A healthy schnitzelfritz
is all we would need
for a cut-rate Dependence Day
on the Frontier of Many Puddings.

Ever since the rolling scabies epidemic
took its time crossing the Ganges,
twelve men have made it their business
to carve necklaces from oak stumps
as a way of reconnecting
with their wood nymph sides
while honing their dedication
to sculptural accessorizing.

After all those mentions of scriptural evangelizing, our Maker’s Dozen–as they like to call themselves–made the executive decision to secularize the whole process and peddle the wares of their ingenuity for a tidy profit (at least, wherever flea markets intersect with local art exhibitions).

One mustn’t mistake this ingenuity
for dogmatic commitment to peculiar crafting,
as these enterprising young monks
would be the first to tell you.
Frankly, these fellows have
a bit of a competitive streak in them
that has yet to be beaten out
by assumptive authoritarians,
and a near-endless supply
of stump-grade dynamite
only served to seal the deal.

Check Check, Test Test

Wow, this recent sequence of events is quite a roller coaster ride of rediscovery and contemplation as an artist. All those times–hundreds–that I doubted why I was putting in the time, I was incapable of seeing the bigger picture. And now that I’ve glimpsed a larger scheme of things, I can also understand that I’ll never see the entire picture. My senses limit that panoply.

But that’s okay! I can make do with what I’ve got, and make it as colorful as possible.

My Straitjacket series, as you may have noticed, is the driving force behind this particular reinvigoration.

I’m going to post dozens of these Straitjacket poems, all named a particular time of day, Greenwich Mean Time. There are 1,440 possible titles for this series, if you consider the different combinations of digits that represent particular periods in time (however ambiguous).

The older me would have let that overwhelm him, likely thinking about that 1,440 number as a challenge to WRITE 1,440 POEMS FOR THE SERIES. Anything less would have been a letdown.

Fortunately, my thought processes are much healthier these days, and I’m just taking it one poem at a time.

The speaker in these poems is… a man in a straitjacket. He’s in a rubber room, doesn’t know how he got there. Time is static in this environment, and sensory deprivation is opening up new ways of thought for him. As time progresses, he becomes more and more comfortable with his purest expressions, abandoning the inner critic that always told him he wasn’t good enough, and that he’d just end up selling used cars out of an auto mechanic’s garage (well, not exactly in the garage–it’s out back, Gus owns the adjacent lot and decided one day to supplement his income by buying fixer-uppers and flipping them for tidy profits).

Taking the idea of audience out of the equation for the speaker is sublime and freeing, I can do whatever I want with words under the umbrella of absurdity and non-sequitur, legitimized through a unified theme.

So I reckon that’s about it for now. Just wanted to check in, let you know that I’m happily creating. Perhaps, in the near future, an upgrade will come my way. Some kind of monetization. Perchance a book or booksss? That’s my hope, eh? Just need to figure out how to self-publish printed materials and reach the widest possible audience.

Cheers, mates!


Major Update (Not Upheaval)

Hello all,

First of all, I’d like to thank you for reading my work. You’re the sounding board that helps me to legitimize my efforts, and I cannot underestimate your influence in that department.

Every once in a while I need to re-assess my progress and see what can be done to refresh my inspiration as a writer. If you look at my archives, you will see an on-again/off-again pattern, where I’ll have successful months followed by droughts. I never plan things out that way, they just naturally unfold in that fashion. There are numerous factors that play into this phenomenon, but they change every time I go through the cycle. I suppose I can just call it artistic chaos and leave it at that.

This kind of sporadic output definitely takes its toll on my psyche, and many a time I’ll find myself wondering if I’ll ever be able to reach the level of creativity and spontaneity that once came so naturally (without the nagging doubts and irrational fears). Recently I’ve been reflecting on my past efforts, and I’ve pinpointed a specific project that gave my creative self license to play and have fun.

Starting in May 2011 and ending a calendar year later, I wrote a series of numbered poems consisting of 146 sequential pieces that reached varying degrees of success. I started that particular project when my life was in a fragile state, recovering from (what I know now to be) my first manic episode. I’d recently withdrawn from the Spring 2011 semester of college, and my future was up in the air. I had a summer to reflect on life and do my best to gear back up for school in the fall (which was by no means a guarantee). I needed something that would channel my thoughts and energy into something that I could be proud of, something that would give my life’s work a sense of meaning, thereby giving my everyday life more of a purpose.

That numbered poetry project propelled me back into my final year of college, and swept me through my poetry seminar and final reading with aplomb. The sheer volume of work I could pull out of my hat at any moment gave me an air of confidence and legitimacy with my craft, something I sure could use right now. So why not return to my previous successes?

The major success of that numbered poetry project was the platform it afforded me. I could exist amongst the forms, sampling from any and all of the senses whenever they suited me. Nothing was off the table, but there was no table set in the first place. Pure spontaneous creation was the only goal, and I was able to write, forgetting those filters that life had imposed on me for survival purposes. I’m hoping that by reliving this series of sensations, I can once again find the wellspring of unlimited inspiration–where poetry lives and breathes.

I encourage you, fellow journeymen and women–journeypersons–to rip a page from this book and take a break from rigid societal hierarchy and imposed filtration that we deal with at every waking moment of our lives. Free yourselves, if only for a few brief moments at a time, writing what comes naturally without question. If you do that enough, you’ll see a pattern emerge, and you may begin to glimpse at your true creative being–you know, the one who used to draw on the walls.




A little dog is yapping after its owner decided to leave it alone on this coffee shop’s patio, irritating all the people outside and even some of us indoors (that yapping is quite loud and obnoxious). This situation has led us patrons to wonder about the sanctity of the dog-owner relationship, and how many times such a bond is tested throughout the course of an average day.

Oh thank God, she’s back. Now we only have to worry about our own problems once again, at least until something else (a crying baby, a coffee spill, a delivery guy struggling to simultaneously open the door and hold onto his parcels) distracts us.

NaPoWriMo 2015 — April’s Over (The Posts Aren’t)

The calendar already reads May 2nd, and I haven’t met the pre-established goal of 30 pieces for National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve been writing throughout the month of April, and my grand total of things written easily eclipses 45.

So, since I’ve never considered myself traditional by any stretch, I will continue to post the pieces that I wrote during April. I will continue to title them the way I’ve titled the first 11 (Roman numerals are just so much fun).

The funny thing about NaPoWriMo is that it makes me clam up and unintentionally sabotage my own efforts. In previous years, I’ve never reached that 30 poem benchmark when it comes to posting them on my website, mainly because April would end and I would immediately go back to business as usual.

This year, I choose to keep on with NaPoWriMo posts, and I must assure you that I have not tampered with these pieces since they were first written (hand-written, all).

I will also make non-poetry-month-related things, since that’s generally my MO anyway.

I’m grateful for your readership, even though I don’t own any grates and my apartment is not full of them by any means. My one roommate has about three dozen grates as a part of his peculiar collection of things that resemble waffles, so there are grates around. But let me reiterate, just because a person does not own any grates does not mean he cannot be grateful.

