future to the back

Remember back when you were a teenager, listening to Nirvana in your ratted old jeans and wishing you could pen provacative lyrics like Kurt Cobain did? Just to express your contempt for the world you lived in and wanting to be "cool' and "different" through your creativity?

Well, I certainly did.

Earlier today I decided to poke around some old CD-Rs and USB keys to see if I could scavenge or come across something interesting from the past. Behold! My attempts were successful as I salvaged a long forgotten folder marked "Personal" with contents back from 1998. Like, thirteen years ago.

In it, I found quaint, archelogical mind treasures that had me shaking my head in disgust, wonderment and pride.

In here, I'll be sharing what we all attempted at some point --

Bad poetry.

Let the first contestant step up to bid... An entry titled "tray agitation".

Her face was painted with blue, her body left to drain

The green grass soaking into her and leaving a stain

despite her fury, she still felt no pain

for she was lost, and denied what she should gain

the vortex happenned again and again

innocence mixed with a touch of defecation

she did know her right to perfection

and so she lay down bleeding agitation

for her nocturnal life was anything but true

she lived in a shell, trying to eschew

she had soul doubt, which she tried to disavow

and her hands clenced at a sycthe, and proceeded to sow.

At least it rhymes. Right? Next up, is one I had called "Darkness". Undoubtedly influenced by my Nirvana/Nine Inch Nails fanaticism at the time.

Darkness

your brother told me lies

about which way the pretty bird flies

it dives into the river and captures a fish

granting me that one last fateful wish

your mouth filled with open sores

kisses my organ like a common whore

blashempous surprises abound

I know not where your true love may be found

ambiguity, your face is full of it

fearing my soul to your dark blue pits

in between the devil and the ocean

lies the extent of your black sin

like a melting glacier inside your heart

my tears come washing all over your feet

then I saw your face come peeling apart

the blood dripping down from your raw meat

Riverz of hate, streams of longing

the fire, and the water, the grass and the firs

mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers

observe! the skeleton wishes to speak a word

and that word is "darkness" unlike you ever heard

This poem may sound untrue, it could seem like a game

it may be contrived, yet the meaning is all the same

unite all ye people who have closed their eyes

and see the beauty where the brown dirt lies

OBSERVE! The skeleton wishes to speak a word! Haha.. You know, for someone completely unprofessional and penning this when he was around fifteen years old; some of this stuff isn't half bad. I especially liked the ending, and the entire poem conveys a melodic tone in of itself. Sure, what's being said isn't all that poignant and relevant to the subject; but the earnestness and adherence to meter is really quite impressive for me.

Evil ==

Evil has its many forms

it could live inside your mother

it could breed itself into your father

it may be inside the old lady across the street

it possibly is in your girlfriend's petri dish brain

it might be holding a conversation with your children

it is right now looking at you

evil has its many forms

end

Hmm, this probably came from around the time I was a huge Marilyn Manson fan. One thing I sure picked up from him, was that evil can be interpreted to mean ignorance, and this is sort of what I am alluding to with this poem. Also, watching Blue Velvet at around that impressible phase likely didn't help.

The Mating of the Fishwife ==

A Smile, A Glance, Turned Into Friendship

Blossomed into love. The mating of the fishwife

was about to begin, she knocked on her carefully

made wooden door, and opened it to reveal the

man that would infest her crotch with his lust.

fin

I gotta say, huh. The first line reminds me of something I once saw in a television commercial. But, there is something interesting to this particular piece. The fishwife, with delusions of finding love, crafted something behind a door that would satisfy her yearnings for intimacy. Why the fuck would a pimply faced sixteen year old write about something like this? But then again, I really liked the mysterious metaphor that presents itself from "she knocked on her carefully made wooden door...". I don't think I had any particular inspiration to write something like this, other than letting thoughts flow freely from my fingers.

Lord Hear Our Prayers ==

Running their lives is no easy task

It's a fucking chore

Having to take care of them

Feed them

Clothe Them

Administer their daily dose of delusions

It's hard to be a good father

When your children are in numbers of over 5 billion

Each and every one has to be carefully attended to

The rich, the poor, the starving, the nourished

It was way easier when I first started with only two

I know naught of a single limit

That can restrict my control

But five billion?

It's impossible I just can't do it

So I gave up

And decided it would be easier to randomly skip across all the bodies

Playing my mind's game with their pathetic existance

The beings I have so lovingly created

Are now worth to me just as much as dirt

I love fucking with their heads

Fear me, for I am God

And I am bored.

-dk

This particular one, besides the misspelling of 'existance" is pretty close to any raw idea I might come across these days. I had been thinking about attempting a story that dealt with the possibility of God returning to Earth one day and is pissed off. This "poem" is packed with peripheral information. It describes a being originally thought to be benevolent in nature, but is revealed to be a cynical, possibly hateful being. It is entirely plausible that a great intelligence has the capacity to tire of it's creations or to experience boredom. It's exactly why I'm adopting the Agnostic tag on my religious views these days. One can never quite know the mind of God until they meet Him face to face. And even then, it may simply not be possible to relate to such a profound and alien force of thinking.

Michelle in Gloom ==

You May Not Know Who This Might Be

But Your Smile Cheered My Soul

Like A Ray Of Sunshine On A Dying Rose

When You Frowned

My Heart Snapped In Two ...

This is about what could have been but never was

A fading memory of my fading cause

I was a dying rose, just waiting for you to make me bloom

Yet it never happenned, and now my life is filled with gloom

They say love never dies

And I don't think I'd forget you

Please believe me, these aren't lies

Cuz now I'm drowning in my sea of blue

Sighs. Teenage angst nuturing a brokem heart, which upon present-day reflection; is something I roll my eyes at. Given that I've had my heart broken much worse, it gives me less appreciation for it's supposed earnestness. Although, to my credit I've only ever told three people that I loved them. One of these is my mother, the other was my first girlfriend. Michelle. So, it's understandable how young love can excite me to this level of naive romanticism.

Take a gander at my attempt with free-verse, stream of consciousness writing. It's a bit of a gas to read.

This fire churned passion of desire sweeps across the heart like a sharpened scythe, sowing forth blossoms of love drenched with the infinite universe of night clothed with the glory of the Lord. it is with this love that the grass gently blows back and forth, a field of poppies peek forth from behind their petals. To cross the boundaries of Time and Space is but such an easy feat whenever I am with you, you in my arms, your chest against my pounding heart, your lips of fire brushing against mine, to experience mortal divinity in a single kiss of heartfelt passion. I love you with all my being, my body, my mind and soul. In the years to come, I shall look back on your love as my blood, my life, my love... And when I shall rest finally upon my deathbed, when I am finally spent and my time has come, when the lord shall grant me but a few seconds for me on this Earth, I shall look deeply into your eyes and tell you that I love you, so very much that I will continue to do so when my body has expired and I rest my soul in the great father's palms, looking down at you with a smile so vastly infinite and loving that you would be able to feel it even across into the living world, because I will always be with you, if not in body, then in spirit.

Now as I wander down the river, inhaling the scent of the wind, and imagining your palm pressed against mine, I see a daisy, the only daisy, on the right side of the path I am on. I call it Michelle, and I gently hold it in my hand, stroking the petals which is your hair, running my fingers along it's stem and thinking of your lovely body, and finally I kiss it deeply with such passion that the flower, which has not completly bloomed yet, grows into the most loveliest flower imaginable.

I feel as if I am in heaven when our lips meet, I can almost feel the tip of an angel's wing brushing against the side of my face instead of your hair. Colour me blind and I could swear we are on clouds in a place far far from reality whenever we close our eyes togethor and dream.

