Retribution

The sun was shining today. That hadn’t happened much lately. As he pulled his faded green mini-van into his small gravel parking spot, the man couldn’t help but squint slightly. The sun made the white wall of his miniscule office building shine brightly into his eyes, as if to scorn his approach. A quiet sigh left his lips as he grabbed the bag of fried chicken on the passenger seat and awkwardly heaved himself out of the car.

He trudged up the small hill to the building, his ill fitting khaki pants whooshing quiet whispers of dreams unfulfilled. He unlocked the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, cold office that was his prison. Here and there, stacks of papers rose up from desks and tables like a mountain range, daring him to conquer their peaks. The smell of burnt coffee from the ancient coffee machine permeated the air. A single fluorescent light hovered over his desk as he waddled past the paper mountains, and heavily sat down in his chair.

The chair creaked in protest, knowing full well that it would go unheard, as the man unwrapped his fried chicken. With little thought or effort he devoured the first piece, and with a half-hearted attempt to wipe his hands on his shirt, he picked up his pen and pulled the nearest piece of paper of the stack.

It was an insurance claim. Another one. Just like the rest. His greasy fingers left prints on the paper which he didn’t notice as he lazily scanned the document. Shattered windshield, water damage, stolen radio. It was a story he’d heard a thousand times. A story he could recite in his sleep. He closed his eyes as if to imagine the details. But the only image that came to his head was of another car. A car that drove away from him, carrying in it his daughter and grandkids. She hadn’t even said goodbye that day, only “I don’t want them to grow up to be like you.”

He opened his eyes back to his office, back to his chicken, back to the scant remains of a life unlived. He looked at the wall and saw his framed certificate, acknowledging his acceptance into the Lion’s Club. A thin smile caught the corner of his mouth. A smile that hid the fact that his greatest accomplishment was acceptance into an organization that accepted everyone. His wife said she was proud of him that day. But that was a long time ago.

She hadn’t said kind words like that in quite some time. He looked down to where the photograph of her used to sit, a corner of the desk now covered in dust, paperclips and a Dilbert cartoon that he thought summed up his life. The picture that once stood there was of a buxom, tanned young woman on the beach, smiling as the sun set behind her. A woman that no one would recognize now. Instead, a vicious, uncaring harpy, frumpy and scowled was waiting at home. He didn’t even like picturing what she used to be, and they both knew it.

The day she realized he didn’t find her attractive anymore, she shut down a piece of herself, and their bed became as cold as winter winds. And then she became bitter. Bitter of what this man’s life had become. Bitter that she gave up her life to support this lumpy, out of date, has-been. And the only thing that gave her solace, is knowing how miserable she could make his life. That is the only reason she stayed. Their kids had left, their friends were shadows, but she stayed. Stayed to pay him back for a life destroyed.

A drop of chicken fat fell from the man’s mouth onto the form he had half completed. He only gave half a thought to what the processors must think of who this greasy pig of man must be to mail so many forms reeking of grease and food. He wiped his hands on his pants and folded the greasy paper and put it in the envelope. As he did so, the envelope fell from his hand and floated gently to the ground. He watched it land on the dingy, water stained carpet, bemusedly wondering if his dreams fell that gently when he dropped them to the ground so long ago. The lines of the room blurred as a tear welled up in his eye. The heavy tear rolled down his nose and fell to the ground, splashing on the rogue envelope.

His shoulders slumped, the weight of ruination closing in around him, he slowly and painstakingly reached down to grab the envelope. As he grasped it, the envelope briefly stuck to the stained carpet, as if to mock this defeated man one more time.

He rose up and the sound of a truck approaching came through the thin walls of the office. He glanced out the window as a dilapidated blue Jeep pulled into his parking spot. His nostrils flared with anger at the audacity. Here was something he could control. Finally a battle he could win. His hands flew to the phone as he dialed the tow truck. The number flew off his fingers, having called them so often. He hung up the phone and stormed out the door, his grease stained khakis whispering again, but now it was a song of war.

I Thought the Tears Were Supposed to Be Done Now.

photo by Ehsan !

I don't want to make lemonade, I don't want want silver clouds or fish in the sea, I don't want lights or tunnels or anything. I just want the tears to stop.

