Christian Poetry - a poet army

About three years ago, I wrote a series of fifty-two psalms (Christian-themed poetry). This past Sunday, I heard one of them, read outloud. It was a lot like traveling through time, to an earlier self. It gave me chills and I had to leave the room. And it made me want to write more of them.

Now, go ahead and Google Christian poetry. I dare ya. I double dare ya.

This is the first thing Google comes up with, if you're feeling lucky: http://www.angelfire.com/tx2/christianpoetry/

No joke, that there's probably the very last angelfire website still in existence. You can smell the perfume and potpourri.

Seeing that, right there at the forefront of the search, made me want to write more and more. I wanted an army. Read about it:

53 – 12/03/13


Poet Army


I see a poet army,
breaking hearts and armor
for God's glory.
They're the mad ones,
the crazy ones,
the little bit of wild we're all
missing
as a nation of God
and a people of the Passion.
It's their voice we need,
their mindless rabble
striving for the wordless
love
that God has,
that God throws at us.
Their foes don't know us,
or God,
and it is their tongues
we need to send in
first,
shocking
shaking
shattering a numb sad bland world
of the poisoned prosperous with the overwhelming
love
that God gives us.
I see a poet army,
breaking hearts and armor
for God's glory.

The Gardener (Part Three and the friggin end)

So, I'm lazy. I've got an apartment now, and in a few weeks I'll be actually living in it. Hopefully that'll introduce a modicum of stability to my life, and hopefully that will massage my writing habits, which will therefore hopefully mean that I update this blog often enough to, you know, justify its existence.

Hopefully.

But anyway, I'm getting sick of my Gardener story, so let's make this be the end of it! This is gonna be the quick and messy mostly-summary version of storytelling, so you'll have to use your imagination a lot to fill in the gaps because, again, I'm a lazy, lazy man. Maybe, though, I'll make a quick-and-dirty novella out of it for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)...


So, if you don't know what happened in the last two installments, go read them. They should be right below and appropriately labeled. However, in summary, a dude finds a seed, plants it and it's a tree and everybody's all OoooOOoo about it.

Good summary.

So they live in this nightmarish wasteland, but all of a sudden, their world is shaken with the introduction of simply the color green. We last left the story with all the townspeople standing in awe of it, swaying gently in the breeze.

So what should happen next?

These people aren't responsible. They aren't good. If you give them something, they'll find a way to harm one another with it, or they'll find a way to sell it. But this tree is something else to them. Not one man or woman who sees it can bear to doubt its importance, no one can look away or harm it.

This generation of people cherish it because to them it was such a rare and foreign thing. They move their city to be within view of the tree, and soon the city prospers under the shade of the tree. They appoint one man, our gardener, to watch over it, and see to its safety. He sleeps under the tree at night, and stands by it, tending it in daylight. When he wakes up one morning to find that it can spread and grow more green, it becomes his responsibility to prosper that growth for all society.

The Gardener starts a family under the tree's shade, and when he passes, he is buried under it. His children inherit his responsibility of protecting the growth of the greenness and the trees. Under the care of the Gardeners, the greenness spreads as grass, bushes, and trees of all kinds. It spreads across the landscape, encompassing the world as a whole.

And society spreads and grows with it, under its shade. Life, so hard, so dry, so pleasureless, becomes easy, becomes a joy. Generations pass and people spread across the landscape, eating fruit and grains. The Gardeners tell stories of past generations, of the first Gardener for there ever to be and of the ages that followed.

Generations pass and people grow.

Generations pass and people forget in unbelief the story of the Gardener. They doubt the wasteland that once was, the world of trials and turmoil, of burnt and burning trees, and the place in which it never rained. Even the Gardeners, with time, forget. They took their name, their inherited legacy, and used it to build cities to rule, to shape the skyline as they saw fit.

The world was theirs, and all in it.

But when one Gardener disagreed with another, there was war. They fought over the green earth, scorching, tearing, and shedding red. The red spreads faster than green ever could, as the landscape is drowned out in violence and turmoil of the forgetting peoples. There comes a generation of people, Gardeners and others, who know nothing but violence, strive, hatred and redness. In that generation, greenness is forgotten entirely. There are few of this last generation, and they do not last long.

[Is war too obvious here? I mean, it's the first thing I thought of, so other people probably thought of it to. And it's been done to death. But then again, this story is kinda supposed to go the way you expect; it's about situational irony in which we know the fallacies of the characters, but they themselves are unaware... oh well, back to the story!]

However, one pair of footsteps wanders through the apocalyptic remains. They scramble over rubble, trudge through blackened oil pits, and meander down broken streets, cluttered with war machines. The steps belong to the last man, a Traveler whose home he holds on his back.

The lonely Traveler carries a brown sack, torn, and it's filled with scraps of food. In the Traveler's hands, though, there's always a book. It's singed at the corners and worn and faded along its edges. But at the first glimpse of each day's light, he awakens to read with the hope that a new day brings with it. And as the days near their ends, he reads, to face the coming darkness with the hope that it is once more temporary.

On these pages is a simple image in green: a tree and a man.

The Traveler wanders, and reads, and wanders and reads and wanders and reads until he is old, tired, and at last his body is in its final moments. He crawls into his home for that night, a cave beneath a building, and, as he has done for his years of wandering, the Traveler opens the book and reads himself to sleep in what remains of the daylight, prepared to die, as the last man on earth.

And although this man will die, it will not be on that night. He awakens that morning, with a little shade above his head, green, and growing.

The End.

*************

So what'd ya think? I went for a weird kinda storytelling flavor with this one, and it was at least fun to write. So there's that. Oh well, share, follow, and become a minion of greenness!

The Gardener (part two)

A lot's happened in my life since my last post -- I got a job, I moved, I started that job... okay, three things have happened if I really push it. So that's why The Gardener is so far a massive cliffhanger. But hey, let's try writing a continuation!

So, in summary: a dead world, dry, hot in daylight and cold at night, with little or no life except the depraved people living in it. A man finds a seed, cherishes and buries it. It rains for the first time in his life, he freaks out and finds the seed to have grown. Good summary? Good. 

So what happens next?

The Gardener has never seen a tree wasn't burnt, wasn't hacked to rough chunks. He sits there, in the rain and the thunder, watching the tree sway, fearlessly. He can't believe it exists. He sits, and waits out the storm underneath the tree. Slowly, the thunder fades, the rain slows, and a dawn comes, softly. When the sun rises, the man sits in the tree's shade, still in disbelief. 

So, he has to share it, this vision, with someone to prove that it's real, this fantastic new thing, this GREEN. So we have to introduce a new character. But who? Is this guy married? No, this is a place without happiness, hope, or lifelong relationships (insert marriage joke here). What about a friend? Nope, same reason.

So who does this guy have to talk to? What's sad? What's depressing?

He reaches up, plucks one spot of GREEN, one leaf, and he takes it to the marketplace. He wasn't planning on selling it, don't worry! He had no idea how he would describe something so soft, so strong, so aggressive and loving as the color GREEN. So he had to bring it with.

As with the seed and the tree itself, the man protects and cherishes his leaf. He holds it gingerly in his hands until he finally arrives, muddy, dirty, and soggy at the marketplace. Everybody's selling brown, burnt and broken junk. That's all they've got because, remember, this place sucks. Seriously, the Gardener walks right up to his regular salesman -- as close as he gets to a friend -- and the guy tries to sell him a bucket with a hole in it. The hole is on the side -- it kinda works.

The Gardener shakes him off, and while the guy goes on to try and bark down people to buy the bucket from him, the Gardener tries telling him about the stone -- the seed -- and the storm and the tree! The salesman nods and pretends to listen, all while hawking broken plates like they're the best thing known to mankind.

The Gardener, frustrated, holds up the leaf of GREEN in his hand. The world stops. The salesman reaches out, briefly touches the leaf. "Everything," he says. "I'll give you everything I have for that." People swarm, and bid, but the gardener leads them away. He brings them to the tree, swaying gently in the sunlight and taller than it was before. Much taller, it towers over the crowd.

In that moment, each person stands and sees that the world does not have to be like it is for them, brown, burnt and broken.

So how do they respond?

That'll be next time.

For tonight, follow me -- don't bother clicking ads; I wanna build an army and take over the world!