Well, wow. Wow.. Uhm, words fail me in providing with any meaningful commentary on this. I guess, I was much more naive than I once thought. It's stream-of-consciousness though, so I think it's only fair to grant me a bit of slack knowing that I wasn't correcting anything of what was coming out of my thoughts.

I don't know if I loved Michelle THAT much, is what I'm apologizing to my past self for.

Sybaritic denizens of a shallow complexity: act one ==

the bonaparte thrashing within

sycophants meandering on the stairs of greed

eyes sewn shut, arms raised towards the sun

climbing on faceless human ladders

emptying pockets of refuse and hatred

spraying their excretment to the bottom

sybaritic denziens of a shallow complexity

always bath in their own terrorism

when they take the seat of obloquy

and chalk up their numbers in cold blood

First off, I love it when new words inspire me to write. Sybaritic, sycophants and obloquy.. Wow.. It does sort of look like I even understand what these words mean at the time.

Sybaritic = Fond of sensuous luxury or pleasure; self-indulgent.

Sycophant = A servile flatterer; a person who acts obsequiously towards someone in order to gain advantage.

Obsequious (heh) = Obedient or attentive to an excessive or servile degree.

Obloquy = Strong public criticism or verbal abuse.

Some of the imagery in that one was kind of interesting I thought. Human ladders and slinging excrement below them? Win!

It's not all just doom n' gloom and "woe is me, I got pubes now" pretentious teenage angst, but there are always happy days around the corner. Here's one proof of that.

I called it, "The Future".

When cherished memories are deprived

one becomes desperate

longing for a fragment of the past

priceless, rich, deep colors

of every shade

all in the drop of a tear

a milestone to be loved

with heartfelt compassion

an experience to learn from

unique in every way

a part of a long forgotten dream

like the remains of a smoldering fire

forever captured in your mind

serenity, like no other

it only happens once

but it is rendered immortal

reflected on your soul

forever

-dk97

Well, maybe not so "happy" are the days ahead of me, I once thought. But rather, the importance of acknowledging the present. That the future holds regret only in proportion to the sad memories we create today. Always look ahead, but at the same time, remember the past.

Live in the now.

... It's been a trip looking through these old poems and artistic accomplishments. It really gives me perspective to gauge my emotional development from that point up until now. I am certainly less guillible, naive and overly-sensitive these days. I tend to watch what I say, even in private until I can express what I'm feeling in the clearest, possible way. At least, that's what I've been aspiring towards. Achieving a more authentic version of myself, rather than the hypersensitive, melodramatic narcissist I once was.

I wish I had these last fifteen years back to do it all over again. But with the knowledge I have today.

I could've done so much differently.

Buying stock in Amazon.com would've been one of them. 

balancing act

Balance is absolutely crucial if an individual wishes to achieve his or her’s fullest potential as a spiritual being, worthy of God’s acknowledgement.

This means that we cannot possibly curtail all of our baser needs and desires. We also should not endeavor to eliminate emotions that are perceived to be destructive or anti-thetical to the furthering of one’s development. For one cannot perceive darkness if the sun shines continuously.

This juxtaposition of morality is an essential building block in getting to understand the nature and complexity of eternal truths such as justice, morality, love, despair, hope, hate, greed, lust, and so forth.

The true sinner is one who does not feel remorse by his actions, or chooses simply not to dwell on such matters. This is the true crime for which we must pay penance.

To be ignorant, is to disrespect our humanity. It impedes spiritual enrichment.

This is why self-awareness is the first attribute any seeker of truth must endeavor to develop. Knowing how one’s mind reacts to adverse testimony or situations that inspire strong emotions; is as important a step towards God as would a child speaking their first words.

One cannot learn by becoming ignorant. All things must be considered. No doors shall remain locked to a seeker of truth. No flags must be waved.

And of this greater awareness of self, shall come humility.

One must never presume their personal philosophy to triumph over any other man’s set of beliefs. For the truth often resides in contradiction, and to the untrained eye -- it can be skimmed over with unintentional carelessness on the part of the student.

What one man describes in direct observation of a known phenonmea; another may choose much different words or phrases to convey the exact same meaning. Others may simply choose to disregard a description at all, conceding that such an attempt cannot be done adequately through words alone.

We all have our ways of analyzing the world before us. Some may use logic as a rule of thumb, others rely upon their intuition. Certain people favor an aggregation of popular opinion; fewer still, choose not to speculate at all.

In whatever method is used to apply a greater understanding of the world around us; balance must always be paramount to one’s study of ontological matters.

Consider perception as being a series of posts joined together by long, wooden boards. A psychic fence constructed for the purpose of containing a theory or belief. We divide information into chunks that are corralled into pastures that complement whatever new discovery we’ve learned. The desire to close off these new ideas by refusing to analyze contradictory information -- is tempting because we are creatures of habit. We often do not care to incorporate ideas that threaten to unravel the certainty gleaned from our years of experience and learning.

Yet, for an individual to move forward and evolve, he/she must know that the truth is an elusive animal. It cannot be captured and made to languish under the carelessness of the thinker. Truth is a flexible and extremely difficult concept for one’s mind to properly comprehend. The infinite wisdom the exists within the universe, shall never be completely assimilated inside of any one brain.

Seeking the truth means walking a path that twists, turns and doubles back on itself, only to lead to a fork in a road that may eliminate all ideology that has come before it. Truth is ever-changing and what one may perceive as down, may actually be up.

In addition to balance, self-awareness and humility; comes a forth essential attribute.

Compassion. One cannot learn from this life without empathy, respect and an understanding of other people. Genuine compassion comes from a desire to listen without judgment, to become sympathetic to one’s situation and being willing to offer assistance whenever need is demonstrated for such.

If one’s mind is like a garden where seeds of ideas are planted and weeds removed over the course of living; then compassion can be thought of in much the same way. It is the pollination that occurs between us which is responsible for the state of the world in which we live. Compassion is a sympathetic form of empathy who’s underlying motive is simply to further the betterment of mankind. And oneself.

With compassion also comes tolerance, the ability to not become emotionally affected or feel threatened by opposing doctrines. This is the armor one must wear in pursuit of knowledge.

Ultimately, to align ourselves with reality; we must pursue wisdom acquired from both ends of the spectrum. Good and bad. These experiences contribute immensely to a fundamental understanding of human nature and it's weaknesses. One cannot sympathize with a womanizer, if he/she is a chaste virgin -- and vice versa. People need to see what exists on both sides of the fence before they are qualified to speak in favour of, or against the lifestyle in question.

Once all the facts have been assimilated, we will then achieve balance.

mindfulness.. it's whats for dinner

The swirl of everyday thoughts in my head hatched forth a series of interesting statements that I feel compelled to think about.

One, is that we must start each day of our life with a set of rules and thoughts to abide by. This gives purpose, stability and develops virtue.

Two, pride is a delicate quality that must never be taken for granted. When you are proud of what you do, there is joy just in feeling that. However, whenever you are compelled to discuss a particular achievement to as many ears as you are able to grab -- then it is no longer pride, but vanity.

Three, the wise man knows nothing. A restatement of something I had said in an earlier post.

Four, superiority whether spiritually, financially, physically or by perceived virtue -- is again, an expression of vanity.

Five, enlightenment is an egotistical journey fraught with the temptations listed above.

Six, contentment is the only goal worth pursuing.

Seven, self-awareness is the most crucial attribute of all.

