Five Millimeters

I have to go to the bathroom.

But I just got McDonald’s.

I’m too lazy to go to my desk yet.

I’ll be fast.

There’s no room in the stall.

I’ll leave it on the counter.

I’ll be fast.

I’m not being fast.

I have to do more than I thought I would.

Somebody’s going to take my food.

Nobody will take my food.

Yes they will.

They’ll think I’m occupied,

grab my food before I can see them,

and just leave with my coffee and my oatmeal.

What am I going to do then?

I’ll taze them.

Before they leave, I’ll jump out, and taze them.

I’ll get up, not even pull up my pants,

wave my junk at them, and taze them.

I don’t have a tazer.

But in my mind, I do.

I’ll warn them first, but they won’t believe me.

So I’ll taze them.

Then, while they’re on the floor,

I’ll get myself together,

wash my hands,

grab my food

and leave.

I have to hide my tazer.

I’ll hide it behind the drawer

in the desk that nobody uses.

When the guard comes back

and asks me about the tazing

since they saw me walk out of the bathroom

on camera

I’ll tell them “I don’t have a tazer.”

They’ll have to search my desk

But they won’t be able to justify

searching them all.

The tazer will sit there

For a year

Until a new person is hired

And wonders why their drawer stays open

five millimeters.

How to Write a Successful Hollywood Screenplay

Christopher Lee Reading “A Nightmare Before Christmas”

via Neatorama

Richard Brautigan – I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone

Notice Before Reading “Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain

Grammar

Sweet Poetry

Stories and such…

I just read a re-print of an article by Stephen King entitled Everything You Need To Know About Writing Successfully In Ten Minutes. It’s encouraging me to try writing something again. I’ll share my results. That’s about all I have to say for today, other than I’m looking forward to my mid-term on Thursday. If I cruise through it as quickly as I think I’m going to, I’ll not only Ace it, but I’ll get home 3 hours early. Not too shabby. Wish me luck.

Cat Haiku

Yes, Cat Haiku.

Happy Birthday, Mike!

Check out my very good friend at Kanteker’s Blog.

Old Writings #12: Quenthrust (3-2-93)

(Note: This was my version of the book “Fatherland” by Robert Harris. I still have never read the novel, but I liked the ideas, expanding them with the South winning the Civil War, thereby weakening the United States and not allowing it to fully enter World War 2. I was about 17 when I wrote this.)

Wednesday, August 11

The lights of the neon lights are bearing down on me again. Just flashing over and over again.

Wednesday, August 11

11:40 pm

Messages until 11:00 on Sundays and Wednesdays of the 8th month. No messages on the MegaBord at this time.

Wednesday, August 11

Of course, I think silently, it’s not really neon. The videoscreens were made to send out the neon-like light, to penetrate this city’s endless dank and foggy nights.

No civilians are supposed to be out tonight. None of them have the proper clearance to.

It is a holiday, one of the two major ones in August. The National Commission is thinking of combining the two holidays, thereby limiting vacation time and increasing national productivity. I don’t think that it will happen though. The Confederate people of this nation old their holidays, their holidays of triumph, in very high regard.

Today is Independence Day, a day for staying home with your family, viewing into your mind numbing television, to kill your free will, to imprison your mind like the rest of America. Everyone is supposed to tune in to all the civil celebrations at this time, repeated from earlier in the day; all the fireworks, all the rebel songs of the South, and finally the pledges of allegiance to the Rebel and the Nazi flags, standing side by side, floating lazily in the wind. I attended one of these celebrations earlier, as all officers and ex-officers are required to by law. I must keep up the charade if I am to win.

No one is supposed to be on the streets unless they are of a certain rank in the ‘Corps. It all seems rather insane to me.

I walk down the street dressed in my full-length, brown, leather trench coat, with my briefcase in hand and a cigarette in the other. I tried to quit smoking once, a long time ago, but the stuff they put in these now makes it awful hard to.

I push up the rim of my horned rim glasses, thick as old Colt-Cola bottles of the olden days, right up until they got the neruosteel cans. I miss the bottles, so much that every now and then I’ll pull one of the two that I saved, wash the dust out of it, and slowly fill it up with Cold or R.C. Cola. I miss not having to do that.

The Ad-Verts on the twenty-feet-high MegaBord televisions still show off the bottle, as the actor drinks the Colt Cola, as if to show the world that there still exists a couple Colt bottles in the world. I hate them. I hate them all.

A soldier comes up on my left, and I tilt my Fedora at him, the best I can muster at a salute. He nods, the neo-swastikka glimmering in the reflected light of the nearby MegaBord set. He is not marching. I don’t think, in the past forty years of my life, that I have ever seen a basic streetsoldier, even at this hour, not marching. The only time that they aren’t required to march is in combat. They are slipping every day.

Something is wrong. He’s a lookout man. I hear the clatter of boots, walking slowly on the asphalt pavement, to an alleyway on my right. Out of the corner of my eye I see him run to an awaiting motorcycle with another man driving it. He gets on and rides off.

My eyes begin to redden, my vision is turning crimson in the depths of night. A bloody tear drips from my eye, following my nose until it drips from the tip. The blood drop lands on my right shoe, but I keep on walking, ignoring it. This always happens.

A bell sounds out from the MegaBord thirty feet back:

“BING-BONG! It is now Eleven Forty-Five P.M!

Have a safe and happy Independence Day!

Brought to you by the Confederate Broadcasting

Network, A C B N, Channel Seven. Thank you,

and Good Night! BING BONG!

Behind the noise of the MegaBord, a clanking of metal reaches my ears. It is a soda pop can, R.C. Cola from the sound of it.

This is one of my few talents in life. That among about four things. The first talent is the ability to identify what type of popcan is clattering along, simply by the sound of it rolling along the ground. This trick I learned at the Nazi Training Camp I attended in my youth. The Colt-Cola cans, then called Colton Cola, sound a bit lighter and they clatter a little bit more than most, and the R.C. Cola cans are about the heaviest ones out there. The neuro steel is virtually indestructable except when recycling, but are nearly useless

Old Writings #11 (undated, Gateway 2000 company stationary)

(2009 Aaron: Painfully sappy lyrics ahead. You have been warned. I’m guessing this is about 1996.)