The Gardener (Part One)

I think I'd like to turn this into an illustrated short story. I dunno, maybe childrens or tween fiction. Eh, it's more of an illustration than a legit story, but whatever; it's been on my mind for about a year, so I'll shoot it out!
:::
The Gardener

We live in a world with life everywhere and light to see it. There are trees of thousands of kinds, animals to live off them, and animals to live off those animals. There doesn't have to be green fields or deep, cool woods. There doesn't have to be life everywhere. The sun could just pour down on the earth without care or compassion, bleaching colors pale and scorching everything to ash.

Imagine there were people in that world.

People who had a thousand words for "brown" and "burnt" but not one for "green," because they never knew anything green. These people are tired and dry, but don't know they can be anything but tired and dry. The sun beats on them during the days, and the night steals their warmth and their breath.

Now, among those people, in that place, there's a gardener.

This gardener wouldn't know that he was a gardener, though. All his world would be the same as everybody else: all brown and thirsty. But, this person is a gardener, so he would be living his life while it feels like it belongs to someone else. He wouldn't fit, specifically because he belongs to a different world.

What happens when he finds a seed? Maybe he wouldn't recognize it. Maybe he would hold it in his hand like a little brown iota of magic. Maybe he would hold it every night, squeeze it, covet it. He would be afraid he would lose it, or it would be stolen. So of course he finds a field in the middle of nowhere, and he buries the seed. Day after day he would walk up to the charred stick that marked the seed's secret spot. He would be checking to be sure of its safety, to be sure that it was not taken, harmed, or lost, whatever it was to him.

What if it rained? What if this dry world was holding back a thunderstorm for centuries? And what if one day the gardener woke up in the middle of the night to the horrifying sound of lightning cracking a pitch sky?

Well, he wouldn't know what it was, but he would freak out. He would hide under his bed and wait for the rain and thunder and wind to stop. But it wouldn't. That night would stretch on for an eternity, and he would only recognize the dawn as a slight lightening of the sky. It would have gone from black to slate, still punctuated by sudden, aggressive bolts of light. His roof would leak, water would pour in through the cracks in his walls, and his door would rattle with the wind.

And finally, he would panic, grab his coat and his few valuables, and run into the storm. He would run through the wind, rain, and mud, falling over in terror with every crack of thunder, and cowering in flooding trenches. He would push, though, until he found his way to the secret spot in the middle of the field, marked with a burnt stick.

And he would freeze, in terror and elation.

Right there, in the middle of the most horrific storm of his life, in the middle of what he was so sure was going to be his last day alive, he would (for the first time in the history of his people) see green.

And that's the end of part one.

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Zombie finale!

So, a few weeks ago, we learned that zombies are a curiously popular part of contemporary american culture. After that, we learned one reason why: we're elitists at heart. This week, y'all will get my second argument for why we like zombies: we're germophobes.

germ-o-phobes

Swine Flu, SARS, HIV/AIDS, Mad Cow Disease, and Avian Bird Flu are all modern (ish) illnesses. Remember them all? I bet you do. The media probably loves these stories, as they affect every one of their viewers and readers. Who cares if SARS largely broke out in Asia? IT COULD GET HERE! Who cares if the Swine Flu is essentially the flu, but stronger? IT COULD GET YOU!

As a society, we seem to be driven by a fear of illness, and I don't blame news and healthcare industries for capitalizing on that fear. I'm not going to bother with research here; we all know just how massive the healthcare industry is. Watch TV, look at the covers of magazines and you'll see how important our health is to us. I'd say it's linked with our elitism (we're such badasses that we can kill everything but heart disease and obesity), but that's another rant.

In the history of mankind, we have never been cleaner. We have never known as much about diseases and the human body as we do right now. We have never had the kind of technology and capability to fight diseases as we have right now. We have never had such a high level for our common understanding of sickness as we have right now. But still, we're afraid. I won't explore why we have hypochondriacs (woo! spelled that right the first try! woo!), germophobes, and such a focus on cleanliness in our modern world. I won't explore that here, because right now we're all about zombies.

So, we all agree we're a bunch of germophobes, walking around with our own little personal bottles of hand sanitizer?

**crickets**

taken straight from the CDC's website!

Modern, popular, successful zombie stories source their zombies from viral outbreaks pretty much across the board. Look at 28 Days Later (they don't SAY zombie, but they're friggin zombies), the Resident Evil video game series, World War Z (the mediocre film for sure), and The Walking Dead series (both TV and graphic novels): they all depict a zombie virus. Those are off the top of my head, but come on, that's a pretty big theme here.

Now, zombism doesn't have to be viral; it doesn't have to be a disease. But it is.

The history of the concept of zombism is pretty cool, but I'll just give you a summary: voodoo. Zombism was an affliction from, you guessed it, a witch doctor. You could enslave a person after death through the use of some handy verses and herbs (verses and herbs... just say that out loud... sounds cool, don't it? Sounds like a good title to a book about a pot-smoking pastor or a contemporary washout hippie band... I digress...).

Clearly, the origin had little association with diseases, conceptually. But that kind of zombie doesn't look much like what we recognize as zombies, so what about modern works of fiction? In both Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead, they never really nail down the source of zombism. There are talks and allusions to Venus probes, but really people are too busy surviving and freaking out to find any answers. But, in Dawn of the Dead, one theory is proposed: Hell is full, overflowing, and invading the living earth.

That doesn't sound like any disease I know of.

I don't know exactly when zombism picked up a viral origin (it annoys me that I don't know that), but I do know that it's a more modern concept. And I do propose that the introduction of a "zombie virus" into the lore served it well, and has become a part of its modern canon. Curiously, it's an instance of art being shaped by society; our fear of viruses and disease is expressed in modern zombie fiction. This fear is linked with our own elitism, and we see that zombie movies do two utterly important things: they sympathize with our terror and encourage our ego. They mimic our weaknesses and our strengths, and this is why they're so suddenly popular.

Click the ads, and hopefully I'll write more than once a week. Life's been happening. However, I'll leave you with this (you may have to squint to see it clearly, but it's hilariously awesome):

Why Zombies (Part Two)

So, everybody agree that zombism plays a suspiciously important role in contemporary American culture? Anybody disagree? Crickets?

***crickets***

Yeah, the crickets can disagree all they want; they're still wrong. Zombies matter to us, dammit.

But why? What is it about zombie lore that so appeals to contemporary Americans?

I have three reasons for the sudden popularity of zombism in contemporary America. First, we are attached to fundamental zombie story structure because it is linked with American exceptionalism. Secondly, modern zombie fiction encourages paranoia of disease, which is itself a growing concern of contemporary America. Thirdly, we can actually make zombies look more realistic in film than we used to, so, you know, the movies don't suck so much.

Russian President Putin would agree with my first argument: Americans think they're special. We do. I mean, he's a dick for saying it like it's a bad thing, but we do think we're special, exceptional, different, and (dare we say) better. We made famous the term "manifest destiny" with our westward expansion, we are perhaps the only country who has its own "dream." From our foundation, we have been heavily populated by A-type personalities who act, seize, and stake their future in the land they plot (and steal form American Indians, but that's another story). As a nation, since we rose to the status of a world power, we've been growing into the role of international peacekeeper. Well I wouldn't say peacekeeper, but how many times have we gone to war with someone over something that had pretty much nothing (on the surface) to do with us? Many times. We have frequent discussions on world rankings for just about anything, and we for some reason assume we should be ranked highest in every single field, from education to happiness, to GDP and cheese production. We don't have to. We could be a nation striving for mediocrity, but we aren't. We are a nation of people striving for elitism. And we have been the world's sole superpower for the past several decades (China is gonna collapse soon, don't worry), and if that doesn't scream elite, I don't know what does.

So, anybody on the side of the crickets, who claim that we aren't all about being elite?
**crickets**
Nope? Okay.

So, we're all about being the few capable and superior hands striving against a swarm of stupid.  We have the intelligence, the equipment, the foresight, the planning and the tactics, but our opponents have numbers. We are the 1% fighting a horde of unequipped, stupid, drooling, multiplying masses. Come on, that's a friggin zombie movie! Modern zombie lore has never been about one bad guy, one zombie raising hell, murdering people and burning down towns. It has always been about the survival of one or few against many. Straight-up elitism. The entire concept of contemporary zombism, what with how its spreads from person to person, fights against the possibility of it being anything but the elite few against the sub-par many. One zombie isn't a problem. One is stupid, slow, and already half-dead. It can be outran or killed with an improvised weapon relatively easily (by a main character), but let your guard down and one zombie becomes many. Let your guard down some more, and those many zombies won't be so easily overcome, and it's just a matter of time until you're eaten -- or worse, bitten and turn stupid yourself!

