Daylight falls upon my skin,
The cat upon my lap,
Shirking pain the best I can,
I wish only for a nap.
The pillows prop my knees up high,
The ground beneath supports,
I only hope for some relief,
I can't expect much more.
The clock must work against me,
My eyes with red are burnt,
The aging lack of sleep won't go,
It cannot be reversed
The curtains try, but cannot block,
The morning light outside,
The moon has come and gone again,
I can no longer hide.
I try quite hard to close my eyes,
I know they never will
The pain that lies within my spine
Will always keep me ill
I wait and hope so desperately for
What others would conceive
To be a normal day for them
Would be heavenly to me
I try to move just slightly,
To take away the fire
But all I truly know to do
Is lay here and retire
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
The knock on my door marked my appointment as arriving right on time.
“Let's not waste time, most people don't have much to talk to me about, and you sir, you made an appointment. What do you want from me?”
“I must know about the battle, please tell me”
His oddly shaped face was staring at mine, trying to catch my eyes with his, which were leery and seemed disguised by his face.
His oddly shaped face was staring at mine, trying to catch my eyes with his, which were leery and seemed disguised by his face.
“I can tell you, but if I do, you have to believe all of it, because nobody believes any of what I say anymore.”
“I imagine I could believe anything you say, just please, tell me.”
“Alright. I have an account written in my journal. Just for freaks like you who want every possible detail. I put some creativity into it, so it may not be perfectly accurate, but it's a little more entertaining.”
I make sure that the camera in the room has sight of him as I turn to my bookshelf, reaching for a mundane looking book that contains my writings on the battle, on that doesn't actually contain my writing, but my father's.
The soldiers lay in wait, in a field just north of Lumberlin, and as the wind stirred the grass into their face, one blade at a time, they all lay perfectly still, ignoring the cravings they all had to bring their hands slowly to their face, scraping the jagged edges of their nails across their skin, relieving that odd, itchy sensation that seems so common when you lay in the grass. There was a lake to the edge of the field, but the men were told not to drink from it under any circumstances, for apparently the factories that cleared out during the war dumped all sorts of disturbing chemicals into it. So the men were stuck in that field for days, no fresh water, as little movement as possible, and none of any of that until the predicted battle took place. Before they spread out, back in Lumberlin, the men had a camp with soldiers from other platoons, and the men were told of a small break in which a plane would be flying over their position, making enough noise and covering them enough for them to grab as much water from the tents as they could before having to drop silently into position again. That day had finally come, and they nervously looked at their timepieces, each waiting for the exact moment to run. They heard a plane coming from the south, and just ass it came overhead, the men scattered and ran. But for some reason, though the plane was overhead, it was getting louder, and they all smelled this stench, this putrid, dense odor that persisted.
Up in the plane, the men tried to prepare themselves for the last thing they expected to happen in the war. Limb by limb, the men were all changing, the hue of their skin intensifying to a thick purple, the flesh of their bodies becoming the consistency of silly putty. In the instant of their worst fear, the plane crashed into the field they had been protecting.
As the passengers crawled out of the debris, they became the target of each rifle held by those who were already in the field. They thought that the aircraft had been overtaken by aliens, and they were the first to witness the next form of take-over in the war. They shot each other, the aliens armed with the passenger's armory, and thy fought each other until they couldn't any longer. Every last shot fired, every person in the battle dead.
What was one of the most unusual aspects of this battle was that the bodies hadn't been found until about 3 days after the battle, found by a family who was fleeing further south into England. The bodies of the field soldiers were somewhat decayed already, but the contaminated bodies of the aircraft passengers were completely intact. The father went to investigate the purple bodies, and realized quickly that they had dog tags on, same as the other dead soldiers in the field. He had not a clue about why or how the bodies had been turned purple, or why the purple bodies were preserved, but he had seen all he had wanted to, and they left. His testimony is the only one given that was not military, and the military wanted to keep it quiet, therefore making him seem insane. Luckily his family had the funds to fly to America after the war ended, meaning he didn't finish his life in an asylum, but his family knew not to speak of it, for fear of the same life Britain would have given them.