I’m dying to survive

in this love I created

but I feel so restricted

from the things that I can try

Don’t you know that I dream of you

Every night of my life

You cut me like a knife,

and with your love you run me through

I have no where to hide

From the feelings deep inside

I know I can’t deny

That I love you too, no matter how hard I try

for our sakes, to run away

The feelings always stay

I’ve forgotten all the days

before I saw you come my way

The path that lies before me

Is clear enough for me to travel

Even if my life does unravel

I only want to be

With you, and in the end

I want to see your face

My life would be a waste

If you could not become my closest friend.

(PROFANITY) Old Writings #10 (undated, late 1980’s?)

The Toy Man

Jumping Beans, Nerf UFO, Squishy “Squoosh” ball, boomerang,

All through his life, Phil had been interested in small toys. His first had real small toy had been a G.I. Joe, one that he’d bought himself with some money his Grandma had given him for pulling some weeds in her backyard. The guys G.I. Joe’s name was Roadblock, and he Phil had bought him because Roadblock was the baddest ass in the entire Joe team. To Phil, that was what mattered. Not that he had the biggest gun, though that helped. It wasn’t that he was black, though that helped too, because in the Northern Midwest White America, he knew that believed in the “Mr. T”, “Black Power, scaring the shit out of whitey” attitude. belief everyone” belief. It was the fact that Roadblock had a presence about him, especially on the cartoon show. You simply didn’t fuck with Roadblock. Simple as that.

Well, everybody seemed to enjoy fucking with Phil. He was that kid on the playground, you know the one, who just took what you gave him. You could put a shoe into a buttcheek, steal his glasses, or shove him into the chain link fence. After And so on. Up till third grade you could at least have the satisfaction of sending him off to the teacher in tears. After that, he just took it. No tears, no hiding, no nothing. Just gone.

In the forth grade, I became his friend.

Old Writings #9 (undated, about fall 1995)

The power of the mind is a wonderful thing. At least it was. Now it is nothing but. Without control it is just a mindless torrent of death.

My name is Eric, and I am writing this with no pen, no keyboard. My mind is in direct contact with the computer right now. I am, for all of my knowledge, the strongest human being in the world, or at least in the local 500 mi Radius vicinity. Forgive me if my wording is strange, but right now I don’t care.

I am 19 years of age, just entering College, Black Hills State University to be precise, and I was a normal boy–man, until twelve weeks ago today. That’s when it started.

—-page 2 —–

“So, what did you do today?”

“Well, not much really. Classes were fine, but nothing much happened.”

“That’s too bad. You could change that, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”, Eric said. “I try, but it doesn’t work.”

“Maybe try in different ways, then. Have you – hold on, I have another call, can I call you back?”

“No, I better go anyhow. Bye Dad.”

“Bye Eric. Keep your spirits — [BEEP] -p, woah, I better get that. Bye Eric!”

Relief passed over Eric as his father got off the phone. Eric tried, harder than he ever had in high school, but nothing seemed to be enough. It never ended – the failure – and he was alone here.

The phone was ringing. It was his mother, he thought, so he let the machine take it. Eric was right, as always. I mean, who else could it be?

College life was no life as far as he was concerned, Eric thought. I can’t find anyone, I can’t even talk to them. My roommate is an asshole who can’t even say hello, let alone be nice, and all of my teachers have no clue.

Old Writings #8: News Copy from 10/16/95

(This is news copy I wrote for a college radio job at Black Hills State University’s radio station, “The Buzz”. I left any inconsistencies, spelling errors, and cases of incorrect verbiage untouched.)

Hello, I’m Aaron, and this is a Buzz NewsBreak.

Thousands of black men are marching on Washington today, where they’ll hold a rally at the Washington Mall. The rally is part of a Million Man March, organized by Louis Farrakhan, leader of the Nation of Islam.

One small group of the rallyers walked 130 miles from Philadelphia to the meetingplace in Washington. However, there are some Black Leaders who say they will not march at all because they say, Farrakhan is a race-baiter.

Many others see the march as a positive way that black men can build self esteem by enforcing good values such as taking more personal responsibility for their lives, their families, and their communities.

Hundreds of Buses from all over the nation arrived this morning in Washington, where several thousand attended a service last night.

Supporting the rally is ex-presidential candidate Jesse Jackson, while President Clinton is not supporting the meet. Clinton cites Farrakhan’s controversial viewpoints as his reasoning for the lack of support.

Old Writings #7: Do you dream of me.

The dark skies never ceased to worry Frank as he slowly paddled further and further from the security that was once his Space Freighter. For some unknown reason, his ship had repowered its thrusters, which had been dormant since the initial firing at Mars over 13 months ago. Since then, he had been napping.

A rather rude awakening, Frank awoke about  half-way through the massive atmosphere of this planet, still not sure what type of planet it was, or even if it supported life (namely his). He had supplies for poisonous or hazardous planetary travel, but he had only enough for a couple months, and it would likely take longer for rescue.

Lucky, Frank thought with a sigh. Lucky to be alive.

According to his wrist radar, there was an island about 10 miles to the south. Again, lucky. He enjoyed reading while he wasn’t shipwrecked, about old rescues and trials of war victims, dating back to the first wars of America. Who knew that he’d be a victim of anything similar.

(2009 Aaron note: the ‘trials’ are not courtroom trials, but a synonym for ‘difficulties’.)

At the bottom of the page, there is a strange drawing.

Old Writings #6: Virtual Pet (undated, about 2003)

(Game / Technology Idea – Me 2009)

Title: Frog Insane / Seabuddy

– Frog clicker

– Frog hops based on clicks

– Chat with frog

– frogger mini-game

– karopi kidnapping

Tamagotchi – upon death, the fish eat him

Strange Tamagotchi (circled)

1. Fun: eat insects (like monkey boy), cross dresses (models in front of mirror), juggles fish

2. Feed – shows him getting thinner – overfeeding crowds in the fish. Under feeding shows clothes falling off.

3. Exercise – turn into muscular Arnold character. Bench presses a thrashing shark.

4. If desperately hungry, a hook with a worm appears, and he eats it. (Not Suicidal)

5. Prays for further spiritual growth.

Display: what buttons? Currently: Feed, play, stroke.

?Fish Tank? *crack glass when angry (glass strength)

* Add rocks for increased happiness.

KEEP IT SIMPLE to start.