That drama itself would be short-lived (see Dawn of the Dead, both the original and the remake for evidence of what happens when that's pushed to its limits), so zombie lore has to introduce a new dilemma: who are these elite people with whom we are surviving; can they be trusted? We, as the elite, fear those elite surviving with us. Now THAT is the essential drama of all modern zombie lore, without which the stories tend to just fizzle out (World War Z, the film).

Now, is that an essential drama for Americans?

Yes (duh): we are a nation of constant strife, and it's usual with one-another. We are torn between Republican and Democrat, Pepsi and Coke, Walmart and Target (we seem to seek a duality, but that's for another post). A president is elected by a bare majority, usually, and he is almost always in conflict when in office. He, our leader, is in conflict with his own American people, without end.

We Americans like to think we're the best. Whether that's true or not, we like to think so. Zombie fiction is built around the best vs the worst. Or the common becoming the best through conflict with the worst. The reason Daryl Dixon has survived so far into The Walking Dead series on AMC is not because he's the best (although he certainly is [note the blue meth at 2:32]), but because he's so well-loved (SPOILIER: that's why Andrea died). It just so happens that we love him because he's the elite member of the group, who would survive without the group if he needed or wanted to. He is that rare kind of elite that rises above the rest, that kind of elite with which we Americans identify and to which we aspire.

Boom

So I was planning on making this just a two-part series, but with the epic length of this part I'm thinking I'll need to make this at least a three-part post. Make a noise if y'all are cool with that.

**crickets**

Finally, the crickets are on my side. I'll be back later to discuss disease-inspired-paranoia across American ideology and zombie lore. In the mean time, click some ads!

**crickets**

Why Zombies? (part One)

This week, I have a new, fun plan. Instead of barraging y'alls with my thoughts right off the get-go (you'll get 'em, just not in one salvo), I'll give you the very question that inspires me to write. I'll give that first, and a brief argument on its viability as a discussion topic, and then some time to think about it. After some time (you know I like to be all sporadic-like with these), I will put up my own thoughts on the answer. The idea is to inspire and encourage thought/discussion, even if it's only within one's mind, before throwing my ideas out there.

Sound cool?
Too bad, i'm doing it anyway

So, zombie-based fiction has been gaining all sorts of popularity in the past few years. I could list all the movies and TV shows, games and books from, I dunno, the past ten years for evidence to this claim. But I'm a lazy man. Instead I will propose to you two facts of evidence to the permeation/popularity of zombism in contemporary American culture:

ONE: everyone and their grandmother knows what a zombie is! Seriously, why is this word in the American lexicon? It shouldn't be at all; our language-history has at most a microscopic relationship to that of "zombie," and that itself is only in the most modern contexts. But no, everybody knows what a zombie is, and even agreed to the fundamental rules of them: dead people are alive again, without their reasoning or communicating abilities; they're trying to eat you; when they eat you, you become one and then try to eat other people; only brain damage disables them to a permanent death. Those rules are rarely changed, so we shall consider them the crux of zombism. I won't consider the ancillary rules, the flexible ones, because therein lies my answer to the question this post will raise.

Evidence item number TWO: zombie knives. Yeah, check out what Ka-Bar is doing too. You know what? Screw it, I'll put up a (violent) video:

Yeah, told ya it was violent.

But anyway, have you noticed that REAL-ASSED COMPANIES are making REAL-ASSED WEAPONS for the ENTIRELY IMPOSSIBLE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE? I mean seriously, people, these things are being made -- and bought! There's a market for legitimate anti-zombie weapons, completely regardless for the fact that zombism is entirely impossible.

Zombism, we see, is so pervasive in our contemporary culture, that everybody has adopted the word into accepted dialog, and it has been capitalized on by non-entertainment entities (knife companies, used as example).

So, I must ask: why are zombies so popular these days?

How to Travel through Time (Seriously)

I'm gonna be honest with all'yall's: I learned how to travel through time. No joke here, folks; I can do it, and so can you! For the low-low price of 14.99 you (yes, you!) can become a time traveler!


All you need is a notebook or a computer of some kind, and the ability to type. You write whatever the hell you want to, forget about it for two years, then rediscover it. Boom! You are brought back to two years ago, instantly!


It's that easy, people! (please send cash; my bank is out of state, so I can't deposit checks)




Seriously, though, I have been writing a novella for the past two years now, and I'm at about two-thirds done with it right now. Being such a long production period (give me a break, people; I also was working full time!), the story got a little detached, disjointed, convoluted, and messy. So, at the sixty-percent point of the thing, I am at a point at which I have to determine what the hell it's about. Therefore, I have to revise.


A


LOT


A(LOT)


And that means that I get to read something I wrote two years ago.


It's a weird experience. You encounter a different, older version of yourself. Being a work of fiction, my experience was not the same as if it had been a revision or rereading of a journal or something (one can only imagine what kinda mind-job THAT would be!). However, it's still jarring, to encounter old work. Part of you loves it because you remember all the hard work you put into it, and you can see all the things you were trying to make it be (awkward sentence, that, but whatever).


But, that ends up being a small part of you (or well, me, for sure).


The majority of my experience is disgust. I see everything that it tried to be, and in that I see everywhere it failed. I see how it explored directions of storytelling, description, and technique. But those directions ended up dead-ends that go nowhere and do nothing but waste pages and distract readers. It was prominent in the first chapter, so I'll forgive old me, but no, those parts must be eradicated like gangrenous tissue (nice metaphor).


But not only do you see wasted space, but as you go through the process of actually revising, rewriting, and cutting, you see that a lot of it is useless and pointless. Not inherently evil, no, but it really makes yer work and efforts feel utterly without meaning or purpose.


Yaaaaaay for wasted time?


You make something, you love it, you forget about it, you try to kill it, and whatever survives is worth keeping. Therein you find your story; therein you find the essence of revision.


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Wheelman

Today I got to deliver a car!

My brother was borrowing a car for his stay in Wisco, and as he is leaving today, he had to return the car to its original owner (may aunt Connie). So, I took a ride from my dad down to Oconomowoc to take the car and then drive it to Connie.

Gotta say, for some reason, being a wheelman has a certain appeal to me. Not sure why. I don't think it's related to the Driver videogames, or Vanishing Point. But there's something about it, even driving safely through the countryside (not at all like in a movie... well, not like in an interesting movie). Although I do love the idea of having to drive a classic muscle car across the country in a narrow band of time, dueling other drivers and dodging the police across salt flats... but come on; I'm driving a Cavalier! You can tell the door is plastic. There's no cruise control. The windows are hand-cranks, and I expect that it came standard with the engine light on. Still, fun fun!

Anyway, this is a short post to get swinging again; more to come! (click ads!)

Rules to Live by: The Mind Killer

With my last post, there was a fair amount of discussion about the dangers of riding at night. Rightly so, of course, because there's a lot of quickly moving steel that weights more than me and is far sharper than I shall ever be, and yet there I go, going dangerously fast around said mobile steel (cars, to the layperson). So I put on a helmet and wear plenty of very bright lights to ensure my own safety. I clothe myself in light and keep my head on a swivel. I do all the smart and reasonable things I can to minimize my own risk, to keep myself as safe as possible and to make my safety about my performance and behavior. But nonetheless, there, under my helmet and in the back of my mind, is that little burning doubt that I'm wrong and I forgot something and I can't handle my own safety.

That's the ember ember of fear.

Because fear is well described as a fire. It destroys and maddens, inspires foolishness and doubt. Fire and fear both spread, and leap from person to person.  If left unchecked, it can reduce entire countries to charred ruin. And yet, both fear and fire can be kept in check, and when they're little more than tongues, they're soft and gentle, easily manipulated.

The best part, the absolutely most fascinating part about fear and fire is that they are products of invention and reason. With this world in which we live, there is much to fear (I need not list examples here; you know your fears better than I), and it is through our reasoning faculties that we develop and keep our fears. And, in a wonderful example of life's ironies, the fears, begotten by reason, attack their birth-parents and seek to drive us to madness. I say "madness" because it has an epic feel to it (seriously, just shout out MADNESS once in a while -- it's fun!), but really, you experience a little madness whenever fear let's loose on you. I mean, there's no way -- none! -- that there's a creepy half-human with disjointed limbs crawling around on the walls of my mom's house, watching me.

Yet, somehow, that thought pops into my head when I turn out the lights.