.. And, that's my brain dump right there. Part of what got me to thinking about all that, was the mood I was in at work. I was feeling happy, and it lead to cockiness, which made me a bit arrogant, and so forth.. This evolution and perversion of happiness prompted me to pause several times and remind myself of the importance of restraint.

One of the things I have learned many years ago, is that restraining your jubilation will sweeten your sense of humility and joy. Rather than expend your energy expressing the excitement of living, containing it however, will cause your body and mind to expend it inwardly.

That has been my experience with such an approach, of course. In a way, it feels a lot like putting your emotions into a pressure cooker. It will tenderize and flavour your soul in ways you can't imagine, but at the same time -- you must be mindful and wary of letting this trapped energy burst apart your seams. Because an outlet is definetely needed.

I found creative endeavours to be the ideal place to expend this excess. During the five or six months I have been consciously restraining myself (each morning I would force self-awareness of being grateful for another day of being alive) -- I noticed that music became more enjoyable. Conversations more profound. Purpose more defined. In short, it was a type of paradise within myself having low expectations and being undemanding each and every minute my eyes were open.

Though, the conditions for such an experiment involved my being unemployed for those months, I am convinced there must be a way to duplicate such results even among the stress of working full time, keeping a clean home, honouring family commitments and maintaining a social life.

It's not impossible. But.. mindfulness.. self-awareness..

Is so important.

an imaginative segue

Having come from a short nap, I awakened with a sharp awareness of moments in dreaming where one scene shifts to the next. Let me explain, because this is an unusual discovery for me.

Normally when we dream, we often dream of something with a single narrative. While multiple-dreams often occur over the same night, we aren't usually aware (at least I haven't been) of the junction between dream #1, dream #2 and so on. What triggers that critical moment where you stop dreaming about having sex with Megan Fox and embark on a secret agent mission (which later involves sleeping with someone else, of course)? What causes the split?

To recap, here is everything that I remembered. Interestingly, I'm unable to figure out any motive or reason behind any of it. Usually dreams are deep metaphors, and perhaps I am not being as analytical about it as I could be.

Here goes. I kick things off by assuming the persona of the main character in the newest video game "L.A. Noire". Which I don't own, I must add. The main character in that title, is a goody two-shoes, no-nonsense "Imma clean up this town" detective. Which is the role I assumed.

At first, I found myself being followed by foot down the hills of San Francisco with three men in tow, spaced exactly apart by three or four feet in a neat, tidy row. Approaching some area caused the "caution" meter to go up, indicating that my paranoia was going to expose myself to the risk of being fingered for a detective. Which is apparently a bad thing in this crime-riddled city.

My destination was a scene in which a murder is about to take place, with me holding the smoking gun. A frame-up job, cooked up by a group of cigar smoking, nefarious businessmen with designs to eliminate anything that gets in the way of their illicit activities. Which included detectives, unfortunately.

But before I could reach this place, the three men following me vanished and a scene triggered in where I get involved in shooting my way to the murder scene. Looking rather dapper in a blue fedora and suit, I'm holding up a pistol and blasting away one by one at any pin-striped fool that gets in my way. KA POW! Down! KA POW! Next!

After a few of these, it begins to get gory with my discovery of having a "precision aim" ability where I could focus myself to the point that I could aim my gun along the bridge of the hoodlum's nose and plug him between the eyes.

A gory interlude follows as corpses pile up and the retro, 50s noir backdrops changed with each group of vanquished foes.

Then, like a video game, the enemy becomes progressively more difficult, until I reach one that seems impervious to bullets.

Ronald McDonald.

He looked exactly like the park bench likeness we've all seen at some point in our lives and in this dream, he sported a malevolent appearance, dodging and absorbing my firepower with ease.

He was also holding a drink with a straw in his hand. It certainly added insult to injury I'd say.

As I'm trying to figure out his weakness (maybe shoot him in the balls?), he gets paired up with an equally nefarious villian.

A smoking hot, big-breasted lady who's operative was to seduce me away from the carnage and thus, end the game.

Let me tell you, my rapturous audience. I came pretty damn close to putting down my sidearm when she appeared.

I guess my self-analysis on this is that I enjoy boobies more than violence, but hey this was to be a noble quest to eliminate the undesirable and criminal elements of my fair city.

As the seductress plied me with her wares, Ronald McDonald slurped away on his drink with a smile thinking I was done for as I meekly requested if I could just "look" at them. To which she cheerfully obliged and began to remove her shirt..

POOF! END OF DREAM ONE.

In this vision, I'm walking along a trail following the gal with the big hoo-has and I am no longer decked out in 50s regalia.

I'm in a park somewhere, holding hands with a small boy who I assumed to be my son; and to my left, a woman who I took as a depiction of my wife. We walked forward, trailing behind the boobied girl, who by the way, was masked from the eyes down at our initial encounter and is now unmasked to reveal a rather startling, serpetine face. Good thing I didn't "hit" that.

We walked this lady to her home, which was conveniently by a movie set that was being filmed in Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta, Canada. There was some motive of sympathy involved in this, as if we felt sorry for her.

Eventually in the distance, we spot a grand, blue house sitting in the middle of the field. In an area where no houses should exist, and this was apparently where a movie was being filmed. Starring.. omg.. wait for it...

Brad Pitt.

As my two companions excitedly took what they were seeing, I couldn't help but point out that I was here before and had already met some of the cast involved with this production.

"But not Brad Pitt" my wife chimed in.

"No. Obviously not him" I replied.

I gestured animatedly towards certain sights and explained how I'm sort of famous by association for having come across all this weeks before anyone else did.

My wife and child beamed with pride towards me during all this. We held hands and made our way forward. Marvelling at how realistically the set was designed.

Approaching the blue house, the background upon which it rested began to assume a very CGI feel. As if we were watching the movie playing before our eyes. What was once a green, grassy hill -- turned into snowy banks that people were skiing down.

Here is where the dream begins to shift, as while we are seeing all this, the surroundings warp and we found ourselves in a darkened theatre, staring at the screen with the house on it.

My son smiled and curled up next to me, resting his head on my shoulder while I positioned my right arm to better accomodate him.

On the left, my wife reached out a hand that I held gently.

And that's it.. I woke up.

But.. It's the segues that prompts me to blog about all this. How do they occur? Why?

I am trying to think of a reason as to what prompted my mind to go from being seduced to becoming a family man. There has to be an explanation for it. Did I achieve my initial objective? Or should I credit boredom and a lack of imagination for the L.A. Noire segment to converge into something else? I don't think it was boredom, as you can see it left off on a moment I would've liked to, uhm.. continue with. So what did it?

If this sounds like a waste of one's resources to consider, I would like to submit that I am personally very much fascinated by the mechanism of dreaming. It's apparent function and purpose are often debated about in the world today.

Do we dream as a way to create events so that our waking selves can be more capable of handling wild and (in this case) improbable situations should they occur in real life? Obviously this isn't true, though that is one theory I have heard.

Or is it something else? Whatever it is, it's interesting to think about. The segue is a key component of understanding the purpose of dreaming, I'm sure of it. Whatever prompted the change, might be a critical piece of the puzzle should I continue along with this particular debate I'm having.

I'll let you know once I figure things out.

Soon as I finish having sex with that big-breasted gal.

deep thoughts

Getting out of bed at 6:45 this morning, and late for work -- I started off feeling a thick cloud of resignation hanging about my person. On the commute, I began to perceive that it was a residual effect of what I wrote in my blog last.

It took me a full day's work to realize why I was feeling so melancholic. It wasn't the string of disappointing dates. It was something a little more upsetting.

I had let go of my purpose in life.