(Display drawing: looks like a fish tank with wood grain top and bottom)

>> post-it note stuck to sheet: an old prayer list

1) Pray for clarity in mind

2) Pray for the safety of Bush and his family

3) for my family

?) Social distortion

Old Writings #5 (undated, circa 2003)

typed page:

when was the first time I decided to do it? when was it…was it 1997, or earlier?I threw the computer out the winder at that point, and watched it slowly fall to the ground…but it stopped before it reached the bottom of the alleyway. The world stopped, but I kept on moving. I moved the world another foot, maybe 3 until I felt it was fine, it was the only place it was necessarily the one way, the soul fool presence, the one position, the rightness of the nightness, and it was fine. It was fine, and I was finally. Fine, I’ll get the computer before it falls, and lead it back into my room, or else my possession, my self, will be fallen on the street, broken into a million pieces. I can’t have that somehow. I can’t let my soul go. Even though I don’t make use of it at all, I don’t write, I don’t even read. I’m lucky to listen to my book on tape for an hour a night. I can’t even feel anymore, I feel numb, about 10% of what I was. I don’t feel angry, I just work at my job, and I’m better at it than I ever was, but I stopped feeling a while ago, I left my friends behind save my one best friend, but even she I don’t give my all, I leave her behind as I melt inside my lack of ego, and the world falls away as I fall out of the window toward the alleyway that doesn’t exist, but I feel the buildings closed in around the narrow alley, so narrow, almost no light reaching the street, and I look up to the world above, and it feels so far away from me. I miss being able to see the stars, but I’m lucky to see the sun these days. I need to stop the world from moving and get myself back up to the top of all this. I need to reach the top of that fire escape, and see the sun again, feel the true wind instead of the suction between the buildings pull me off the ladder, try to throw me back down into the street. I’m better than everyone at one thing that I don’t even use. I make mild musings and think they are the most profound things, I do these things I don’t even really like that much. Not bad people, just the opposite. But I’m not one among them, I’m one away from them. I don’t feel in the programming as they do, I just mildly relate to what they do. I am a writer, I write, and I don’t play games, I don’t write or break code. I just let the words flow through my fingers, as I write books, books and books of stories and poetry and worlds of my imagination better to myself than anyone else, even the mighty King. I write my stories better than anyone else can tell them, and I do it better than anyone else on Earth. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer. I need to create Henry’s life. I need to create his love, and his pain, and his redemption, for it will be his, he does not walk away from his truth once it becomes his vision, as I must not walk away from Henry’s truth. I am Henry in a way. I am muddled and waking up, slowly, and I need to schedule time to work out, and time to write, every night. I am writer. And I write.

Sparklehorse – Ghost Of His Smile

(handwritten on back) If it falls to someone other than me to improve this world, it might be damnation for me for the missed opportunity to serve.

Old Writings #4 (30 Sept 2002)

I am the one who knows. That is my name, given by a race of man that has long since passed away. I am also known as the older one, the one who feeds, and the one who has forgotten, although those three names are really not who I am, not anymore. I once was a man, but now I am as far from that as I am from a bird or a snake. Now and again I can communicate in this way, pen to paper, although it is so primitive to me now that I have difficulty even thinking.

There are things in the world that should be so obvious to someone who knows, but even I am surprised now and then. I should think I should never wonder any longer, but I do not. I have seen too much not to wonder. It is difficult to explain this in a way you might understand, but the more you see, the more you really see the world, the more you want to see, and the more you wonder about, unseen. The only way I have seen the pattern repeat itself is with the want of money, land, and possessions, for all three are wants that never seem to negate after time. It is something deeply human, even more primitive than that I suppose.

Old Writings #3 (undated, circa 2002)

The ten poly-rands. (2009 Me: This was a catch-phrase I used to denote a random list of…something.)

1. Circle of bells (Headband)

2. Small baggie of crushed roseflower.

3. A half-decomposed sparrow.

4. A greenish blue stone, polished

5. A round, ornate, convex mirror

6. A keychain with a soundmaker attached.

7. A rusty cross – made with railroad ties

8. A domino with 5/2 on one side, and a sloppy infinity sign on the other.

9. A deep blue marble

10. A dark, deep blue pen.

Don’t let the turkeys get you down – Ronald Reagan

(2009 me: HOLY CRAP. I am officially weirded out now.)

Old Writings #2 (undated, circa 1999)

Story ideas:

1. We life in Sioux Falls, commute to Minneapolis and Denver on the hypertrain – subsonic train goes 422mph. Sioux Falls is still relatively clean and crime-free.

2.Sioux Falls is 600,000 pop. – 9x the size though. Humongous homes due to cheap robotic labor.

3. Religion has changed to a very open relationship – further along the chain from 1900 to today

4. 2 Female presidents, 1 Black, 2 Hispanic. Currently a new president, white, who’s wife has recently been killed by pro-leftist assassins, and the daughter of the previous president.

5. Surge of Earth Music, and the cocooning of mankind. (note: This refers to writings by Faith Popcorn. -2009 Aaron)

6. Another remake of “Fever”

7. Crystal  microphone – similar to iMac splers (sp?)

8. Cross lasers – creating psychedelic visions in mid-air –  focused lasers doing such

9. Need a newer form of music (which will predict approximate highs and lows in the economy for 45 years)

10. Blandiose (Bland but Grand) cars with few exceptions, but cars drive themselves for the most part.

11. Entrance of the flying – grid – net cars (hero’s car is stylin’, totally. Update of a ’56 Chevy)

12. Alexander Spense. Goes by “Skip” Sense.

> Land Beyond the Sun – Jim Gordon

13. New Drug – Electrodes touching pleasure & sex centers of the brain.

14. Optic wire replaces TV. Gross as possible as it just smothers the eye.

15. Video game – virtual chases for exercise. Running down a perp, running away from a tiger on city streets, etc.

That’s it.  Feel free to steal these ideas. No, really, I do not want them.

Old Poetry

Okay, here’s the scoop: I’ve been lugging around boxes and boxes of old poems, drawings, and random writings for many years. It’s getting old to have to hang onto all these old, yellowing pages. So, I’m going to share them with you. For those who will attempt to read onward: COURAGE. This is only the first of many, many installments.

Untitled poem: no date
And now I sleep
beneath the earth
and in the
nothingness I burn.
I still Live
I still breathe
I still continue
to be free
And I’m starting to feel free.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Kanteker’s Craft!

My good friend Mike Colwill maintains a writing blog called Kanteker’s Craft. It’s a fascinating look at a midwestern guy’s life and memories of living in Japan, then returning to the U.S. with his wife, to raise two children. As a writer, I’m sure he would chide me on my run-on sentence there. In the end, you should check out his blog, it’s well worth your time!