I had a friend who was convinced her apartment was haunted, one night. Like, a bad haunting with her laptop being tossed around the room, and such. She was utterly convinced that her let was grabbed by something cold and inhuman. I myself am certain that everybody on the face of the earth is possessed whenever I wake up at two in the morning. Without a doubt, I will believe that there is a ghost or something taking control of your body, should I see you during the witching hour, as it's called.

Fear, we see, attacks reason, as I said before. But what, then, do we do? Do we allow fear to destroy our reasoning faculties until it passes by an outside force (wait until sunrise)? That works, but I don't like putting my future in anyone's hands but mine, even the sun's.

What I do prefer, however, is to attack fear itself. I meet it on its battleground of choice, and defeat it at its very best. When I was afraid of the dark, I would turn out the lights and close my eyes. I would drown myself in darkness and feel it sink in around me. Panic and fear would rise along my spine, and I could feel its shake enter my nervous system. I would think about the most horrible things that could possibly be looking at me in the darkness, imagine things more nightmarish than any I had ever seen before; I would taunt my fear and outdo its own creation! I would declare that I will not fear that darkness or any other, and that when I opened my eyes, there would be darkness there, and nothing more. That moment before I reopened my eyes was a precipice of reality. It was that edge of reason in which I would determine the world in which I lived. If I kept my eyes closed, the world was a product of my imagination and subject to its bending will. If, however, I managed to open my eyes, it was on the faith that my imagination was limited, wrong, and controllable like a flame. I opened my eyes on the faith that reason will prevail, and the world has rules where my mind does not.

Of course, I would open my eyes and each time the world was fine, boring, and dark. But not unreasonable.

What's fun, though, is that if my imagined sensation were true and if there were a hairless werewolf there in the darkness ahead of me, it would be quite unreasonable to act as if he weren't there. And so, in another irony of life, I had to act unreasonably to defeat fear, which attacks reason.

Consider my cycling. I am afraid of getting mangled in a car wreck and left for dead. I am absolutely afraid of that happening. However, I have to overcome that fear, and to do so, I have to ride my bike around cars and effectively behave unreasonably (I ride safely, I really do!).

Yeah, that's right: defeat fear, a product of unreason, by behaving unreasonably. Suck it, reality! That's the rule to live by: don't fear, not anything.

** I was going for a new tone with this post, hope it was fun to hear something closer to professionalism! Click ads or die! (that's not a threat, I'm just saying: click ads, peoples)

Night Rider

I have a new favorite cycling memory! For those of you (both of you) who don't remember, this blog used to be under a different name and focus. Actually, it had focus, and a specific subject matter: cycling (riding bikes, to the layperson). I was just getting into cycling, and had just moved to a new town, so I combined the two into one adventurous blog: Crash Cycling. It was fun, but it went the way of so many things I do: it got lost somewhere in the attic.

But I still ride!
And I still like it!
So that stuck with me, even if the blog had fallen into disrepair and ended up getting re-launched. But, an earlier article I wrote therein was about cycling at night. I won't just push my old entries, though, I only want to share that surprise I found in myself that I wanna write about it again!

This time, however, instead of riding around a minute little town with not much more than a cellphone light, I raced through downtown Green Bay (shut up -- it has a downtown!) with proper equipment. Okay, cellphone light was an intense exaggeration, but the light I had didn't do much except inspire faith-based riding through the dark. As in, I couldn't see much. Since then I had gotten a really kickass light that inspires safety.

That's my fun way of saying I rode real frickin fast down well-lit night roads!

It was a blast! It reminded me of mountain biking, in which I have minimal path-finding abilities and have to have a good grip because I can't see where the hell i'm gonna go any given moment. Like that, but WAY faster! Riding in the dark added a nice level of difficulty to my ride, and really upped the intensity of the experience. The world's really a different place at night; the cooler air is lighter in the lungs, and light is a manufactured rarity in fresher tones than what you're used to. I highly recommend trying it out for yourself. Just make sure you get a really bright and broad light in front, and a blinking red in back. People will avoid you, don't worry. You just need to make sure that they SEE you so they can avoid you. Savvy?

I think I'll leave the post like this; let it be a shorter, lighter one. Just click the ads like y'all's do.

Life by Code: Belief

I think everybody needs a code. Like, one to live by, not a sequence of numbers and letters that allows them to operate (God knows we don't need any more of those!). To a certain extent, we all have rules we follow, ingrained in each of us through a variety of means. But, like everything else we do unconsciously, when we bring it into our own awareness and try to truly understand and perfect our rules they become something different, and we with them. The rules become a Code (give that a capital "c"!) and we become People of a Code (almost epic, no?).

I believe in living by a Code, and one of the first fundamental codes by which I live is that belief, without practice, is dead.

What I mean by that is it's what we do, our actions, our practice that ultimately indicates who we are as people. It is all fine to say you believe in something, but if you do not act as though such belief is true, then what's the point of believing it?

Really.
Believe there's a Minnesota?
Cool.
Actually act as though Minnesota exists in the world?
Cool; that's belief.
Act as though Minnesota doesn't exist? Be bemused whenever something comes from Minnesota, or they show up in the news? Refuse that you can actually go there?
It's not practical; it might as well not be there. And that's not belief, but it's a way of thinking we often engage ourselves in modern society.

Here's an illustration: say you believe in the evolution. As in, species evolved from earlier ancestors over the course of eons and eons. Okay, now how do you practice it? That's actually pretty simple, although there are two answers that come to mind immediately. First is, you just live your life and boom, you're participating in and practicing evolution along with the rest of humanity like gravity. Yaaaay we won; let's coast. Second is, you breed. You actually try to propagate the species and your own genetic pattern because, frankly, we're kickass at this whole evolution thing. We may not have bacteria beaten, but rabbits? Hells yeah.

Now the first practical scenario is the one that ultimately the high majority of people practice, in my encounters and investigations. It's light-handed, hardly offends people, doesn't require any work, and it requires only fundamental understanding of the concept. People say "Sure, all species and life as we know it gradually changed over many eons  to become what they are today. Now gimme my coffee!" It's convenient, but that's not practice, which means that's not belief: that's acknowledgement. If that were Minnesota, you would say it's there, but you wouldn't go, and why go there, why say you believe in Minnesota at all? It's a space that does nothing but exist.

So, the second scenario of practice is a LOT more active! You're actually participating in the evolutionary process (you actually visit Minnesota!). The catch with that, though, is that we've done it before as people; we've actively engaged ourselves in evolution. Basically, if you get a bunch of people together, and they say they're the best, they say their genes are the best, you get big problems. Do you want me to drop a Nazi bomb? It's pretty obvious that their ideas were inspired or based on (or unrightfully justified by, most accurately) evolutionary biology.

 So, while we say that evolution and Minnesota exist, and are as real as gravity, we ourselves cannot employ evolutionary thought processes as a society, and we cannot actually go to Minnesota. Or we'll be branded Nazis... Minnesota Nazis.

So next time you find yourself making a stand in who you are and what you believe -- whatever it may be -- ask yourself if you really do believe it, ask yourself if you practice it, if it's REAL to you and you live it. If you do, then yeah, you believe it, but if you don't, find out what you believe and stand by it. Allow your actions to shape who you are. Start by clicking ads.

The Wicker Man

Last night, I watched Nicholas Cage's biopic, The Wicker Man. It's about his life after film, in which he entered law enforcement, struggled with depression for vague reasons, and reconnected with his estranged wife and daughter. Really, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. Cage was his usual subtle self, enunciating his lines with an evocative clarity, and really bringing his character (himself) to life like never before.

Well, it's Nicholas Cage, so, you can imagine the quality of acting he puts into a work that's based on his own life experiences.

It interestingly enough doesn't give much backstory to Cage's departure from Hollywood, but we catch on quickly as he has moved on to be a highway patrolman in northern California. It did not explain why exactly he decided to go into law enforcement from film, which would be an essential part of a biopic, and really the most exciting part of his life. Think of it: an actor adjusting from action movies like ConAir and The Rock to the real-life drudgery of law enforcement. There's an exciting drama; adjusting to slowing down and living a new life.

Perhaps that's why he gets depressed early on? He does (more or less) witness a graphic death on the road, but it seems to have little impact on him, other than giving him something dramatic to think about for a while. But really, you can tell, it's the boredom of daily office routine and having only work-friends that hits him hardest and sends him spiraling into depression. That's going along with the essential drama here, of a guy who lived in Hollywood and had to settle down in northern Cali at a job that he thought would be exciting, but wasn't. EXACTLY! That's it! he's bored, and when he does finally encounter something interesting (mom and daughter dying in a fiery wreck), it gives him the itch for action again!