By no means am I ungrateful. That could imply that I am against the idea of having grates, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

What does all this mean? It means that I’m lucky enough to be able to say these things to an audience, and also that grateful can be a misleading word.


Different Chords (Audibly Restless

I leapt through a series of otherwise meaningless hoops (bald, scorpion, mating ritual-oriented, etc.) before I could contextualize what the hell my actions even meant to me and to those within my immediate surroundings. And do you know what I discovered? You’ll be surprised to learn that absolutely nothing could have been derived from those actions aside from pain and rather tedious boredom! No matter how many labels I ascribed to my life, I still longed for the time where everything was laid out before me in ribbons, streaking across the sky and peppering my vision like pigeons flying above the public library (only pooping periodically, and never on the periodicals), laying my track before me. I had once been content to wander and follow the striped ground, but then the stripes grew apart and I could no longer passively traipse through my existence. It had become clear that I needed to select a distinct path, and I splintered my psyche into several different chords (audibly restless, confused and frustrated). My body grew apart from my mind and I lost that once common-sense connection that allowed me to exist in the same space as others of my species.

And now I wait for my paths to converge once more, so I may mend my fragmented soul and take part in that wholesale charade that most humans call real life.

You Have the Pilgrims

Taking a test really only means that you have the pilgrims to thank for your present state of malaise. Merit-based systems come about as a means for overcompensation for the lack of otherwise sensual behavior that would be prized by our species’ most relevant ancestors (you know, the few dozen individuals who managed to survive drought and famine in the motherland before finally deciding that enough was enough, subsequently migrating northward, settling what is presently known to be Europe and Asia, parting ways with those of our species who’d chosen to head south and colonize what they’d hoped to be a more verdant Africa).

*NEWSFLASH* Real-Life Update

I have begun another general collection of work that has been compiling over the past few years. I have thus far chronicled 48 previously-unpublished pieces, all of which I plan to reveal to you, my adorable readers. Since I have been able to get so far ahead of my production goals, I am now also able to provide a consistent source of stream-of-consciousness work, day-in and day-out. If you (whoever you may be) found yourself moaning about my lack of consistency and reliance on spontaneity, then you’re in luck! I haven’t decided on the exact times for my postings, but I’m sure they will be unpredictable.

Just as a sports fan religiously sets fantasy sports lineups, so shall I schedule my poetry to be revealed to the world wide web. One day I may have wordpress (oh, what a wonderful engine) post a poem at 8:22am and another at 10:39am, only to whittle away the hours until the clock strikes 3:49, when another poem is released.

Just want to keep you on your toes (and get an idea of what’s going to be coming to a monitor near you).

Y’all are the bee’s knees, by the way. I hope you know that.


Wharved’s Constant Influence

Hi all,

I’ve turned a new leaf in life that will undoubtedly contribute to my happiness and productivity. Creative writing is certainly my calling, but it’s been a long time since I’ve derived pleasure from my passion. After struggling with the idea that I don’t have to be miserable all the time, I’ve decided to reach out to professionals and the community to figure out methods for reducing my overall angst.

It is said that ritalin and adderall are composed of compounds that are critical in improving the frontal cortex’s function, which generally leads to better executive decision-making and time management. In a visit to the psychiatrist, I was asked if I’d ever been tested for ADHD. I’ve just begun a daily routine that doesn’t involve impulsive substance abuse, and my previous behavior could have been directly caused by this chemical imbalance. I seemed to have no power over my impulses to self-medicate, propelling me into a vicious cycle that I thought I could muscle through, if only I could remember what I’m supposed to do every day (and not relapse).

Turns out that memory is part of the executive functions ruled by the frontal cortex, which was effectively waning by the minute. Again, vicious cycle. I would tell myself that being an artist involved an inescapable element of existential dread, woe and fury. What actually ended up transpiring was a continual treading of water that would produce creative work when I could keep my head above the surface long enough to flex muscles other than the ones needed for basic survival.

I went a long time without treatment because I was smart enough to skate by on the minimum and still achieve at a high-enough level to avoid criticism for my laziness. Well, what I thought to be laziness, anyway. Looking back on the whole scenario, I may have simply been unable to control my compulsions–poetry and drawing were necessary outlets that I picked up in order to place usefulness into my obsessive nature. I was able to channel enough raw emotion and invention into my work to actually circumvent convention. My launches into the stream-of-consciousness realm were actually desperate attempts of a feeble will to produce something meaningful despite my obvious dysfunction as a human being.

It took hitting rock bottom for me to face all of these shortcomings in a realistic way. I’d already had a job coming out of college that used my degree, but I took no pleasure from my fortune in the insane job climate. What did I do instead? I punished myself and went to work in the barley mines (brewpub and restaurant) as a host, making barely more than minimum wage on a part-time basis, where I performed duties befitting a glorified greeter.

That environment had the perfect peer group of enablers who made it possible, nay, preferable, to say: “Oh fuck it, let’s just have a beer.” I also found it quite healthy to smoke pot and think nothing of being a grown man hiding in his parents’ house and taking responsibility for nothing in his life. It was as though I had no life. I didn’t know what it meant to be a member of society, and I preferred to simply not explore it, for risk of hyperextending myself and drowning in the world.

But sometimes things have a way of forcing you to make changes and reevaluate your strategy (or formulate one if you’ve been too petrified to put one together in the first place). My behavior, rather, lack of behavior, became overwhelming, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. First things first, it was time to move away from that environment of mediocrity I’d grown to inhabit as an escape from reality and responsibility. Reaching out for therapy, I gathered the strength to put in my two-weeks’ notice and abstain from polluting my body, mind and soul with harmful substances (namely cannabis and alcohol).

Leading up to that point, I saw myself as a failure, harboring the perpetual fear of deviating from my path, simply because I hadn’t taken that first step out of it. I didn’t know if I had the power to do it.

Once the critical break from my destructive habits had been established, I decided (for myself, for once) to stop making excuses that allowed me to escape from the natural flow and discourse of life as the vast majority of the world operates. I always figured that being an outsider was a sign of superiority, and that being smarter than the general population meant that I needed to seclude myself from them. It wasn’t until coming to grips with my inability to communicate with my peer group or the world at large that I felt the desire for camaraderie and a forum for sharing my thoughts.

I must have been wary of my off-kilter methods and subjects of thought, as those were the traits that always defined me as a weird individual in school. At some point, I must have reached that subconscious crossroads where I didn’t want to put up with that labeling anymore. I didn’t want to deal with being the eccentric one, so I receded into myself. After years of this destructive behavior, it finally dawned on me that eccentricities are important to show the world, to give the unenlightened majority an idea of just what they’re missing in their mainstream lives.

At my weakest moments, I felt a palpable futility in demonstrating the possibilities of a mind well-used for creative and career-oriented endeavors, as though nobody would understand me and all the time and energy spent in inhabiting my own person in public just wouldn’t be worth the result.

