A Moment of Self-Realization

It’s cold.  Darkness fills a room only lit by a computer screen.  A man sits alone behind in his grand leather chair gripping his head with his long, worn out fingers.  He takes a deep breath and drags his hands through his hair.

I didn’t used to do this.  It seems that ever since, the incident, I can’t seem to get away from it.  I can only sit here now and think of something to write to her.  She needs to understand what has happened to me.  Okay well, how do I describe an incident such as this?  Word’s cannot describe what I have done.  Would she understand if she knew I was set up?  There is only one way to begin this letter.

He slams his pinky down onto the shift key and with his pointer finger depresses the “F” key.  The man leans back in the chair, as if forgetting how to spell the word, runs his hands through his hair.  The computer screen is bright in his face and has given the man a headache.

I can’t help, but think of her face.  I can only close my eyes and see her long blond hair covering one eye, and her smile as bright as the mid-day sun.  I look into the darkness sometimes and see her trying to lure me back into the shadows.  What’s worse is I’ll find myself smiling back at her or reaching for her hand. Where are you when I need you most?  Oh yes, I remember…

Slowly his finger pushes down on the “u” key.

Images of two cars colliding, like metal mating metal in a frenzy of emotion, has poisoned me for days.  Sirens and brakes in the night can only be compared to a Vietnam War veterans worst nightmares.  Why do you continue to smile at me?  I hear doors close and lights flicker on and I feel your presence.  Are you haunting me or taunting me?

His finger struggles to reach down to the “c” key.

The forbidden fruits of our love kept our hearts strong.  I did not realize the truth behind it all until I could no longer have you.  I had to return to a life that I could no longer handle.  My children are the only real pleasure in my life.   My finger is tired from the metal that has imprisoned it for so long.  I can hear your foot steps.  They are quiet, like you want to surprise me.  I don’t even bother turning around anymore.  I like for you to think you have surprised me.  When you play with my hair and try and spook me.  It always tickles me and you like to see me try and swat the flies away. Your finger is cold.

“Click”

I sit here trying to convince myself that what I have done can be rationalized.  I ask for forgiveness from all that would give it.  Forgiveness that I ever deceived my wife, I never loved her.

His fingers goes for the last letter.  He moves he hand towards the keyboard and catches movement in the mirror again.  A familiar female face stares back, a tear runs from her eye, not of sadness, but of vengeance.  She fires her gun through the back of his head.  Dying, the man’s head lays on the keyboard.

Looking into the window I can see my reflection and you are standing behind me.  You long hair seems to floor off the window and onto the desk.  My computer screen is now as beautifully red as your lips. I’m gonna close my eyes, see you in the morning.

The “k” key is stuck down.

The Comment War

Just don’t come back to my blog please, i’m not interested in trading insults with you or whatever it is you internet nerds like to do. Don’t pick apart this comment and judge every word in it or correct the spelling, or try to think up some witty come back just go away, don’t answer me, don’t read my blog, don’t comment, don’t ever have anything else to do with me. Let’s just leave it at that. Go away and try to do something constructive please. Thanks

There is nothing witty that I would like to say to this person.  Unfortunately, the author of a blog that I have frequented and commented on in the past couple days has taken something I’ve said a little too seriously.  I have chosen to expose this comment not to insult him or embarress him or for any childish reason like that.  In fact, I seek an answer.  Why is it that when compliments are dished out to other bloggers/authors, along with a little humor, a verbal war must ensue?

I wanted nothing more than to honor him with more positive feedback, because he wasn’t sure if anyone was reading or cared about what he is doing.  Then after he finally gets a subscriber, who quickly told him to pick his head up, in the first place, tells the other person to “f” off.  There are so many blogs out their today, that don’t get the attention they deserve, this guy was no different.  In a world of so much competition there needs to be room for some sarcastic banter to break the silence.  Am I wrong?

Original Post w/ Comments below it

Well, hopefully they see this and understand where I am coming from.  I shall continue to read and support what you do.  And if anyone has any thoughts on the subject, please share them!