So then, get this, his ex sends him a letter saying "Hey, come to this non-creepy place (that's TOTALLY creepy) and find my daughter, who isn't yours (she's yours, you'll see it coming), and I'll totally give you some excitement." Okay, she doesn't say that last part, but it's IMPLIED, big time!

And of course, he goes, because he's gotta get his rock and roll on.

The rest of his life story gets a little fuzzy at this point. He befriends all the women on the island immediately, because he's just so damn charming (he's Nicholas Cage). He finds a girl who looks like the missing/dead/not really dead at all (gasp!) girl, but isn't. Gets stung by a LOT of bees for little to no reason. Hallucinates about dead people who aren't actually dead. Gets burned alive at one point. Gets stung by MORE bees. Turns into a bear and punches a woman.

Then his life actually got interesting: turns out, he was a robot sent from the future to save his daughter's life from another time-travelling robot. He ultimately has a showdown in a smelting plant (or something; they were unclear on what exactly it was), in which he says "bye" to the other future robot (which is all liquidy) by shooting him/her into a boiling vat of lava. His gives Edward Furlong a thumbs-up and says "I know now why you cry" as Eddy lowers him down into the very lava that killed the T-1000.

And yay, the future is saved, thanks to Nicholas Cage! All in all, the first half of the movie was lame, but it picked up once it turned out he was a robot. You should rent it, and watch it with Rifftrax.

Click the ads; I'm out!

Writing Metaphors (as in, metaphors of writing [or rather, one metaphor for writing])

The most intimidating thing in the world is a blank page. Seriously, just open up a word document and take a gander. You'll see absolutely nothing (except the empty white). This on its own certainly isn't all that frightening a sight, but when you have to fill it... ahhhh, yes, therein lies the terror. It is the darkness (an ironic darkness because the page is so bright) that looks back at you. Or doesn't; this darkness fills with whatever you want it to contain, but it also can remain completely void (void isn't right, though; it suggests an absence while this scenario the page is utterly blank: neither having substance nor lacking substance).


A blank page is like looking into a mirror and not seeing anything. Or worse, it's like looking into a mirror, moving and shouting, but your reflection merely stands still, looking back at you. God, that's a creepy image! Was the reflection smirking at you, too? And looking right behind you? Oh, man! And then, the reflection just walks the F away! Leaving you standing there, in the bathroom, alone! Which then leaves you to wonder if there was anything in the mirror in the first place, and if so, what was it? That, ladies and gentlemen, is a blank page.


So now that we know what that is, what would that make writing? Easy: solitary confinement with that messed-up mirror.


You're trapped in a room with absolutely nothing in it except for you and the mirror. The only thing you can do is look at that mirror, and try to control whatever it is inside of it. You have to keep it from walking away, but you can't let it petrify either. So, you dance. You dance with your own damn reflection. It's okay; you're alone, so it's not that weird.


But while you're dancing with your image, there, alone in solitary confinement, you also keep track of your steps. You record them, you make them better (more engaging for the mirror's image), and you make them easier for you to take, as well. So you dance for your time in solitary, you lose track of how long you've been in there, but one day, the dance is complete. Complete from beginning to end, and you love taking every step of it, and to you it is this absolutely beautiful and wonderful thing. The only thing that it needs, at this point, is for another real human being to experience it. See, you can dance on your own all you want, but it's boring, and it doesn't make much sense, and when you create or even just find something that's truly wonderful, you have to share it to experience it in its fullness.


So one day, when the guard shovels your food into the slot, you ask him if he would like to see your dance. He says “Sure” but then immediately walks away. Next day, same guard, same question, and you ask why he didn't watch yesterday. He says he thought it was more of a general question, like, “Do you enjoy cake.” I mean, who would say no to that? But really, “sure” means “no.” So next day, different guard, you ask her to see your dance, and he says sure, and this time he peeks in through the slot. So you dance! Perfectly according to your steps, you dance, and she is fascinated by it! When you're tired, sweaty, and spent at the end, you ask him what he thinks. “It was good,” is all he says. So you ask him about specific parts of the dance, parts you loved and parts that were extra difficult, and parts that still felt awkward. “It was all good,” is all he says. And then he leaves. You've spent six months in solitary confinement with a mirror and your own footsteps and the absolute pinnacle of your accolades and success was “It was good.”


So you copy your steps, remember them, and get the mirror out again to start a new dance that will maybe make others see and feel the magic of dance (by which I mean writing)!


In general, I don't like writing about writing. It seems too convoluted and shortsighted a process. But, I do LOVE riding metaphors to the grave! Click on the ads like a simile nosing baited cheese!

Rediscovery

Being semi-retired (unemployed) at 27 results in boredom... a LOT of boredom. I really had no idea there were so many hours in a single day until I had no job to occupy a good third of it. So, to prevent my own mental and spiritual decay, I adopted the use of a daily planner.

Then I immediately abandoned it. I mean, I fill it in, but I never look at it (I know what I'm supposed to do every day). So, I'm still frequently fighting boredom. Did I mention that I have no TV, internet, dvds, or videogames? That doesn't help! I digress... I'll rant about videogames on some other post later. Right now, it's about my experience yesterday riding around my home town on my bike.

I'm not sure to what special niche of cycling I belong, but I have had a special spot for touring. The idea of exploring unknown territories from the vantage point of a bicycle has an allure to me. It's the whole “venturing into the unknown” thing, I think. I mean, I know the route I'm taking, I know my ride, and I know my body. What I do not know is the texture of the roads, their makeup, what their particular signature of gravel feels like beneath me! You learn what hills deserve your curses, which yards and parking lots you can cut through, and where those rare spots of shade always happen to be. And who knows, you might just end up passing by a winery you didn't expect (totally happened to me!).

Sure, I could drive through many of those routes, but that is nowhere near the same (and you know it!). Consider the following: I grew up in Green Bay, and have been driving its streets for the better half of a decade. But yesterday was the first time that I rode down them at any length. It's what I would call an Urban Tour, in which I pretty much just rode along the city streets, more or less aimlessly. I took routes I've driven for years and years, but they were entirely new to me from the perspective of my bike. Because I rode, I got to experience their subtleties in a new and very intimate way (If there's a bump, I feel it. If there's a patch of gravel, I swerve). Example: I rode almost the entire stretch of Broadway, a route I've driven plenty, but I never noticed until yesterday that it was at a slight slope. It's what's called a “false flat” that appears flat, but in fact is not. These things are amazing, or grueling, depending on which direction you're facing.

Fortunately for me, I was facing downhill and I had the wind at my back. So I was pretty much flying down that sucker! And it went through downtown and an industrial district, so I was flying while weaving around gravel and broken glass (more fun!).

But yeah, I learned that there's always more to discover out there, wherever you are.

In a final note, I would like to say that I actually enjoy riding around cars in cities. Cars out in the country are sneaky and fast, so they're like bad Strong Safeties (they never actually hit you, but they are loud and fast enough to scare you into screwing up). Whereas, in the city, cars are predictable and slow; you know where they're going and you know that you are far more agile than they are, and can fit wherever you put yourself. So they're slow, predictable, and way more afraid of you than you are of them. They're like (seriously, it took me a half an hour to think of a good analogy) student loans: as long as you're careful and keep your head on a swivel, they're harmless.

The tipping point for me, that moment I realized that it was no big deal riding around cars, was when I was riding singletrack. It occurred to me that I only needed about two feet to ride safely, and there's WAY more than that on roads!

It puts the lotion on its skin and clicks the ads again!

Literally The Best Meal I've Ever Had

Quick, think of the best meal you ever had!

…

…

Time's up!

Did you think of something? Was there one meal, one bite that you specifically remembered, right away? As if it were right on the tip of your tongue?

When I do this with people, it's a rarity for them to have something in mind right away. I've gotten a lot of responses involving the company kept at thanksgivings and other holiday meals, but not a whole lot about a truly stellar eating experience.

But I have one specific meal in mind for myself. It was that good that I still remember it... there's a story (of course).