Now that I’ve hopped over that fence, I can reflect candidly and honestly about this chapter of my life. It happened. I can’t deny that it happened. I can only acknowledge it and move on. Looking forward, I see nothing but positivity. I can regain my status as that wacky guy who says odd things and could care less about people’s perceptions, because I’ll know that it’s well within my rights to be a real person amongst other real people.

I can get a job and work within a peer group. I can get an apartment and do all those tedious domestic things that I used to fear for no reason. I can put myself into the romantic sphere. I can work on my own writing and actually finish what I start. I can go back to school and work on a manuscript.

I will continue posting to Wharved. In a way, Wharved has been the lone constant for me during this past 3.5 years, and I’d like to pat myself on the back for at least sustaining one good thing in my life. My goal has never been to achieve fame or notoriety, but to explore the inner and outer workings of my mind. I felt comfortable sharing my invention with the internet during this personal debacle, simply because the internet didn’t need to know that I was dying inside.

Now I feel comfortable bringing myself to a wider audience and giving my voice more to chew on (strange image, but it makes sense to me). My personal voice and creative voice have been dramatically separated for a long time, because I figured that my own life wasn’t worth recounting. Now I see these past several years as a metamorphosis into a mature person who doesn’t need to hide behind words while his self-esteem shrinks away to nothing.

Thank you, readers. You have no idea how powerful your ‘follow’ clicks were for me as I coped with this monster. You showed me that there are people out there who give a damn about my words and my voice, and I want to express my gratitude to you by burdening you with this exceptionally-long post. I kept myself in the dark for too long, and nobody knew about it. Now I’m comfortable enough to let everybody know, and you’re my most cherished audience (after family and real-life friends, of course).

Here’s to another 3.5 years of poetry for poetry’s sake. Won’t you join me?



Happy May Day Hangover!

Let me just say that I think NaPoWriMo was a success this year.

Now, before you go telling me that 12 poems can’t possibly constitute a good month
according to my previous work and typical productivity, I can assure you
that I wrote a hell of a lot more than that. And also, why would you be judging me so hard?!

For some reason, a large portion of my writing for the month
just didn’t feel up to the same standard I’ve grown accustomed to.

But I look at this learning experience to show me
that creativity has infinite shades of color
(I ignored shades of gray on purpose).

If you’re jamming along with a nice shade of pale blue,
it’s hard to give it up for a chartreuse. But
when you make the change, you remember why

variety is the best way to flush out wild imagery.

So that’s what happened. Some of the colors came out dark,
sometimes murky, sometimes counter-intuitive to what the eye
might think is appropriate for an attractive palette.

I’ll most likely come to terms with this phenomenon soon enough,
with an outburst of work (like how it always seems to happen).

Just wanted to check in. Thanks for humoring me.


Moving Forward with Wharved

Hey folks,

Today marks another one of those random times that the author pulls up a chair and has a real talk.

I’ll keep it brief:

Since I’ve noticed an ever-expanding contingency of readers over the past few years (I’m up to 133 subscribers now, whoo!), I’ve taken it upon myself to be less erratic in the way I post my materials.

Specifically, I’ve chosen to begin posting my poems (and drawings) in more regular installments, so you darling readers don’t have to digest a half-dozen pieces at once. With my work unfolding in a more billowing fashion, I hope to get a more even rotation of viewership that spreads itself out throughout the days and weeks.

This is my goal, and I think it’s a simple enough one at that.

BONUS: My drawings will most likely show up on a once-weekly basis, to break the monotony of words. Sometimes, the drawings might even contain words! And sometimes, the drawings might ONLY be words! As the craft progresses, so will the ideas leading up to its practice.

Thanks again, readers. You’re all A-1 super duper tops in my book.



I’m No Critic

I’m not in the business of explaining or justifying the words I use [and am capable of producing]–I’ll leave that to the people who read it. I generally stick to that ideology when it applies to things other people have created as well, not because I don’t recognize or understand the significance of their exploration, but because I’m too busy worrying about the significance of my own exploration.

Is that selfish? I guess it must be, but I can’t function any other way right now, so it’ll have to do.

Why should this development be judged as uplifting [rather than shackling] to my soul and creative spark? Well, I thought about it while I wrote [and edited and kicked and throttled] it, that’s why. It’s been mine to think about for much too long by the point it reaches the reader, so some fresh eyes would certainly be nice.

Marketing to Kids

A good number of people move right along that conveyor belt of popular youth, unquestioning, satisfied to be simple consumers. They keep doing the same thing over and over, repeating only their initial motions and favorite pastimes while corporate profiteers responsible for the stagnation of products and experiences fire their older employees in favor of youthful tastemakers who take the same old pile of shit and mold it into a unicorn [still made of shit].

Why Poetry?

The question that I face on a daily basis usually goes like this:

There’s nothing that I’d like to do at this moment, so how do I move forward?

In my experience, what usually comes next is the postulation and defense of my abilities without any actual demonstration, save a word or two on the subject.

That’s obviously unacceptable for a person as unproved as myself. Who cares if I’ve composed over 400 poems if they haven’t reached the people who matter, the difference makers?

Well, I do.

But, how do I know that this assault of poetry is even worth the space it takes up, let alone the praise of my peers for its originality?

Let’s just chalk it up to a gut feeling.

So at this point, I’ve reinforced my narcissism and afforded myself more time to concoct my linguistic nightmares. They can only get better as I move forward.

Looking back at my first pieces, my work was bulky and unfocused; sometimes a single poem would hold the contents and themes of four or five distinct pieces. This stemmed from the idea that in order to compete with other writers, I had to jam-pack my work and out-muscle their imagery.

When I jump back to the present, four years later, my definition of a poem has dramatically shifted, and is constantly morphing according to the experience I’ve gained within the craft. I see as much validity in a two-word poem as I do in a fifteen-page one.

Now that I understand my place in this big ol’ world of artful writers, all that’s left to do is WRITE.

But of course, I wouldn’t be an artist if I could just write away the hours of the day (wow, what a rhyme).

My writing represents 1% of my time; the other 99% is existential dross and backpedaling in the name of the art. How can I write worthwhile stuff if I haven’t put the sufficient thought into it?

Some of the pieces I flip into existence don’t seem to contain much thought, and in fact resemble thin veneers of this thing we call reality (or surrealism). Don’t worry, I’ve come up with a way to explain these.

No matter what the piece’s contents or length, as long as I enter that special little cave of my subconscious through the duration of its composition, I am satisfied with the words that ensue. Quality over quantity, baby.

All this justification of the craft of poetry really makes me want to jot one out for you, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. You see, you never know when a person will gain the inspiration to create the next great work of art. Honest!

So here it is, the poem to come out of January 4, 2014 at 3:37 PM Central DST:

What’s your deal with fish and chips?
I understand the relationship between protein and potatoes,
but that doesn’t explain the cutesy phrase
falling out of the mouths of millions of unsuspecting diners
at any point during a Friday afternoon in the developed world
(and perhaps in the developing world to a lesser extent).

I know this is a loaded question to ask a waiter,
especially one who just wants to take my order already.

Don’t worry, I’ll let you go soon enough.
Just please, pay attention to me
for at least fifteen seconds more.

