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Misc Stuff

This is a page for anything that comes to my mind

2012-05-06: Katrina

I left my heart fifty miles away.

Fifty miles over sand and clay.

Now my friends are all alligators.
Such a long way from the streets of Decatur.

And my friends say.
And I say.
And you say.

"When you coming home?"

When, I don't know.

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2012-05-03: Photograph

Time is beginning to weigh in a way that I didn't foresee.

What was once just a lingering and fading dream, is now crisp and sharp in all of its zeal.

As time churns I think that these moments would grow to ache less in the absence of accoutrements.

Maybe my mind lusts for the past. Maybe my memory is a morass...

But the photograph cannot lie. It is pristine and perfect -- all of the passion and longing it brings, is objective, observable, captures everything.

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2012-04-28: Kiss the Black

I smelled a girl today.
Kissed my death.
And she felt all my jokes.

Leaned up and kissed my face.
Touched my tears.
And denied this world's embrace.

She had the perfect laugh.
Evil Grin.
And a Fist Shaped Like a Gun.

I'm a fool. I'm a dunce. I am nothing without her lust.

And I feel I'm losing locomotion.
And I feel I want you to share my fun.

She had those piercing eyes.
Hungry Grin.
And heat more than the sun.

She's a god. I'm a fool. The world is painted on her face.
And I hear the whisper of annihilation.

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2012-04-22: Goals

Darwin Mayflower had a great monologue in Hudson Hawk (one of the most underrated films of all time.) In this monologue, he emphasized the importance of goals in the happiness of man. The speech was manic, the setting psychotic, but his words are still true. Happiness comes from the achieving of goals.

I will now share, third-hand, an anecdote that that I roughly remember. My friend Brent has maintained an intense fascination with ultra-marathon runners. These are runners who run 50, 100, 200 or more miles. When one of these ultra-marathon men was asked how he does it he replied:

"I pick a tree, and then I run to it. When I get there, I pick a telephone pole and run to that. Then I see something in the distance, and I run to that."

Arnold Schwarzenegger had a great bit in the introduction to his Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding. It was probably ghost-written, but brilliant nonetheless. He emphasized that all competition was truly with yourself and your own weakness. An athlete is simply competing with his own human frailty and weakness. I took this passage to heart.

The essence of greatness is to pick a tree, and run to it as hard as you can. Stripped of context, running to this tree is meaningless. But painted over this otherwise empty struggle is an entire life. It is a life with unique genetic gifts and curses. And, maybe the environment threw a curve-ball. Maybe a broken and newly restored knee is part of this story. Maybe a congenital defect.

It is important to remember that the tree is metaphoric, and that the running is a symbol, and that this athletic anecdote can be translated into every aspect of life.

Pick a tree, any tree, even a metaphoric tree, and strive towards it. Make sure it's close enough that you can realistically reach it, but far enough away that it's a challenge. Pour out your guts and run to it.

Pick a telephone pole, any one, and pound pavement towards it. Burn the ground and sear the sky. We only get one chance at this, and I'll be Goddamned if I spend it pausing for air.

‎"A man can do as he will, but not will as he will." But part of this unconscious will is environment. I hope that these key-presses turned packets turned images on a screen help someone at some time run as hard as he can towards that tree.

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2012-04-19: The Smell of Smoke

We live on the edge of the swamp. I like to say that, but, really we live next to a river. It's just that in between rivers and dry land out here there are a lot of swamps.

I am not exaggerating when I say a swamp is throwing-distance from my backyard.

We were overjoyed when people began building respectable houses on the land near us. We were (I am not ashamed to say) equally happy when the bumpkin's trailer was destroyed by a hurricane.

But, the price of progress. They didn't feel like carting away their building materials (like us Good Folks a block down). They left a 20 foot pile of sheet-rock, wiring, wood, logs, plastic, and shit.

And there it has sat for two years.

Yesterday they set fire to this pile of shit. Tracey called me to warn me. She tried to preempt the maniacal rage that I would feel when I got home. I am sorry to say that I am such a predictable short-fuse that she knew I'd lose my shit.

"Fuck these fuckers," I thought to myself, "I am going to run through any amount of smoke they shoot out."

Yes, I am crazy.

As I drove home I was relieved. Approaching my house I smelled no smoke. And then I realized. These motherfuckers had chosen to burn this shit on a day when they knew that the wind would be blowing away from their house -- and towards my house.

My house was enveloped in smoke. It was an almost perfect plume, steadily focusing on my house. The only air that was ruined was within a 100-yard radius of my house.

I ranted. I raved. I punched, kicked, cleaved, and murdered the air. I shouted empty threats at nothing.

I took off my shirt. I took off my pants. I put on my shorts, and a polyester shirt that would not chafe. Upstairs in my house I could smell the campfires of my Boy-Scout childhood. God, as much as I cherish those Boy-Scout memories, I have always hated the smell of smoke.

I ran. I ran into that burning, eye-searing billow of shit. My eyes burned, watered, and I thought I was going to die. I saw my neighbors, and I turned my head and spit, snotted, and spewed out saliva in their direction. Fuck them.

I punctured the plume and headed down the street. I waved to my buddy on the swing-set. He sits on that swing and watches me run. I try (although sometimes I fail) to always wave to him no matter how tired I am. I ran past the breeding grounds of painful biting flies. No flies today.

I slowly turned around, taking care not to put too much pressure on my groin, and promised Prince that I would not slow down until the mile was through.

I punched through the toxic plastic fumes at the end of my run. My fastest time in 6 years was a big "Fuck You" to their pile of burning shit.

7:39. This is fast to me. There is nobody else on the road but oneself. Sure, when I'm not on the road, I compare myself to people younger than me...more genetically gifted than me...But alone on the road there is only heat and smoke and pain and desire.

"Where are you?" I ask the world. "I did this, and it was hard."

I raise my arms in triumph, and I don't care who laughs at me.

PostScriptum:

My dogs smell like smoke. My wife smells like smoke. My house smells like smoke. My truck smells like smoke. My clothes smell like smoke. Everywhere I go, all I can smell is smoke.

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