Namely, to work at finding someone to be with.

This kind of mini-epiphany brought back (ugh, here we go again) a memory involving my ex. After our final breakup, she insisted that I should let her go back to her sad, lonely life.

Apparently, I demanded too much of her. Which I disagree with to a certain extent.

But, in remembering that, I began to acknowledge the importance of spending time alone. To allow oneself to hit the bottom and to put focus back on personal development and growth.

It's a smart idea.

Yet only if you happen to be concerned with hitting the reboot switch on life and hoping to find yourself.

Perhaps, that is exactly what I need to do. Posting a consecutive entry like this, would not be possible had I went about my daily routine. I'd get home from work, fire up a cup of coffee and answer messages on OkCupid or wherever. That was a good hour and a half right there.

Now that I've disabled the accounts, I've gotten back that time.

And this is the result. An increased desire to contemplate my situation and blog about my thoughts on it.

I've always been an introverted person who needs to be left alone every once in a while so that I can have moments like this. To reflect and put together the pieces of who I am and what I want to be. When I'm getting inundated by messages and spending weekends going out with random girls; opportunities for quiet introspection are often hard to come by.

As a result, when I am not thinking enough about myself, I become crippled. Whenever my thoughts flow out to extraneous things, I'm diverting attention that could be better used elsewhere.

For instance, I have been a member of the Writer's Guild of Alberta for almost a month now and have yet to submit to them a story for evaluation, knowing that it's something I need to do.

But, the desire to send it out has never really reached the point of no return. Yet, isn't writing something that I deeply aspire towards doing for an eventual living? Why aren't I taking it seriously enough?

And the answer to that, is probably because I'm far too occupied with work, chores and people calling, texting and emailing me at all hours of the day. It almost feels like I'm losing a bit of myself each time I speak to someone. Like.. I've emptied the reservoir just a little more.

It's funny how my mind works sometimes. I get so much satisfaction from just sitting by myself near a lake with an iPod and a book at hand. It feels so rejuvenating to do stuff like that and I haven't been doing enough of it lately.

Perhaps that is partly responsible for this mood of emotional exhaustion I have been experiencing lately. I am simply not spending enough time on myself.

However, I have a plan. Yesterday I emailed Shaw Cable asking them to cancel my cable tv. Who needs that shit? A hundred some channels all peppered with redundant, brainless garbage (really, Man vs Food... again?) and I finally had enough of the temptation to flick on the one-eyed demon and gaze into it's cathode soul for hours on end.

Because it doesn't benefit me or my cause, in the slightest. Maybe it does allow me a brief respite from reality and the chance to put my finger on the cultural pulse of our world, but why should I be choosing this particular medium to accomplish those ends?

And should I really be hiding from reality in the first place?

Those are some of the things that I ponder on. With my chin resting on a pair of knuckles as I gaze out past my dusty window blinds into the dandelion infested back yard of mine.

Maybe.. happiness is a total submersion in reality. To accept that it doesn't hold the same allure as Dancing with the Stars or another episode of Destination Truth. That life is more complex, more opportunistic than simply staring at a screen.

And that's the way the cookie crumbles.

yesterday.. all my troubles seem so far away

Saturday.

Our hero gets out of bed at 11:30, still basking in the glow of being crowned Super Mega Awesome Poker Lord the night previous after winning 50k in a ten player tournament.

Fake money, of course. Otherwise I wouldn't be typing this.

So, yesterday was a date with Beverly whom I met on OkCupid and we were set to go to the zoo.

Only problem is, I am burnt out on online dating. I'm annoyed and frustrated at some of the girls that I've gone out with or have been messaged by. Look at who last messaged me, I mean.. Does she look like my type? You decide.

Do I really appeal to pudgy, East Indian women with huge boobs? Looking at her profile, I'm at a loss as to why she thinks we might hit things off. Girl, I'm white! Not to play the racial discrimination card, but really.. not only am I white, I'm skinnier than you and schooled in the decadent ways of Western civilization. There's no compatibility between us, save for the possibility that Lord Ganesha lives in my pants. Colour me ignorant on this, but I'd rather use the two hours of driving and having a drink/conversation to boost up a few levels in Call of Duty instead.

So, back to Beverly. She messaged me at a time when I was a hair away from closing my account. After a great date with Robyn the week before, where she later texted me saying "I don't think we would work out" and sending my notion of a "great date" out the window; I felt convinced that it was time to close shop.

But then, I did have this one girl left who seemed really eager to meet me. Despite my being brazen about how much the female species suck and that online dating favours guys with ripped abs and hare-brained profiles. For the girls, all they gotta do is lay back and watch the messages come in. Guys, however, have a much harder time of it given how fierce the competition is out there.

I told Beverly that I wasn't interested in dating anymore. And the only thing I might consider is "casual" which is a nice way of saying that I just want to be naked with someone one or two nights out of the week with zero responsibility and emotions involved. Of course, she wouldn't go for it, not that I was directly propositioning her, just sayin'.

She emailed me suggesting we do a trip to the zoo and I responded with agreeable indifference. I haven't been to the zoo in awhile, and if she wants to tag along, so be it. I didn't have any expectations going through my mind because I figured it was just going to be another disappointment.

How right I was.

Check this out:

(oops - she deleted her account. no picture available)

Anyways, Beverly looked decent. Despite her profile saying she's 5"11 and does Olympic Weightlifting. Again, my expectations were as low as they could go.

As I parked at the entrance, I texted her saying to watch out for a dorky looking guy with a hat and there she was.

Six feet tall and built like a fucking tank.

It wasn't even possible for me to cringe when I first saw her. I already had it in my head that this was going to be FAIL written in colourful flashing letters.

But it wasn't until I heard her talk that I realized why Beverly was having trouble finding a guy.

She IS a freakin guy! Her voice was something like Vin Diesel getting off a helium high and every time she spoke; people would turn to look at us. I'm sure most guys in this situation would turn around and leave, but hey, not me! After inspecting her for an Adam's apple (okay, she really wasn't a guy), I kind of had to laugh at how absurd this all was.

This was the perfect summation of my experience with dating online for the past few months.

Getting pictures of vaginas, boob shots, offers of casual sex, women who still live with their parents and don't own a vehicle, unattractive gals, ladies who aren't able to have any kind of a conversation beyond answering questions (those ones are brutal), promiscuous whores and so on.

In short, I don't know whether to laugh or cry at all this. I have spent half my life hoping to find the right girl and I tried so hard going out on as many different dates as possible with the most unlikeliest of people -- to see if anyone was worth pursuing.

I can tell you this. Not a single person was.

Just like Beverly.

We walked around a bit, shot the shit, had a few laughs and whatever. Despite knowing that I should feel rightfully embarrassed to be around this person, I didn't feel it in me to be disappointed. I was already prepared for that. There is no reason to be all high and mighty, thinking that I'm hot stuff while this poor girl is uncomfortable. No. I was as emotionally generous as I could be. This wasn't going to go anywhere, but that doesn't mean the whole experience should be awkward for the both of us.

As we chatted around her car afterwards, I was about to make my exit and jokingly pursed my lips at her.

Well, despite it being a mischievous gesture on my part, I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised that she planted a smooch on my face, which honestly felt quite nice to receive.

Leaving, I realized that it's always been my ego and expectations that has turned dating into such a chore. Thinking and hoping and wishing and praying for that "girl of my dreams" (tm) to somehow be around the next corner, just waiting for me to swoop her away in my scrawny arms. I mean, that's not what I should be doing. Putting pressure on myself..