I thought it was supposed to change. I thought those days were over, new days ahead. It wasn't like I was naive and thought that happiness and joy would follow me all the rest of my days, but I didn't think pain would come this soon, this fast.
About a year ago I was moving a huge bookshelf on wheels down to a van to be loaded up. As it rolled down the sidewalk I noticed one of the wheels was about to fall off the curb. Without thinking I stepped to the side that would fall to catch it. The bookshelf, filled with books and easily outweighing me by 200 pounds, fell square onto my shin and scraped its way down to my foot. Nothing was broken but the next day all the damaged tissue, with the help of gravity, dropped into my foot, turning it into a purple, grody balloon. That was almost exactly one year ago.

My shin is still tender where it hit. When I touch it I can still feel damaged tissue. Maybe it will always be that way. Maybe my emotional wounds will never heal. Maybe my heart will forevermore be tender to the touch, fragile and prone to re-injury.

I have always tried to learn from my mistakes, to become a better version of myself. But maybe that's not enough. A mistake is still a failure, even in the past. And my past failures haunt me. That's the difference about the present and the past. The present is always changing, it's liquid, constantly taking shape, growing pulsing. The past is rigid, cold, unalterable and constant. Like barbed wire my past wraps around me, cutting in to the vulnerable, unhealed places of my soul.

And then the tears flow again.

Like a Fish Swimming Sideways

photo by KRSE

It's never a good thing when days start to melt together. It means you're either waiting for something that's coming in the future, or you have nothing to look forward to in the future. Either way, the now has become irrelevant.

I haven't figured out yet the cause of my melting days. I can look ahead and see a lot of great things being prepared. It's exciting to see what's in store. I finally have jobs that are fulfilling and enjoyable and I am energized by the the road ahead. Not to mention summer is finally here, kickball season is in full swing, camping trips are planned, shorts are being worn. These are fun things to be excited about, though the dismal skies outside make them seem pretty far off.

But a silver lining means there's a cloud. And this one happens to be a pretty nasty storm cloud. So maybe the fact that things are looking up for the future is negated by the fact that things are looking down today. So which is more important? Where do I draw my focus? Do I forgo the troubles of the present and seek joy in the plans of the future? Do I stop the silly daydreaming and "live in the now", regardless of how painful it is?

Unfortunately, I'm not a fish.

A fish could just swim sideways, one eye pointed up to see the what lies above, and one eye pointed down to see the dirt and grime below. A fish could live in both worlds, contentedly swimming along. At least, that's my theory. I'm no ichthiologist.

But I'm not a fish. Which means my eyes stare in one direction mostly. Even crossing my eyes hurts. So it becomes one or the other. Do I have the strength to keep my gaze in the present when it is storm clouds and grey skies? Do I have the hope to pull my gaze to the horizon where there are kickballs and passionate rainbows?

Or do I have the faith to see joy in the midst of the storm?

Chapter 7

He reached out and grabbed hold of the floating wood. It was warm and dry compared to the refreshing water. He cringed at its hard splintered surface. He blinked and in a moment he saw the endless days of the raft, slowly dying of hunger and thirst. He saw himself wake up and fall asleep to the same endless expanse of hopelessness. And he saw himself die, many days and weeks from then, shriveled, despondent, his heart and soul long since perished.

His hands dug into the raft, sending fragments of the wood into his fingers. The pain jarred him from his lifeless visions that lay before him. He jerked his hand away from the raft wincing in pain. But the pain of his fingers were no match for the pain in his heart.

He treaded water silently, his labored breathing the only sound. He could still feel the cold water awakening his nerves as it flowed past his arms and legs. Even in his exhaustion, it enlivened him. Even in the face of the hopelessness of the raft, the water brought him joy. He looked down to the water below him. How far would it go? How deep could it be?

With one last look at the raft, he turned his face towards the water. With a large inhale he took in as much air as he could, and with a peace filled smile on his face, he dove downward. He plunged into the depths of the water, feeling it surround and penetrate him. His lungs ached as he pushed down and down, farther into the water than he had gone before.

His skin tingled and his mind was bombarded with feelings, memories and emotions. He remembered himself. He could see the green grass he used to fall asleep in, the comfort of an embrace, the softness of a single kiss. It was all there, every part of him now returned. He was whole again. With every kick downward he was awash with new sensations and memories.