WestOz

It was the way the world broke off from the overworld,
the trees changing colors slower,
the ocean is near, but I never see it.

The jazz is closer, and the Duke and Duchess,
But I haven’t seen them.

The giant crown with glowing red eyes,
looking over the land
watching out for low flying aircraft
and million man marches
and new monuments to clog the walkways
to disintegrate the mottled and torn greens
that should have been replaced in the days of
angry Hooverville residents
Population Depression.

I run past the local way
a small world I’ve created
I’ve grown to know
to familiarize
to find with satellites
the boxes left behind
the useless toys
to pass on to someone else
a treasure in disguise.

I sleep in another time
I see the sun before you do
And I get older faster.

It is an Oz.

Writing NOTHING

I’m watching The Big Bang Theory right now, thinking about the impending doom of freezing rain we have falling upon us this evening, wondering if I should drive to work tomorrow or simply call in “too wimpy to drive”. As I thought about doing it this morning. Instead, I traded cars with my Wife, since she drives a heavy Saturn Vue SUV, and I drive a Saturn SL-1 ultralight sedan.

I don’t have much to say here. My friend Mel has told me to write more on here, so I am…however, I must say it’s hard to concentrate with Big Bang playing in the background. Even though it’s a rerun, the one where Sheldon needs a ride to work for a few days.

…hmm…yeah, I got nothing. I’ll try again soon.

Cory Doctorow Talks About His New Novel

I’ve been a visitor to BoingBoing.net for almost three years now (I think). The site’s co-editor, Cory Doctorow, recently got married and published a book. This is an interesting video he did to bring all of us up to date. I ordered his book, but since I have a queue of 5 books ahead of his, I probably won’t get a chance to read it until mid-to-late January. It sounds fascinating, and I look forward to it.

Dream Sequence

“Why are we here again?”, Don asked, looking at the vacant storefronts with amusement and trepidation.

Brian paused for a moment to think, and replied, “I just want to show you guys something.”

They were parked in a mini-mall, and although it was in a cleaner part of town, it was still after dark, and there were homeless people sleeping under the 10th street bridge on the way down here. Don decided to keep quiet however, and just let it go.

Brian fished for his keys for a moment,

The Won (short story)

Henry felt confused. The gun felt foreign, although he’d been trained. It felt wrong, but his hands knew how right it could be. It was easy for him, easy for his hands to know what to do, easy for him to lift the heavy weapon and fire. He’d done this before with success, in the dusty bellows of the indoor firing range, the heat of the sun baking down through the greenhouse-like windows, the swampy earthy glow with the air of sweat, gun oil, and powder in the air. The hands knew. They’d never done it against a person before. They had tried against animals, but had never succeeded. This was back before they learned. Now they could kill just about anything.

He tried to reason with the hands. He tried to tell the hands that it didn’t need to be done. But it wasn’t a conversation they were listening to. They had already foreseen the result, they already knew what would happen. And so they did.

The other man, reaching for his gun, had a split-second look of shock and surprise, even before he was hit. He simply couldn’t believe how fast the hands were. He had never seen someone draw so very fast. It was the last thing that went through his head, besides the .45 bullet. He had a moment to feel the itch of metal as it raced through his forehead, a spray of sweat before a piece of bone glancing into his eye, and then a soft nothing. The gun he was pulling out, an old Walther PPK, slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor a moment before he fell on top of it, smothering, with his life spilling onto the floor.

Henry wish he had known this man’s name before, but it wouldn’t come. He had to run, and would never know this man whose life he ended. The gun was warm in his hand, from his body heat and from the mechanics of science that had just passed through the device. The wonderful killing device, a mightier version of the arcing arrow shot, faster than the slice of the sharpest blade. Henry waxed poetic and quickly left the room, his feet crunching on the soft gravel of mixed rock and shells of the coastal town, slid behind the wheel of his car, and drove away. It was a meeting he didn’t want to have, and it was a meeting he wish could have gone any other way. He’d had his time. Now it really was time to run. His hands could do this too, while he drifted away and let the miles pass by.

Kill ‘Em All

It was an interesting day. As I drove to work, the birds were singing, people laughing along the way, and a full moon…*sigh*, it was good until the moon.

Full moons, as many of you know, are a bad omen in any kind of service industry. The weird-ass problems start to come forth, and they do like the plague. It wasn’t a bad day though, far from my worst. It was just a bit rough around the edges.

By the end of the day though, 3 problem calls almost corrected themselves. It was kind of miraculous in a way. I still have a few loose ends to tie up tomorrow, but all in all it wasn’t a bad way to end it.

After work, I finally got my butt on the treadmill again. The prime motivator was that 1) I had to do 3 miles…but 2) I could do it as slow as I wanted, and 3) I could do it while playing Sudoku.

And it worked, sort of. My handwriting was horrid, and I couldn’t do the little trick where you write down all the possibilities in itty-bitty letters at the top of the box. There was no coordination for that, even at a scant 3.5mph. But it made the puzzle more of a challenge. I had to play in my head much more than normal, and it was really fun.

Of course, my time sucked. In the end, after completing 3 puzzles, I cranked it up to 5.5mph and wrapped up the works in about 45min. But I got the 3 miles done, and that’s good.

On the way home, I realized I needed to pick up a pH reader for the big fishtank. We lost another fish this morning (while that Rosy Barb just hangs on for his little dear life). Something has to be wrong, and a partial water change is in the future regardless. We just want to know if we need to add some enzyme stuff or what at this point.

Along the way, I was flipping through the stations. Jazz…I’ve never been much for jazz, just blues. There was the really old-old oldies on Magic AM, but I can only do that under certain circumstances. And then there was Metallica. Ah yes, and their fantastic ode to hating Geometry: SECANT DESTROY!!! I’ve never found out what they think of Tangents or Chords…well, I assume they like chords.

And I got to thinking, as my mind tends to do now and then…for how good that song is, and who all was in the band…what would have happened if, somehow, Dave Mustaine had gotten along with the rest of the band and stayed, and what would have happened if Cliff Burton had lived beyond that horrible bus accident? Or what would have happened if another member had died?

So, I decided to make it my life goal to find out. I built a time machine.

No really, I did. It’s very hard to build one, because all you have to go on is good science fiction stories, and bad science fiction stories. And movies. And TV shows. And episodes from every incarnation of Star Trek. And Groundhog Day. Yes, it’s very tough.