Of course, with any “conspiracy” comes a cult following, and just like the youth during any war, they ate up any hint of conspiracy they could find. One group of activists found this family before the war was over, and they formed a punk band. One album per conspiracy spread about the most bizarre conspiracies one could ever think of. I believe that they made some of the more confusing ones up to make the others seem true.”
As soon the man with the odd face thanked me and left, my father walked downstairs and began to make lunch. He wrapped his purple arms around me and gave me a hug, thanking me for keeping him safe.
Benjamin liked his life, for the most part. There were times when he knew something just wasn't quite right, and in those moments, he never knew what to change or fix. He would go into his closet, and keep the lights off, curled tightly into a ball. It was one of these times that Benjamin found the truth about what was different. He felt an odd and painful sensation pumping through his hand, and as he outstretched it, he saw that he was clutching a bat, freshly suffocated by his too-strong hands. Benjamin sat the bat down, and looked closely at his hand, seeing the fresh rip in his hand. Benjamin did not find this odd, however, because he often blacked out while hiding in the closet. He calmly stepped out of his closet, opened his window, and tossed the bat upon the cement of the patio, right beneath his room. He then walked into the bathroom to clean up his hand. He calmly rinsed out the wound, using rubbing alcohol, and then proceeded to dig at his scrape, which was pretty deep.
As his right hand explored the palm of his left, he knew that he needed a knife to properly do his duty. After finding the knife he wanted, Benjamin sliced his wound further open, right beside the tendon hiding below the layers. Blood was quick to rush out, but Benjamin simply didn't care. Holding his hand over the sink, he delved deeper into his body, looking at the fat layers, and comparing them the the others. It felt strange to him that this may disturb others, because to him, it was only a natural curiosity. When he felt he could go no further into his hand, he decided to find a fleshier bit to explore. Benjamin removed his pants and shirt, standing there in the bathroom in only his boxers, and he chose his thigh. He sat on the lid of the toilet, and grabbed his knife. The first cut felt more painful than his hand had, perhaps because his hand was already numb with endorphins, but Benjamin didn't mind. It felt good, and though he was a little dizzy, he could see straight enough to continue. He handled the knife so it's aim was perpendicular to his leg, and shoved it in deep. He pulled it across to the end of the wound, and, though the blood rushed down his leg, he wanted more. He pushed as far down as the blade would go, and felt the sticky, bloody mess all over him. Benjamin could not get enough. He looked up, thinking about his next move, and realized that the ceiling had turned into the sky.
Benjamin thought of the bat, and became jealous. He wanted to fly. Benjamin remembered his mother telling him that we can do anything we set our mind to, and with this thought, he leaped into the sky, and just felt the peace of the wind through his hair, the world zooming away from him with every second. Benjamin felt so free and liberated that he couldn't help but look down. And in that moment that he looked down, he knew that he could never do that again without falling. He continued to fly, he loved the excitement and the exploration of this new side of the world. The longer he flew, the more he knew he would never want this moment to stop. He looked up into the sky, which had become dark so quickly, and he just stared into the stars, not realizing that this action would force him downwards. He landed slowly in a field, at a park he had never been to. He remained in his boxers, bloody as hell, and laid on his back, falling asleep to the sounds of night around him.
When Benjamin awoke, he was surrounded by people who stared at him in the most disgusting of ways. These people's eyes were filled with raw fear, and the more eyes Benjamin looked into, the more he became afraid. “If fear could be seen with glasses,” Benjamin thought, “that's all I would see.” This was another moment where Benjamin simply felt disgusted by other people's disgust of him. They were as confused by him as he was by them. So, Benjamin stood up and simply began walking.
He had no need for direction, for he had nowhere he wanted to be, and nowhere he didn't want to be, other than in the middle of that fearful crowd. As long as the direction was away, Benjamin knew he'd be fine. This was how Benjamin felt every day. This mix of fear, confusion, disgust, and the yearn to be gone were the largest contributing factor to him bleeding out about a mile away from that field, to be found by another crowd of fearful, confused people.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Currently, pirates have much control in seaward fares. Ninety percent of the world's trading is done by sea, and pirates are overtaking at least one of Britain's ships daily. Many people are not aware of this, and it is debilitating. If there's no known need for change, then no change will occur.
