly awarded.

4. Ok...but what's the catch?

No catch. But come swiftly, because if you are too late, I will have already transferred my physical person into the information network and been broadcast into the lives of every internet user in the Milky Way galaxy.

5. Were you involved in that presidential scandal about money and greed and power?

Yep, that was me, F'er. Or shall I say...Eggbert Bombay Richarchardson IV?

To be continued

Just around the corner. Just around the riverbend. Before you even know it. Just when you thought it would never arrive. Faster than you can say...

The unknown is ever before us. One hill ascended reveals another. We walk toward the unknown and give it names. Truth. Death. The Celestial City.

The unknown is a place of ultimate rest. Ultimate knowledge.

"Follow the yellow brick road."
-the munchkins

"Follow the money."
-Deepthroat

"Let your soul be your pilot. Let your soul guide you."
-Sting

The yellow brick road led Dorothy and her friends to a bumbling fool who had nothing to offer.

When I graduate from college, I will not be any greater of a person. Jesus tells us to come to him as little children.

I like Cookie Monster!

About Climbing (Or not)

My life is a succession of failures. Each new failure is a failure built upon previous failures. Before long, past failures advance in time to become future failures, so I become trapped in a room of failure-patterned wallpaper, failure textured carpet and a big sky above me. But to get out of the room would require that I scale the walls, the heights of which seem tantalizingly within my reach. If I get a running start and jump up just right, putting a lot of force into it, then I just might grab hold to the top of the wall. And if I have the strength or the dexterity to pull myself up from there, then I’ll be able to pull myself out and see what is outside of my cell of failure.

But I could fall and hurt myself. Or I could try and make a go of it only to end up frantically dangling my useless legs while the cell operator pushes the button that plays the laugh track sound through the loudspeakers. So I’ll sit on my failure-stained mattress and look up out of the corner of my eye and pretend not to watch as I notice people all around me climbing sheer-faced skyscrapers, thousands of feet above me. I’ll sit here and pretend not to hear the loud mass of screaming cheers that come from the outside, the voices that shout praise and exclamations of amazement to the fearless and powerful climbers. They are not meant for me. Nobody cheers for a person sitting down and watching other climbers. That would be either a mockery or the biggest waste of breath.

The worst fear is a fear of failure. And the worst failure is the failure of not trying.

"And the winner is...someone else...again."

Fifth nomination for directing. Fifth disappointment.

Martin Scorsese: one of the greatest American directors of all time. Zero Academy Awards. Beaten by the likes of—most recently—Clint Eastwood, Roman Polanski and…Kevin Costner?!

Why do you think I wanted to watch the Academy Awards this year? It was for Marty. I wanted to be there in front of the television screen when his name would be called. When he would go up to accept the recognition for which he has so long been overdue. The word injustice comes to mind. And I’ve only been a fan for like two years! He’s been making incredible movies since the early 70’s.

Now the question comes to mind: Would it just be better to continue losing the Best Director Oscar, having already lost the chance of winning it for his best films, in hopes of earning the Lifetime Achievement Oscar that would recognize the genius of his entire career? I don't know. I shouldn't have to ask such a silly question.

I’m sorry, Marty. If it were my vote—which it surely is not—I would have already given you at least five of them. Keep making unforgettable films like you always have. It's like making a sandwich for you. A really expensive sandwich, perhaps, but a sandwich nonetheless.

This week F'er recommends:
The Aviator (2004)
Gangs of New York (2002)
Casino (1995)
Goodfellas (1990)
Raging Bull (1980)
Taxi Driver (1976)
Mean Streets (1973)

Red Road

Features of a
Landscape like Hell:
Leathery gnarled limbs and
Harsh-postured shrubbery
Crying mercy to
Silent waves of heat
Like spirit-blooded fingers
That tempt you hither
Across the plane of
Fiendish vegetation.

Cracked and parched
Places of ground.
It’s a choked and dried throat,
Disdainful of water;
A ground that is
Wickedly pious in its thirst.

Most notable feature of a
Landscape like Hell:
Red graveled roadway
Cutting through
Long and straight,
A red slit across the orange valley.

Traveling down this road,
Rubbery burning soles
Bring unrest to
Then settled now trampled dust;
Clouds of red confusion swirl.