Attention Deficit

Why do I want attention? Honestly, I don’t want attention.

My words want attention. I want attention for my words, not my ego. Do I need to develop an overactive, self-indulgent, ridiculously aggressive ego in order to do anything with my life that makes me seem like an important person?

What is importance? There’s no such thing as something being innately more important than anything else. Nature seems to understand this, yet humans decided that they don’t belong to the natural cycle that they step on and choke every day. The soul of a chicken is useless to the soul of a human until that chicken’s energy is converted into food matter and consumed by that human. By that point, the chicken’s soul has already transcended this plane and begun the selection process for another life somewhere in this universe (or perhaps another). That soul will earn an upgrade for its devout service to Earth’s common good.

What’s my problem? I want my words to be read by people, and I want to be able to write these words for my life, undisturbed, peaceful, constantly inventing. That’s what I was brought into this shitty world to do, but I won’t be allowed a comfortable living if I insist on doing it like some sort of maverick poet. How dare I wish to explore the forefront of language to attempt a deeper connection with the cosmos?! I’m a real piece of work.

A Matter of Audience

Every single person on this earth has an audience of some kind, whether it resides in your pocket or in a movie theater. Nothing is equal in this universe aside from the fact that nothing was created to be the same as anything else (aside from behavior of particles under the laws of physics), so everybody will have different kinds of audiences and influences. Nobody should feel compromised simply because they have a small audience, and nobody should let their ego devour the soul that got them to the point where their audience would like to strip them bare and make juicy love to them for days on end.

There’s obviously a secret to attaining “fame”, in that sense. I happen to know that many (many) people possess this secret and choose not to use it. I have the utmost respect and admiration for these brave individuals, and I will spend my life trying to find them. I’ve already found a bunch, and I hope a bunch more will follow.

Whacking Weeds

Over the weekend, I whacked the weeds that had grown between the paver stones. These were the toughest weeds in the entire yard, and I felt terrible about beheading them. They didn’t do anything to me, aside from grow in an unfortunate space.

When I was finished, I began to sweep up the aftermath and saw an inch-long beetle lying on its back, dead. What attracted my attention to the insect was the pair of shiny flies checking out the scene of the crime. I had to look away, as large bugs (let alone dead ones) unnerve me.

I kept at the task of sweeping and threw away the yard waste. I went back over to the beetle to find ants walking all around it. It was at that precise moment that I thought to myself:

“These flies and ants must be confused about how such an enormous insect could meet such a sudden and violent end. This was an armored and seemingly-indestructible behemoth that had just walked among them a few minutes ago. Do they understand that there are greater forces around them that make their lives seem insignificant?”

Then I compared the insects to humans, and my brain nearly exploded.

Earnest Exploration

What happened to the time where sputtering out trivial fantasies had its place in life, had value and a genuine right to exist in the sphere? It must still be around here somewhere, but I need a little help to find it.

Since the totality of existence is comprised of infinite facets of one thought and one moment, tapping into the creative consciousness takes no more than a few seconds of earnest exploration. For example:

Tulip slipper guardians wear rings the size of their fists. They’re not very practical, the guardians nor the rings, but that doesn’t matter when the bulk of their livelihood is concentrated upon the judgment of ornate flowers and involves virtually no physical labor. Contests are held once per month (as the tulips bloom) in Snidely Square, and no person has ever won more than once. Odd when you consider the fact that there has never been a grouping larger than ten contestants in each of the first thirty-three affairs. Nole Gronsky, head judge and Snidely Square curator, takes pride in diversity, and will not let a winner (or a second-place finisher, for that matter) participate in another contest until their age has doubled from the last contest in which they participated. Marge Franklin is first on the list to compete after winning. She was twenty-three years of age upon attaining the title, and the event happened sixteen years ago. When asked how she’s been biding her time, Marge simply said: “Oh yes, I do suppose I’d like to try that again. Thanks for reminding me.”

Essayification 2

I build up my expectations for what I’m supposed to write; what’s supposed to flow out of me naturally and with unmatched novelty. But guess what. I get stuck. It’s not my lack of ideas, but the unwillingness to devote my entire attention to them. It’s not even unwillingness, it’s the unconscious telling me that I don’t deserve to express myself any fucking way that I want.

That is one of the most harmful things I could possibly do to myself. And what’s worse? I do it all the time and pretend not to care.

I have talent. So what? Why do I let that stop me? Will I embarrass anyone who has less talent than myself? I might inspire them to do better and act in a way conducive to building their own self esteem while I gain a sense of fulfillment.

Wow, what a crime that would be! Displaying my talent and knack for uncovering emotion could cripple the egotistical, and wouldn’t that be a shame?

Of course there are better practitioners than myself. But they didn’t reach that level of their craft by undermining their own efforts at every turn.

Frankly, I’m amazed that I haven’t completely sworn off this whole thing called writing.

But you know what? It’s not my decision and it never has been.

Essayification 1

Essayification is a silly made-up word, but it represents something silly and real. And what might that be, you ponder? That’s it! You ponder! That’s what an essay makes you do (in theory)! Ponder about what, you ask? Oh boy, there’s no end to that list. The subject of the essay you’re reading might be a good start. But after that, you’re off to the races with your own inferences and insights. Every person takes away a different message from a piece of writing, so it’s futile to force them to conform to an ideal. An essay is made to guide thought through the reader’s own custom pathway, snaking and winding and forking and dipping and hopping and floating and shaking and whipping and sneering and laughing and torturing and flagellating and… wow, that got interesting.

Your subconscious takes you wherever it wants to go, and you are constantly subjected to its whims, whether you like it or not. There is no taking control over the thing that connects us to the rest of the cosmos; it’s been there before you even thought about getting here, and it’ll outlast you by a good long while. What is that thing? You’re asking me? That’s a silly question. Everybody has a different answer for it! That explanation can be considered a copout, but I dare you to go up to 50 people on the street and ask them (in your own words) what that thing is. If you ask them a specific enough question (for instance: “What do you call that thing that you can’t quite explain? You know, the one that you just feel in your guts to be there. It was there before you were born, and it’ll be there when you die.), you’ll either get an earnest answer that seeks innate Truth, or you’ll just get shrugged off (sometimes violently).

These are things with which we grapple for every waking moment of our existence, whether we know it or not (Don’t delude yourself!). The things we acquire are simply methods for trying to achieve a few of the infinite facets of that indescribable thing. Some people think that they can just get so many objects that they’ll have a good enough idea of what that indescribable thing is. That’s a foolish notion. For each object they possess there are infinite other objects that will be completely unobtainable. That doesn’t feel too good when you think about it.

*Disgruntled Yammering*

Identifying the self with others (the public) as you truly exist with yourself and closest associations seems to be a farce; a production put on by your own self-interest in order to gain admiration from perfect strangers.

So why do I crave this attention (and make this blog post as an ironic twist)? Possibly because I was an only child / loner / weird kid in my more formative years, with the constant thought running through my head: “If only that big break could just happen for me, I’d look back on my tragic existence and laugh”. Of course, in order for anything remotely that fantastic / terrible to happen, a person must actually engage in their sphere and make waves. This is not my strong suit.