Everyone knows of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, and most love them. Lose the image of pirates given to you by these films. Now picture a fisherman, with the appearance of any average person. Look at his small boat, and peer underneath the seats. Here you will find machetes, and M14's. This "average" man is one of today's true pirates, a man of selected genius, skilled in sailing and stealing. Unbeknownst to his family and friends, this man (known worldwide as Hobo Wrath) is not really a fisherman. He attacks other fishing boats for their fish. Such a man as this knows how the world works. Hobo Wrath understands that "What is strong wins: that is the universal law."(Neitzsche) Hobo Wrath is not the only man of his kind, either. There is a plethora of pirates in the world today. One must understand though, that there are two types of pirates that exist today. Hobo Wrath is a small-scale buccaneer. The other kind of pirates, the hard-core corsairs, dress in camouflage and arm themselves with machine guns. The simple buccaneer tools are toys to these fellows. These angry sea rovers go for the big booty; only large shipping vessels are worthwhile to these ravagers. They would kill for one piece o' eight!
Now how can the world conquer such dangerous men, men who attack the unarmed for an excess of items that are not needed? The solution is simple. Every seafaring Willy should become a pirate!
Now, I know it may sound extreme, and maybe it is. But sometimes, extreme is necessary. Sometimes, pirates are necessary. You see, if all sailors become pirates, then the problem will become more widespread. Widespread problems get more publicity. It will not be long before the pirates take the attention of every news station worldwide. When the problem becomes known, change will occur, in the following form: air travel. All the world's trade will then be done by plane, and Britain will not have to worry about being attacked by ships! The big-time bandits will no longer have any large ships with worthy goods available, and will cease their reign. Fishermen will be too scared to go fishing without defense, and it will become too risky for small-time buccaneers to loot their tiny vessels. Our dearest Hobo Wrath will mend his ways, and become an honest fisherman.
As you can see, a movement to increase the numbers of pirates will motivate the world to change their shipping methods from ships to planes, which will ease the fears of serious pirate attacks. Small-scale attacks will still occur, as long as there are any ships on the water, but these scalawags are not nearly as dangerous as those going after the larger ships. Even fools without sea-legs can see that pirates are still needed in the world today.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
I don’t know when or why or how it started, but it did. It started quite quickly, and quite effectively, if you wanted success for it. But I didn’t. I never did like the idea of war, and this one’s not worth fighting for; I guess we should all just join the side that’s going to win. It doesn’t really matter whose side your on in a war such as this, just so long as yours is the right one…If that makes sense to you, anyways. If not, you can join whichever side you want. War is war, I say. And not very often are things worth fighting for to be found. If I didn’t have to join, I wouldn't be. Hell, I would never willingly fight in a war. Is this a protest against war? Who knows. But if it were, it would sure be a good one. All I know is that I like the peace of lying on my couch and falling asleep next to my cat.
I want to be creative, however I plan to do this. Everyone seems to be moving to Canada before they’re drafted, but I want to think of something better. I want to escape this in a manner that will keep me from it forever. So I have a few options crossed off already: moving to Canada, simply ignoring the drafting issuance, and the obvious, which would be going to war. None of them seem to be creative enough for me at the moment. I don’t know why, at the age of 18, I actually decided to sign up for the draft. I mean, yeah, it’s a federal offense not to, but honestly, who gives a shit? I know I sure don’t. But apparently I did at the time. Because I did, and here I am, called for the draft. With a dilemma such as this, it’s hard to think about what to actually do, but I think I’ve figured it out. What can I do, legally, to get out of this wreck the government likes to call a style of life? Which is really death, when you consider the fact that it’s a war. Nobody survives war, I mean, even if you come out alive, you’re dead inside when you get back.