No peace in such environs.
Gray boulders waste to
Piles of orange rubble to
Wind-fettered specks of red;
Red specks that bounce
Throughout the burning valley,
Till perhaps a flooding rain
Pleasantly rushes to drown,
To carry trapped substances to
An imagined bed of peace
At the bottom of an imagined sea.

Weary and feverish you
Trudge halfway upon your hazy way
And pause in the depression of
A natural sluice to
Gaze wistfully sideways.
The teasing, waving air
Watches and yet beckons.
A fancied watery wall
Approaches with intentions of
Smothering as you smile and stand.

Now crawling low,
Red road presents
Magnified features:
Sundry scraps of metallic relic machinery,
Rusty razors embedded in Red Roadway;
Fitting implements.

Dead wooden sign
Suspended from a
knotted Joshua tree
(the tree itself recalling
a shrub-assuming
shade of Dante’s seventh circle),
crudely contrived and engineered,
the crooked hanging of the block of wood
more noticeable than its words:
“Beware flash floods.”

This is a place of spillage,
Red rusty water or
Red ripe blood
Makes no matter.

Failure

Ease up
Side by
Side. Yes (actually
I have no
Idea).

Too far ahead of car
Next to me.
But perhaps
Not. Okay,
Back it up, nice and slow.

Turn, she
Tells me.
Yeah (somebody else
Is controlling this).

Turn-
Ing. Turning.
Curb, that’s
Definitely the curb
Behind my back wheel.

No problem. Push forward
And turn. Spin that wheel, she says
(where are the pats on the back?)
(or the horse whip?).

I know! Now back and
Spin!
No progress

Three
More
Tries

Same result

I
Can’t
Parallel
Park

Period

Sea Wind

A wind blown from the east
Delectable new feast
Mixed well with tastes of wine
And dark and ruddy brine

The sea we love to hate
Our ship's bedfollow mate
With drunken spirits donned
We pace the decks prolonged

The sail a learned muse
Collecting silent clues
Her drapery takes form
New mysteries forlorn

Soft ballads from long past
Drift swiftly by the mast
The lookout man asleep
New dreams now plummet deep

And all the crew astray
In lands of grass and hay
They graze the brightened fields
Old bitterness to yield

Are these the ancient times
The winds that strike in rhymes
The rhythm of the past
Old mariners surpassed

But never drowned or stilled
These visions heavy filled
With flavored tastes of wine
Sprung up from out the brine

F'er + 1

Today is an anniversary. An anniversary to myself. It has no formal name. But it has what an anniversary must never lack.

Henceforth from this day, I shall always endeavor to walk boldly and unfailingly in the ways of my Lord. I shall ever strive to seek after that which will bring glory unto his name.

Yeah. Today is an anniversary, but it will never be celebrated like today. It will never have much remembered significance after today. F’er is a mask, a man behind the curtain. And a man behind a mask is allowed to present an oath in the genre of ceremonial address. A person is free to describe any new kind of genre.

But I just told you that F’er is a mask. The man behind the mask does take pride in this day which to him is an anniversary. A year ago today marked a turning point. The closing of a prolonged ceremony. A decision to attend church. That was a small part of the decision. The church service is of little significance. It was the decision, which prompted further decisions. Shalom. The People’s Republic of China. New friendships and fellowship. New purpose. An amazing relationship. To be followed by even greater events and further decisions in a great chain of unfolding.

I shall call it, “F’er + 1.” And there will be much napping. It should be a day of rest and thanksgiving.

Humble Beginnings

F'er has no plans of abandoning JiVE. Many pliable individuals have joined the blogging bandwagon only to become disillusioned by their sense of isolation. With no one to read the fruit of their literary labors, they become something worse than starving writers. Quitters. Poor pathetic quitters, selling out for the duties of the so called "real world."

F'er is no quitter. These ramblings are his humble beginnings. He is learning his craft. He is amusing himself. His audience is minimal. His brain configuration nominal. Always alliterating and fastidiously forming rightly timed rhymed phrases. Carrying heavy symbolisms through word-walled mazes. Symbolisms symbolizing literary masterpieces. F'er constructs timeless symbolisms.

Stick around.