The final result was something that…well, the closest thing is from that time travel movie with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour. You know the one. That movie you always go, “I’d really like to see that. Dr. Quinn and Superman? C’mon, who wouldn’t enjoy that one?”, and then when you get down to watching it, you realize it moves really slowly and isn’t quite what you were expecting…well, anyhow, in that movie Chris goes back in time through will power alone. And I did much the same thing, except that I had to blank out my mind first. Or do the exact opposite, depending on your point of view. I started to think of every Monty Python sketch I could remember, equating each with a numeric value in multiples of 4.31, relating each one in number of characters and dialogue to scenes I could remember from the first 3 seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and then recited the remembered dialogue while, at the same time, speaking the name of each U.S. President (including those under the Articles of Confederation), syllabically backwards, and with a little valley-girl raise in pitch at the end of each name. “cockhan John?” “dolphran tonPay?”, and so on.

It was through many decades of practice that I could clear my mind almost to forget the need to breath, and there was even a point when I ceased breathing for over an hour. My heart would beat, but at a pace so slow as to portray a state of hibernation. Then there was a moment, a fraction of a moment, when I stopped entirely.

I realized I was looking at myself. I was separated from myself by a half centimeter. It was amazing! I had finally done it! But I remained calm, thinking of the line Data says to get Tasha Yar into bed in “The Naked Now”, while trying to make it fit with the funniest joke, and onward to “werhowzeneye Dwight?”, and I caught myself, bringing my bodies further apart.

Only one of “me” was aware of my presence. I was looking at the meditating me, the one who had been doing this for so long. Oh, how old I had grown. How very long my hair and beard had become. I’m surprised that Sarah had put up with me for all these years, but where was she? I realized then I had misplaced her, of a sort. She had left me, years ago, and I didn’t even know when it was.

It was at that point I fell apart. I started to cry, to heave, to moan with my very being. I had wasted my life, wasted my hopeless and empty life for this thing, and what did I have to show for it?

Something started to happen just then. I felt myself moving, backward in time. Rushing onward and backward, and I felt the years flying off me so quickly and so readily. Buildings slipped away from me, music and hairstyles dated themselves, and back I fell until I was in early 1980. I was finally there.

Well, it took all my courage to go to L.A. at that point. But I had to go. I was somehow in my early 20’s, I still maintained my long hair, and I knew I could fit in with the crowd, at least in look.

I realized then that I had no money. I would have to find some way to L.A. without cash. So I found a job at McDonald’s.

It wasn’t so bad at first. See, my first real job was at McDon’s. Of course, I was fired from that job for not showing up on my scheduled days, but it wasn’t really my fault though. I just couldn’t keep the days straight. Well, things would be different this time…of course, they made me cut my hair for employment. Which sucked. I realized after the fact I should have just gotten a job at a used record store.

Eventually, after the summer was over, I saved up enough money for the trip to L.A.! By bus.

It was awful. The only clothes I could afford were my McDonald’s uniforms. And they were perpetually stinking with fry grease and mustard. But they would have to do, I had a dream to fulfill.

I got to L.A., and realized, even after all these many years, I had no idea where to find Metallica, or the members who would later form the band. It took almost a year to find everyone, and by that time they had already formed.

During the time it took to find the band, I realized I had to eat, and I had to earn enough money for taxi fare and busrides in order to find the band. So I got a job at McDonald’s.

It was far worse than it ever was in the midwest. It was horrible. Disgusting people, co-workers with zero work ethic. I was going out of my mind, when I finally got a lead: THE AD! I was looking through a newspaper (sitting on the parkbench I usually got to sleep on for a couple hours a night, when I wasn’t running from the cops or someone trying to mug me), and I found the ad that Dave Mustaine would answer, for Metallica! Yes!

I quickly got to the audition, bringing a bag filled with cheeseburgers in with me. At first, no one wanted to go near me. But the smell of freshly fried meat pucks got there mouths watering. I soon endeared myself to these future arena gods.

It took some time, but I eventually got to know Dave Mustaine, and tried to befriend him. He wasn’t an easy guy to like, especially when he’s drunk, but I got to the guy. I got him to realize how much the other guys were hating his antics, and eventually, over time, through zen meditations and yoga, I got him to mellow out. His playing suffered at first, but eventually he was able to balance his energy, and he became the most well-liked member of the band.

And then, after the years started to cruise by, and I became a roadie for the band (and a trusted friend), I realized the dark task I would now have to accomplish. One by one, I would move one member of the band to the place Cliff Burton was laying in the bus, and one by one that person would die.

Heartless? Yes. And very wrong. These were my friends, after all. How could I even think of doing this? “For Science.”, I would sadly say to myself. “…for science.”

How hollow that statement became over time. How dark and hollow I became. But still, I performed the task, over and over. The first time, it was Lars. I let him go, and then I carried on while they found a new drummer, with the blessing of his family. I stayed with them, through the years, the haircut, the post-grunge revolution in sound. And then, after a time, as the band started to decline again, I would go back in time the same way I had the first time, to the bus again, and this time I would take James. And Dave.

Finally, I set things back to where they were before. I left Cliff to die again.

As far as the results? There was one time, one episode of time travel, where the band simply broke up. One time they became twice the band they are today, and another time, half the band. And one time they became essentially the same. As far as the details of each version of events goes…I’m not going to tell you. I don’t think any of it, in the end, was truly worth it. So, I’ll just leave it to you to decide.

I don’t recommend time travel, really. I’d stick to just being right here. You try to go back, to change things, and everything always sort of ends up the same way. It’s better to just leave things just as they are.

….and that’s what the “other” me told me. See, I didn’t personally travel in time. Well, I did, but I met an older, much sadder version of myself, the one who had already done it, for the sake of some sick satisfaction, some curiosity in what version of Metallica would be best. And the other me, just by the look in his eyes, made me realize that I didn’t want to go along that path.

So I’ll just finish my sushi rolls and go along another train of thought entirely.

Does anyone else like “Pearls Before Swine” as much as I do? It has to be the best comic strip in the history of comics, besides Calvin and Hobbes of course. It’s just amazing, so dark, yet so funny. I’m a fan, hardcore.

Annnnd that’s about all I got for tonight. Have a great week, and don’t forget the wasabi!

– Aaron

Casino

As I got out of my car, I noticed this casino was different from the others. It was a riverboat, like the others, but only of the vaguest sense. Since it was only originally legal to have casinos on a riverfront under city law, the casino was a permanently landlocked boat, swaying only very slightly beneath one’s feet.

