Stolen Steel Spine

People have a strange relationship with the world.

Little busy creatures, bustling about. In all types of weather, all types of climates, all types of places. I watch them from afar, always studying. It is not a place of superiority, rather of curiosity. Stewing, I believe, is the term I’m looking for here.

My mind is not free from idea. My projects have slowed. But sometimes the need to write outweighs the want, and vice versa. It is the struggle of both that is so godamn tortuous. The thing I miss the most was spine. A writer’s voice. Mine has dwindled into a pathetic vomit of disjointed entries like this one, or as ambiguous pieces in the abstract. And the kicker is that there is no solid way of knowing whether or not it’s my voice as a writer, or just a load of fresh, steaming bullshit.

I think most of myself is twisted in hypocrisy and guilt. In spite of the light, it gets bent. Bent around experiences, fractured by pain, amplified by joy. But always malleable. It’s this fact that drives on the terrible point, hanging like an old noose at the gallows. Dramatic.

It’s all dramatic. Each emotion, each word I push forward feels like shit flavored molasses. I don’t have the will to write now. Not forever, mind you. But the strength of mind writing takes (for me) fails me. Fuck this entry, and fuck this day.

Lost with a Compass

Days roll on by and the guilt of stagnation hangs with the meat until there is a call for action.

Completion of tasks, both great and small, go checked off until the lists are calm, until the day makes sense again. Wandering-

There is a stark honesty about apathy and sloth. They imply peace, but are often abused. The mind is a weak thing that must be cradled by willpower and bone, or it will break. Each stone pillar wears away in the desert sand until all is dust, slow but sure.

Writing has been hard. Mostly these types of entries flow because there is no point to them. They have no definitive purpose, nor is their journey valid or useful. Creating ideas in the brain that won’t translate -or can’t- into creation itself. There’s no more will to write anymore and there must be a rally within to find the spark once more. It feels forced and arbitrary. Wouldn’t read the words pushed out like a smeared shit.

Mostly the violence sticks out. Violence in the stories, especially the killing and dealing with loss and guilt. Envy. Stick to what is comfortable and profitable, but can there be a time when comfort is a liability opposed to an asset? Of fuckin’ course.

Setbacks at a later age are harder to cope with as responsibilities, anxieties, worries, and doubt build up inside an adult brain. Not enough space to cope. So it’ll get fixated. This one is fixed on violence.

Why the violence? Why the need for blood? Is there a hurt inside that is invisible to the world and its victim? Why such blind anger? Why the need to spit pain in all directions?

Forests sometimes have a path. Deep ones, ones that have been around for decades; tempt beauty off trail, but there is no solace or safety where there is no vision. Following a compass so the path is always known is not foolproof. Many, many times the forest will swallow travellers. Some find the path once more and travel to the intended destination, wiser for the experience as a whole. All too often, the direction, goal, and destination is lost or discarded, and there are mass graves of intention and loathing that conceal an endless supply of ignorant bodies.

Wander the woods, but keep an eye on the path. Death, metaphorical and tangible, comes in many forms and feelings.

Mind the deadfall.

A Zenith’s Umbra

Bottled rage and pain are a collective pool in which all is poured and consumed. Shattered shards of sadness and lethargy mix with an indignant sense of apathy where the only viable goal is self destruction, or loathing. Concepts of self hatred change accordingly, always mesmerizing and out of reach. When a grasp is finally achieved, there is an abyss that draws all hope toward it, the choke of tears, the burn of frustration, exhaustive overwhelming waves of just…hopeless, hopeless pain. Most turn numb after a time but the burn of pain eats holes through this veneer and then the sensation of release is all too common. But there is no release. That rage and pain just can’t disappear, or be let go of. It is an anchor. Calcified with shadows from the crawling abyss of depression. Feel it sitting? Some could ask. But it isn’t a question, it’s a statement with a shit eating grin.