His lungs burning from their unnoticed emptiness, the man slowed his descent and closed his eyes. He let everything, the water, the memories, the emotions the peace, completely envelope him. At that moment, it didn't matter how it happened, it didn't matter where the water came from or where it would take him. It only mattered that he had found it, and found himself.

With the last bit of his breath, he let out a long powerful laugh into the deep blue. He laughed and shouted until his lungs began filling with water. As he slowly sank downward into the dark, his smile remained. His hope unwavering and his joy complete, his body sank deeper into the exhilerating unknown, free from its prison.

Chapter 6

With aching heart and aching lungs the man propelled himself to the surface. He broke the stillness of the water with a loud splash and inhale of breath. He squinted at the brightness of the sun and scowled slightly that it would dare bare it's oppressive heat down on him again. But he would not be deterred for long. He dipped his head back under the water and popped up like a geyser, spitting water in all directions. He dove down and back up, over and over, all the while smiling and laughing. He played in the water like a child, innocent and care-free, forgetting his helplessness.

At long last, the man breathed a contented sigh. His legs ached from the constant kicking, and he rubbed his shoulder, unaccustomed to the workout. For a second, his legs gave way, and his head dipped below the water. Sputtering and coughing he regained his rhythm and turned to venture back to the raft. Behind him lay only the vast expanse of the water. He furtively glanced all around, looking for some sign of his rescue, his only means of survival.

Panic began to seep into his muscles as he turned in the water, squinting into the horizen. Finally, he saw off in the distance, the black shape of his tiny, floating home. How had it gotten so far away? In his revelry, the man had lost track of time and distance and by the time he bothered to look he had taken himself far away from his raft and where he began. He forced his exhausted muscles to swim as he pointed his body toward the raft and kicked with what strength he had left.

Kick after kick he slowly and painfully worked his way back towards the floating wood, his eyes fixed on it for fear of losing it again. With every second it became harder and harder to keep his head above the surface of the water. His breathing became more ragged as he tried to will his body to get him to safety.

He began thinking about the wonder of the water. Remembering its sweetness and the invigoration of when he first felt it upon his face. He stopped worrying about his muscles, and peace washed over him once again as he felt the water invade his soul again, renewing him. Without realizing, he had swam within a few short feet from the raft. His muscles yearned for rest from his constant swimming. He looked carefully at the raft searching for a suitable handhold to pull himself back on to rest.

He spotted a slight gap in the wood that would allow him hoist his body back on the raft and swam towards it. As he did, he looked at the raft again. He saw the worn spot where his head lay, night after night. He saw the dry, cracked surface, so rough and uncomfortable. And his eyes filled with tears as he saw the small circle of blood, where his rage pounded against this floating prison. A foot from the floating wood, the man stopped.

Chapter 5

The dark blue seemed to swirl beneath him as he peered into the depths. He bent down, his face now only inches from the water as he tried to find assurance from the deep blue expanse. Would he be swallowed up by the water, or terrorized by some creature, hiding out of sight? But the water offered no promise of safety, no immunity from danger.

He let his arm dangle in to the water, and he closed his eyes and concentrated on the cool, exhilarating feelings rising from his fingers, and up his arm to his shoulder. He moved his arm back and forth, feeling the water move around his skin. He opened one eye and peered down at his arm. It was still there. No monster from the deep had been roused. He closed his eyes again and felt the hot, sweltering sun on his face, drying the water he had so recently refreshed himself with. The sun felt heavy, like a weight on his soul. Yet even now he could feel the cool water radiating around his arm as it lay off the side of the raft.

The man let out a long breath, and at the end painstakingly rolled himself over and off of the raft, splashing into the cold water. His body quickly submersed in the water, the man let out a short yelp as the cold shocked his dried out and overheated skin. But very quickly, the water seemed to wash away his weariness as pain like so much dirt and filth. He kicked his now rejuvenated legs and propelled himself to the surface. As his head broke the surface of the water, he let out a long shout of joy.

The agony was gone, the pain was gone, the oppressiveness of his prison was gone, all washed away by the miracle of this cold, clear water. He glanced back at the raft to make sure that it was close enough that he could pull himself back on when he got too tired to swim, and seeing that it was only a few feet behind him, drew a long breath and dove under the water again.