Even from the outside it was difficult to tell where the dock ended and the casino began. It appeared to be one solid casino hotel, almost made of lights in the decadence of everything a casino represents. Like moths to a bugzapper, although the casino was thoughtful enough to keep those bugs alive, to continually fleece them of their hard earned dollars, over and over again.

The entryway was pleasant enough. Beautiful even. A large lightboard broadcast an old INXS video, which was a nice touch. I suppose their oldest demographic kept on dying off, and a new level of user needed to be introduced.

Surrounding the entryway were a fine restaurant (with a highroller section, to be sure), a bakery with all kinds of high class breads and pastries, and a giftshop that looked like it would belong at an airport. It was pottery with cheap gold-painted accourtraments, knick-knacks of the city of origin, and other useless crap.

At the far end of the main hall, as it were, were two roads to travel. One led to the casino royale. The other led to the arcade.

See, there was $20 burning a hole in my wife’s pocket. I knew that the casino was going to own that $20 by the end of the night. I would have preferred the arcade, but this was truly her show. I was there to be with her. And so though the left entryway, the sinister entrance, we walked through to cacophony.

Casino. Mostly slot machines, chiming loudly, screaming out words like, “Big Money!”, and “Play Monopoly!”, and other mindlessness. And at nearly every one, people of all walks of life, the elderly retired couples, the truckers in from a haul, the bikers fresh off the road, the factory worker in for a lucky break. A cloud, a film of nicotine washed over me, caking my whole body in a slimy film from the start. I felt it, smelled it, tasted it over me.

My wife leading me through this mass of people walked us past several rows, and thankfully found a staircase to the next second level. The air cleared noticably as we walked through the smogbank. The air was still not pure, but it contained probably half the carcinogens of the first floor.

Circling for a short time, we centered upon a pleasant machine, the Double Diamond. It is a machine that holds a nice place in our hearts, for we found a really kind machine back in Las Vegas at the Imperial Palace casino, where we won over $150, paying for all of our meals on that trip.

This one was not nearly as kind. After a short time, the dollars dwindled to a scant half of where we started. With a cash-out, we were on our way to the next stop.

The animated nickel slot machine. Much like an arcade game, with friendly little cartoon characters, it more kindly removes the money from your wallet. But it is a lot of fun, in the end. This slot machine held a bank-robbing motif. There was a color screen where the action took place, but up above there was what looked like a vault mixed with a powerball chooser. There were probably 30 balls in the glass cage, all waiting for the right moment to start stirring up.

It took about 20 plays before my wife scored the right combination, and the bingo balls started stirring up. Noises and lights brought attention to our machine, as onlookers watched to see what would happen. As it turned out, not much. She ended up winning the equivalent of six dollars.

It wasn’t long before the six, when added to the eleven we had left from before, dwindled down below six total. And it was about this time that I had enough. The cleaned-up air was better, but I was starting to feel worse with every passing minute. The noise, the crowds of people, I was done.

I told my wife I had to step out, to return to the front entrance, and I left her there in the casino, abandoning her. What was supposed to be a fun couple activity, one of the few experiences we shared besides the latest reality tv show, and I bailed.

Upon reaching the lobby, I had a coughing fit, which lasted nearly half a minute. My throat, raw with the smoke, even over a short time.

My wife came out a few minutes later, having donated the rest of her money to the well oiled machine. She looked concerned, but was relatively silent. We walked, holding hands, out to the car, and she drove us home.

That is probably the last time I will go to a casino. It is simply not for me. And I feel bad, because she clearly enjoys the experience, even though the end result is usually the same. It is something that I will never be able to share with her.

The Ride

I’m working on my blog, and I hear the faintly musical tune telling me the phone is ringing. Somewhere. I scurry to find it before the 24 seconds are up, and the call travels to the gated community of voicemail.

I find the phone in about 23 seconds, under a pile of clothes I wore yesterday. Sick with a cold, I dropped everything from where I stood next to my bed, crawled under the covers, and found sleep almost immediately last night. It had been a horrible day yesterday, and I wasn’t really in the mood to take calls. But I suspected I knew who was calling.

“Hey baby.” It was my wife, who I hadn’t seen today. She had left when I was still very unconscious. She had woken me once in the night to have me take some medicine, but otherwise I was in another world.

With the time of day she was calling, I suspected I knew what she wanted, although I sort of dreaded it.

“Hey sweetie. What’s going on?” I sounded cheerful enough, although my voice still a low growl. Maybe it sounded sexy to her, I didn’t know.

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to join me for lunch.” There it was. It meant me leaving the house. And joining her for lunch also meant me driving. A long ways. For her to be able to take a lunch break meant she had to stay close to the store. A retail manager meant she had to babysit everyone in the place.

She worked on the other side of town, about 45 minutes away. That meant about 90 minutes eaten out of my day for the trip. When I hadn’t even left my room to grab a bite to eat, she wanted me to drive up to see her.

“Sure, I’ll come up there.” I knew it was for my own good, despite the fact I didn’t want to go. It would be good of me to get out of the house for a while, I told myself.

There was a little more smalltalk, which I auto-piloted my way though. I picked where we would eat, within 4 blocks of her store. She picked the time, and I planned out a strategy to get there right on time. All was set.

I quickly got ready, ran downstairs, almost stepping on the neighbor’s annoying sheltie dog, a stupid yappy mini-Lassie that would rather push Timmy into the well instead of saving him.

I circumvented the neighbor’s glaring look and jogged outside. The sun was too bright, and my sunglasses were in the car. I covered my eyes with a hand, walking near-blindly to the old Saturn, opened it up, and slid behind the wheel.

The seat shaped nicely into me, feeling like another pair of bluejeans. I leaned back, took a steep breath, and felt better than I had indoors. A turn of the key brought an old Rolling Stones song to my ears. Two points for me now. I actually smiled.

I reached behind my seat, grabbed one of my pairs of cheap sunglasses, and slid them on my head. Pulling off the silver windshield visor and plunging my once dark car into the light, I shifted into reverse, and started on my way.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw something on my car. A little strange…probably some birdshit that would come off in the coming rain tonight. As I backed up, the lump…twitched. I backed up so I was pointed straight down the parking lot lane, threw it into park, and got out.

On my trunk was one large frog. About the size of my palm, without the fingers. He was looking up at me, seemingly without fear. I was in a hurry, so I reached down to pluck him from the trunk lid, when he snapped at my finger. I recoiled quickly…I had never experienced a frog or toad acting in offense before, only acting defensively or simply hopping away.