As the anchor rusts inside, those shards break off and get lodged in hope, fraying it. But there’s no way to let it out without violence at this point. A mild interjection, a disagreement they are drops in a bucket of blood, where the entire sea is red, and there are many drinkers- completely parched but on their hands and knees shoveling the gore into there gaping throats, dark as the abyss that spawned them. Many choose to kneel with them, some choose to observe, others ignore. There comes a point where the light at the end of the tunnel is a pinpoint harpoon of bloody light, where the only option is endless violence, endless fury, endless tears, all frustration. Throwing anger and pain out of itself until burned out and snuffed like the stove’s pilot. There can only be blood.

Violence calls out from the abyss, a voice and a guide. That endless depression, dragging and holding, clawing- choked; see what there is now but a bleached black skeleton rattling against itself in the silence of depression and darkness. The empty void- staring into an unlit room after nightfall, the maw of familiar things suddenly unknown- there are no guiding voices in the pitch black ink. There are only demons. There are no allies. Only imagined voices. Ingrained. Doubt clings to each other, creating clots that can only cause stroke.

So utterly sad. Just…so sad. It’s the best word. Despair feels cliche, sorrow, melancholy, the only thing that works is sad. Swirling down a filthy drain, clogging itself until the tub is full with psychic quicksand, which overflows and settles into the places that are forgotten inside. It is a fluid, anger a solid, they mix and do not blend. Drink it all down anyway, each urchin of unrelenting anger appearing in the outline of a clenched jaw, let it make deep slashes and allow the sadness to infect and help fester. Doubt settled there first, but it mixes nicely with anything, a whore on the spectrum. Shackled and tamed the pain gets worse as it is contained in a smaller and smaller space. There is the essence of anger, it grows and shrinks its vessel at the same time until there is no place left to go but everywhere and against itself.

Gouge a blood trench through death, each inch a reminder of mortality so final and pathetic in the last moments in such vulnerability where dark daggers plead suicide for the owner. But there is no suicide. There is no end. No. End. Except the only one that matters.


Corpses and Christmas

Death comes in a strange haze that is punctuated by a sudden snap and loss of all control. Rarely is it quiet, even when done in secret, and the meat will fight to stay alive as long as there is a soul fueling the heart that still refuses to stop beating. It is also intimate. Private. To look upon a dead body, to see the last moments of life and the first moments of death frozen in the muscles; it is seen almost too causally, and tossed aside as something normal.

Death isn’t normal, it’s inevitable. There’s a difference. To watch someone decline, point A to point B, and then be there, to stare at the body, to feel the loss. The gravity. There’s nothing normal about it. Last week, my grandfather finally died, and I say finally because he had severe dementia, and ultimately, it cost him his life. A grim blessing, truly.

Work doesn’t have time for death, so I was working like usual. The call I received was simple, gentle. He was gone, and it had been a long time coming. I’ve only seen a dead body once before, to be honest. For as much as I write about death and the consequences of it, I have little face to face experience with it. But like most things in life, one is often woefully prepared for grievous situations no matter how well adjusted they claim, or have tried, to be. I am no exception.

Walking into my grandfather’s room at home, I smelled…illness. Medicine, old sweat, piss, shit, sadness, impatience, boredom. I approached his form under the sheet, but his face wasn’t covered. He was on his side to alleviate the pain in his lung from the night before, still in the same position I had left him when I said goodnight to him. I remember holding his hand as he gripped the safety rail on the side of his bed. He still gripped that rail. I sat down beside him, and looked into his face. What I saw is now burned into my skull, my very godamn bones.

His skin was yellow and thick, like looking at candlewax covered in a thin, dessicated membrane. His mouth was slightly open, as were his eyes. They hadn’t closed them. I looked into those eyes, seeing a flicker of his iris. A clot of bright green mucus clung to his nose and upper lip, they had not cleared it. As I stared at him, I couldn’t help but feel…hate. Anger. Not at him, or my family, but unguided.

Touching him was a terrible mistake. His skin was freezing, slightly damp, and rigid. I tried to hold his hand, but it was resistant to movement thanks to rigor mortis. I had this maddening thought, this terrible thought, that I needed to wash my hands right away. I felt like I had taken some of that death. He lay there for several hours as we waited for the funeral home to take away his remains. Even though he was gone long before they took him, I never felt the void until he was no longer in the house.

Void. The perfect word.

