a part of a whole

Evolution really fucked us up. Getting all dolled up on Sundays and days of the week to go play make believe with that imaginary friend no one ever had the heart to tell you wasn’t real. It’s sad. Makes my heart heavy for people but especially for the little ones who are raised on spoonfuls of the stuff; they don’t even have a choice. The idea of true freedom sounds nice but it isn’t quite apparent when you consider the fact that someone who is not competent to make their own decisions o form their own beliefs, is fed and taught what they’re to believe. 

Why?

Why do people do what they do? No one seems to have any idea. I guess it’s just what you do, like going to college, getting married and having a family with a house a dog and a big yard. The reality of that is, the whole time in college was wasted getting wasted and having license to be sexually promiscuous (and that’s where the family comes from), then getting married as a way to try and make amends to yourself or someone else that has too large of a role in your life and decision-making process. Making another mistake will not cancel out the first one.

Add to this now the little love nest, the ideal home for your idyllic family to blossom in and how it straps you to the bone with payments you begin to fall behind on, because those aren't the only bills anyone has. Remember college? Yeah, you'll be paying that one off for a long time and all other manner of fun distractions rape your credit card bills every month until you're right where "they" want you. 

Because of tensions regarding a shortage of money, your marriage becomes a battleground for resentment and bitter fights which will one day lead to divorce and another child with a broken home, making you question why you ever got married in the first place, and of course you know you never should have.

This is the American dream, just not the way you were led to believe it would turn out.

Now, I have a grand tendency to generalize things in very broad strokes. I’m not talking about ALL people, just about 95% of them, give or take. Some semblance of security is important though, so I don’t want to be the one to tell you it’s all wrong; if it gets you through a rough time or a rough life then brother, sister, by all means go for it. It just confuses me a little, and I think it’s a good idea to have a solid idea why, rather than just doing what a lemming would do. It’s global, almost at a pandemic level and with no signs of slowing. Far, far away I would love to live outside the boundaries of this infernal death machine, this rat race march of lemmings off unspeakable fucking cliffs to impale ourselves on the spires of greed.

No one's perfect and that's what I mean when I say we're all in this together. We're all fucked, so no matter what, we share that common bond. It's time to wake up now. Turn the TV off, because you don't need any of that shit they're trying to sell you and if you do, then you can go and get it on your terms. Money talks, and bullshit walks. Since we're the ones with the strings coming out of our legs and arms and asses, it's about time we gave a real show that no one's buying into or paying out for...

infection detective

  There wasn't a drop of blood left in his body but the man continued on, or at least as it appeared, living. Existing. But there was no breath coming in or leaving his body; he appeared to be caught in a state of suspended animation, it seems.
  Not one scientist, doctor or other rational-minded individual present could explain the phenomena, though each one was viewing the spectacle with their own eyes, and so that it was actually happening, had happened, could not be refuted. Stunned, all anyone could do was sit and watch and wait, but for what no one rightly knew.
  Perhaps the man would fall over onto his side, all color having gone from his skin and close his eyes in the big sleep. Or maybe he would simply crumble and turn to dust before them; at this point, nothing was out of the question.

  Very little is known about the man, where he came from or how he came to be in such a state; throat opened neatly across, having spilled its contents over the front of the man, saturating him in a hideous red, sticky film, the blood having been dry for an indeterminate amount of time. It would seem he simply just materialized on the front steps leading to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.
  The place has gotten enough media attention having been in The Walking Dead, so that it was some sort of publicity stunt by some hardcore horror nut had not been overlooked. But, there was something different about this, not ominous in the least, though understandably unnerving; It seemed more akin to an intense demonstration of something, to show someone what they had not been seeing.


  That day, nothing was clear and answers were sparse but in the coming days and weeks and months, more information began to come out and shed some light on the strange occurrence and feed the public's insatiable curiosity.
 
  The body was of a 38- year old man of solid build who, at first, had appeared to be homeless, wearing dirty rags and looking quite disheveled, as there had been no forthcoming information on the subject (his age was determined through saliva samples) to that point. Eventually news broke of his identity as a former student of film and avid Hatha yogi, having left his studies early on to travel to India in order to pursue his true interest.
  Little is known of what or who he studied with while there but it has been a popular speculation in certain circles that the man was a true adept, and had reached the highest point of his practice in meditation and was no longer privy to our understanding of the natural world, or how things should function in it.  Further mumblings, later developed after having learned of the body's mysterious disappearance from the morgue it was taken to, reasoned that the man was not even there in the first place; that he was simply a projection of his celestial body, having turned back into the particulates of light that he, all of us, had manifested from originally.
 