Later on that evening, I felt for the first time -- a true platonic connection between myself and an attractive lady emerge. It occurred at Indigo, while I was browsing the graphic novel section and laughing at a compilation of romance comic books from the 50s.

The girl was short and cute with glasses and I simply asked what she thought about Scott Pilgrim. Because I genuinely can't figure out what's so great about the movie.

And then, a conversation emerged.

We talked about books, movies, the sexual appeal of the Twilight series, the Walking Dead, the viability of graphic novels as a medium vs straight-up novels, X-Men First Class, the Batman films, etc. It was this pleasant, twenty-minute exchange where I didn't have it in the back of my mind that I was talking just to get her number, or to ask her out.

I was living in the moment, enjoying the conversation and walking away once it tapered off after about twenty minutes or so. There was no, "want to go out sometime?" or attempts at steering the conversation towards a more flirtatious direction.

It was such a liberating experience. To be emotionally generous and not asking for anything in return.

But.. I do feel sad right now. I don't know what my future holds, despite Psychic Anna's suggestion that I stop focusing on relationships. Because..

I .. I really do want to be in love again. I want to make someone feel good. Someone I can come home to, who is waiting with open arms and a ready peck on the cheeks. Someone I can kick back and unload my thoughts on.. and to listen attentively to hers.

Someone I can curl up next to on a sofa and watch episode 7 of HBO's Game of Thrones with, rather than sitting by myself in bed alone, with a laptop resting on my stomach as I plan on doing after.

This isn't how I want to be spending my life.. but.. I can't whine about it. I tried my best as far as online dating goes. Maybe it's time to take a break from all this.

But.. I .. really think I deserve better.

And thoughts of Lauren mock me on a daily basis once more.

God.

I am such a punching bag.

getting there...

I hope I've gotten this figured out. Tonight, I would write! Damn the plot! Here is an excerpt of what I am experimenting with at the moment. It's quite an experiment, given that I've hit the 10,000 words milestone with this.

A bit of backstory.

I originally wrote this for a lark. Having a cool idea about a guy in prison who may not be the person that people think he is... I didn't take into consideration how it would all come together, but tonight -- after revisiting this particular piece; I tacked on an extra page and came up with this. Mind you, it's just the first draft and it's frickin' .. almost midnight when I really should be getting my lunch made for work tomorrow that I have to get up at 5am for.. but it's something I'm proud of accomplishing. Sure, it might not be anything special. But it's progress. And that means a lot to me.

Enjoy. (I'm skipping the previous dialogue portion just because it would be read out of context)

Jack walked over to the door, trying to peer around each corner, hoping for a glimpse of activity in a nearby cell.

The oft-talked about pool of blood was nowhere to be seen. Only the smell of industrial-strength bleach soured the air.

He could hear a rhythmic tapping sound echoing down the hall. It sounded like an orchestra of bored fingers drumming against a hard, wooden surface.

“Hey” Jack called out, in a tone of curiosity.

The tapping stopped.

He paused, but only the whir of overhead ventilation could be heard.

Someone yawned.

The bars he held onto, were cold to the touch. They resembled thorny vines, more so than the traditional ones he had envisioned a prison to equip. Everything was cold. The only saving grace was a gentle gust of ventilated air that caressed his face in brief intervals.

That chalkboard was in front of him again. But the symbols on it were different. Whatever was on there before, appeared to have been smudged strategically. Something that now resembled two swooping lines curving over an elliptical, almost diamond shape in the center looked suspiciously like the Eye of Horus. It was the symmetry of those two lines that served to awakened in him a memory of a long forgotten dream.

One that he would revisit momentarily.

Looking behind over his right shoulder, he could see Paul slumped against the wall with crossed arms, the rise and fall of his chest and the head that nodded fitfully each moment a spark of awareness would creep in.

Holding the bars, Jack squatted slowly to the floor. Feeling the metal thorns run down the crevice of his palms. Skipping over a horizontal metal truss that held it all together.

Feeling his posterior flatten itself out on the hard concrete, he took a deep breath.

And closed his eyes.

The memories came stealthily once more. The sandstorm appeared once again, but this time, the wind parted to reveal a partially completed face that filled his vision. A giant loomed before him with hollow sockets and a single ear turned inquisitively towards it’s left.

The Sphinx.

It rested on a block, brandishing the claws that long defined it’s feline characteristics. A monument that would endure for as long as perpetuity would allow, given the whims of nature’s predilection towards the creation of abrasive winds that would weather down it’s surface and erase all evidence of human artistry.

He stood, watching the hurried shadows of workers climb their way down from the neck of the statue wielding reed pails. There were men who surveyed the proceedings with disdainful looks and pointing towards a small, stone building which undoubtedly was used as safe haven or storage.

Despite the screech of wind, Jack could make out a sustained hum emanating from the direction of the Sphinx. It almost sounded like a generator engine, but having relived this dream before, he knew what it was.

In his mind’s eye, he experienced the walking motions of his avatar as it strode towards the source of the sound. A dark door made of polished, black granite and an iron hoop appeared to beckon and hasten his approach.

He clutched his hood, feeling the slapping of grains against the fabric as the howling of the wind and the hum intermingled to create a curious energy that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Before him, to the left and right of this door, were two guards. Each wore a tiara shaped like two snakes joined at the tail, with mouths wide open facing each other. Gleaming, green stones of jade were placed in their eyes, undaunted by the muted colors of the sand that swirled amist their countenances.

The words that greeted him were difficult to pronounce, yet oddly familiar. Both heads lowered as each hand grasped the hoop of each half of the door, and pulled it open.

Light bathed him from the chin down, as Jack could see a lamp burning without the aid of fuel. A flame that did not appear to flicker. Almost as if it were powered by electricity. The humming was much more insistent, and he could hear the door behind him close with a hollow echo.

A stone staircase winded itself down. He could not see anything more than seven steps ahead as each measured decent enunciated the hums until they resembled a rhythmic chanting.

A beetle watched him from it’s vantage point near the lantern. The antenna on it’s head swaying in greeting once he made his way past.

Several minutes of decension later, a stone wall revealed itself. Without thinking, Jack inserted two fingers of both hands into a groove cut along the side, and pulled.

With sullen, creaking protest; the door yielded to his hand and opened neatly into a wide, gaping chamber.

===

That's not too bad for an off-the-cuff, stab-in-the-dark, spray and pray first effort isn't it? I'm pretty good with editing, so there's a fair amount of optimism involved when I say that this kind of stuff will kick ASS. But maybe that's just me.

I plan to follow that bit up with a little thing called "The Hall of Records". It's a legend that tunnels beneath the Sphinx hold access to this mythical Hall of Records which purport to contain the entire history and achievements of a possibly extraterrestrial race. Obviously I'll be putting my own spin on this idea.

tangential overdrive

Once in awhile I like to visit the far corners of the internet and peek into the windows of the fringe.

In this particular case, I hit up AboveTopSecret.com, a website devoted to the pursuit of Truth and rich with topics ranging from the validity of Obama’s birth certificate, to the latest UFO sightings and recordings of strange sounds which may or may not be emanating from the bottom of Hell itself (it sounded like seismic activity to me).

But rather than going over the latest Jersey Devil sighting, I explored a less controversial topic entitled “The Enlightened Ego: Solving The Problem of Awakening” which dealt with the spiritual roadblock that usually emerges when a person who actively solicits enlightenment, comes face to face with an ego that bills itself as superior to everyone else merely for achieving some measure of insight into the human condition.

What’s fascinating to me is the entire process of seeking The Truth, which I can’t help but capitilize and fight the urge to insert a TM in enclosed parenthesis after.