My grandfather was dead, and I thought I was prepared for it. In truth, my experiences with death have never been normal, so I don’t understand why the subject is so simply dealt with by so many others. I feel that his death was a miserable, lingering experience that a man of his worth and caliber did not deserve. But, I am no god. I have no power here. I am merely another hunk of meat trying to make sense of more death in a world so alive.

I hate the casual way death is approached in modern times. Or disrespected. It is downplayed, accepted, spun, altered, hidden, applied, dictated, ordered, natural and forced, among other things, and it is the final answer to a question that was asked at birth, the question that burns inside every one of us until the day we blink when staring death in those empty, black sockets.

Death is not a stranger to me. I am surrounded by it, as all we are. And I can feel the clawing black sometimes. It’s like a rotted bridal veil that we all look at the world through. Death and I have a strange acceptance for one another. Well, at least an acceptance that a man and an intangible force of nature can have together. Death comes. Death is always coming, and we must all be ready for it. Even when we aren’t. Even when it’s our own.

The night before I left him, I could feel his beating heart and shallow breaths. Together, the sensation in the room felt like pleas, or prayer under the husk of death because he lost his power of speech a few days before he died. I watched him, laboring under his illness, and could only think to say, “…”


Warrior Shaman Flash Fiction

“So you’re the best fighter in the world, huh?” Definitely sneering, but somewhat…placid. Thas decided to indulge him. 

“No, I’m not.” Thas continued his stare into the mug of ale before him.

The stranger at the bar looked puzzled. “But, are you not a Warrior Shaman? Those, those whirlwinds of death and nature?”

“Yes, I am.” Thas looked into the man’s eyes. He knew the storm cataract was glowing, but the stranger didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Then you have some explaining to do.”

Thas looked up, blinked once. “There was a time when I fought an especially fierce knight. Exhausted, I had not the strength to call to Melias, and I had been bested in martial combat. I stood before him, disarmed. I looked him in the eye through his helmet’s visor and simply stated, ‘I forgive you.’ And I awaited death. Hands palm out, down at my sides.”

The stranger leaned in, baffled and amazed.

“The knight stood, saluted me, and sheathed his weapon. He bowed once, turned, and left the chamber where he had cornered me. I never saw him again.”

Instructions for Reporting Animal Abusers and Pedophiles to INTERPOL

Our Compass

Wikimedia Commons
Wikimedia Commons

If you witness cruelty on Facebook, abuse to children or animals in videos or pictures, please do not report to Facebook; if you report to Facebook the evidence may be destroyed. Please contact local authorities immediately.

Instructions for reporting animal and children abusers on Facebook (or other site).

Click HERE to refer to INTERPOL.  Please note that Interpol may not receive your direct request for help in a timely manner; you need to contact your local, or nearby, police or law enforcement personnel who will then contact Interpol if appropriate. However, please click HERE for general Interpol inquiries and to report appropriate crimes.  Scroll down to Interpol General Secretariat to include and submit information. Please note that this should not be your only source of reporting; you should contact local law enforcement as well.

Please click HERE to report online child sexual abuse to the Virtual Global Taskforce…

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Gun Control is Never About Guns

Fear is the basic principle that drives every single human being to their destination- death. Life is the journey we take in order to reach this destination, and the experiences along the way that we may experience are unique- they define us for good or bad. Humans fear other humans. More specifically, humans fear the intent of other humans. This fear drives us towards more fear, and eventually, we are doomed to become agoraphobic, atrophied sheep lead by a rich man in a shiny suit over the edge of complacency. And most people wouldn’t even know what happened.

Recently, I read an article in a “newspaper” that mentioned this story. Being the quality, unbiased newspaper that the Daily News is, they sided with “good” and said that death was being taken off the streets.  A whole shit ton ‘o gun was found and seized. Yay! The weak read this article and think, “oh good. More violence that I don’t have to worry about.” And that’s good. That’s really good, because that is a trap that most fall in to.