  He returned to stardust, but whatever message he may have been trying to send had been lost in translation, pining over the physical details of the matter. I guess, in a way, he had gotten his message across though, in that there are things in this life one can never understand by looking outside with reasoning eyes.
 

in the beginning...

  “Buckin’ Muck Fulligan..”. He was obviously a little agitated, and confused. Ulysses was the recent topic of discussion and what do you expect working in a psych ward? You know, Joyce? Phineas Poe told him about it. Actually, there had been word of it from scholars and pretentious hipster types who liked challenging pieces of literature to read, which made them feel edgy. We all have something to prove, don’t we?

I guess I should take the time to explain who him is. Notice it’s not capitalized. Not that Him; him. Shane. Me. It happens that I sometimes talk about myself in the third person, not really sure as to why that is… it’s probably not life threatening but thanks for your concern.

So I’m writing a book, or in the process of writing one, and it’s just not as easy as it seems, let me tell you. It’s never really been becoming of me to make up stories with elaborate plots because really, I lack the imagination for that. The certain type required, that is. See, reality is kooky enough to make a really neat story out of; I’m living it every day, and so are you. You just may not be aware of it. You’re in it right now, in fact. It’s not witchcraft, it’s fictional reality. Thank Slayer for that one.

There are many forks in the road but they all eventually lead you back to yourself. 

---

So, that is an abandoned beginning of the book I haven't wrote yet, the title of which I am leaving out because it's fucking awesome and I don't want any of you motherfuckers stealing my shit. Bahahahaha just kidding... but seriously, it's a secret until it's finished. Let me know what you think! LEave me some feedback on FaceBalls, I mean Book, or something similar! I'm not writing it strictly for my sole purposes, after all..

-Shane

therapy.

1.

Therapy. 

Death metal and violent video games style. 

Hey, I spend the other remaining hours of each and every day mindfully, or at least attempt to, so a little mindless self indulgence once in a while never hurt anyone. Sometimes that’s all it takes, all a person needs is some fun.

Getting playfully plastered with your best friend, circulating the wonderful toxin around In your body, enough of which to kill that bug that’s taken residence up your ass, loosen the knickers a bit. 

We’re generally way too up tight; not saying getting drunk is always the best therapy but for someone like me, it is. I’m not a drunk or an addict or a junkie, I just like to get out of my head and have some fun on occasion, alcohol being the best answer, most times. It’s not always pretty, but with the right people and the right place, it can be a thing of beauty. 

It becomes less a social experience than  it is a shamanic one, feeling as if I’m taking part in some ancient ritual, passed down through generations, with its intent in contacting the other side. I feel that way because it is that way. You could look at the science of it and bore yourself to sleep or you could look at the spiritual science behind it, the one our Western minds can’t touch. 

2.

Ritual. Loud music and chalice style. 

A seance of slurred words and liberated bodies, freed from anxious shackles. Psychic bondage. 

Getting freer now, movements become more exaggerated, staggering and swaying. Dancing. Bobbing to the beat either in your head or outside of it, caught up in a feeling, emotion takes over. This is where it gets tricky.

To those who aren’t comfortable with their inner worlds, drama ensues; loud, emotional outbursts of jealousy and anger. One shouting voice becomes two, then three  or more in but a matter of seconds. The fight response dominates and everyone is suddenly very brazen, more so than usual. This is an unusual circumstance. Conversations become passionate, heated; logic gives way to charisma and you see the person behind their mask. Some masks are better left on, however; take heed and pick your drinking partners carefully.

To those who are more comfortable in their inner worlds than the outer, the experience is perceived very differently. Insight deepens, the heart expands and shines bright, healing light on all those it touches. Blood vessels dilate, the pulse evens out and the edginess you carry around as your shield dissipates; there’s no need for it here anymore. You’re free. You’re safe. The negative becomes numb so the positive can come forth. Shy ones and quiet ones experience it this way, the thinkers become the feelers the know they are. Relax, little one, for you can breathe easy now in this acceptance, for we are all drunk here, let that be your shield for the night. Find your security in yourself again, speak your mind and heart, let yourself be truth. 

3.

Theory. Armchair philosopher style. 

For therapeutic purposes, it’s best to choose a partner matching your own temperament, such as two reserved types or two un-reserved types. This lends to greater understanding and appreciation of each other’s thoughts/feelings and lessens the chance of misunderstanding, which greatly improves the positive impact of this work. 

Things always get off to a slow start but there is no need for haste; we have all night. 

4.