I had no tools readily available to pluck him from the trunk lid, so I simply left him there. I was still in a hurry, and I didn’t want to be late.

I got back into the car, shifted into drive, and started slowly down the sloping parking lot. The frog maintained a hold, looking back at me from his perch with his little black eyes, glaringly. I put down my foot, entering the street we lived on, and pushed it up to 30 miles an hour. The frog hung on, shifting slightly as I made a turn, but otherwise without any sense of urgency.

I pushed it on to 45 and 65 as I drove onto the highway on-ramp to meet my wife. The frog stayed aboard, and I thought it might make for a good story.

It was the loud thump on my roof that shook me out of my reverie. A small dent had formed about 3 inches to the right of my head, and as I looked into the rear view mirror, a small bloodied form bounded down my back window, bouncing and flopping down the roadway behind. I looked back ahead, and a cloudburst had formed, seemingly out of no where. Less than a quarter mile ahead of me, a deluge of rain was dropping down from the sky. Cars were slowing ahead in the swirling mass of water, but I drove ahead through the rain. I had driven through far worse in the cold midwestern winters, a little rain was not going to kill me today. I thought for a short time about the hail that had hit my roof, but it too didn’t bother me. It was an old Saturn with good insurance.

Another mile down the road and another thump, this time on the right side of my hood. And this time I could see what had hit my car. A crumpled green and red form, but with the unmistakable back legs of a very large frog. Fully 5 inches across, it was flopping in the wind, but somehow trying to make its way to me. A lopsided jump, and it landed on my windshield.

Now, I have no idea now how the frog would ever be able to reach me, but still I panicked. The windshield wipers came on, striking the frog but not moving him more than one inch before jamming on his heavy little form. It took my car’s entrance into the raining deluge finally to dislodge him from the glass and send him spiraling into the gray nothingness that was forming behind my car.

I decided not to look back to see what had become of my first friend, only forcing myself to drive faster on this roadway. I could feel the tires beneath me lift up with hydroplaning, but still I drove, wanting to meet my destination that much faster. The rain didn’t let up for 20 minutes, and only then did I finally break through.

My exit. Her exit. I was almost there when it happened.

Another frog. Only a 2-incher, but it landed right in my view, on the windshield. A tiny crack had formed, and as I looked up, one tiny eye rolled in my direction, meeting my two eyes, as it faded into death and nonbeing. A second later another frog, on my roof, striking near the same spot as the first, almost shaking me off the road entirely. I started to veer toward the exit when a third, a forth, a fifth – I lost count, a hundred frogs suddenly started to rain down on me. Frogs cracking the glass, blanking out the headlights, driving down upon me like hammers in the metal and plastic. The corner panels disintegrated under the force, and I could feel the suspension on my car being driven down under the weight. Still the momentum kept me driving onward, but the bodies beneath the tires, started to force the car to lose traction, to lose its way. I lost control, and drove over the embankment.

I came to few minutes later, I think. I don’t know how long it was. But the rain of frogs had stopped, as had the storm. I turned off the ignition of my dead car, having stalled out upon running headlong into a large pine tree. I unlatched my seatbelt, slid out of the car, and mindlessly flipped the “lock” button on the key fob without thinking. Surprisingly, it still worked, and I pocketed the keys.

I turned around and looked at the car. It was covered in a greenish red slime with various small limbs and organs mixed up in the thick soup of stalled life. A few forms still twitched here and there as their stubborn souls had not left their little bodies. I turned away, horrified, and started to make my way up the hillside.

The hard rain had made traction a laughable thing, and several times I found myself nearly face-down in the mud, sliding back down toward the car. It was several minutes before I found my footing, and grabbing onto roots and sapling limbs I pulled and hitched myself up over the edge, and into the eyes of the frog once again.

It almost had to have been the same frog as the first, although I told myself it couldn’t have been. None of this could have been, but it was the same one none the less. It leaped at me before I could react, and it found a mouthhold on my right ear.

I could feel the cartlidge fail beneath the steel trap mouth of the frog, and I screamed in pain and anger. I balled up a fist, hitting mostly my own cheek, but also a good deal of the frog’s small body, but still it held. I willed myself up for another strike, when I lost my balance and fell backwards down the steep incline, sliding and tumbling back down to the car.

The frog dislodged itself from my ear, and I quick recoiled away from it, sliding almost crab style, pushing my legs from my body as my butt slid on the muddy ground. A small yelp escaped me as my back hit my car’s rear bumper, and it took a moment before the moment of dread filled me.

I looked up, and felt before I saw the mass of frog parts moving to wash over me. I felt the mass, the parts, the slick of their blood and moist parts wrap over my hair, my bleeding and crushed ear. It was a moment before I could react, so intense the feeling. I felt tiny mouths like an acid along my neck, felt the blood and organs locking down, holding my head tight. I tried to move, but my head was fastened to the car, stuck, and I was nearly helpless.

I looked up at the embankment, praying for help, but the lone frog was not alone. At least a hundred of his friends lined up along the edge of the roadway, waiting to visit me, to see me. And at my feet was their apparent leader, the lone frog, making small jumps toward my feet, its eyes always looking into my own.

I screamed a sigh more than a true scream, wasted in this abuse of reality. I tried to push against the flow of frogs with my feet once again, without fully realizing the onslaught of the ooze now locking my shoulders against my own faithful car. My left arm was completely stuck, slicked against the hard plastic, and my right was useless against this flood.

The army had slid down and were almost all the way to their leader by now. The head frog was just jumping slowly, just past the spot between my feet and reaching his way up to see me. He jumped up onto one leg, just jumping slowly and methodically, his eyes never leaving my own.

The ooze never fully penetrated my eyes or mouth, but it had made its way down to my neck and chest. I was frozen in terror that made any bondage completely unnecessary.

The leader ignored my crotch to a strange relief after the fact, but jumped down to my belly button, and stopped. The ooze had almost reached his feet, but he simply waited, either for his army or the blood jelly I’m not sure.

Something crossed my mind as the leader started to tense up, and I found my right hand reaching into my pocket once more. The frog was getting ready to jump, right at my eyes, when my hand wrapped itself around my keyfob, jamming my key between two knuckles.

I quickly swung up without thinking, just as the leader pounced, its army in a jumping charge to match the leader’s motion. My key arced up and hit the leader in the side, throwing him to the left and away from me, tumbling into the wooded dark.