It was from when I was living in Arkansas. My fiancee was visiting for a week, and we decided to go for a weekend getaway to Eureka Springs. Fantastic little town built into the cliffsides of a narrow valley in northern Arkansas. Very quaint place, very colorful, and a surprisingly high ratio of lingerie shops. The town was clearly built well before cars existed, as the streets and avenues were quite narrow, and teeming with people. We navigated our way through them all, and found our hotel smack dab in the middle of town. It was Flatiron Flats, a three-sided building in the vein of the Daily Bugle.

Finding parking was a minor ordeal, and we had to make a few phone calls to get someone who could

check us in to our hotel room, but otherwise they were great. I asked our guy (who was one of the owners) if he had any recommendations for places to eat. He directed us to a few places, and we settled on the fanciest of them... I think it was called The Bavarian Inn... dammit, I hate that I can't remember the name! [turns out, it was The Grand Taverne] That really throws off the believability of my story if I can't even remember where the hell it happened!

Anyway, it was a nice place, and we were pretty much the only people in there, so service was fantastic! I ordered the roast duck because I never had duck before, and I had a Manhattan to drink along with it for the very same reason. Turned out to be a stellar combination! A Manhattan, for those who do not know, is a cocktail involving bourbon and grenadine (a few other things, but those two are essential for the story here). The bourbon is delightfully bitter, oakey and smokey in flavor, and the grenadine leaves a nice, lightly sweet finish to the drink (all of this is of course when made properly). The experience is a rolling taste that evolves over the course of just a few moments. The duck, it turns out, matched very well. It too had a deep, smoked flavor to it, along with the gamy and rich nature of the duck meat itself, but there was a cranberry sauce drizzled over it that really made it something special.

Essentially, I would take a bite of duck, which would start sweet, then salty, then earthy and smokey. That I would follow with a sip of the Manhattan, which would match the smokey sense and follow it up with straight bitterness that, just before it would be sharp, would turn sweet and fruity with the grenadine. Then, following that with a bite of duck would start it all over again. The flavors would build on one another, in a rolling campaign over my tongue until I was finally finished, exhausted from the orgasmic ordeal.

So yeah, that's the best meal I ever had.

We finished our weekend nicely, touring the town (up and down many, MANY stairs) and doing a little shopping. Any more than two nights would be pointless, though, as the town is so small that there's not much to do beyond eat and shop and walk. There wasn't even any swimming to be had!

Anyway, I'm out; click ads!

My Fish Died and I Misplaced my Legs

Yeah, my fish died. His name was Blue Moon Two, and he was (is?) a Betta, blue with red coloration in the fins and a jet-black face. Very intimidating, and he was a bit of a badass (still is, in fishy Heaven). I picked him up in a local Petco back in Arkansas, to replace Blue Moon, who died when I moved to a new apartment. THAT was a tragic death! I actually watched his last moments, unable to do anything as he freaked the hell out and then... just... stopped.

That sucked.

But, after an appropriate mourning phase, I replaced him, because, well he's a fish and a cheap one at that. So I got Blue Moon Two, and let me tell ya, he was a fighter. Like, literally, he had scars from squirming around massive (proportionally) boulders in his tank. And he made it with me for a year and a half, when I had to move. I didn't just flush him, and I couldn't give him away, not when there was a chance that I could take him with. The chance was a most ingenious plan: put him in an insulated cup of properly treated water for the drive.

It worked, too! alllllmost... See, he made it to my new home, Green Bay, WI. And that was a 850-mile trip, so THAT was certainly a testament to his fortitude and determination. But, after I had everything unloaded, i went to check on him, and nope. He was just floating there, suddenly lifeless.

I'm glad I didn't see him die; that would have been too much for me to handle at the time. But, BM2 went through the effort of seeing me safely to my new home, and I wish I could have done the same for him. It's strange how we can become attached to things that have such inhuman characters. But still, there it is; my brother from Arkansas (kiiiinda southeast Asia) died, and I was unexpectedly broken up about it that night.

On another note, I went on the first leg of my epic journey today, a practice run. It was a nice ride, but my legs are useless now, and I expect they will be tomorrow, too. Like, this is the first time that I was so exhausted from a workout of any kind that I almost fell asleep in the middle of it! Really, right there, on the bike, I almost dozed off near the end! That was a big first. But, the one thing that is apparent is that I have more conditioning to do, and if I wanna go on rides this long, bring more food than two cheap granola bars... or eat more than cereal before hand.

Anyway, see what happens when you click the ads... I think you'll be pleasantly surprised!

The Dare and The Crunch

So I talk a big game about living a life that's inspirational, adventurous, and exciting. When it comes down to it, though, Is pend a lot of time at home, surfing the interwebs, and watching TVshows whilst playing videogames. That's ninety-percent of my life.

Well it had been.

I've moved into my mom's house (temporarily; oh please, God, make it temporary!), and she has no internet. I could pay for internet service, but honestly I am quite excited about the experiment it will be with me having no internet and leaving my Xbox in storage. I may go insane, or I may become the genius that I think I am (or more accurately, the genius that the voices in my head say I am). Part of the purpose of this blog is to ensure my own productivity during this time of temporary retirement, which it has to some extent. But another purpose of this blog is to give me a reason to be daring with my own life. It's here to act as a soap-box on which I stand to declare my utter awesomeness and badassitude.

To do that, I need to take dares. And what would be a better dare for a blog that used to be about cycling than a tour?

I was excited about coming back home (and in many ways, I still am excited, here on day three), and I started making plans to see my old friends. And I realized that they all live in a straight line down Wisconsin (more or less; if Wisco were a body, it would be the digestive track). So of course, I immediately thought up the idea of riding that line, visiting friends I haven't seen in years!

I've never been on a tour of any length before, not like this. It is a daunting task, here, sitting on my mom's couch, but I want to do it alone so I can see how I handle the crunch when it lands on me. Right now, I am mentally planning for it, but I need to start physically conditioning soon. Not really sure what all that will take, but I don't wanna by dying out there in the middle of nowhere, looking for a field to curl up in because I couldn't make it to my hotel/campsite. Speaking of, I should really start making a route, and determine WHERE I will be any given day, so I can actually make plans to see people! And I need to try riding with equipment, because I've only rarely done that. In short, there's a lot of prepping to do...

Or I could just throw that all out the window and assume I'll handle the crunch when it happens. I like that plan better.

If you click the ads, I will personally not do anything special!

Going Back Home (Musings)

They say you can never go back home. I think that was before cars, though.

Yeah, I'm a smartass. The point of that saying, of course, is that you'll have changed so much in the time that you were gone, that home would have transformed into "Home" through homesickness and personal growth. You change so much being away, that your home doesn't affect you the same. Being gone, you think about your home and compare your new place to it, which magnifies and intensifies your memory-experience of home into Home.

Example: nothin tastes like mama's barbecue. You grew up on it; it became your framework for all barbecue you've ever tasted. Then you move from home. You get homesick, so you start eating (it'll happen), and you eat specifically things that remind you of home: barbecue. But none are mama's recipe, so none satisfy your homesickness. Nonetheless, you keep searching for something to scratch that itch. Over time, you've tasted all your new area has to offer for barbecue. Because of this, you become a connoisseur of all things barbecue. None taste like mama's barbecue, but merely because you're searching so hard for that specific flavor, you learn all about the subtleties of each and every barbecue you sample. There are traits you find in each sauce you experience, traits which you learn to love. So you get along, day after day, loving the life you made. Until one day, you go home. And of course, your first time Home, you get mama's barbecue. You expect it to be everything you were searching for all those years. But you find that its just not the same as you remembered.

You grew:
Your search for mama's barbecue over the years has transformed it into the ideal Mama's Barbecue. It became this mysterious and perfect thing that beat all competition so long as it never entered the ring (your memory of it overwhelmed all other barbecue sauces and rubs, so to speak). So when you get home, and actually have it again, it's not the thing you built it up to be. And because of that, it fails, and you're left with a haunting memory to reconcile with reality.

Now that hasn't been my own experience so far with my return home (for the most part). I remembered it and lived where I was for the past two years without comparing too much, apparently. On returning, it was as if I had traveled back in time to where I was two years ago, with nothing different except that I lost a few years of my own life.  And that's kinda horrifying.

Kinda really horrifying.

The idea that two years can go by and nothing has to change scares me. I'm not entirely sure why, though. Perhaps it's the implication that I, therefor, have not changed much over my absence. But I have plenty of evidence to the contrary, so I don't think so. It's more that it indicates how short life is, and how you can sleep through it all, if you just have your eyes closed long enough. And my fear, I suppose, comes from who I grew into while I was away. I liked that guy, and I'm afraid that I'll lose him, being away from that place and in this old one. That act would therefor wipe out two years' time of my own life, and I will have accomplished nothing but accumulating Stuff and wasting a chunk of my own life.

