That Massive Structure

There is a massive concrete grain elevator that dominates the scenery of the new town that I call home. Shaped like an enormous amphitheater, the city layout stretches outward and uphill from the very location of this old grain elevator. It is an ugly, ominous, and strangely captivating structure, a haunting mystery of an edifice that seems to lord over the spellbound town like a high wizard's fortress. At night it is always completely lit up, and its windows--all the way to the uppermost levels of the building--put forth an eerie glow, as if indicating activity within. There is never in the slightest, however, any movement to be seen in those vacant, illuminated corridors. Still, from the comfortable darkness of my upper-level apartment, I maintain a vigilant watch upon the structure throughout the night, because I feel that it is watching me.

Perhaps there are ghosts there, such as the ghost of F. M. Martin, who in life was the man that rose to fame and fortune with his profitable milling operations, beginning in 1907 at what is now the site of the giant grain elevator. His company was successful due to its ability to both store grain and mill wheat at the same location. However, the town's website also credits a large part of the man's success to his close connections with federal government agencies, through which he was awarded profitable contracts, supplying grain to such government institutions as an insane asylum, a penitentiary, a reformatory, and an "institution for the feeble minded." There were eight contracts in all. As power begets power and wealth begets wealth, it comes as no surprise that this citizen was also famous for his pursuits in banking and real estate. His son Clarence even became the governor of the state.

Is it any surprise that I would connect this strange history to the qualms I feel as I gaze in fascinated suspicion upon the concrete tower, relic of the old Martin dynasty? The cold, time-stained walls of that structure resemble the stone walls of a prison. Is it ironic that that edifice carries such real-life, historical connections to a state penitentiary? I marvel at the curious histories of these small agricultural boom towns, forgotten to most. I wonder at such towns where the street signs bear the same names that are chiseled in stone above the doors of the old banks, banks that are built like temples. My new town was named after a Boston railroad tycoon.

It is very possible that Mr. Martin was a delightful, benevolent individual. I would have to do more research to determine more of his character. But his brief story, combined with my initial bewilderment at the grain elevator leaves me wondering. I have many large questions. For example, what are the secret machinations that take place between the heads of state and the wealthy elite? I don't think there are such family dynasties as the Martins today. At least, they do not seem to work as they once did. We hardly know the names of our town officials. Instead, we recognize the names of the conglomerate corporations, some of which are the residual monikers of the founding families: Ford, Dole, etc. In 1943, the Martin Milling Company sold its assets to the National Biscuit Company, a.k.a. Nabisco, and the operations have continued to pass hands to other companies ever since.

F. M. Martin continues to exert his power over this little town, perhaps not financially, but vicariously through the physical enormity of the grain elevator. As I go about my business around town this coming year, I will continue to look up. I will continue to keep watch for a sign of movement within. We cannot afford to lose sight of the hidden connections between money and power. We must watch for the unseen hand that would gather in everything around us, for the mouth of the insatiable beast that would swallow up our entire communities.

The Warehouse: a brief history and outlook

Have you ever considered how the warehouse originated? Although most people today may not realize it, the history of the warehouse is rich and intriguing, dating back to ancient times. In fact, it is now commonly upheld among the archaeological community that the Egyptian pyramids are the oldest remaining warehouses. While modern industrialists would scoff at their geometrically inefficient use of space, these immense structures nevertheless contained inner chambers in which the Egyptian pharaohs stockpiled and organized vast amounts of valuable merchandise to be used in the afterlife. Because most of the pyramid chambers have been discovered empty, we must assume that the inventories of these storerooms were either looted due to lack of security measures or successfully “shipped” to the nether regions.

The warehouse has since evolved, adopting several innovative features along the way that have become standardized and universal. The use of walkie-talkies in larger warehouse buildings, for example, has replaced the prior use of tin cans and connecting strings, resulting in clearer communication between workers and a boosted sense of self-importance for all device carriers. Two other significant innovations are the wooden pallet and forklift truck, used in conjunction for the easy level transport of materials throughout a warehouse, much preferred to the original use of manual slave labor (this method too often resulted in damaged merchandise due to the collapse of exhausted workers).

Even today, the warehouse industry is advancing, and the job market is becoming increasingly competitive. Safe and efficient use of both time and space is the name of the game, and employers are continually seeking out only the most capable of individuals. In addition to forklift certification, several major warehouse employers are beginning to require a TETRIS score of 500,000 for all new hires. Scientists anticipate that robots will completely replace the human warehouse worker by the year 2025, assuming that robot labor unions will be able to negotiate favorable retirement benefits for all involved.

Trivia: Saint Barbara, who was locked away in a tower by her cruel father Dioscorus, is the patron saint of warehouses. She is also, of course, the patron saint of prisoners.

Physical

terror is blue blood
seeping and filling
oxygenated places
outside of the skin

dread is masticated meatloaf
congealing and crowding
septic passageways
within an otherwise efficient excretory system

death and discomfort
threaten and cripple
my vibrant mortal frame
below

Where Have All the Birthday Balloons Gone?