I worked on scrapping my ego a couple years back, only to find that most people label that as ‘depression’, and don’t understand why anyone would possibly do that. I learned a good many things from my existential struggles, and I can’t denote anything in particular at this moment (or ever, perhaps) that will adequately explain my journey within myself.

One thing I can say for certain is that my memories have lost the significance they once had. I don’t feel as tied to my past as I’ve observed with the behavior of most friends / family / random associations.

Stories, for me, are a way to describe a moment in the unbroken sequence of our lives, where we gained an understanding of something crucial to our existence at that moment. Sometimes stories are worth reliving because they can remind others of the best way to go about certain things. Sometimes they’re worth reliving because the teller wants to immediately connect with the audience and reach a common ground, testing the foundation for a grand edifice.

The ego is a delicate thing. Apparently everybody needs one, or they will starve by the side of the road. Everyone needs that “hey, look at me, I’m important” feeling within them somewhere, just so they can feel inadequate with the way they currently stand in their life.

Is this an innate thing, or have we been programmed over the generations to feel this way? I wouldn’t know where to begin researching that, because then I fall into the realm of conspiracy theory. So it goes.

This is my journal, I guess. I don’t ‘do’ journals typically.

But then again, I don’t have many pictures of myself in the past, virtually no video. I could be a clone of the old Aidan or a guy who looks a lot like him with similar mannerisms. Memories are a bitch that way, and I love to live in that ambiguity.

Ah, ranting. Is there any mood it can’t cure?


Nyeah, See

What good is a piece of writing if it doesn’t take you away from your life? Even if you’re reading for research, shouldn’t the text grab you and pull you into the writer’s mindframe?

Personality is often a device used by socialites of digital media, the fabricated aesthetic discovered over the evolution of their thoughts and hopes (when applied to the friendship arena (the battleground where each speaks over the another and fights for maximum exposure) and tested for kitsch factor) that somehow dictates their behavior and forces patterns of mediocrity.

Is that personality or programmed popularity? It’s obviously not organic.

Organic is an artichoke struggling to gather enough nutrients from the sandy soil without so much as a drop of rain for five straight days.


Hello, trusty readers!

I would just like to take a moment to acknowledge your greatness.

I mean it, really!

Don’t be so humble, it takes a lot of patience to put up with my sporadic posting and sometimes avantgarde, unintelligible writing.

I appreciate every single one of you, and it warms my heart to know that you’ve made a connection to my work, regardless of how or when.

If I’m going to be in the business of writing, I need to stay true to myself and trust that intelligent readers will decide for themselves what they like to read.

Thank you again, folks.
If you have friends who would appreciate this site, please don’t be afraid to suggest they check it out.

If you have to describe to them what it’s about, just say it’s a goofy guy putting words together. You’ll know from that moment whether or not they’re interested.

Cheers all, happy 70!
I guess the next landmark would be 100.


Sunday Sermon

Create an image with no prior knowledge and you feel the vibrance of your purest thoughts. What good is research for innate ideas? To compare yours with others? For what purpose? We’re all tuned for our own world filters, and inferring conclusions from differing views only serves to separate and dilute experiences.

If you truly wish to create, you begin with your inner image. You don’t look at your predecessors when you’re about to make something. Do you think that’s how they did it? Perhaps to understand the breadth of the craft and better utilize the medium, but not to create their own unprecedented works.

Trust your intuition and connection with whatever it is that you like to call your inspiration / muse / God. You know what feels right for your method and execution. Pursue it.

Defense of Dialogue

What is implied within a statement / a volley of statements can be richer than the content itself.

Context enlightens content as the author provides consent to their private convent.

Exposition need not occur to fill in the gaps.

Imagination is man’s most powerful tool, has been for a long time.

The Overwhelming Supposition

The overwhelming supposition stands as an indefinite struggle, though melodrama does nobody any good these days, save a few entertaining blips of stifled criticism met by indolent sarcasm and meaningless banter.

Is this the vast majority? I feel isolated by my critical thoughts; is there any use for constructive negativity anymore anyway? Seems most folks take personal offense, as though my evaluation were made to cause harm without offering a solution. Even if I weren’t to pony up a suggestion, would it be my place to exert my will and skill upon these hypothetical sad sacks? It really depends upon the level at which they operate in their daily existence.

The moral of the story is: never try.

Inspiration Shift

It’s rare that I post twice about myself without a poem. I could go through this site’s archives and try to prove just how rare it is (probably lower than 1%), but you’ll just have to take my word for it.

My inspiration used to be a sound; the beginning of the first word that unfolds into the second, forming a phrase and a mood. Then the piece would mature from that seedling.

Would I say that’s still my process? I believe I create the same way, just with more inhibitions. I don’t know what to call this hesitation, other than the overbearing feeling that writing poems is unproductive and won’t possibly get me any money.

The Corporation of America is really dragging on me. The ironic thing is that if I keep writing poems and remain prolific, I’ll feel more comfortable with my own process and find more excuses to create.

For right now, I notice that my inspiration ebbs and flows; I used to only need a spark of a syllable or a sharp image, but now I need an opener. I’ve actually scribbled down a good number of unused rock band names that I believe will be the inspiration for my next batch of poems.

The great thing about using these band names–I have titles for my poems! I don’t need to go fishing once I’ve finished writing a little jewel. That settles a bit of my tension.

Okay, enough venting. You’ve had enough.



Poetry Is Difficult

Poetry is difficult, and I understand that as well as anyone. I’m guilty of not reading the craft of condensed literary art– I’m too busy making my own. I don’t think that’s a crime, though I do feel as though I need a little push and pull in that reading and writing relationship (as it pertains to poetry).

As that thought rolls through my mind, I make another excuse for myself. To read one’s poetry is to peer into their psyche at that moment in time. Some poems have been dashed out and you can feel the emotion dripping from the page. Some are meticulously molded and caressed until they’ve become their own emotion, their own being. I appreciate it all, I truly do. So I’ve decided that since I’m a 22 year-old artist, my time is best spent inward and focused upon the constant reinforcement of my personal craft.

By this point, my early inspirations are solid. So now I must draw from that insane bird’s nest in my neocortex. This excuse placates me considerably. I will read poetry in time, when my own creations are living and breathing among the others in the community. An author only truly realizes his / her potential when their word babies are sent off to frolic in the playground with their peers. Then the responsibility shifts to maintaining a comfortable level of awareness; keeping an eye out in the neighborhood.

In summation, I will continue to write poems. Poems are fun, lovely, colorful, evocative, rhythmic, short, comical, universal, tragic, satirical, whatever you want them to be. They’re fucking brilliant, pardon my French. I’m a bubble in this world, and my poems still reside there. I’m grateful to my reader base (Yes, I’m talking to you!) for gracing my page with your presence. You are the reason I strive to create innovation and invent new language. You. I hope to speak with more of you in the future, to give my gifts to you.