Now that is something worth fearing. Every year matters when you're approaching thirty.

Don't waste your life: click the ads and know that you accomplished something!

The Best Cup of Coffee Ever (and running outta adjectives)

For this past week, I have been gradually moving to Wisconsin from Arkansas. It's a long enough move, and there's so little to draw me 851 miles to Arkansas, that I sincerely doubt I'll ever be coming back here. So, I've been preparing myself for that on a mental and emotional level by visiting all the restaurants I won't find anywhere else. Yeppers, I will be missing food more than anything else here (time will ultimately tell, but good eats is what I expect to miss).

So far, I've had Jade China (fantastic little hole-in-the-wall Chinese stir fry that may literally have a hole in its wall), McAllister's Deli (a chain, but I've not seen it anywhere else, and I am addicted to their pastrami on rye), and David's Burgers (I don't know how, but the best burger I've ever had, hands-down). All that's left is The Whole Hog, which is this fantastic small-ish chain of barbecue that makes a fantastic beef brisket. Saving the best for last, there.

But, of all these, the one place I'm going to miss the most is the one cafe that makes coffee right in all of Arkansas (to be fair, the only one I could find; I assume there are more, but they just don't have proper websites and listings for me to find). If you're ever in Little Rock area, hit up Guillermo's Gourmet Grounds.

It's the one place that knows what they're doing, and the only place I have been able to find Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans roasted so well. So of course, I stocked up on the stuff before I jumped ship.

The scent, where the experience starts, is powerful. For several hours after brewing, it takes control of the room with its deep, nutty aroma. Then, as you near the brew, it shifts to a clear, bright, and a little tart zestiness (all of course with the deep roasted smell lingering above). The flavor follows suit, but the acidity, that sharpness in the smell, it stays quite mellow throughout the taste. It's there, but only at the very first tip of the tongue; as the sip rolls along, it increases with depth and evolves much in the inverse of the sniff-check. It gets deeper, and the darkness of this brew comes up and dominates the experience. Dark chocolate, that is the overwhelming sense-experience I found to live just at the last moment of swallowing, and on afterward for several minutes. It's curious, how I get excited about coffee that does not taste like coffee. To be fair, it doesn't taste exactly like dark chocolate (none of that stabbing in the mouth feeling I get from something so overwhelmingly bitter), but what's so fascinating is how it reminds me of something else. Like a feather dancer that doesn't look at all like a bird, but hey, feathers! On a woman! That's unexpected! And as much as I would like to claim that it's that surprise, that unexpectedness of a blended sense-experience that makes it so powerful, I doubt that. If that were the case, I wouldn't enjoy this coffee much past the second sip, by which point I'm expecting roasted chocolate. Rather, I believe it to be the blend itself, triggering more experiences in the mind, that makes it so exciting. Then, by creating a new sense-memory with such powerful links, that flavor is remembered even more zealously, over time. But then again, I liked the stuff.

I will always be a fan of drinks and foods that come to life in the last parts of the mouth, back where the tongue meets the throat at the tail end of the nose. Those flavors linger and stay with you well past the meal itself; they're the faithful flavors.

Click on the ads; if you don't I will capture the moon and hold it ransom!

Packing & The Best Wine I Ever Had

I am awesome at packing!

Like, really good.

I don't mess around with any of that "sorting by room" crap. I just throw whatever into boxes over and over again until I'm done. Boom: awesome. I felt like a genius when I discovered that I could use clothing as padding. So yeah, that's why my champagne flutes are wrapped in socks. Don't give me that look!

Seriously though, I'm terrible at packing and am not looking forward to having to unpack any of this (I'm moving a few states over, for those of you who don't know). I've had a week to pack and it in no way would take me an actual week of time to pack it all, so of course, I put it off. That and the cleaning (mold is pretty much all over the place here in Arkansas). And of course, now, I only have a few days to pack everything and clean everything too. So I got most of it done in one day, like ya do. The side-effect of this particular method, though, is that everything's a jumbled mess and I already forgot where the hell my stamps are!

not cool, Chance; not cool

The first step, of course, is donating all the stuff I don't want or use any more (done twice so far). Next, is the throwing away all the stuff that's trash, but collectible, or memorable, but essentially junk for which I have no use. Most of that process is easy, but there's the memento value in these objects. The best example I have is bottles of wine and liquor I really liked. Once drank, little remains of the liquor but the memory of it tingling our tastebuds. Nice line; quote that shit. I was carrying out those empty bottles, when I recognized the one small one remaining in my hand. It was wine from Parallel 44; their "Meditation" wine from 2007. This stuff was the best wine I've ever had, hands-down and no contest. This amazingly luxurious texture accompanied a deep, dark cherry and chocolate flavor that lingered for hours. It was good, and I will never forget the first time I had it. I won't forget any of the other times, either, but they were all a little off, and never quite matched the explosive experience of that first bottle (the cheesecake accompanying helped, too, but that's a small detail). Not only can I never find that wine any more, but even if I can, I do not expect the same overwhelming flavor of that first bottle.

Sad as that is, I will never forget it, and the fact that I cannot repeat it again makes it even more powerful a memory. It becomes all the more beautiful an experience for that one moment it existed.

So that was in my mind, as I was about to toss the bottle away. I knew I wouldn't forget that amazing flavor, that the bottle would be an idle memento. But still, it was a good moment, and it deserves its idol. So that trash, I will pack and take with me, along with its memory.

Good night, all y'all's, and click some ads (close them the moment they open a new page).

Something Feral

So I like to hike. You know, get in the woods, smell the dirt and the trees. Get far enough enough that I can't hear a car or a plane anywhere. Get deep enough that I'm not totally sure where I am anymore, and start to wonder how long I would last if I just started walking in one direction (hate that friggin band... except their one single).

I think it's important that we do that (get deep into nature) at least once in a while. We encounter something there, something feral and older than we are ourselves. I was hiking to this glacier at (near) the top of a mountain range in Glacier National Park. The whole hike was following these old CCC trails (very common), carved into the mountainside. It was a winding trail, with many switchbacks, that ended with a narrow stairwell carved into a short cliff just before the summit. And there, at the top of the range, the trail ended, but the hike continued, over unmarked rock. I found the glacier, marked with a cairn at the spot of discovery We had left early, so I had plenty of time to sit there and overlook the range of rocky peaks.

That was an experience.

What was so fascinating about it all was that I didn't make the mountains, that no human engineered them to attract me there. It wasn't a theme park, wasn't Dubai, wasn't a gigantic ball of twine in Kansas. It was just rock, and it did not care that I found it beautiful or that I saw it at all.

And that's what we need. In this age where we have personal data appliances, customized information and entertainment every minute of every day, we as people and as a society need to remember what it's like to look at something and have it not look back at us. We need to remember that if we drop the burden of human civilization, the universe will keep calm and carry on (and, with the exception of viruses and rats, will probably be the better for it).

Then, we can go back to everything we've constructed, and it will be not so important. We, by extension, will be even less important. That's not a bad thing.


Also:
-Saw a Water Moccasin (or Cottonmouth) yesterday and that was cool. Kinda wanted to see if I could take a bite from him (but not enough to actually get bitten).
-Hiking in jeans and 90 degree heat is not advisable, but it worked.
-Funnel spiders are seriously the creepiest thing ever made. Saw a nest the size of a full-sized mattress the other day. Couldn't look directly at it, though, or the Spirit of God would come out and melt my face off. Well, probably not, but there's an outside chance that could happen with anything you look at.
-Click the ads (seriously, they don't give you viruses, people, not just by clicking on them), and go watch Drive; it's fantastic!

Rules (bonus: review of Can't Hardly Wait)

Hokai, so, I need to pace myself with these things. I mean, sure, I can write nonstop, but I don't want to burn myself out. Or burn out all y'alls readers with too many words. People don't like words, not on the internet. They're heavy. And they're slow. And nobody likes a slow internets.

So this'll be quick this time, after my yesterday's essay. (scroll down for the review of Can't Hardly Wait ... you can also click on all the ads several times; it may help)

I'd like to have some ground rules for Triple-Stamped. Not written in stone or anything, but more like spiritual guidelines to direct each post. Saying it that way sounds weird, though, as if voodoo or Oprah were involved somehow. As a society, we have a vague (at best) understanding of the word "spirit" and all things spiritual in general. I'm not saying I'm going to light some candles or listen to some crystals or anything... I'm just saying: we don't get it. But that's a deeper topic for another post (a "The More You Know" post).