The Nightmare

It’s dry and dead outside. The building’s windows have been boarded up and the picnic tables that line the parking lot are rotten and buried by the over grown grass. Why has my father pulled into this place? Oh yes I remember, we used to stop here on our way to Maine all the time. So many great trips up there to see Grandpa and Grandma. Wait a minute, we are on our way up there. What has happened here?

My dad slows the truck to a stop and forces the shifter into “park.” The truck bobs for a second in place and my dad clicks the key back. My hands are clenched around the top of the seat and I can only stare at the front door of this building. The truck door is forced open.  I jerk my head to the side to see what had happened. Oh, it’s only Dad. He has an unusual smile on his face as he asks me to jump out of the truck. “I’ll catch you,” says he. The door is slammed behind me. Where is my brother, Peter? He is supposed to be here with us. He always comes to Maine for Thanksgiving and hunting. My head turns back towards the truck. Where did it go? Oh I can see it, but it is atleast a mile away. We have only been walking, but for a few moments, and already I can’t see my brother.

The sidewalk in front of the building is crumbling apart and filled with sparatic patches of brown grass. There is the front door. What could Dad possible want to show me in here? The detail across the front door is more vivid than before. The door has been ripped off the hinges and resembles more of a large swinging salon door from the old west, rather than a heavy duty door of an inhabitied business establishment. “You wanna open the door for Dad?” I shake my head. My dad sighs and nudges me forward. I look back at him in worry. Is he freakin’ kidding me? I look up at the door like David looking to Goliath. I press my hand against the door peaking through the cracks of the wood. My hand slides along the length of the door as it opens. “OUCH!” I fall forward in through the door.

My hand is throbbing. A piece of old wood is sticking out from the palm of my hand. “What the?” I say as I look past my hand onto the brand new black and white tiled floor. I peer up at the room and notice that Grand Central Terminal isn’t as busy as this place. Where did all these people come from? I turn my head to find Dad. He isn’t there just a brand new green door. Dusting off my pants I stumble to my feet and scan the room. The parking lot showed no signs of life, yet, this place seems to be the talk of the town. Families eat at tables, people ordering food at the different vendors, and small children scurrying about the floor. “Dad? Dad, where are you?” Where is my father? I started shuffling through the crowd. It seemed I was starting to grab the attention of some of the people. I nod back trying not to make eye contact.

I come to the end of the vending area. No sign of Dad. Ooo, a window. My, what a beautiful day outside. All the kids playing on the picnic tables and there’s Dad’s truck right in front. Oh, There’s Dad! “Dad, Dad in here, I’m in here!” I tap on the glass. There is no response. I scream again at him again as I turn towards the crowd to see if anyone has responded to my cries of help. Oh that’s interesting. Everyone is looking at me. There is a crash on the front door. My heart pounds against my ribcage, no one else responds. I look out the window again. My father swings his sledge hammer towards the building. Bang. Bang. I look back at everyone. They are pointing back into the middle distance. What is this? I approach the crowd in search of an answer. The crowd separates and my stomach begins to turn. There it is. Laying in the middle of crowd. A young girl lay on a stretcher with her dialysis machine next to her. Her eye is black with a blood stained face. Bruises from where someone’s fist, most likely, connected with her face. Her hospital robe is three sizes to big for her. Bang. Bang. Finally we make eye contact. A tear glides down her cheek. My eyes fill with water and I begin to brace myself. The girl let’s out a soundless shriek. Her mouth, wide open, as if screaming bloody murder, emits no sound and I fall to the ground, covering my ears, as if I can actually hear her. Bang. Bang. Dad, where are you? My body is frozen and everyone remains standing above me motionless. Help me someone? Dad, save me. Bang. Bang. Crash! My dad falls through the door.

It goes black…

Old Man & the Cigarette

Bald and bow-legged the man walks down the street.  His old steel-toed boots drag it’s heel across the ground.  His hair, long and scraggly on the side, with the top of head completely bald.  Two sweaty pieces of hair attempt to cover the baldness above.

The man stops and wait a moment and turns towards the river.  He takes one last drag off of his cigarette, which has been burning, in between his cracked, yellow, nicotine stained fingers, for the past five minutes, through his long knotty beard.  He flicks it into the river.  His face becomes soft as if waving goodbye to the only real attachment that he has felt in decades.  He continues walking up the hill with his rainbow color bag.