Down and down he swam, into the deep blue. With every foot deeper that he swam, the water was colder, and clearer. And with every kick of his legs and stroke of his arms, his body felt renewed again. He paused and look around. He was so deep under the surface it was hard to see. Perhaps there were creatures down here. The sunlight was hard to see above him as the water reflected the light and displaced it in so many directions. Even though he was below the surface of the water, he felt free. Here there was no sun, no raft, no endless expanse of hopelessness.

He wished he could journey farther down into the darkness, but his lungs began to ache and he knew that he needed a breath of air soon. He kicked his legs and shot himself back towards the surface.

Chapter 4

A gentle wave rolled up to the side of his tiny raft, and clapped against the side of the wood, sending up a tiny spray of water into the air. A few of the scattered droplets landing on the man's face, startling him out of his misery. One of the drops that had landed on his cheek began a slow descent down his face, finally ending on his parched lips.

Instinctively, the man opened his mouth and caught the rivulet of water with his tongue. As he did so, his eyes opened wide and his breath caught. Expecting the bitter taste of salt in his mouth, the man was shocked to find that the water he tasted was sweet. He imagined this was only a trick of his senses and used his tongue to find another water droplet on his face. Amazingly, this one was as sweet and cold as the first.

The man's heart began beating faster and his brain caught fire as he attempted to comprehend this phenomenon. He rolled over towards the edge of the raft and dipped his uninjured hand into the water, a small feat he had never dared to do before. He cupped his hand and drew a small portion of water up towards his face. The water was cool and invigorating in his hand and on his arm and he looked quizzically at the tiny pool he held in his hand. Finding nothing extraordinary and overcome with curiosity, he drew his hand to his mouth and drank from the well he had created.

As the water entered his mouth and washed into his body, he was overcome. The water instantly cooled his body, and awakened his nerves. The remarkably sweet taste in his mouth energized his taste buds and lingered there long after he had swallowed the water down. As he felt his small drink seep down his throat and into his belly, he felt strength...renewal.

With wide eyes he dipped his hand in again and instead of bringing it to his mouth, this time he splashed it square on to his face. It was as if each drop that hit his face was electricity, causing all the sleeping parts of him that he had thought long dead to stir and awaken. He threw another handful of water over himself, and then another and another, until he was drenched. He couldn't believe how cold the water was, and even more baffling to him, was how sweet and nourishing it was.

He paused from his frantic showering, his breath coming hard and fast, his hair wet and tousled, and looked down into the water. It was still dark and deep. It was still foreboding and mysterious. But for the first time, when he looked into its depths, he did not feel fear...only longing.

Chapter 3

How had he come to this? He didn't remember choosing this tiny raft, or how he had even gotten to the sea. Did he even like the water? How then did he get to this hopeless place? He rolled over on to his hands and knees and looked to the horizon. The blue of the water met the blue of the sky in an almost indiscernable line that seemed a thousand miles away.

As he looked out across the expanse of water seeking answers to his questions, the overwhelming weight of his life crushed in around him. He shoulders stooped even lower and his breath caught in his lungs. What did it matter how he got here? It only mattered that here is where he was, and where he would stay. Hope was pain.

He looked down at his hands displayed underneath him against the wet wood. His hands that had once brought him so much joy, creativity and expression, now were bloody and broken, like the rest of him. He brought a trembling hand up in front of his face. He stared at the shaking fingers, once so delicate, now bruised and shrunken from lack of food and water. His hand disgusted him. It was useless, a hand not talented enough to make him smile, not passionate enough to tell his story, and not strong enough to save him from this hell.

His lips turned to a scowl as he slowly and painfully bent his fingers into a raw fist. With all of the strength he had left, a strength that betrayed his weary condition, he brought his fist down and struck the wood beneath him. The skin of his knuckles scraped off on the dense wood, and he felt an echo of pain stab through his mind. No sooner had the blow landed on his raft with a dull thud, then he brought it down again...and again. With each strike his body rose up higher, gaining strength from his rage. Soon both fists pounded into the wood, sending out a dismal rhythm into the air.

He barely noticed the red stain beginning to form on the wood under the torrent of his fists. He wondered if it was his blood, or the blood of whatever demon held him trapped here. The man slowly started to realize the pain that was creeping into his subconscious. Something, somewhere in his brain was telling him to stop, that he was hurt, but it was too far, too deep to hear.