Slowly, I pulled my attic ladder down, and climb up into the dark, dungeon-like room. The musty smell hit me in exactly the same way I imagined the bricks everyone threw off our high school roof on the last day of our senior year. For some reason, that day always seems to come back to me. There was something magical about it, watching the blocks shatter on the sidewalk as if they were simply ashes before they fell to their doom. Nothing has ever quite matched that beauty, of destroying something that’s already dead. There’s a sense of peace in doing this, I’ve found over the years. It’s as if you earn the relaxation you would have gained if you were bludgeoning an angry spouse with a nerf bat, except nobody gets hurt, because there’s no more harm that could possibly come to the brick, which never had any life from the start. I think that’s why that day has always stuck with me. Well now it’s time for me to do some destruction again, but the thing is, nothing I’m about to destroy is lifeless. Not yet, anyways.
I begin to delve into the depths of the strong, stenchy, hole of a room, and soon find the object I’ve been after. I pull the pistol out of the cabinet, and check for any ammunition, just to see if there’s anything left in there. Luckily, there are three bullets left. I haven’t touched the thing in years, so I have to make sure I remember exactly how it works. I pull the string which controls the light in the attic, and carefully lower myself back into the main corridor of my home.
I want an easy clean-up, so I walk into the woods of my backyard, and load up the gun. I guess my father taught me something right over the years, because I certainly remember exactly how this thing operates. I set it up just right, and quickly, before I have the chance to change my mind, pull the trigger.
I feel the pain surge and begin to pulse through my lower limb, where the undoubtedly fractured bones in my foot had shattered. I limp back to my house, where I had purposefully left my phone on the back porch – in easy reach from the grass. I dial, and watch the blood seep from my foot into the wooden steps on the porch, soaking into the oak, then soon pooling beneath and around the area.
The operator answers the phone, asking for details on my emergency, and I choke up from the pain in my foot, but I realize that I don't want help. I tell the woman I heard a gunshot a couple of blocks down, and hang up, waiting for the burning sear of the bones to calm. I begin to get tired, and decide to lay myself down on the porch, bleeding out, not wanting help, and as I come to the realization that I may die, I feel calm. I feel as though the weight of life has been lifted from me, and I close my eyes peacefully, waiting to die.
Pressing the acceleration pedal, my car zooming through the deep blue night, music pushing me forward on the highway, I find myself embracing the moment, wishing that I could be in that same, whirling vortex forever. The streetlights shine in through my open window, much like the wind, forcing itself upon me, whether I approve or not. It's as though all the forces of life are combining, swirling through the car, around my head, powering the car down the freeway.
I drive and drive until I see that imminent yellow metal rectangle, telling me that the freeway is ending. It's unfortunate that they can't just go forever. It's unfortunate that my car can't either. Why must thrills have limits? Why must life have limits? Why can't the wind be perpetually whipping at my hair, mussing the neat lines put in place by my brush? I bring the car to a stop, and pull the map from my glove box. The creases in the withered paper make it hard to read, but it's almost memorized anyway. I look up at the night sky, close my eyes, and float my index finger over what has become my life. I let my fingernail rest on the map, and look to see my next destination. I look for the next highway headed north, and twitch the volume nob up a bit, denying the few thoughts left my head. The peppy guitar strums force my foot down further on the pedal, as I snap to the beat and shake my hair loose.
I usually heed to the choice made with my finger-point method, but I realize that this time, I don't want to stop anywhere. I don't want a destination. I look up to the charm hanging from my rear-view mirror, which reads: “The joy of the journey is in the ride”. Unfortunately, I don't think most people really have the experience to show them what this really means. The journeys I've always have chosen have been without ends. I make myself determined to continue my nomadic life by making every decision at the last moment, choosing the forks in the road on the whim of the moment.
I drive for a few more hours, trying to decide what it is that's suddenly made me dissatisfied with the idea of a destination. When I first started this new way of life, I had trouble driving randomly. It may sound odd, but it takes courage to do absolutely nothing, and even more courage to do it by yourself. I became used to it over time. I would find myself at a dollar theater, asking which movies are about what, because I haven't looked at a television screen in months. It also became commonplace for me to walk into a candlelit restaurant, and ask for a table for one, sitting for a good while, just sipping at my drink, people-watching, and eating some of the best food I can't afford. After a good while though, I became to enjoy the idea of not knowing people, not being in contact with anyone, and the solitude became a fond habit. My life began to completely revolve around me and the moment. My life lost nuisances like television and routine, I no longer found myself wanting material things for anything other than their intended purpose.