Upon reaching the top the main stops, looks left, then right, then left again.  Lowering his head, his face droops a little more.  He reaches into his tattered blue jean pocket and pulls up a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.  Pulling the last last cigarette from the pack he takes his last breath of clean air, cups his hands around the end of the butt, blocking the nearby breeze, and lights up.  Deeply he breathes in a lung full of smoke. He looks up, points to the left, nods, and continues on down the road.

Life Goes On…

by Justin_pets

It seemed like only yesterday.

R.I.P.

Freedom of Blogging Speech

I would like this time to bring you all to a blog that I have recently stumbled upon.  It is run by a town local who has spent many years investigating and reporting about corrupt politics and law enforcement.  Andy Thibault’s blog, The Cool Justice Report, has recently highlighted a case in which a high school student was stripped of her position of class secretary and banned from every running again, due to her opinions on certain administrative staff. The article is here.

Now I shall voice my own opinion.  Shut up and do your job.  Instead of wining like a little girl about how some little kid made fun of you on the internet, maybe…oh I don’t know…FIND SOMETHING BETTER TO DO.  There are plenty of other issues to be settled in a high school.  Stripping a girl of a position she has worked hard for and banning her from ever doing it again, is not teaching anyone a lesson.  “Avery had received multiple warnings about her behaviors prior to the Jamfest issue. ¹“  And to think that every thing on this planet came to us without a fight.  “Fight for what you believe in.” This is what I have been told my whole life from anyone that gives a shit about what I want to do with my life.

I have had plenty of teachers/administrators that I absolutely did not care for in my life.  Some knew and some probably had no clue.  And some of you may know that I have absolutely no problem voicing my opinion on subjects.  My Freedom of Speech will go to the grave with me and anyone that tries to hinder that will feel the wrath of the aforementioned.  Those who complain are only denying their own ironic nature.

Common sense ladies and gentlemen.  Turn the other cheeck and stop worrying about what everyone else is talking about.  Are you happy with what you are fighting for?  Did that student really get under your skin? If so, perhaps you shouldn’t be an educator.

It needs to STOP!

And pls remember, commenting is good for health.

The above quote is from a blog that I spotted floating about the blogosphere.  Anyone notice the problem with this quote?  Other than the fact that the person is trying to connect good health with commenting.  This person thought it not important to spell out the word “please.”  Instead thought it would be more convient to write “pls.”  Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not familiar with the word “pls,” in fact, I couldn’t find it anywhere in the dictionary.  Hmmm, oh, perhaps she meant to write, please?  In that case, may I remind everyone that the three letters, actually only two letters, that are missing from “pls” surround the letter “s.”  Now if you hands are located in the correct home-row position, as most of us were taught in middle school, the “a” is already covered by your pinky, no extra work getting to that key.  The “e” requires a slight movement, by the middle finger, upwards.

Now perhaps I am alone here, but does anyone see the death of the English Language?  All this technology today and we are stuck making ourselves even more retarded.  The picture I posted yesterday explain the exact same thing.  “lol.”  Rather than writing out that we are laughing we need an abbrivation of one of the most spectacular emotions or you have these idiots who overuse the smiley-face to the point were you’d wish they had one that resembled a guy who just got the shit kicked out of him to send back.

I can only imagine how many people are probably in a uproar reading this write now, thinking, “hey asshole, I’m sure you do the exact same thing on AIM or MSN or in your emails.  Well perhaps that was true before today.  I have vowed to never those terms again.  To quote the great Hank Moody, “It’s just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a proto-language that resembles more what the cave men used to speak than the King’s English.”

I’ll leave you with that thought.

Mr. Bungle

by acidrain777

My buddy Greg recently mentioned these guys to me. He was appalled when I hadn’t heard about them. It only took one song to get me hooked. Check them out on iTunes they are sick. They combine so many different genre’s into one fantastic shmorgesboard of music.  Mike Patton of Faith No More resides within the group!

No More Language

The Flight

by michaelbielitza

Let me lay across the green grass.
Forget why I am there in the first place.
I will float above my body and fly through the air.
Let my body rest. It has been working hard for 23 years.
When I land. I’ll hit the ground running again…