He struck the wood and heard, rather then felt, a loud crack come from his wrist. With a loud cry he collapsed into a heap on the bloody wood. With his good hand he felt his wrist, already knowing that it was broken. It was then he heard a sound traveling over the waves. A sound he didn't recognize. He strained his ears to hear it, wondering where it came from. He tried to raise himself up off the wood to listen, but as soon as he put weight on his injured hand he collapsed again in a fit of pain. It was then that he realized the sound he heard came from him. His anguished cries dissipated into the air, and the nearly inhuman howls of misery were soon lost to the neverending blue around him.

Chapter 2

A wave caught the corner of the tiny fragment of wood and caused it to tip precariously towards the water. The man’s fear took over and he edged back towards the middle of his raft. Afraid that his movements would capsize his safety, he curled up in the middle of the piece of wood and stared at the empty cloudless sky above him.

He would die here, of that much he was certain. The day, the time, those things didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the certainty of it. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His tears had evaporated long ago, along with his hope, but deep inside he wished for more tears. He wished to cry, if only to feel something. Anything. But misery had long ago given way to despair, and eventually, even despair had fled, leaving him with nothing. Now he was just empty and hollow, and waiting for the end of his days.

He drew a deep breath of the thick, hot air and exhaled quietly. He closed his eyes to the sun and tried to search his memory. He tried to remember his past. Surely there were days before this raft and this sun! He rolled onto his stomach, his face pressed against the damp, rotting wood he floated on. A distant memory flickered in his mind. Perhaps there was a time, when his body didn’t ache, when he didn’t wake up every morning on a slab of wood, but on something soft, exquisite…beautiful. But what? When? A flash of green in his mind and the smell of something sweet in his nostrils caused his eyes to open with a start. But as quickly as the flame of the memory entered his mind, it was extinguished. He rolled on to his back and stared again into the scorching sun, convinced the memory had never been there at all.

There was no other bed, no other smells besides this salty hot air and this rotting wood. There was nothing sweet, or green, or beautiful. There was only this raft, this sun...this nothing.

Chapter 1

It was the sparkling of the sun shining off the surface of the water that finally awoke him. His body, tired and bedraggled by the abuse of the elements, heaved itself up to look around. The man grimaced as he rubbed his neck, hoping to ease at least some of his soreness. He looked around at his surroundings, hoping for a change, but everything was as he had left it.

The tiny piece of wood, barely the size of a bedroom door, still floated aimlessly in the endless expanse of water. Sunlight from above, and it's reflection from below, caused the man to squint and look off in the distance, searching for some sign of hope.

He had forgotten how many days he had lived on his makeshift raft. He had no recollection of how he came to be here, or even his life before this picturesque prison. He couldn't remember when he had finally resigned himself to his fate, but for any that knew him, he would have appeared a dismal shell of the man they knew.

His shoulders were in a perpetual slump under some unseen weight. His brow furrowed from the sun and his own consternation. And his hands. Once delicate, slender fingers of an artist had become bruised, blistered and dirty. Callouses on his fingertips lay open and bloody. Where once his fingers would have appeared to move with a grace and beauty, now only was a fist clenched in pain and despair.

He slowly worked his way to his hands and knees and stared into the blue depth of the water. What lay below the surface was a mystery, but he knew that to abandon his floating prison meant death.

How I Proved I Could Write an 800 Word Paper in Half an Hour

For as long as history has been documented, man has sought to categorize. Perhaps it is conquering in a sense, or man's desire for natural order that created this dynamic, but if discovery is man's most potent drug, then categorizing those discoveries is the high that drug produces. In no aspect is this clearer, then in the wide ranging and detailed minutia of cheese. There are literally hundreds of types of cheeses and they can all be categorized by their aging techniques, their flavor, their elasticity, and in countless other ways.

The most popular group of cheeses in the United States is the "hard" or "semi-hard" cheese family. Among these delicious cheeses are cheddar, Colby and Monterey Jack. These cheeses have a lower moisture count and are pressed into molds and pressurized for a length of time. But even this category can be further broken, pieced and dissected. It's not enough for the human race to call a cheese "hard" or "soft". This is not enough distinction, not enough control for our domineering minds to maintain. That is why we have "grated" cheeses, "semi-hard curd" cheese and the like. It's a wonder we ever left the shelter of our caves with so many rocks and pieces of dirt to name and put into plastic baggies with tags on them!