It’s now an arms race into slow oblivion. It’s no longer quite known if time is slowing  down or speeding up but is irrelevant, either way. 

retreat

  And so it goes that at times I shall retreat back into the darkness and silence within and come out a new and better person. Writing hasn't held as much appeal to me lately as reading, Howard Phillips Lovecraft, to be exact. I have quite a soft spot for 19th Century literature, even though he is technically a 20th Century writer, the feel is the same; very reminiscent of Poe and all the other great decadents but with a superior twinge of the macabre and celestial.
  I forgot what it was like to get lost in a story, to feel your pulse quicken and to picture yourself there, using your brain's finest powers of imagination. Perhaps that is a writer's curse? Too busy writing all the time and not taking enough time to read.. or perhaps it is only MY curse. Either way, it's the season of spook and it is thoroughly fulfilling to lose myself in the mad and macabre, especially during the changing of darker seasons.

  And this got me to thinking again, and wanting now to put more focus on trying to write stories again, short ones, like Mr. Lovecraft, though mine would have to contain some element of mysticism or spirituality; spiritual or existential horror, perhaps.. If there is such a thing. Horror is a subjective thing, though; what terrifies one enthralls another, so it is purely an expression based off the author's own.
  Truth is, I have no ideas to start on. Never do. Sometimes you just have to start writing and get the wheel turning manually. Most importantly, I need to remind myself that it is an art and a craft, and as such will need work to constantly and consistently improve; in other words, this shit doesn't write itself, so get moving!

3 of Poetry

"I must create a system of be enslaved by another mans'. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create."

That about sums it up; thank you, Mr. Blake.

For what seems like a long time now, I've been wanting to do this writing thing. For real. It is, however, all too easy for me to overlook the fact that I am already doing it. I am a writer and it's what I do, regardless of what I do or do not have published or in print.

But I have something to say. A lot, actually, and I want to reach a wider audience because I don't know why. Why the hell not, really.

It's something I'm guided by, driven by... I haven't made much of it but this blog and actively putting my stuff out there has been such an immense personal step for me, and the fact that people come up to me and mention how they "read my blog" touches me so deeply my eyes are moist just thinking about it.

It's a labor of love, and the best I can hope for is that someone can feel it when they read it, the way my favorites make me feel it when I read them. Thank you, Henry Miller.

I have big things in mind but, as with all important things in my life, time must be taken for the seed to reach its full germination, when it is strong enough to grow on its own. When that time comes, I just know.

Part of my confliction is my relationship with work: I enjoy staying busy and feeling I have a purpose, and of course making money to be able to live but so often that's all we have time for. We get up, go to work, come home for a little then go back again. Writing is as natural for me as breathing but it always has to contend for a time slot with the rest of my societal obligations. As much as I would love to just spend weeks or months at a time living the Walden life, it is simply not practical at this point. In this society, though I am gaining much optimism and hope for the future I want as I get further into 'Off The Grid'.

I only wish to create meaningful things that others can relate to but getting it going in any kind of direction is tough when you're as neurotic and hyper-critical as I am but I write every day (pretty much), and part of being a writer (part of being anything) is that it never sleeps. Day in, day out I'm observing, taking note, refining, studying and solidifying my own unique version of life; one day it will be a great read ;)

sink pisser

  One day a few weeks ago now, i was in my most favorite of beer stores and as I'm perusing the 22oz. bomber bottle selection, I see the owner go in to the bathroom out of the corner of my eye. There was already a man in there. It seemed rather strange but I didn't question it but there sounded like rather perturbed conversation coming from behind the closed door.
  A few seconds later the owner comes out, storming over to the table where the man's friends were sitting and tells them that their friend is done and needs to get the hell out of his store. Still confused, I continue to shop but hone my attention on to what they were saying.. Apparently, the man was pretty drunk and was pissing in the sink; on top of it, he didn't speak a word of English.

  It was a pretty awkward situation, hearing him explain to the man's confused friends that he was pissing in the sink and he doesn't want to see him in this store again. It led me to thinking: why aren't we pissing in sinks? Guys, i mean.

  Think about it. Clearly our aim is off at times, and despite our best efforts to remember to put the seat down, it just doesn't always happen, so the common sink is a perfect solution! One can also conserve water in the process, washing their hands all while washing the pee down the drain, and it's the perfect height with no splash or splatter, though admittedly I am not aware of the logistics of the sink water system i.e. where the water goes and if it doesn't get treated like toilet water does?

  It's a mystery..

  And in case you're wondering, I have not forgotten about urinals; it seems they are the meeting ground in the middle but are not without their own challenges. I guess it doesn't really matter what kind of receptacle you put up, someone's going to piss all over it or on it but not in it. If it continues to be a problem, catheterization may be an upcoming trend we'll be seeing.