There is a huge market, stretching back to the dawn of time that deals with this pursuit. However, due to to the experiences I have had in life, I am convinced at this point that the very seeking of enlightenment is an egotistical and ultimately fruitless endeavor.

If reading hundreds of self-help books, religious documentation and implementing various means of finding The Truth has taught me anything, it’s this.

There are no words ever written that will fully reveal what The Truth really is. Simply because, it evades a precise definition.

Consider how Dictionary.com defines the word truth, for instance.

1.

the true or actual state of a matter: He tried to find out the truth.

2.

conformity with fact or reality; verity: the truth of a statement.

3.

a verified or indisputable fact, proposition, principle, or the like: mathematical truths.

Let’s start with number one. The true or actual state of a matter.

What does actual state, mean? Indisputable? We can agree a rock is solid and hard to the touch, but is that really The Truth as we know it? Or as we perceive it? There is a very important distinction to be made there. Who’s to say that reality is a subjective experience and that our brains are projecting forth tactile feedback onto what may simply be holograms created by six extraterrestrials who have created a computer program called “Earth” populated by beings who consider themselves self-aware and of free will yet are in actuality, bots that act in a predictable, self-serving fashion?

I do admit, such a proposition would be a silly one to earnestly believe in, but one can gather up “evidence” to support such a bold accusation if so inclined. Reality is what you make it.

Conformity with fact or reality. Fact: We cannot prove anything with any degree of certainty in this world. Everything is taken on faith, even science. In fact, had it not been for faith, science and humanity would largely cease to exist. Just because something is measurable, repeatable and is accepted in droves -- does not necessarily means it conforms with facts or reality. Not even the fact that I presented above with could be considered a "fact" . It is a line of questioning that serves to inspire intellectual discourse within one self. Nothing more.

Number three lists verification and being indisputable as components of Truth. This too, is an entirely subjective judgement.

With all of the above in mind, would it not be safe to say that given the resources we have available and the vastness of the universe; that pursuit of the Truth is an ultimately fruitless endeavour? Finding The Truth implies achieving an understanding that transcends the need to question and wonder about. However, in the context of seeking enlightenment, it is only a construct of the ego to seek out a permanent, unchangeable notion that will shape one’s individual makeup in ways that an ego perceives as enlightenment.

This is ironic and to apply an analogy to better digest the above point with, picture if you will a man driving a car loaded up with fuel that can last for the lifetime of the engine. The man, in the spirit of progress, drives his car towards a destination that is rumored to contain an immensity of riches beyond imagination. He has a map, purchased or gained from an individual who claims to have arrived at this particular destination.

However, the man drives for hours, days, weeks, months and years. His curiosity wanes over this period and at some point, the search is abandoned in favour of something more appealing and realisticly attaintable.

This, is the search for enlightenment. No matter how much one perseveres, physical death is the only certainty we have.

What I found interesting about the particular topic being discussed at AboveTopSecret, is that ego inevitably clashes with itself when looking for answers. Motives are called into question, and despite benevolent intentions, humility often degrades itself in the process.

Which is what enlightenment is all about, I suppose. The attainment of humility and understanding of one’s place in the world. Yet, how would it be possible to become enlightened and not feel proud or honored by it? Should absolute power corrupt absolutely, does this not also apply to those who claim to have discovered what the meaning of living is?

I enjoy thinking about this kind of stuff, and I realize that in order to be fully awakened, contentment and self-satisfaction are crucial components. One must be happy with who and what they are and respect the world around them.

The Truth IS out there, but it cannot be found just by looking for it. And even if one should think that they’ve attained it, I can assure you that anyone who makes such claims can safely be ignored because they likely have not achieved enlightenment at all.

The wise man is the one who knows nothing, and accepts it gladly.

Or perhaps true wisdom is only the honest expression of one's true desires.

But don’t take my word for it.

Find out for yourself..

real life is more interesting than this

My blog ain't being updated. Well, not as much as I'd like anyways. There just wasn't much to blog about despite some of the stuff that's been happening.

So I woke up this morning with a dream about some white bread, cherubic looking twenty-something year old and it was set in the 1950s. The guy was backstage with what looked like an uncool version of what's supposed to be a guitar; and then he gets up on stage in front of an audience of about thirty people all dressed as he was -- in white, dressy shirts, black slacks and befuddled expressions of amusement on their faces.

He shuffles up, starts playing his guitar in the most boring, uninteresting way possible and on his right, is the "presenter" who stands watching his every move. Turns out the presenter was marketing a new gimmick, and this performance was a demonstration of it.

After a few moments of playing the guitar, the guy suddenly rams it into his microphone and starts hammering away. Everyone in the audience looked horrified at the spectacle taking place -- remember, this was in the 50s, so smashing your guitar is something that hasn't been done at that point.

The presenter dutifully explained the purpose of it and the audience applauds. The "hook" being the guitar smashing as they were all players in the music industry and were looking for the next (or in this case -- the first) Jimi Hendrix.

Then i woke up. And thought about what my subconscious was trying to tell me. The words that floated about in my mind were: "Manufactured Image". I've no idea how it relates to my world view, other than thinking of artists like Kurt Cobain, Lady Gaga, Marilyn Manson and Alice Cooper; artists who've all manufactured their personas. (Yes, even Cobain -- go read one of his biographies).

So.. is my mind telling me to re-invent myself? Or is it simply reminding me that perception eclipses the truth? It's one or the other I'm sure.. just not sure which. After my date with Robyn last weekend, I think this particular vision served as an acknowledgement towards the importance of keeping true to myself and not putting on a show of extravagance in order to impress.

Keepin' it real, is the lesson gleaned from all this. And from what I went through with Lauren -- holy shit do I need to get this tattoo'd onto my forehead.

It's that important.

And god damn it. I still fucking miss her. Why can't she grow up?

Better yet -- WHEN will she grow up?

And will I want her then?

wake-up call, the threequel?

Oh wow. Today I had a big surprise waiting for me at work. I was one of the lucky guys, well, technically the only lucky guy; who spent the day in laydown. Now, this is pretty much what passes for a demotion at my job. You can't get any lower than being a scrub handling orders for material, but whatevahs, I still get paid the same and besides there wasn't much else to do anyways.

But, the shock came to me when Chris and I were looking over the order sheets, the first item on the very top was...

15x3. The size that I thought didn't exist. The size that I freakin' dreamed about just three days ago.

I mean.. holy shit. This isn't the first example of syncronicity, as I've posted before regarding the married friend of mine. But wow.. WOW. After I saw that, I had to tell Chris about my dream and he laughed his ass off. It was such a bizarre coincidence that I can't figure out what to make of it.

So there you have it. Dreams can be prophetic. Even in small, absurd, inconsequential ways.

15x3. Sheesh. It does exist.

wake-up call redux

It’s 2:39am and after falling asleep an hour ago, I woke to a message.

In my dreams, there was a young woman -- perhaps 16, holding a disfigured, bawling baby. The lady seemed confused about what to do with the child and I felt a sense of concern for it’s well-being and suspected abuse.

Then, the child .. changes, the more I interact with it. It ages and matures into a being I can intelligently talk to. This would have been a miracle, had the “baby” not described what happened. That she “willed” herself to assume her present form. As I, and the young mother express our disbeliefs, it later becomes known that this child is special and has the ability to “will” change. The room was littered with toys (mostly from the 80s) that appeared out of thin-air; created by her imagination.