And this is even considering the large amount of spread able, "soft" cheeses. If there were any more diverse classification of a subset we'd have a hair split into micro fibers. Some are made by souring the milk, then straining the curd or passing it through a separator to remove much of the moisture, giving a white, crumbly, but soft spreadable product. The flavor is mildly acid. This type of cheese lends itself to rolling in or mixing with herbs, spices, fruits etc. and being sold tubs, small rounds or logs. So not only can we describe it's culture, milk source and souring technique, but in our grand vision of conquest we even categorize how we decide to shape the final product. Now we truly have become masters of minutia! Perhaps there is a party somewhere were a great and wise duke is impressing his neighbors by offering not just Pantysgawn goats cheese, but Pantysgawn goats cheese in the shape of a 1911 model Zeppelin! Have we gone insane?!?

“Why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table, so many meals?” These words are as true today as they were when Shakespeare himself first penned them. Most likely he was speaking of the monastic category of cheeses, but with so many subcategorizations of his time, who’s to really say. Cheeses in this group are often linked historically in that they have monastic origins. Such cheeses as Port Salut, Saint Paulin, the various forms of Trappist cheese made throughout the world, Esrom and Havarti have similarities of taste, although varying degrees of strength of flavor and aroma. Several mountain cheeses, such as Beaumont and Reblochon, are also classified as monastery type cheeses. The majority of monastery cheeses are of the washed rind variety. “Washed rind”? Even monks are not above the need to overclassify! Perhaps the concept to call a cheese “good” or “too runny” is above these men of the cloth? Far be it for them to be called to a higher order of thinking. But is that then yet another classification that need not be made? Perhaps “holy” and “secular” are in themselves concepts not specific enough.

Is the classification of men and cheese indicative of a greater evil in this world? Is the control we attempt to exert over this planet and all its varied inhabitants a vain attempt to hide our fear of our own categorization? Do we fear a grand reckoning where we are given our own tag and label as “good” or “bad”? “Heaven bound” or “Hell bent”? Or maybe it’s something much simpler. Perhaps we designate, and create uniqueness out of the ambiguous in order to alleviate our own fears of being commonplace. By diversifying to such an alarming degree do we hope to stave off the bland “normalcy” that we fear will overtake us, homogenizing us into just another cog in an ever-turning machine who’s only production is the crowning the diminutive as royalty and exonerating the plain, thus making them extraordinary. But therein lies the rub. Like so much Camembert lying in the sun, we have doomed ourselves to lives of the mundane, by treating the unique and bland with equal favor, we have removed the same power we hoped to wield over this world.

A word by Any other name

When does a word become a word? Do a certain number of people have to have similar definitions to a guttural mix of sounds before we call it "a word"? Is there some board of directors that sits atop some kind of Dictionarial Shrine hearing cases one after the other over why a new mix of letters and sounds should now be considered a word?

In the last 10 years the word "d'oh" made it in to the dictionary. This is not a word as much as a cry that was by and large credited to Homer Simpson. But now it's in the dictionary, so I guess it's a word.

English is baffling enough without knowing the fact that cartoon characters have some power over it's creation.

A website that I frequent (which also happens to be a cartoon) has a propensity for making up words at will. A few examples of this would be "wood daver" (some kind of craft made with pine cones and peanut butter), a "stnank" (a mistake), and one of my personal favorites, "burninate" (you guessed it, to burn something..).

Are all these now "words"? If I approached a black robed member of this dictionarium and threatened to burninate him if he didn't come up with a word that rhymes with purple would he know what I'm talking about? Probably not.

I wish math were the same way. I wish I could just make up "new math" and have it mean something. I woulda done a lot better in Calculus if that were the case.

x ~~ (y2 @^ b - 4) = very yes.

Oh well.

Accident Waiting to Happen

Let me set the scene.


I'm stopped at a stoplight in South Minneapolis and my ever-present curiosity and Sherlock Holmes like observational skills notice some odd things about this particular corner. The most obvious to me at the start was the police car parked at the convenience store to my right in the process of arresting a rather exuberant felon. While this is not an uncommon sight around this neighborhood it is still unique enough to warrant my noticing. The second thing I noticed was that the traffic flowing opposite me had stopped and was backed up quite a ways.