Denny's Restaurant used to provide patrons with a free meal on their birthdays. It was a sad day when that tradition ended. Year after year, I find it increasingly difficult to swallow the sad truth that my birthday is actually depreciating in value. I struggle over a moral dilemma: is my desire for recognition and celebration justified? Or am I clinging to childish conceitedness?

I am, too often, a selfish and self-seeking [along with a horde of other self-"fill-in-the-blank" adjectives] creature, bent on rationalizing my personal woes and sensitivities. But there is also a deep-rooted nature within me that wants to rebel against the time-worn copout that "life is unfair." There is an unselfish part of me that desires to be an advocate for the neglected birthday boys and girls around the world. I am a firm believer that a person's birthday should forever be a "special" day, in which humble sacrifices are made to accomodate for said person's general happiness and pleasure, in which the individual's significance is valued above that of the greater group, whatever group that may be. What has become of the significance and appreciation of the individual? It has gone the way of the buffalo, trampled beneath the westward expasion of "corporate" or "economic" interest.

Tomorrow marks the first time that I will ever have had to work on my birthday. I have a summer birthday, which means that I also never went to school on any of my birthdays, a fact that I have always considered a true privilege. There is a TV moniter in the break room of my place of work that periodically displays the names all of the plant employees who have birthdays in the month of June. Unfortunately, I am merely a "temp" (I have been working there for exactly three months now) and not an actual company "partner," apparently unworthy of recognition. I hate my job; I do not believe that I should have to go. I do not believe that anyone should have to work on their birthday. I would love nothing more than for someone to tell me to sleep in and enjoy myself for a day, to do nothing deemed worthy of being a "societal contribution," but simply to contemplate and celebrate the profundity of my existence.

It is now well past my bedtime. I am about to get into bed. When I wake up tomorrow, I will abide by the demands of the unjust system of which I am a part (a small cog). But I also vow to do my utmost to be a martyr for my own happiness if need be. I will enjoy and be grateful of my existence. I will be defiant.

Reader, forget not that you exist, and that, more importantly, your life is a beautiful and unfathomable miracle. You were created for an amazing and unique purpose, more valuable and significant than the existence of your government or school or even the company for which you work. Happy birthday! Praise be unto the day upon which you were brought into the world! It would be incomplete without you.

Given

To accept, to receive, to offer, to yield, to share, to expand, to produce, to grow, to multiply, to satisfy, to enjoy, to sustain, to provide, to nourish, to improve, to enrich, to release, to unlock, to explore, to excite, to create, to fulfill, to partake, to bestow, to honor, to bless, to love, to challenge, to send forth, to draw out, to discover, to reveal, to make known, to break through, to repair, to invent, to construct, to examine, to ponder, to try, to fail, to renew, to continue, to replenish, to encourage, to rejuvenate, to invigorate, to brighten, to lighten, to use, to hold, to cherish, to touch, to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to delight, to adorn, to praise, to protect, to preserve, to defend, to lay claim, to impart, to entrust, to distinguish, to seal, to set apart, to shine, to beckon, to guide, to unite, to forgive, to inspire, to teach, to discipline, to refine, to sharpen, to generate, to enliven, to intensify, to surge, to explode, to remain, to outlast, to triumph, to ascend, to overcome, to understand, to realize, to actualize, to eclipse all lies, to cast off all pride, to lay down one’s rights, as a sacrifice, from the father of lights, as the gift of life. We are given.

Amateur Backyard Wildlife Photography

Highlight
Unnoticed
Mundane
Moments
Inside
Narrow
Generated
Boxes,
Isolating
Resultingly
Dramatic
Spectacles

For
Everyone’s
Enlightened
Discovery.

Beware
Extinction,
Excellent
Specimen.

Persevere
Or
Lose
Life's
Enjoyments,
Notwithstanding
Another
Tragic
End.

To Walla Walla and Back

I. Skid Marks

They curve to the left
And disappear into oblivion,
That is, the oblivion of our
Forgetting, as we drive on
Toward our own destinations.

Where were you going,
And where are you now?
What caused you to stray from the
Simple straightforwardness of the path at hand,
An obstruction,
Boredom,
An untimely black hole,
Or did something in the distant hills attract your attention?

Whatever it was,
The moment came suddenly and
Left its ambiguous, screeching remark.
You left your mark:
A final, fateful testament,
Two parallel back lines,
Reminding us all of your departure.

II. (Coming Home)

As I drive my car through the mountain pass in summer, I am blissfully enthralled by the overpowering landscape that cradles me in green and blue shadows; I place myself on a particularly steep and remote forested hillside. Not once, however, have I strayed from the beaten trail and witnessed the true remoteness of nature.

Surfing the sea of faces (that is myspace)

Your digital testimonies intrigue, perplex, and overwhelm me. My soul is shaken with grief. Your lives, laid bare before me, display their brokenness. Where is your voice behind all of those pixels and words? I am trying to read your story with the scroll button of my mouse. I have missed you (have I?), and I want to know you again, where you are and, perhaps, where you have been. But who is going to interpret this senseless clutter of words, sounds, and pictures?

