this is my street corner.

CHUCK AND SARAH 4VR

Because I care more about them, then about yous-- they are me. I am supposed to be selfish right now, and I am soo happy for them/me.

Here is their song (screw you Bon Iver):

CHUCK AND SARAH 4VR

*grant's power chord (base: 13321-), from 8 -> 3 -> 8 -> 3 (x2): -> 1 ->3 a few times on the chorus or something. Chew it, suck it, eat it, break it, take it, but be sure to be in bed before 11:30. Play it like it wants to be played but can't quite find the rhythm, or the will power to become what you need it to be, and you are too busy agonizing over that damn kiss and vicariously taking pleasure in it as if it is a sign that all of your problems will someday be reduced to such an extreme of beauty, and fulfillment. Never had a glass been so thirsty for so long, and friends, it went for a swim. Oh, and the song (because you want it, yes you. That's right, I am talking to you, reflection in my monitor. It's just you and me/them/us/I hate the fact that whatever this "is" is already and is an "is"):

I only know how to love you wrongly
I only know how dream of your touch
I only know how need you badly
I only know how to miss you too much
(chorus.. change the chord now.. to 1 ... and then pass out for 3 days)
but I'll wait...
i will wait...
but I will wait..
till i wake up..

..
..
.


...

I only know how to see you blindly
I only know how to feel you remote
I only know how to think on you kindly
but one day.. . well I won't!

*BECAUSE I
--- will wait ...
and I will wait...

..
.
Oh i will wa-a--a-i it (sing it like you effing mean it. If you don't every one will just think you are cheesy, but we are shooting for street crazy w/ cheesy.)

oh I will wait


until i wake up

next
----- to
------- you

************

and then all the world explodes into orgasmic rapture and the fractured fractions of earth and blood and love and finally, finally arriving to where it always knew it should be but never was. They will sing of us.

and maybe clap or stomp on the down-beat...

Hounds v2

Kappo 3rd fret: Eminor- Aminor - Fminor w/E2

steel and wood - I am good, I am good
send my ghost into the ground
dirt and pine - I am fine, I am fine
I'm flying in the bay of the hounds

when you find me, there won't be much to love
just a stain in your hand, from what you loved too much

blood and bone - I am home, I am home
fight the storm from within
mouth and eye - I have tried, I have died
fallen prey to the wind

and when they finally find me, there won't be much left to love
just a stain on your hand, and an empty glove

A leaf does not ask where it is to be blown-- it just blows. It's destination is not the outcome of it's direction or it's trail-- every spin and roll and flutter is the outcome of it's self.

It's this word "outcome" that I'm stuck on. I am currently and always the outcome. It can never happen somewhere in front or behind me, it's essence is in the present. What is left to be waited for?

Coma Blog

Here is a link to something that I wrote for a ten-page story assignment for my fiction writing class. Just keep in mind that it is a blog, and so it is in reverse-chronological order... so whatever that means to you... read accordingly.

http://s-comablog.blogspot.com/

I really like the idea of fiction blogging. I guess it's kind of like writing in a journal format, but there is something magical about the meta-physicality of the internet that appeals to me, and the format is far more flexible. I think there is a certain barrier that a reader has to overcome, however small, when they are holding a stack of papers, or a book, that is, a conflict between the reality that a story is trying to create, and the actual tangible reality of holding something in your hands that you printed or bought. For example, when you read Anne Frank's diary, it's not really Anne Frank's diary at all, but rather a copy, or re-publishing. When you read a blog, you are sucked into a world that is also a real part of the real world, and though what you are reading may or may not be fictional, there is so much less in the way of amalgamating those two realities.

This would perhaps be illustrated better by a blog that is fictional in a more subtle fashion, like this one: http://www.myregisblog.com/ . This is perhaps more non-fiction satire than fiction, but the idea is still the same. The writer is creating a character and a setting, with the purpose of convincing the reader of the reality of a certain world. At least, I hope it's satire. That's the beauty of the format. When you read a blog, you are stepping into someones life, and are left to make your own assumptions about their character (assuming that you don't know them in real life), which as a fiction writer, is a great start at engaging the reader.

Anyways, that's my shpeel. Admittedly, I am not an avid blog reader. I am just interested in the concept of the medium.