Snapping back out of my thoughts, I drum to the cheery beat with my thumbs, I snap and dance a bit, and I let myself simply feel. I feel the chills from the wind go up my arms, I feel the cold burn from the wind on my face, and I let my ears pound from the loud over-stimulation I expose them to everyday. Today seems to be bringing me to a small quaint town, so I pull off the highway, and head for a motel.
When I get into my room, I turn on the radio, nudging the wheel that changes through the stations, listening to the quick changes from traffic reports to rap to jazz to interviews to rock to country and I realize that I don't want to hear any of it. I turn around and see a glimpse of myself in the mirror, something I haven't looked into in a long time. I realize that I look nothing like what I feel inside, and tug hatefully at my long ratty hair. I pull at the stuck handle of the nightstand drawer, and when I finally get the damned thing open, I grab the sewing kit and pull out the scissors. I force my fingers into the miniature-sized circles, which are somehow intended for my fingers, and begin to snip. I don't even work carefully. I realize that I no longer care about most of this shit. I no longer care that I know not one person, that I have not one emotional connection or relationship in this world. I no longer care that nobody will notice that my hair has changed except the maid who gets stuck cleaning it up, and she won't even like it. I also realize that really, everything I just told myself about not caring is bullshit and if I really didn't care, it wouldn't have crossed my mind. I listen to myself, and tell myself that I sound like a middle school kid picking on his little brother. I try to stop arguing with myself, but my head feels like it will pound itself to death and I realize I have no control. I have no control over my thoughts or my fingers that move swiftly, though unpracticed, through the lessening mass of hair on my scalp.
I chop and hack until almost all of my hair lies on the floor, and look down to see my once-beautiful locks lying around my feet. Looking into the mirror again, I peel off my shirt and bra, and slide my skirt down my legs, into the mess of hair on the carpet. I back up and see the person I am. My short hair looks like it was sketched onto my head, my shoulders sit unleveled on my torso and I realize that my whole body looks unrested. I pull out the bottle of pills that I keep for days like this, and throw 3 of them down the back of my throat, letting the oblong shape stumble awkwardly down my throat, in a way much like Alice and that rabbit hole of hers. I lay on the disgusting motel bed, and think about the nasty germs crawling onto my already broken-down body. I indulge my thoughts, mostly because I doubt that I could feel much worse at this point. The drugs kick in, and I find my body paralyzed with the inevitable relaxation that I had been expecting. I couldn't move my pinky if I tried, but my brain is still running 10,000 miles a minute. Sometimes I mess with myself and try to fight the sleepiness, but tonight I realize I won't succeed, so I finally give in and let myself rest.
I wake in the morning, the sunlight pushing through the curtains, despite me having shut them quite tightly on my way in, but the thin cheap fabric has about as much coverage as a bikini on a fat woman at the beach. So much for a good night of sleep. I glance over at the clock, and see the red numbers blinking 9:03, and I close my eyes, but the LED lights forged the time on the back of my eyelids, and I can't seem to escape it. I stare up at the ceiling instead, and try to make shapes from the stucco that had been attempted on the ceiling. Nothing seems to work though, so I finally try to swing my legs over the side of the bed energetically, and when I push my feet into the ground to stand, I know the forced energy won't last. I drag myself back over to the pile of clothes on the floor, and see the bits of hair peeking out from underneath, and remember that I practically massacred the half-dreaded mess that had been attached to my head. I reach my hand up to feel my new design, and look in the mirror at my still-naked body. I realize how grubby I am and decide to risk the dingy shower.