The frog army hesitated, and so did I. I

Taranis Blog (now defunct)

Here lies all of my pretentious writings of yesteryear. Feel my unfounded glory.

Old page: elusivedragon.blogspot.com

Malaise

A wave of non-feeling
like a cool breeze.
For days, I feel nothing.

I’m not sure how to feel.
I don’t feel bad,
nor anything.
Just a mist of coolness.

A rock in the pond
the waves pour out into the coming days
I get colder, more uncaring
more like the stone which caused this.

It’s a coolness that isn’t unpleasant.
I simply am. A neutrality.

Poetry blog that sort of ran into me

Hello, I just wanted to tell you about a poetry blog from someone who recently commented on here. It’s “Her Slant On The World“, and I guarantee it’s about twice as interesting as most of the stuff you’ll find on here. Check it out.

Blackbird

I had a living dream in a moment today. It came to me right after I struck a bird with my car.

This is the 2nd time I’ve killed a bird with my car. It’s something I don’t really “enjoy”, to say the very, very least. Both times it’s been blackbirds that I’ve killed. The first accidental homicide was about 10 years ago, where I struck a huge blackbird at the base of my windshield, cracking the glass and shattering one of my wipers.

Today, it was a black bird the size of a sparrow, just a little guy. He flew from right to left, where he struck my left bumper. He almost made it, which turns my stomach when I reflect back.

Both times, I had a half-second to react, and both times I had cars in my left blind spot, making it unable to move or do anything except strike the bird.

In the wake of this, I figured I should keep the bird alive, even though I had known the bird for a fraction of a second in its former life. I felt I should find a way to “wake up” the bird through a story.

I got to thinking…what if I had something to bring the bird back? An ancient medallion or something, a Lazarus stone of some sort. That would be the ticket. But would I go back to resurrect the bird? I decided not. I would meet the bird another way.

I put myself in the form of a 15 year old guy, who had, through some circumstances, found this stone, or medallion, or whatever. He pocketed the stone, without realizing its power: the ability to bring back a recently killed soul, place it in its old body (healing it…no zombies), and making it a companion (not a slave) of the wielder of the stone.

Then I thought of settings, of a few other things…and then the story just started to meander and fall apart.

And so I posted what was left here, a crumbling mess much like the bird. I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you more. Maybe I’ll come back to the story later.

Self Affirmations (incomplete)

1/4/2001:
I am a good man.
I am healthy in mind, body, spirit, and soul
I am not a hypocrite, I do not lie.
I exercise and I eat smart.

Poem 4: 1/4/2001

If I am successful in a field
I am gifted in, then I will be
famous.

I know fame will reach me someday.
I know I will be wealthy
and I know I will be successful.
I will stay the course this time
I will continue until the job is over.
I see myself living in the Black Hills
learning from it’s living and dead
learning to love the land
and learning to love myself.
Survival is a given now.

Poem 3: 1/3/2001

The life I’ve led, I try not to be ashamed
but I am ashamed.
I wish I could take back the hurt
maybe I still can
Money isn’t everything
but it cures a lot of
unfortunate ails.

I hope I can find the strength
to help people
in so as to help myself
to save me.

I want to be saved
I want to be healed
in Jesus

and I know all I have to do
is ask for it
but I don’t know if I can.

Musing from 1/2/2001

Idea: Body suit – fully moveable, but in emergencies it will control the wearer’s actions.
– Source: Lost in snowbound wilderness, suit heats the surrounding inch-radius of a person’s body, and “walks” the recipient out of danger.

Death and Life: a short story by Me

This is a link to a story I wrote that was based on a dream. The first figure I spoke with was someone who actually visited me in the dream, very vividly. The second figure was someone who I knew I was going to speak with…but I forced myself to wake up before I could speak with him.

I’ve been sitting on this dream/story for a week now, debating on whether I should publish it on this web log or not. There isn’t a lot of readership, but I have the feeling that the two figures in the story will, eventually, find out that I wrote about them. So I thought about making them into two different figures, or making the male figure a Father in order to allay suspicion, because my Dad is a religious guy. But I couldn’t really make it work any other way. It remains as it was, honest.

I’ll just come out and explain a little bit. The two figures in the dream are my Mother and my Brother, and they’re dead. I dreamt the part with my mother as my last dream of the night, shortly before waking up. I was set to pick up my wife Sarah at work, then drive from Omaha to Sioux City for her birthday celebration. My Brother, Mom, Dad, and my Nephew (my sister’s kid) were all supposed to pack into a car and head down from Sioux Falls to Sioux City in order to help in the celebration. Well, then my Dad backed out, but then my Sister was supposed to come down with them…but then she couldn’t, and so it was just my Mom, my Brother, and my Nephew.

Now, I didn’t find out about the musical carseats until after I arrived in Sioux City. When I woke up, I thought, “Phew, since my Dad’s going to be among them, there’s nothing like a premonition going on. I’m okay.” Then my Dad backed out, and a little panic set in. Then my Sister was going to come so it was alright again…then she wasn’t. But my nephew still was. And I didn’t dream about him at all. So maybe we were all okay.

I should note somewhere on this post that I didn’t say anything about this very vivid dream to either my Brother or my Mom.

I’ve thought about this subject many times. I’m Christian, but I’m not nearly as strong in my faith or my “walking the talk” as I’d like to be. I’m lazy in that respect. I realize I’m hardly unique, but it still bothers me. But I feel that, given that I do believe in God, and I try my best to do the things he wants for me to do, that I at least have a shot at getting into Heaven.

However, I worry about my friends and my family. My Dad, as I’ve said, is strong in his beliefs, and I think that, if I keep my nose clean try my best, I got a better-than-average shot of being with him in the afterlife. But others around me, family and friends…I worry on a near-daily basis whether I’ll get to hang with them. I know that if there is such a thing as sadness in Heaven, and if I don’t grow to forget about those who I left to sink into Hell, whatever Hell really is (I don’t believe in Dante’s version, I believe in the hints of what was written), I think I will cry a little bit every day I’m still alive out there.

There was a song, some overly-sappy Christian rock song most likely, that opened me up to what I believe: Earth is a waiting room. It’s not even 1% of our existence. I also believe that there will be a lot of surprise people who, after they die, aren’t getting the afterlife they’re expecting.

There’s a lot more I could get into, like my struggle to be okay with other world religions, but maybe I’ll just stop it right here. Click on the picture if you want to read my story, or just click here.