She asked me to look into her eyes, and I was mesmerized by their shifting colours and shapes. After about a minute of this, I was then asked to look into a mirror -- for what purpose, I could not ascertain. But there was something important about my doing so and I had the sense that I was being tested. The child reacted with surprise while I was staring at myself. She excitedly jabbered something to her mother about my being special (if I’m recalling correctly), or “the one”. Something along those lines.

The parallel’s between this and Lauren, are painfully obvious. Though the mother in question did not resemble my ex at all.

Another fragment I’m remembering had to do with my being underground and able to exit through a drainage ditch to the world outside. There, I’m confronted by piping of the sort that I insulate on a daily basis. Before me lay a grassy, serene world with these pipes blighting the horizon and I remember thinking, “was this worth it?” or maybe, “I did it all for this?”. There was some resentment about those pipes (my job insulating) that I don’t remember enough of the details.

As I’m standing here, looking at these pipes; small parachutes drop from the sky. They are each attached to palm-sized bombs that resembled miniature imitations of Fat Man -- the infamous nuclear bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. I watched each of those small parachutes land to the ground and seemingly become absorbed by it. They did not detonate and I was able to hold one momentarily as I caught it from the sky. They were all spaced apart at distances no less than 15 feet and so, there were thousands of these landing as far as I could see.

While I’m left wondering why they weren’t detonating, I became aware of something happening. A fire in the distant horizon, and it appeared to be coming towards me at an alarming rate. Perhaps these bombs each detonated with a delay and I had the queer suspicion that this was the end of the world I was witnessing.

I quickly ran to the drain tunnel and made my way back underground. Here, things were well-lit and I was soon met by a stranger whom I asked “are you security?” and he responded with a laugh, saying no. He wasn’t. Soon after, a man approached and asked my name. I then was escorted to an office and saw “David” being scratched off of a notepad once my identity was confirmed.

Intrigued at this, I fished around for clues as to who was looking for me and what happened. It appears that the outside world had no interest to these folks, and being underground had it’s own group of people living a sheltered life. However, the man would not offer me any other information except that there was some “15x3” (a size that doesn’t exist at my job) that needed to be done someplace. Apparently, I was an employee and was expected to insulate.

Then.. I woke up, letting the thoughts sink in and anchoring these fragments into my immediate awareness so I could type them onto my laptop before I forget what I dreamed about.

It just seemed important that I write all this down. The first part of the dream really did feel like a reference to Lauren and her daughter Sophia and I feel that maybe -- it’s either wish-fulfilment/prophecy/remote communication or an imaginative commentary on my present situation -- I was expected or would have been, a good father/mentor figure for this child. I was spurred briefly to re-establish communication with Lauren in an almost mild panic.. that’s how convincing this metaphor / parallel was.

The 2nd part of the dream, I’m guessing to mean that the world will come to an end should I continue with what I do for a living. Perhaps “the world” is more “my world” or my life. In that context, it makes much more sense. And the underground part of it is safe haven from the end? I don’t think so, because as I was looking at the pipe in the dream -- I remember feeling sad that insulating somehow caused it to happen. That I ended “my” or “the” world. Maybe it alludes to a perceived destruction of self potential.

Perhaps it all served as a warning.

It’s interesting to think about. Back to sleep I go.

no fate but what we make

Today for the first time ever, I consulted with a spiritual intermediary. A person chanelling wisdom from realms uncharted by man.

Yes, I am speaking of a psychic. Not just any psychic, but a FLEA MARKET psychic. Those ones are particularly sensitive to the vibirational frequency of chakras mingling about looking at items that even Value Village would balk at putting up for sale.

It all started with me carrying a nice, warm cup of coffee past a stall with newspaper articles pasted all around it. As I glanced about, noticing it was empty -- I took a look at some of the headlines. Psychic helps Crimestoppers, psychic fire-walks and as I was perusing one in particular about Egypt, a lady came from behind and said, "You should try her. She's good."

Now, it took me a few seconds to register that this was the psychic. Psychic Ana to be exact, who engaged me immediately by rattling off her credentials. Over 30 years experience, success at predicting a lottery winner, helped solve crime, judges/lawyers lined up to see her, etc. etc.

I tried taking all this with a grain of salt, but realized that a grain wouldn't be enough. I'd need the whole damned shaker to swallow down some of the testimonials she was giving me.

But, I was bored and she seemed intriguing so I sat down for a session. Twenty-five bucks. At first I considered pulling the old "I only have 20, is that okay?" trick of negotiating at a flea market; but thought against it.

As I sat across from her, expecting a crystal ball or tarot cards, I was surprised to see runestones dropped on the table. First time I've seen anyone use those.

As Psychic Ana surveyed the blocks, I held onto my poker face, betraying no emotion so that I could better nullify any cold readings that she may be compelled to give. The first thing that came out, was that she sensed insecurity within me. And that whenever I manage to get past that, I "shine". This is something I can agree with, I'm selectively social and I think this might apply to any introvert. Not a bad assessment, but nothing revelatory.

Next up, she asked me what I did for a living. My immediate thought was, "shouldn't you know that already" but sadly, it slipped through my mouth anyways. Good thing it was delivered with a smile and a quick answer before she could feel insulted by my skepticism.

Once I told her I was in construction, she then asked what I'm passionate about. Again, wouldn't a psychic have some guesses about that? So, I paused briefly and pretended like I had a casual interest in writing. Hell if I was going to let my eyes light up and say, "I lovvvvveeee to write! I'm writing a book!" she'd probably tell me I was going to be the next Stephen King.

Flipping the stones around, she looked up at me with a smile and said that in two years I'd become very successful with writing as a career. I expressed immediate doubt about that, though I badly desire to be successful with getting a book published -- so I nodded attentively, pretending that I've only a marginal interest in the idea.

This was around where she raised her finger in the air and traced out a line from left to right, saying that she sensed me to be on the same "level" as Stephen King. I almost blurted out laughing, but politely responded with a restrained look of amusement.

"He's had quite a career. Over fifty books." I answered.

She again traced that line out in the air and said, "I don't know anything about Stephen King, I've never read his books, but I sense you are on the same level as Stephen King."

This was interesting to me, because while I do admire SK's style of writing; I can't say that the horror genre is what I'm most interested in exploring with my work. Had she mentioned a more obscure author, I may have been inclined to consider the comparison, but Stephen King? Come on. At least she didn't say Proust, or Hemingway.

Next up was the relationship portion, which to me is the most important. I deeply desire to find the right person to spend the rest of my life with and at one point, several weeks ago -- I considered putting my writing on hold in order to focus on the search. So, my ears perked up at this moment.

She then asked, "are you in a relationship right now?" and I'm like.. what the hell.. shouldn't she know this? But I responded that yes I was involved with someone whom I met last weekend (Ashley). She then said, "I really like this girl".

Immediately after those words, I felt it was all b.s. I don't think Ashley and I have a snowball's chance in hell of getting into anything long-term. She is far from my type and I am none too happy about playing the father figure to someone much younger than I am. As friends, sure, we might work out -- but lovers? husband and wife? Heck no.

I couldn't resist pointing all this out. Saying that I wanted someone on equal terms who can challenge and bring out the best of me. Someone that I wouldn't have to mentor, or coddle. Someone inspiring. Affectionate. Loving. Complementary.

Of course, this rattled Psychic Ana a little and she reiterated saying, "well, I kinda like this girl" .. the "kinda" pretty much did her in at that point. I wonder what would have happened had I told her I was a flaming homosexual and hated women. I'd loved to see her reaction.

Then she said I would be married within five years with a child. "I see you with a ring on your finger and a child." To which I admit, is a realistic enough prediction given that there's five years ahead of me.