A big white mini-van had been forced to stop in this traffic debacle in the middle of the intersection as the light turned red. Noticing that cars are now barreling towards him, the driver of this vehicle decides he should probably back up a tad, since going forward was not an option. So he pops into reverse and coasts his big ass van backwards.


Now is when the capital scene begins to unfold. A moderately hygienic girl is crossing the street on the crosswalk, her attention clearly focused on the police and their accosting of the ne'er do well taking place behind her. Little does she suspect that in a scant few feet she will be walking into the path of a large vehicle that is backing up in its clandestine way out of the intersection.


What happened next took only a matter of seconds, but I had the great dispensation to watch it play out in slow motion. As I come to the realization that the innocent girl is about to be "run over" by the truck I did what any of us would do. I leaned forward. Why you ask? To watch. And before you criticize me for not trying to help or interject into the scene let me say this. You would've done the same.


You know how when you're driving alone after dark up on a small road and suddenly a deer jumps out of the ditch in front of your car? What do you do? Well the first thing that happens is you yell "DEER!" Or at least that's what I do. Same thing. I'm merely acknowledging the situation and impending circumstances.


So truck backing, girl walking, me leaning.


The girl proceeds to faceplant into the side of the van, nose first. After ramming the van at full walking speed she staggers backward, shaking her head in that cartoony sort of way in disbelief. The van driver upon hearing a large moving object hit him, stops abruptly and looks in his rear view mirror (something he hadn't been doing up to that point, even though he was driving backwards). He sees the girl staggering around, and in an act of humane servitude, busts out laughing at her.


Meanwhile, the scofflaw being arrested is jumping up and down yelling "that dude just hit that girl! That dude just hit that girl!"


The girl, after "shaking out the cobwebs" continued on her way, the light turned green and the guy drove off and the police didn't believe their prisoner in the slightest. All became right with the world once again, and I smiled and laughed to myself for the rest of the morning.

In the Mouth of the River of Death

photo originally posted by Yanec


March 22, 2000
Cotonou, Benin

The air hung like a thick blanket over the city, slowing down everything and everyone until time itself labored from second to second. The heavy atmosphere caught in the lungs, making even the simplest of tasks laborious and difficult. One questioned the very need to breathe, as even that became strained and exhausting in the tepid air.

Above the concrete maze, the air seemed to dance and ripple to an unheard song, as if taunting the denizens who wallowed in laziness below, and flaunting its own freedom. The sun seemed to betray its own motives as it twisted and turned the air into a masterful work of invisible art, done only for the torture of the many pairs of hollow eyes that occasionally glanced skyward in hopes of finding relief and shelter from a misguided cloud. Not even the clouds questioned the stern gaze of the sun this day, and they all found folly elsewhere, departing from the angry gaze, like so many children fleeing the tirade of a cross mother.

The eyes that hopefully glanced upward soon drew themselves back to the steaming ground, as sweat made its stinging welcome into those peering eyes. It was as if the air, the thick, hot air, had become a second skin, laying heavy upon humanity. All are soon drenched and thoughts of solace, comfort and sleep drip away as beads of sweat. For there is no sleep this night, as even sleep becomes a hard and strenuous labor amidst the torrent of the sun's coarse waves. Choking life from every pore, the sun has left me defeated.

There For the Grace of God Go I

I remember an otherwise completely forgettable day in South Florida when I was first introduced to that thing that would define my generation. I was in the middle of doing my best to follow dreams, make parents proud, "find myself" and all the other societal detritus that tends to sideswipe me on idle sunny afternoons. At the time I was smack dab in the middle of an existential quandry that largely revolved around simplifying my life and eliminating that ever present buzzing noise that our culture has conveniently created to distract us from what really matters.

It was in this state that I first witnessed my sister, (who was not in the same crisis as I) chatting in the now largely antiquated mIRC online community. I sat down, quickly found some chatrooms with interesting people and made my insignifcant mark upon the cyber world.

And so it goes.

As history is wont to do I find myself cyclically returning to that day, albeit a tad more self-aware, yet still trying to follow dreams, make parents proud, and find myself. So here is my blog. And once again I participate in the grand old buzzing of the world.