THE KING Part 3, final

The farther we got from the hospital the more Uncle Lloyd seemed to come back to life. We drove through blocks and blocks of what most people just called "Dallas", but was really the urban sprawl turned metropolitan area of a handful of cities with irrelevant names. As we got onto the freeway we could still see Saint Benidict's. Uncle Lloyd gave it a long stare, but was interrupted by a deep hacking cough that exploded from his chest.

"Lloyd", I said as if I could help. He shook his head and raised his hand in a motion that meant "I'm OK", and continued to bark into a handkerchief cupped in his hand. Eventually the cough was reduced to an unsettling wheeze, and as he looked up he was greeted by thinning traffic, a panorama of open country, and an exit sign for Gambridge. A smile spread across his face as he cleared his throat.

"That's where I met your Aunt Netty."

"Where, Gambridge?"

"Yep. Oh boy was that a long time ago... I was in town gettin' some things and I bumped into her at the grocery store."

"Really... I didn't know that."

Uncle Lloyd was not the type to indulge in conversations that were not of mutual interest. He knew I was humoring him; he could always tell, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to be a good audience for him, but the fact was that I had heard the story before and could practically recite it from memory.

It's not that Uncle Lloyd's memory was bad; in fact, it was extraordinary. He could remember the birthdays of all of his employees. If he ever met a man, and shook his hand, he could remember his name long past it was of any use. A few years ago, when I was with my family for the holidays, he came up and patted me on the back and said, "He was a good dog kid. Damn could he play fetch!”. After a few minutes of confusion, I realized that it was indeed the anniversary of the day my dog, Bandit, had died a few years before.

It seemed to me that Uncle Lloyd never thought about the month, or the day, but had some natural connection to the individual signature of a moment. For him, last April 5th wasn't just another day at the office: It was the day that one of his accountants showed him pictures of his new born baby. It was the day that his wife cooked him a steak that was medium rare and shiny with grease and homemade gravy, and she wore a perfume that smelled like fresh cut daisies. She had reached over to kiss him on the forehead, and her blouse opened up like curtains to expose the ivory white of her breasts, and he comprehended the artistry of beauty’s maker.

He knew that I knew the story. But today, he wanted to hear it again.

"Yessir", he said in an amused retort. "I literally bumped into her! Bout' gave the girl a heart attack. She was holdin' a carton of eggs.. and I knocked em' straight out of her hands!"

He paused as if he had remembered something important and shifted his attention from me to his window. The side of his face became animated, embellished with amber evening sunlight washing over the subtle winkles around his eyes and the gentle shadow of gray stubble burgeoning from his ear to his throat. The medicine and ultra violet lights had muted his leathered complexion, but under the array of a setting sun it had become the color of infant gold.

"She was pretty. God damn your aunt was pretty. I told her right then 'I wish I could say I was sorry mam, but you are honestly the best thing that has happened to me this week!'"

He glanced back at me for a moment, in search of any sign of disinterest, but upon finding my expression acceptable, continued his story.

"I said 'Lady, I hope you don't mind if I buy you some new eggs. Also, I hope you wouldn't mind me buying you dinner- if you don't already got one.'" He laughed out loud in spite of the benign rasp that lingered in his throat. It was good to hear him laugh again. For a split second, we were back the fair, back on that rickety wooden rollercoaster, and back in front of those mirrors that shaped us into giggling clowns.

"Damn kid I was slick. Ha... She told me her mama was expecting her back for supper. Well, you know your aunt, she was pullin' my leg. She just wanted to watch me squirm and stutter. Haha... god damn she was sly. Eventually she threw me a rope and said that her mama had made plenty for an extra stomach, and that I should tag along back with her."

He was back looking out his window now with an expression of pleasant contemplation. We passed more little towns, and houses and grocery stores. I wasn't sure if he saw them all like he saw people, each with its own set of memories and emotions, or if he was looking at something else, more distant and more specific. We took the next exit and drove toward a carved wooden sign with a dairy cow and some wheat painted on it. Uncle Lloyd's eyes snapped away from the side window and trained in on the sign, then dutifully read it out loud as we came to it.

"Welcome to Bigsby"

Golden (poem from about a year ago)

We were a flock of doves but we weren’t white enough.

We became gold pigeons perched on a concrete overpass,

scavenging without searching
just deciding who to shit on

We claimed new rocks- named our own winds

We became predatory and solitary and longing

thinking without asking
clutching heat and bone
empty but not lacking

Remember when we were us, and me and I were parts of you him and her?

The phone went dead. I am a raptor.