There is no ‘they’ in this post. There is only you. More specifically, us. Death and violence are woven into human culture by blood and nerve. We are violent creatures, always looking to assert ourselves against peers on this tiny rock. Some of us turn to violence. Mugging, stealing, sadism. Others find more civilized ways to subvert and destroy our peers. Money, politics, careers. All things that can be manipulated, applied, and then reaped with no-one the wiser. Know why? Cuz’ the real threats are tangible! They are never subtle. They are bombs, disease, guns, minorities, drugs. And now? Look what we have.

Humanity is weak. It’s weak, and its afraid. The only time we show some spine is when we are in peril, and even then most men and women would turn tail and run in the face of darkness. Even now, our freedoms are being suppressed, and we aren’t…doing. Anything. Look at this planet. Look at her people. Ignorance, bigotry, and violence touch EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. PLACE. On this Earth, but we still fear the black guy with a gun hiding behind our curtains.

Wake the fuck up.

Danger is everywhere, and comes in many forms. Guns aren’t the problem! People are. Knives, bombs, fists, spoons, forks, glass bottles, telephone wire, paper weights, poison, fire. The list goes on. Humans are frail, people. We can die from an infection for Christ’s sake, and we’re the most worried about guns? Speaking of guns, we can blow up the world 10 times over with nuclear arms, but where are the advances in medicine? Sure, we’ve come a long way, but considering all the people we can kill en masse, why has humanity never considered healing? Because we need to defend ourselves! We need to defend this country, and we need to make it safe! More jails, more prisoners, less guns, less violence. Right?

HA! Doesn’t anyone else see this? Humanity becomes afraid. Humanity invents weapons. Humanity scares itself. Humanity bans weapons. But not all of humanity, right? Look who has all the guns. The real guns, not the dumbass .22 short rifle plinker your dad gave you when you were twelve. The long range missles, the tanks, the machine guns, the gunships. Look at all the military tech. Who has these? Who do they take such weapons from when these implements are found in the “wrong” hands?

I bet you’re rally against the government now, right? Well, you’re a fuckin’ idiot then. Gun Control is merely a portion of a self perpetuating cycle of violence and fear that humanity has locked itself in ever since we were dumb enough to kill one another for even dumber reasons. Getting rid of all the weapons will not make humanity safer. It was never about weapons! All of the violence and the laws attributed to abating said violence derive from one source, and that is ourselves. Humanity is to blame. Guns do not grow out of the ground as natrually occuring means to defend the defenseless. THey are made by humans. Bombs cannot be harvested like a truffle below the base of a tree. They are made by humans. And what is the final missing factor that involves violence involving weapons?

A human operator. Shut the fuck up (like I’m about to do) and get serious. Wanna feel safer? That responsibility starts with you. Stop blaming guns, stop blaming the government, stop blaming your neighbor.  We are all at fault for the state of things now, and we must now all ride the storm through as a species. Will we abate the storm? Or just make it worse? More importantly, what will you do?

Muay Thai is the Only Sport I Can Do

Hovering around 270-320 lbs for the majority of your life causes certain ostracizations.

Now being 28, that means I was the fatty in school. I’m not chiseled out of marble mind you, but I’ve come a long way from walking the mile during gym class while everyone lapped me. Harsh realities are inflicted upon the overweight. Enjoy the friendzone, because that’s where every girl will put you. You’ll get so bored of the unrelenting and unoriginal cruelty from bullies that you wish they would use slurs that you at least haven’t heard before. You develop in a vacuum- social interaction with other human beings is on the whole negative, so there are certain defense mechanism that get put in place as your  body and mind fight with the urge to keep living, and the delightful release of suicide. Enough time passes, you start to feel empty when a bully was absent from school and not there to verbally abuse you. All of these I knew, and more.

I hate sports. Sports. Not exertion, sports. Baseball is boring. Basketball is repetitive. Footballs are impossible to catch. Volleyballs fly off because I use too much strength, and I’m not coordinated enough to do it the right way. Not fast enough for tennis. Too heavy for track and field. Soccer spells a heart attack. Golf is just…terrible. Hate all the wrestlers on the wrestling team. Weightlifting can never be done properly. So I existed in this limbo where I found no sports entertaining to watch, or do. There was no exercise. And I just kept getting fatter.