What am I looking for? Your "pages" do not fit into a book that I can read from start to finish. There is no end to this maze of underlined words and dead-end photographs. It is an unattractive gridlock, signifying very little. Cheap, seductive poses. Columns of dialogue as prolific as bacteria but without substance or emotion. Interchangeable lists of pop-culture nouns, presented as flimsy proof of individuality. This journey of constant clicking presents so much but offers so little in the end. I give up and write. Your stories, I conclude, are all the same, and I am no longer interested. How can all of us be so cool?

I think I stand above you, looking down. So many of you were my friends, somewhere along the way, who rejected me and moved along. Was I completely forgotten, passed over? Or did I leave something behind, something of truth and significance that I might have imparted, in spite of my timidity? Our intertwined destinies have loosened and separated, leaving us connected only by the continually thinning frays of distant memories. This is my list of favorites.

Secrets shared and games of defining character played upon the wide-open range of the playground.

Countless birthday parties to which I was given but one, non-repeated invitation.

Girls. Girls. Girls. A day or two of love and validation, followed by years of waiting, hoping, and reminiscing upon those handful of said (bittersweet) days.

Your childhood is fled. Your innocence never really was. But this is our youth! What are we doing? Our lifeblood has been converted into cash by people in fancy offices. I am looking in from the outside, either too afraid or too disgusted to let myself into your proud circle. Should I also expose myself to the turmoil of this voyeuristic wasteland? Should I expose my need of affirmation? No, really. I need it. I still try to be cool. You were the cool ones! But I think that you are all trapped. How do I know? Because you all "logged in" today!

Cops and Dogs

I passed a motorcycle cop on my way home from work. He was sitting on his bike, perpendicular to the highway, monitoring the law-abidingness of the passing travelers (I assume). The spot where he picked to station himself was particularly striking, the base of a smooth green hillside, not at all hidden or surreptitious. His bold presence was simply impenetrable. He immediately resembled a knight and his noble steed, an imposing black rider upon a white stallion. I lowered my driving speed by three or four miles-per-hour and checked my rear-view mirror for the next few hundred yards; I was only five over to begin with.

Sometimes driving feels like gun-running. I was riding with my dad a few weeks ago while he was fulfilling a bank errand. There is a road that goes into town, running parallel to the aforementioned highway, which was currently closed for repairs, open only to local traffic. Disregarding the large orange barriers, my dad drove the blockaded roadway. I suppose he felt obliged to waive the personal annoyance of adding unnecessary minutes to his task. It was like we were executing an illegal border crossing. There was a tiny thrill in knowing that we were trespassing, and a sense that we were justified in our cause. Both circumstances reminded me of Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress, in which a small outfit of rebels seeks safe passage across a war-torn feudal Japan, venturing bravely across hostile territories and guarded borders.

As civilized human beings we face the simultaneous threat and protection of civil order. It is part and parcel of a territorial impulse that is intrinsic to biological life, where order and chaos hang in an uncertain balance. Animals are born with instincts and mechanisms by which to fend off territorial challengers. I confront this fact every time I walk down to get the mail. Try as I might to move silently, I usually attract the attention of a pack of neighbor dogs who do not regard me as friend. At first, I hear the barking from a distance. And then I can hear the charge of the leader, this brown gangly mutt. I am pretty sure I will be safe. Then again, they seem pretty angry and they outnumber me. The last time I went down to get the mail, that gangly dog came right up behind me and acted as if he were about to take a big bite out of my right flank. Yes, that moment scared me. In retrospect, however, I am left with the indication that they at least considered me a threat.

packing

They will fit nicely
Iwill make themfit
Together ifittakes
Alldayevensoit will
W o r k outfinesee

"Stay the hell off my intellectual property!"

Bretheren, sistren, there is a glorious new frontier, a vast and unclaimed wilderness, overflowing with untapped bounty and livelihood. And it is located in the frontal lobe of the cerebral cortex. Go forth! Explore it. Discover a place where nobody has yet laid claim and start producing!

I, myself, have been doing some prospecting for quite some time, and it's worked out pretty nicely. I already own seven logos, three song titles, four cartoon characters (including but not limited to names, pictorial designs, and story developments), two food recipes, and a particular shade of lime-green. Many of these intellectual properties are already known and familiar to some of you. You are welcome to browse (with expressed consent, of course), but they are not for the taking. Luckily, there should be plenty of land for everyone! Land as far as the imagination can see.

Nevertheless, come quicly. Just yesterday I saw a young man walking out of a record store with the words Star Battles imprinted on the center of his white t-shirt. He clearly wrote it himself with a black permanent marker. As surely as day, a white unmarked van was there waiting for him at the curb, and a man dressed in black stepped out to hand him a subpoena. Even now, the frontier is changing. The days of roaming and freely partaking are all but over. The voice that demands free and shared ownership to the land of ideas is the voice of the naive, the voice of the savage-minded. Even now there are people lurking to steal YOUR jokes, YOUR quotes, YOUR legacy! Claim your IP today, before your ideas are marketed by someone less gifted than you.

And stay the HELL off my intellectual property!

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.