I love this place called Earth, this unfolding forum of higher ambitions that won’t cease as long as we take our responsibilities as thinking beings seriously.


With Me?

I spent my educational life pursuing beauty for the sake of growth and maturation.
Now I enter the professional world, which seems to have simplified into the basic pursuit of survival.
I have to ground myself and convert the skills I gained from poetic thought and colorful patterns into profitable systems for comfortable living.
I have to compromise on several (if not many) of my steadfast principles in order to compete on the standard level of business.

So be it; I enjoyed a glut of time for ruminating and thinking, and the next logical step is doing.
I’ve been launched into the dog-eat-dog society from a nurturing upbringing, and not until I find my footing in this ever-morphing, needlessly challenging social structure can I fall back on my idea-based existence.

Now it’s just a matter of doing.
2013, are you with me?



2013 will be an odd year. It also contains every digit between 0 and 3. If you happen to be as oddly superstitious as I am, you understand where my fixation comes from. Uneven years have a way of putting me on edge, and I’m grateful to them for that. It’s time I light a fire under my ass.

Now, would I call this a New Year’s Resolution? Probably not. I’d rather call it a New Year’s Anxious Argument with Myself.

So self, here’s the gist of what I want me to do:

-write a helluva lot more poetry

-hone a short story factory in one of the lesser-used recesses of my brain

-seriously scout creative writing MA/MFA programs in Chicago

-submit submit submit

If I can carry out these tasks, my life will progress steadily and my fulfillment will rise considerably.

2012 was an even keel kind of year. Nobody was sure whether or not we’d be burning in a pit of hellfire by now, so they stuck to the program.

No more, people. Be adventurous. You hear me, self?


Rivulet 3

This drawing reminded me of a shrub or topiary. Then I realized my affinity for our leafy friends. I’m going to keep that idea in my head when I draw, so as to structure my compositions while remaining spontaneous.
If that makes sense.


Rivulet 2


I guess the drawing doesn’t always have to be framed perfectly so long as it’s able to be seen.
I take for granted the beauty of imperfection,
And I wish I had more patience with myself.
That being said, this is a big step.


New Energy

In the recent past I’ve considered myself a bit of a pen aficionado, always on the lookout for the magical utensil that will write and draw the ideal letters and lines every time. Now I believe I’ve found that pen, and it’s cheap enough that I’ll never be long without one (if I ever let my supply run so dangerously low). I dislike dropping brand names, but these pens will float my boat for a long time, so I figure I might as well let folks know (and since this is just a dinky personal blog without serious exposure, I think I won’t have too much of a guilty conscience about it). And considering the amount of time I’ve let this build up, now the pen won’t be nearly as cool as I’ve let on (which is what I was trying to do in the first place). My mystical utensil is nothing more than a Uni-ball Jetstream RT 1.0mm. It’s smooth and consistent and doesn’t smear and writes straight lines and has an excellent hand-feel. There’s really nothing more I could ask for in a pen.

Now that I have that branding drudgery out of the way, I can impart to you just what my life embodies since completing my treasure hunt. I have a unified source for my creativity: a box full of a dozen of these buggers. They’ve been regulated in the market to sell for no more than 3 bucks per pen, and each pen has an identical action and lifespan that regulates my own process.

I will invariably leave pens in several different locations, just so I can remember that each of those locations is a spot where creation happens. I won’t have to worry about which pen I’ll be using that time, because I’ll know exactly what line to expect. This will free me from qualifying my work as a product of different media.

My work has always been pen on paper.

Now my work will always be this pen on paper.

I move forward in a straight line with a single source,
just as a painter finds his brush and oils and canvas.
I’ve always wanted my craft to be simpler than that.
A blank sheet and a sharp ink are as close to perfection as I’ve ever seen.

Thanks for reading.


Life and Blog Update: Drawings!

Why do I draw like that? I suppose it started as a compulsion, then quickly morphed into a craft, something I felt proficient at doing. Then I realized that most other people I’ve met cannot do what I’ve done with pens and paper, so I’ve decided to stick with this medium for posterity, to mark my progress through my life. I doubt pens will go out of style. We’ll probably have to adjust to synthetic paper not too far in the future, but I think it’ll work out all right. I’m crossing my fingers, at least.

So keep coming back to check out my drawings! I’m still working on uploading the drawings in my hard drive, but soon I’ll have to grab my sketchbooks (all umpteen of them) and scan to my heart’s content.

Cheers! Happy Tuesday!


Here’s to a Better Tomorrow

The blank page intimidates even the sturdiest stalwart of the written word, and I am no exception. I always have some kind of phrase rolling through my head, and a majority of those would be good to record and expound upon, but I rarely have the energy or simple chutzpah to begin that act. I don’t know quite why, honestly, because every effort in this field effectively solidifies my place in the writing world amongst other people with whom I would love to someday meet and swap ideas.

Can you imagine a world where transportation were not an issue, and everybody can be close to everybody else at the drop of a hat? I know it’s coming soon, and I’m wagging my tail. Whenever I make social plans of any kind, the foremost question in my head is usually: “How far do I have to travel, and will it be worth the time?” It’s not that I doubt the sociability of my friends, I would just prefer not to exert so much energy in order to cross their thresholds when I could be sitting and writing with a mug of green tea.

I hope to see the written word become the closest equivalent to currency as my life progresses and our world becomes ever closer to enlightenment. No, I’m not too much of an optimist to think that everybody can eventually work on the same ideas and goals for a peaceful and virtuous world of sharing ideas and things with everybody else. I really do believe in this race, and if we get rid of the root of all that is evil (corruption and greed stemming from applied monetary value to chunks of ore and ground tree pulp), we’ll make a huge step in the right direction for people to grow regardless of location, color, beliefs, sexual orientation or ANYTHING else.

Two Kinds of Poems

In my writing and reading experience, there seem to be two main schools of poetic operation.

The first combines extensive research and unwavering editing, always intently paring down the product to the point where it may become unrecognizable from the initial idea, and usually the result of all that work is a beautiful nugget that makes readers scratch their heads in wonderment.

The second is an organic process in which an idea may have been conceived before writing, but every word put down holds a new possibility for the very next word, and the process continues until the writer feels the image or message has been achieved. This method takes much less time, and in many ways meets or exceeds the quality of the researching and agonizing.

I prefer to write in the second style, but if I get a must-write idea that requires further thought, I’ll be voracious in my research and try for a polished product.

How can you not love poetry?!

Just Keep Typing: Pt. 3

If I take a pill and expect to fall asleep, will I doze off even if it’s just a placebo? Perhaps I will, assuming I’m unaware of its sugary nature, if I can convince myself that sleeping is in my best interest at that point. How long I sleep is a different question, and if I’m a part of a sleep-aid study, maybe my ability to fall asleep on command will corrupt the data recorded, though hopefully the fraudulent results of one person’s participation won’t harm the overall value of the patients without my wizardly capabilities. But you know what? Screw ’em, I don’t really give a rat’s ass as long as they give me my five hundred bucks. I’ve been yearning for an iPad for a couple years now, and if swallowing some pills will get it for me, I don’t care how long I end up urinating blood. It doesn’t hurt, does it? I imagine it’s just in the urine as a result of faulty processing or something. Is it actually internal bleeding that drains itself through the bladder? Wow, I have to pee really bad.