I yank the curtains that try to hide the hideous tub and shower, the nozzle covered with crusted calcium and the drain surrounded by rust colored splotches from the dripping faucet. I twist the handle to the hottest red on the dial and fumble the paper off the cheap soap they left for me. I set the soap on the shelf on the shower wall, and I step in to the hot streams off water forcing themselves out of the shower head, feeling the burning water wet what remains of my hair. No matter how hot the water is, I doubt it could wash off the filthiness I feel. I grab the cheap soap again, and rub it along my skin, trying to let the smooth edges comfort me, convince me that I'll be clean afterwards, but I can't seem to wash enough. Even if I were to bathe in bleach, I would step out of the tub covered in muck. I continue showering, pretending I have some sort of routine, pretending I shower often enough to know my washing habits. I leak a bit of the shampoo onto my hand and sloppily rub it through my mangy hair, running my nails along my scalp, as if I'll ever be clean. I rinse, and lower myself to sit in the tub, flipping the drain closed with my toes. I feel the water rushing onto my body, burning my skin to a fleshy red color, hoping I'll feel clean my the time I step out. As the water begins to lose its heat, I turn it off and sit on the edge if the tub, trying to ease the mental frustration, the arguing monologue I have within my head. I step out, leaving the water in the tub and trying to dry my body with the too-small towels they've oh-so-kindly provided.
I find a shirt and shorts in my purse, and re-examine my new persona. I determine that I look like a British woman who loves mountain-biking and big band swing. Avoiding my clothes and hair on the floor, I check out of the motel and sit back in my car. I roll the windows down, press my thumb to the side of the gear-shift, and put the car in drive. I look at my surroundings and find that I'm in a small town, and just drive down the roads methodically, being sure to take every turn I can. Looking at the people walking down to their grocery store and the teenagers walking home from school makes me wonder what it's like to lead a somewhat normal life. It's as if I don't remember what it was ever like to have a permanent place to return to, a door to walk through and say “I'm home!”, what it was like to have someone wonder where you are and when you'll return and pray you make it home okay when you're running late. I always told myself that I chose my life, that I am the reason none of these so-called “normal” things are in my life, but really, this life chose me.
Today may be the first time I became noticeably bothered by this lack of normalcy in my life, but I know it's not ever going to be any different for me. What exactly would I do, even if I decided to try and change? Buy and house and bake cookies for my neighbors? I don't know how to make friends. I don't know if I could even hold a conversation for more than ten minutes. I don't think anyone other than a dog would want to sit next to me. These thoughts sink further into my brain, they soak it to the seams, and I rip my car away from the town and head for the highway again. I try to convince myself that if I just keep doing what I always do, I'll somehow stop caring and wondering about any other kind of life.
My foot pushes the gas pedal further to the floor and I fly down the highway, my self-anger building and escalating exponentially with the speedometer. I whip around the curves and follow the lines of the empty highway, but somehow this pent up ball of emotion isn't releasing itself. I push on the brake, as if somehow my psyche is fixed to the pedals of my car. No matter how much I throw my body from side to side with the turns in the road, this seems to be a catharsis that won't be reached.
Sometimes when I find myself at a high emotional point like this, I just imagine my car going off the road, over a bridge, from the side of a cliff, or really just anywhere that will put me out for a few hours or days. Unfortunately, this roadside isn't exactly loaded with options, but I at least have some big, heavy looking trees. I slow down enough to decide on one, and force my foot on the gas. I tell myself that I'll keep my eyes open the whole time, and I'll focus on the part that I'm going to hit, and I just study the bark of the tree, as I get closer and closer. As the first tire hits the grass, I bump around and brace myself for the impact. I push my torso backwards, into my seat, push my legs into the floor, and as I feel the hood of my car crunch into the tree, I feel my consciousness leaving, my lucidness backing away, my emotions disappearing. I hear nothing, I see nothing, and my emotional pain has left, leaving just the overwhelming physical aches and the tickle of the blood dripping down my various extremities. I let the pain overwhelm myself, and I soon fade away mentally.
I hear faint sirens, and I realize it must have beens a few hours since it happened, but I try to fade away again, I try to make it all go away, but the people are trying to talk to me, are trying to keep me awake, and keep trying to move me, but they don't realize that I want this. I can't speak coherently, but if I could, I'd be telling those fuckers to leave me, to just back away, to sit back in their seats and drive their flashing vehicles away and leave me in peace. They don't realize that even if they do fix me, there won't be anyone to call, there won't be anyone to update with my condition, anyone to pay for the bills or to send me flowers and balloons and stuffed animals and Get Well cards. I try to muster up enough of a voice to tell them to fuck off, but my lungs and my throat won't cooperate, and I don't even part my lips.