The Q&A came after that. I asked where should I start with my book, and while she didn't tell me anything specific enough to work off of -- she did mention that I am at my best when I lose myself in my work. Hmmph. Okay.

When I said I wanted to prioritize a relationship over writing, she immediately said for me to focus on writing instead. Forget the relationship. That kind of sucked but maybe she has a point. Being focused on a relationship diverts energy that could be used on writing, and perhaps I need to adopt a more casual attitude towards dating instead of checking messages on three different dating websites every ten minutes :P

So, ultimately it came down to "good things will happen in two years with your writing. stay focused on that. you'll be married with a child within five and you're comparable to Stephen King."

She also predicted a big move in the next couple of years. Again, it's a good possibility.

As I handed over a fifty, feeling uncomfortable and slightly cheated -- she placed a hundred dollar bill in front of me. Huh. That's some change. I pointed it out and she quickly apologized. Oh well.

My dear readers, mark this date. Two years until the book and five for marriage. Ana made me promise to see her once I get the book published and give her an autographed copy.

If that doesn't pan out, I'll be sure to visit her anyways and ask if my hand smells like chloroform.

Thank you Psychic Ana. I hope you're right about all this. Or some of it anyways.

wake up call

It's strange how dreams work sometimes. There has been instances of premonition, wish fulfilment fantasies and subconscious mirroring of one's psyche through this medium.

But, can dreams also serve as a telepathic link between two people?

A few weeks ago, I had awakened with an especially vivid one. It involved a female friend of mine who is married and in it, we were shopping together at some giant megastore that appeared to have everything. The primary objective was for me to have her try "awesome" deep dish pizza that this place supposedly sells. In the dream, I was completely nude and told curious passerby that somebody stole my clothes, "don't worry about it" I reassured them. Later on, we ended up having a surprise dinner party together involving some of my relatives and her husband also was there -- holding a ring with a brush on the end of it with the implication that he used it to groom his pubes.

Weird, huh? What gets even weirder is that I haven't seen this married friend of mine in a couple of years -- there continues to exist, some bad blood between her husband and I. But when I woke up with this dream fresh in my mind -- it felt like I had to contact her for some reason. Something was nagging me and I thought maybe, it was her birthday?

So, I wrote her an email for the first time in half a year, and behold! She did indeed have her birthday a few days ago. And what's even stranger, is that she had a dream about me last night also, which she didn't want to go into details about.

At the end of her email, she then said she had to go eat some leftover pizza. Was it deep-dish? I hadn't asked about that :P

Given the circumstances of how infrequently we talk to each other and how we both suddenly had a dream involving the two of us; I was curious to know if there can exist a connection between people while they sleep. Maybe dreaming is like an open playground for one's mind to invite others to participate in? I don't think it's entirely a far fetched idea.

The reason I am inspired to write this post today, is that I had another dream last evening. In it, this friend of mine struck up a conversation about wanting to do things on her own, such as going on a trip someplace. This was taking place on my bed, we were both fully clothed and she had a tight, white v-neck shirt on. Then she crouches towards me and mentions wanting to get breast implants. I'm keeping this calm, unaffected demeanour and indicated her chest with a nod of my chin.

"what's wrong with those?"

Then she sidles her face closer to me, whispering all the while and our lips meet. We kiss, no tongue and that's when I woke up.

I'm like FUUUUUUU!!! It was a powerful moment but it also felt like a very defining one for me to have. Because, I had the sense of holding back. She was married after all -- and there was a sneaking suspicion, that perhaps on some "telepathic" level, that she wanted us to have sex through this dream.

Which I refused, on the grounds that she is married. I wouldn't allow her to even subconsciously cheat on her husband, as lame as that sounds.

So now, with these two revelations out of the way -- I'm considering the idea of sending her an email asking if she dreamed of anything last night. There's a chance she's already forgotten whatever it was, and there's a chance that my telepathy theory is incorrect.

But there's also a chance, that she dreamed of me and that is something I'm keenly interested in finding out.

Except.. sending her an email like that, is probably going to have her question my sanity if I'm off the mark with it. Well, *makes swishing sound* off it goes, regardless.

I've got a date with a gal named Ashley tonight for us to watch Insidious. Hopefully that goes better than it did with Deanna last weekend -- while we had chemistry, she was way too mature for my tastes. Ashley is ten years younger than her.

The search continues.

with a wave of my hand

Good writing is born of heart, not intellect. It is under appreciated and overlooked. It is at it’s most compelling when in service of truthful expression rather than outright deception. Simplicity is key, as words do not mix well when a monstrous, self-serving ego desires to reflect the author’s education and knowledge at the expense of the reader’s ability to comprehend esoteric words. Like esoteric for example.

Esoteric is defined as “understood by or meant for the select few.” Why should a novel, or story be written in a style that alienates readers who may not have had the time or inclination to acquire a formidable grasp of the English language?

There is no reason to present your story in a way that only a specific audience can hope to understand and appreciate. There is no reason why an author could not substitute esoteric for cryptic by way of example. What constitutes effective story-telling is the ability to discern it’s relevant parts and allow only that to blossom in the reader’s mind.

In my opinion, many highly paid writers and theologians are guilty of embellishment or spectacle when there is no need for either.

Spectacle can certainly arouse interest, yet it is often arrived at by treacherous means. Consider the television show Lost if you wish to observe deliberate affront in action. The resolution it eventually provides comes at the admission of betrayal once it is realized that there are no answers to the questions that have assaulted each viewer. It is a mindless, frustrating ordeal rather than a slow illumination in search of possibility. It leaves a sour taste in one’s mouth as it shyly shrugs it’s shoulders with palms facing outward and a wry grin on it’s face.

For me, the most compelling stories are the ones that posit a question with the intention of answering it. As Stephen King once remarked, there is an unspoken contract of honesty and trustthat exists between an author and his audience. It is of paramount importance that this agreement be honored, if one wishes to accomplish anything by their work.

With this being said, I have grown to appreciate good writing. Honest writing. Stories that respect their audience and attempt to answer or hint at solutions to universal issues such as poverty, crime, the fallibility of mankind, the existence of God, the corruption of wealth, the fragility of Government, the desecration of nature. Good writing can tackle philosophical dilemmas and provide us with a means to fully understand and sympathize with the human condition.

It can change people’s lives.

And by God, I hope I find it within myself to contribute writing of substance that will be welcomed for the honest truth it attempts to reveal.

To this, I promise myself.

And you.

The Goblin Under My Bed

There once was a Goblin living under a bed

It had a big green, hairy, misshaped head

One sunny day, the Goblin became quite bored.

He peeked out from the bed, opened his mouth and roared

The little boy who was reading high up above

took flight, like a scared feathery dove.

He ran downstairs, with a hurried stride

looking both ways, for a place to hide

he found a closet, and closed the door

but still he could hear, the Goblin roar

minutes passed, and hours went by

he peeked under the door, and smelled a delicious pie

as the little boy left the closet, turning the knob

he picked up a shoe, that he was readying to lob

What’s this, the little boy asked, with a frightened cry

seeing the scary old goblin, wearing an apron and tie

“come in come in” it sang out loud

it removed it's oven mitts, and looked very proud

the little boy stared, his eyes big and blue

hearing the Goblin shriek, saying “this is for you!”

“don’t be scared," it said, "this is not the end”

“All I really wanted, was for us to be friends!”

so together they sat, eating pie

best friends they would be, by and by.

===

Someday I'll make a fortune as a writer of children's books.