Just Keep Typing: Pt. 2

So let’s assume that the dominant force in the universe is the desire to do good and that everything under its jurisdiction had the altruism to do the right thing every single time. Would existence be nearly as interesting as it stands today, the way the universe ultimately panned out, and since the universe did turn out this way, was there any other possible way for it to have turned out? Of course there is always that possibility to ponder, but is there really any reason to? It gets the brain going, sure, but is there a fundamental reason to stimulate your mind if all the thoughts will just end up polluting your head because they come up with impossible situations which you then convince yourself are possible, simply because you’ve gone through the act of thinking about them? That all sounds like a mental disorder, but we all do the same shit to ourselves, and the way we mess ourselves up becomes apparent as we deal with the other people in our surroundings, because we begin to project our insecurities and ignorance to everybody with whom we speak, and those people then have the choice of either dismissing it as bullshit, considering it carefully and making an informed decision, or jumping on board with it at the tip of a hat. There are many people from all three groups, and I think it’s terrifying that there are so many millions of people in that third group, because you never know what kind of whackjob will come up out of the sewer and spin a few phrases to get a strong following of fairly unintelligent people, which turns into a large mob of almost not unintelligible people that defends their creator’s ideas like they have rabies, and there’s nothing any sane person can do about it except point and laugh. When we speak, we always have an audience, be it ourself or even just the fact that when we talk we emit sound waves that bounce off of things and physically affect them (especially if they’re particularly concentrated and loud sound waves). When we speak, our field of existence shifts just enough to accommodate those words, a modification that may lead to infinite other possibilities for change–most likely none of those possibilities will come to mind, because we can’t actually see what our speech does to our surroundings; we can only see what happens after we let loose, and we often think of any connection between the speech and what comes directly after as completely circumstantial (which it is, because of the circumstance of our changing our plane of existence with some words), and then, therefore, everything is random because we cannot see the direct cause and effect of over 99% of everything (the >1% being those strange coincidental stories you’ve heard your friends tell dozens of times over the years). Can we alter our perception and see things more clearly? Well, shamans have been tripping on shrooms, peyote and salvia for thousands of years, so there’s a basis for that school of thought, but every civilization manages to find a different meaning for what happens when you enter that state. Is it a spiritual realm? Is it a merging of adjacent dimensions into a psychedelic blending and patterning of our surroundings? Nobody has been able to reach a firm consensus, though neuroscientists have been able to pinpoint the stimulated parts of the tripping brain (from which they can probably deduce why we feel the way we do when we enter these spaces, but not what the spaces are). I think that since we still consume these psychedelic mind-enhancers, there must be a lingering sense of magic from those ancient times when many things were inexplicable (and most of those things were then called magical, for lack of a better reality), and no matter what kind of technology we may develop, there will always be a strong pull towards the organic experience of ecstasy and colorful visions, because when you boil it down to the history of human interaction with Earth, the things we use in our modern technology has been relatively inaccessible for the majority of our existence, made of things like aluminum and plastic, while hallucinogenic drugs have always been organic, edible and available to us, affecting the human lifestyle for an extended period of time. Since we have the capacity to grow such a fondness for a kind of plant, perhaps we will develop an affinity for technological materials, and our bodies will slowly integrate more metals into them and perhaps run more efficiently than the older models. Whether or not we’ll have had any say in these changes is irrelevant, because I really don’t care about some postulation of the future that I know has a chance of happening, but it’s so inaccessible to me and the rest of this generation that I’ve pushed the thought out of my head altogether.

Just Keep Typing: Pt. 1

What is the topic du jour? I’ve heard so many clever ideas brought up in the past week that I don’t think there can be a genuinely good thought for another week or so, because the cosmos need to recharge after such bursts of creativity. It ain’t easy being a seemingly random assortment of gases, solids, liquids and plasmas (which are pretty rare, aside from televisions and blood banks). Is there mercy on the grandest of scales for the smallest of mistakes? Is it possible to calculate the difference of an inch from over a billion light years away? There will always be questions that seem unfathomable or even stupid to us humans, either because we’re seemingly too intelligent to even ponder such things or because we lack the proper attention spans to give a complex yet stupefyingly easy question the proper consideration. To think of how small we truly are in the scale of what we know as the universe, and then to scale it down to the size of an insect… there is no average size for anything. The environment breeds everything inside its parameters, because otherwise something would be thrown off balance and another change would be made to offset it. Of course, this process could take centuries, millennia, millions or even billions of years, and we have to let old school evolution take care of the job for us, unless we have devised a way to artificially speed up the process. We come across as impatient, don’t we? The faster we get results, the faster we want results a second time. Once we experience something that rewarding, something in our brains tells us that we can do better, and we constantly work to break our last records, regardless of how little the improvement is. If we still had horse and carriage technology in the first world, we would have to settle for journeys across state lines instead of simple commutes, but we would accept it and plan our lives accordingly. Modernity speeds things up while creating a dependency. The bible thumpers tell us this in the basic template: “Sin will grab hold of you when you try to fill that hole in your heart that only God can fill.” Not just any God, mind you. You need a Judeo-Christian God in order to properly fill your heart. Now that we’ve become a global community, isn’t it time for us to consolidate our faiths into one global religion? Since the whities have kept their churches on top for so long, they’re definitely in the running for keeping their religion, but perhaps if all the brown people embraced a common faith, they could finally end the land-grabbing entity known as Christianity. This would take a few generations, and possibly wouldn’t reach a happy conclusion within a five hundred year span, with bloody wars and endless propaganda on every corner of the globe’s shrinking landmass. By that time, the extremist liberals on the east and west coasts of the US will have drowned from the rising sea level, and perhaps the good folks from the landlocked part of our fine nation will step up and defend their inherent rights as God-fearing white people. Their audience will be as small as ever, but they won’t care because they can only think about one thing at a time, and their pursuit of a completely Christian world leaves them virtually no memory in their brain to contemplate who would actually listen to their rhetorical bullshit. As a matter of fact, they probably wouldn’t even think about figuring out what rhetorical means, because they take every statement at face value, unaware that sarcasm or innuendo even exist. To harp on a milder note, however, American football should receive a large boost in ratings because of its affinity with conservative white people, and country music would become its own art form (which would make it even easier to completely dismiss, because it’d be all conveniently smushed together into one place, not touching anything else with its grubby paws, thank God). All of these things bank on the notion that our future will be based upon Earth. Maybe by that time we will have overpopulated the planet so much that Soylent Green isn’t even a viable option anymore, and we begin to eject people into space if they commit crimes (which would actually be a huge boon to the prison system, becase the flow of jailbirds would be much lighter, and the ones who end up in prison wouldn’t be so bad anyway, because the really bad ones have already been shot into space). Perhaps we’ll have come up with a method for transporting humans safely at near the speed of light, and trips to Mars will be commonplace, even necessary, as the red planet becomes the solar system’s Ellis Island. People will be forced to change their last names to fit in with the Martian crowd. The general rule for Mars dialect is to pronounce every ‘e’ in its hardest sense, like in cheese or feel, so there would be a lot of names ending in that sound (Julie, Donny, Abercrombie, etc.). Will we need a new constitution for our new planet? Will we be able to terraform it enough for us to be able to stand on its surface without an oxygen tank? Will there be entire cities consisting of one race or one family (like when the mob owns a city and nobody questions that fact except for the new alderman from out of town who understands the situation but still pushes his ethics upon the mob with negative results)? All of these questions will be answerable within my grandkids’ lifetimes. How do I know this? Well, based upon the current technological trends, by 2050 we’ll have figured out a way to manipulate our DNA so much that we can transform into anything we want at the press of a button (with a really cool device that holds the complete DNA sequences for every living thing), and by 2100 there is the possibility that anybody with some cash can purchase a simple clone to do work around the house. How the hell would we not be able to go to Mars with that kind of stuff happening? The collective human race would smack its forehead if its space program progressed that slowly. Granted, there’s rarely enough money to adequately fund an acceleraring space program, and people are always bitching about how their kids need food and an education, but it’s a big key to our future to figure out how to go places really fast, because we’ve made a damn mess on Earth that we should run and hide from for a few million years so that the ecosystems that were there before our industrious ingenuity can thrive again and brace for another wave of insensitive, possession-driven lunatics. Hopefully by the time a few million years have rolled by, we humans (if we still exist or haven’t merged with any number of alien species) will have learned a thing or two about responsible planet ownership, and our actions will always include caution and thought. I’d like to say that’s probably how it’ll pan out, but there’s no way to know if we’ll ever become intelligent enough to become benevolent. There’s a certain point where a being loses its lust for things and sensations and realizes that it belongs to the universe, and its duty is to occupy space with its body while other bodies also occupy space, some of these bodies interacting with each other, but most moving away from each other in random directions, and everything that used to seem valuable or desirable washes out with every other speck of matter, because when you go small enough, it becomes very difficult to distinguish what matter really is, even to the point where you can’t be sure if our science got the heart of the matter when it was able to look that closely at things.