Diets, starvation, a flirt with bulimia (that never blossomed) and anorexia, exercise. At my lowest I was 220lbs. At my highest, I was 315. Everything I tried to do to manage weight all had one thing in common that never made it work: self loathing. Every day, I would shoot to consume 1200 calories or less, sometimes not eating at all  (please note that I am a 6’4” male At 220lbs I was happy, but I looked like death would soon pay a visit). Restaurants were a source of anxiety rather than pleasure- there is TREMENDOUS pressure on you to eat, so off to the bathroom to puke up a pound of pasta and a side salad. And then there’s the irrational feeling of, “they all know what I did” when you reemerge from the bathroom with watery eyes, a red face, and a wounded soul. And don’t forget the first time you cram your finger(s) down your throat and enjoy seeing blood for the first time in the toilet after a particularly difficult purging session!

I’ve always loved martial arts. Combat, fighting, discipline, training, sweat, blood, pain, tears. I’ve always thought that I was too fat for them. But that’s because I approached it with the mentality of self depreciation opposed to self improvement. Being too much of a pussy to go through with actually joining an academy, my wife got me a Christmas present that would change my life- a free month’s classes to a local academy that practiced my favorite combat system- Muay Thai.

My first class was terrifying. The staff there were more than helpful. Kind, patient, supportive. I was finally doing it, learning a real martial art from a master. I was hooked. It turns out that the only sport I’ve ever been any good at, is a combat sport. Who fuckin’ knew?

That was two years ago. And rather than bore you anymore with my bullshit, I want to describe what it’s like for me to finally be good at something physical (compared to other sports I’ve tried. I’ve only been doing it for 2 years. I’m no master, but I don’t curl into a fetal position at the end of every class). Pain is a big part of it, which is why I like it. Smashing my shins and fists into pads, bags, other people, you name it brings a part of myself that I’ve always had to hide for fear of ridicule. Now? I’m surrounded with people that have the same mindset, and I’m actually starting to feel like part of a team.

Every class I push myself to the point of almost keeling over. I’ve come close to puking and shitting myself, but it’s all part of it. The stink of foul sweat, the hollow and metallic flavor of your own blood, and the punishment of your own mortality. Blood, guts, piss, shit, sweat, tears, all of it. All of the negative bullshit that piles up during the week gets expelled with every breath I take, every punch I land, and every lap I complete. Even when I’m getting clobbered by people who are much better than me, I feel accomplishment at the end no matter how bad I’m bleeding, no matter how many bruises.

Muay Thai is something that I can tell anyone about, but share with very few people. Being physically fit is merely a product of the training- the people that can do this sport for years are different. They are relentless, humble, and as willing to learn as they are to teach. After being abused for over a third of my life by people who should have been my friends, I’ve come to a realization.

I don’t know if my bullies were jealous of something I had, or could do. I don’t know if they just hated fat people. I don’t know what their motives were, and I wish I could say I didn’t care anymore. But now, instead of forgetting, I’ve found something else to latch onto that I could only learn from Muay Thai.

Relentlessness. I am relentless. No matter what the obstacle, I will overcome it whether I completely conquer it, or just survive, I will not yield, I will not surrender. I will fight this life with every fucking ounce of fury in my body; with all the pain and rage I have inside, I will hit life back twice as hard when it tries to destroy me. Not giving up simply isn’t enough. Being relentless means that you must keep going even when it doesn’t matter to anyone anymore- anyone but YOU.

Get the fuck out there and brand your mark on this rock.

I’m being a Shitty Writer.

Alright ladies and gentlemen, listen the fuck up please.

These last few sample chapters I’ve been posting have been utter shit- just…fuckin’ diarrhea, fresh from my ass, onto my keyboard, through my screen, and directly into your eyes and I am sorry. So, what Im gonna do. Is overhaul each and every single chapter I’ve posted on this website (Except for Warrior Shaman. it needs to be edited, sure. But I KNOW I nailed that shit to the fuckin’ WALL YO) until awesome and then re-post them one by one, whether you like it or not.

I am sorry for my shitty work. I forgot that it is very easy to become those shit spewing, self centered asshole writers I am always slamming on. And THAT. Is not something I ever want to become. Never.

Peace bitches YEAH   8======D