Tonight: the six rules of Triple Stamped!*

1: There are no rules

2: No, really, there actually are rules; I've just wanted to say that (wasn't all I hoped it was)

3: You do talk about Triple-Stamped

4: One post a day

5: Don't be afraid of the heavy stuff

6: Keep it fun

G) rules are made to be broken

* subject to change at any moment and with or without notice

And now: the review of the 1998 modern classic of our generation: Can't Hardly Wait.

Watch it (why not; it's on Netflix right now). The story's one we're all familiar with by now, since it was successful in its time, repeated, and then spoofed (repeatedly). So you won't be surprised, even if you miraculously haven't already seen it. But what very well may be surprising to you (as it was to me) is the sheer number of actors you will recognize in this movie! Jennifer Love Hewitt aside, there's Charlie Korsmo, Peter Facinelli, Seth Green, Donald Faison, Jaime Pressley, Jason Segel (seriously), Selma Blair, Steve Monroe, Chris Owens, Jenna Elfman, Breckin Meyer, and of course Jerry O'Connell. Many of these names you won't know, but IMDB them and you'll know their faces and start remembering the movies you've seen them in. Watching this movie, literally over a decade after it came out, is like visiting a highschool party after you've been to college. You recognize faces but not the names, spending the movie trying to figure out why you know them. It's a cool experience, but the best part is, that's exactly the experience of one of the characters in the movie!! But it's a messed-up feeling because that character's played by Jerry O'Connell... and nobody wants to relate to him. Dude peaked at Stand By Me. Bonus points, though: main character (if there is one) is played by a dude who looks just like a young Jay Mohr (but isn't)! Oh, and there's the wonderful 90's soundtrack with an inordinate amount of Smashmouth. Who doesn't love that?

Anyway, click the ads on your way out!

Leaving, part One (Bonus: sawn-off review of "World War Z")

You ever get the sense that a state is convincing you to leave and never return? Not in the sense of being railroaded out of town, or tarred and feathered, but little things.

[Scroll down for the spoiler-free sawn-off review of World War Z]

I was driving a route I've gone about once a week for the past two years, which half of Conway drives to work and back in Little Rock, when I almost got into an accident. Part of me isn't surprised, because when I moved here, my insurance rates jumped up a good chunk. That suggests bad drivers, sorry, and it was confirmed when I actually saw people "drive." Forget about the rushing through yellow lights, or even outright blowing through the reds, that's too expected for people here. No, I saw a guy make a U-turn in the middle of a busy road, weaving around what traffic he wasn't blocking! He was ten feet past the intersection (which allows U-turns legally, but that's another story), and just fifty from an actual parking lot in which he could safely turn about. But no, he HAD to turn RIGHT THERE. 

That's one story from this week, and one smidgen of evidence suggesting Arkansas needs to require a driver's education class.

Thankfully, I wasn't near a collision there. A few days ago, however, I was almost in a pile-up. Yep, thanks to some late braking by the pair of idiots in front of me at the time, we all had to engage in a tactical swerve to a staggered-line formation for safety. They went left and right, and I went right then left and deftly avoided the semi to my right and the ditch to my left, all while pulsing, pumping, and finally slamming my brakes to keep myself out of their cars. I thanked the god of anti-lock brakes and the god of attentive drivers for existing, that day (they happen to be the same god (God), who happens to be the God of Everything, which includes anti-lock brakes and attentive drivers). And of course, I do what everybody does when the cause becomes apparent: I looked. Did I see a grisly car wreck? How about our president, handing out money? Or perhaps Johnny Cash, not so dead? Of course not. So what caused the unnecessary and sudden slow-down? A young girl got pulled over. She was wearing jean-shorts that looked homemade. That's about it.

At least it wasn't nothing (that's happened way too often already).

Then later, THAT SAME DAY, I was turning right, onto a main road, when Bozo McOld decided to pull out in front of me from the bank opposite me. It was an aggressive maneuver, which I can respect, but it did require that I slam on my brakes (and same for Dude behind me) when he realized what he was doing and then immediately apologized by SLAMMING on his brakes in the MIDDLE of four lanes. I'm not kidding; he took up the entire street. Now, had he gunned it from the get-go, everything would've been fine. So it just goes to show you that half-measures don't cook, and that it's better to be an ass-hole than just an ass.

That's not the worst, though. Once, I saw a driver work VERY VERY hard to pull a u-turn to go the wrong way down an offramp. He worked for that shit. And there's a particular stretch of highway in Little Rock that I've witnessed, I kid you not, a delivery truck (big sized) pointed the WRONG WAY (toward me!), and suddenly fix his error and about-face. That was in my first month of living here (welcome to Arkansas; we don't require a driver's education course).

And that's just the road-safety stuff.

Today, I saw World War Z (It was okay, but not nearly dark enough to be a proper zombie horror, and not light enough to be a proper zombie comedy. Shaun of the Dead, Zombieland, 28 Days Later, The Walking Dead: those are proper zombie movies/shows and you should watch them all twice. This movie fell short of greatness, but was good for eight bucks' fun. Not worth 3D, but worth the big screen.) After the (decent) movie, there was an encounter between two women in the audience that was honestly more tense and exciting than anything that happened on screen. Many a "fatass" was slung in that discussion, and I was convinced that yes indeed, Arkansas is convincing me to never return.

The places we live, they shape us, but there isn't much of Arkansas I want to take with me wherever I go (that stuff will be covered on a later post; this one is about bad drivers). As always, I'll close with this: Click the ads! All of them! Many times!

Triple-Stamped, No Erasies

Hokai, so, I had a job, selling mattresses, but I don't any more. So I have a lot of free time to look forward to these next few months of unemployment. See, I'm terrible at personal discipline, so this is a problem. Seriously, I've watched Star Wars twice in one day, just because I started with the first one! It's not inherently evil, sure, but there's a certain point where inactivity warps you and you discover that all you've got left to prove your existence is a broken-in couch.

I don't want that for me. I want adventure , so this blog will stand as a re-branding of, well, me, as an adventurist. The idea is, have this as a public record of what I do, which will also give me reason to do adventurous things... like, I dunno, parkour or something (please no parkour, for the love of God). I'm also writing a novel, so the plan is make this blog wildly successful over the next few years (well, overnight would be great, but I am still pretty lazy).

Successful to the point at which people say "Hey, I love your words and want you to lie directly to me, but not on the computer, can you write a novel?" To which I shall respond, "Why yes, of course; here it is!"

And they'll throw money at me (and claim I can see the future, which I of course will not correct) until I can retire and do nothing whatsoever with my life. To the casual analyst, it would seem that I plan on taking a very long route to the same place (why not just skip the writing and the blog, and just do nothing but maybe working crap jobs?). However, they would be forgetting one thing: I have to feed my ego.
Yup, there it is. I like to think I'm important.

That there's my life plan. Subject to change at the drop of a hat, of course (see the rules... listed somewhere).

But, I want to write daily in this blog, because otherwise people will just forget that it exists (seriously, that's how it is with me). The catch is, I get bored, and I lose focus. My solution is to have seven subjects I can address in any given entry. Seven things I feel I can write about entertainingly (totally a word; suck it, dictionary!) enough to actually get people to read all the way through things and again, make them buy my book once it's written.

Here are the ideas I have so far:
1) Mind-jobs (at some point, I will try to convince you that circles don't exist)
2) Principles of a Dignified Life (living by a code, so to speak... seriously... like, tip even when you're poor)
3) Outright Lies (storytelling, of the freeform variety because thick fiction doesn't mix with the interwebs)
4) Cultural Analysis (how Star Wars episodes 1-3 should have been, and the implications of Twilight)
5) Adventureblogging (doing stupid shit for attention, like, unplanned bike trips)
6) People-Hacks (like life-hacks, but with people... manipulating people)
7) Beginner's Luck (I try something with little to no preparation or experience in it, like building a chair)
8) anything else

And lastly, I'll leave you, dear reader, with this thought: click on the ads!! please for the love of God, click on the ads! I don't care what they're for, just click on them; that's how I can make money out of this! Click multiple times! I don't care if you read the blog or not, just visit it ten times daily and click every ad that shows up on it! Make a game out of it somehow, like, how many different ads will Google put in there for you to click?

you'll think of something; you're creative