A Bell Tolls at Midnight

I am currently charged with the task of reading a great deal of John Donne’s poetry, and I will after I complete this post.

When I have something to do and I have not yet begun, I feel a shock of dread for the unknown, regardless of my measure of research or mental preparation. Before and after the shock I have a calm phase to buffer the existential dreariness of whatever I may find daunting, be it brushing my teeth or digesting four hundred year-old poetry. Responsibilities are responsibilities, no matter how small, and the only way to gauge the magnitude of each one is to run it through my head for a second or two. Sometimes the hardest things are simple tasks like writing a check, and the easier things are surprisingly difficult in comparison, like learning a Bach menuette. This subjectivity comes from my thoughts and relation to how I feel about the time I spend. There are only a few things I can do to trick myself into thinking that I’ve spent my time well, and they all have one thing in common: completion. Until something is completed, regardless of the degree of completion, I abhor the thought that it will take time to finish. This time could be spent contemplating nothing in particular, my favorite pastime.

When I contemplate nothing in particular, I often compare that activity with what most other people must be doing at the time, which is always anything other than contemplating nothing in particular. I then ask myself why it is that I revel in the idea of having no pertinent ideas to pursue, and I usually arrive at the idea of freedom. This, of course, is a paradox when I think of it, because I am not free from thinking about the things other people must be doing, which is definitely something in particular.

I suppose an amount of stress washes over me when I think of this, fearing that my time is not being well spent, because everybody else must be spending their time in a more productive manner. This is often what brews the shock into my psyche. I then assure myself that what I do in the realm of inaction is actually a productive activity in itself.

It is usually at that point that I begin to strive for images to write or concepts to unfold, and I take my consciousness to the forum of the senses. Sight and sound are favorites of mine, but smell, touch and taste are worthy stimuli as well.

I’ll see a tree in the night’s darkness lit by a lamppost, its bunches of rustling leaves ready to fall whenever the proper time comes. I’ll hear the scuffle of earthbound leaves on a hard surface and compare them to creatures with claws skittering along, their destination known only by the wind.

Oh, to sit and think about nothing leads to the contemplation of the reasons of things. Why do things happen the way they do? Why do people insist on doing things in their own frenetic tempi? Is there a reward other than the immediate gratification of completion? They say that altruism does not exist in its purest form, and to complete something means to seek approval of something or somebody.

When I write a poem, I often reach a point where I understand I’ve finished. Perhaps some point down the road I will begin to edit it and pick better words and less clunky punctuation and syntax, but in the moment of synthesis, I understand the completion of the concept of the piece, and that makes me feel accomplished, because I have successfully encapsulated a thought–or perhaps several thoughts, depending on my ambition at the time.

It is at that point that I begin to consider the reader of the piece. I do not have a large audience as some authors do, and I often reel in envy because of that. The idea of being a published author has so many benefits, though I think only of the validation that a piece of writing receives when a complete stranger can read it and pass their own judgment. The money from a publication is a wonderful addition, and I will admit that I relish the idea of paying off loans and perhaps securing a bit of my future with a roof over my head and good food to eat, especially because these things will allow me to pursue my craft with more vigor and confidence in my ability to communicate through the English language.

Early, Early Morning

Staying up late has a certain intrigue associated with it, and I often can’t resist the idea of being active in the wee small hours of the morning. At the time of the decision, I rationalize my choice to be of sound judgment because I feel like a million bucks and would prefer not to lie down and attempt relaxation of the mind and body. There are times where I would honestly prefer to engage my mind for a lot longer than my body had anticipated for that day, and this becomes obvious in the morning.
The most rewarding part of late waking is the affordable creativity associated with free time. I can write whatever I want because I know the effort will be genuinely creative and conceived completely unencumbered by time’s sequential nonsense. Speaking of the nonsense afforded by excessive sleep evasion, I shall spin a yarn, which is forthcoming quite soon. Now, in fact.

Twelve Morrow Gates begin sacrificial rites towards an indifferent god of emaciation, who pities the well-fed prisoners-turned-lambs’ existence, their experience among their superstitious captors showing a severe gap between the rich and poor, tycoons and paupers, megalomaniacs and penny pinchers. Exactly the purpose of these sacrifices has yet to be seen by respectable anthropologists, though the second tier of experts find the ceremonies to be completely superficial, often times equalling the thrill of a sporting match (which also often ends in sacrifice). This society of death toll for fun depicts the danger which each civilization inevitably faces, though most shun as barbaric. The few who adopt the vulgar practices tend to have diets lacking in protein, and the sacrifice illustrates their extreme bloodthirst (if not for other people, then for a big ol’ steak). Sacrifice appears to be a custom of the more ancient civilizations, but if the cycle of time tells us anything, there is likely to be another group of tyrannical overlords who deem ritually contained bloodshed a viable option for regaining credibility in the public eye.