Poetry: Between the Lines

I fell in love with a girl once,
Whose name I never knew.
I never saw her face,
Though I'm sure it was lovely,
The sort of soft, quiet beauty
That lingers in the mind
With a smile that hints
Of unspoken secret
And whispered promise.
Nor did I ever look into her eyes,
Though I can see them when I close mine,
Bright and deep,
With the faint touch
Of a sadness long past.

I found her in the pages of a book
I bought at a secondhand store.
She was there, in the margins,
In a handwriting that managed to somehow
Be both tight and flowing,
Adding things, here and there,
As though conversing with the novel.

The book, which was mediocre, at best,
Became a vehicle,
Nothing more,
For my getting to know her,
Her wit, her humor,
Twice, her pain,
Never overt, but neither hidden,
Worn with the humble truth
Of the survivor.

When it was over,
When there was no more,
I put the book aside,
It's narrative fading,
But not ours,
Fanciful as it was.
She was a dream,
Ephemeral and sweet
Forever out of reach,
The girl between the lines. Read more!

First Impressions: Evil Dead Reboot

So I just watched the trailer for the Evil Dead reboot.  I know, I know.  Raimi and Campbell both give it a thumbs up.  It seems, though, to be just another contemporary gorefest, though.  There was no trace of the humor or even the over-the-top nature of the original.  It looks as though they're trying to make it a real, dark, serious horror film...just like all the others in this new generation (except Cabin in the Woods, of course).  I'm not giving up all hope, but I'm certainly not looking forward to it the way I was.

Oh, they did keep the tree rape, though, so there's that. Read more!

A Thought: On Memory and Mortality

Memory is our consolation for mortality. Read more!

Here's to you, Pool Cleaning Robot...

We watched Paranormal Activity 3 on Netflix last night.  It was, in my opinion, the best of the three, thus far, mostly because of the lame ending of the first one, which, until that point, was stellar.  The same could definitely be said for the third, but it was still a better film, all around, I think.

The second movie was...kind of boring.  Too little happened.  The thing is, as I watched the third installment in the series, I found myself thinking wistfully to the one truly standout performance in the second, that of Pool Cleaning Robot, who had nearly as much screen time, and generally more gravitas, than did any of the other thinly written characters.  I looked forward to my glimpses of PCR, which came frequently, though never frequently enough. 

So here's to you, Pool Cleaning Robot.  You're the best and may the short-sightedness of Hollywood not impede what is the beginning of a beautiful career. Read more!

A Thought: On Persistent Perception

Stubborn is just the weak's way of saying persistent. Read more!

A Thought: On Video Games and Waterfalls

Thanks, again, video games.  My whole life, every time I've seen a spectacular waterfall, I can't help but be somewhat disappointed because there's never a hidden cave behind it, filled with awesome. Read more!

The List - Year 32

Physical

• Create and maintain a long-term free weight workout
• Work up to being able to do at least 30 minutes of cardio
• Drop two shirt sizes and ten in pants

Spiritual

• Research and explore Taoism

Personal

• Make 3 new friends
• Begin a postcard collection
• Learn at least 20 new skills

Professional

• Create and maintain a website with a storefront
• Make money writing, even if only supplementary

Academic

• Achieve proficiency in French
• Work through an inorganic chemistry textbook
• Read and review 13 books (10 fiction & 3 non-fiction)
• Memorize 3 poems or monologues
• Learn a new fact every day

Music

• Learn music theory
• Learn 4 contemporary covers (guitar)
• Learn 2 classical pieces (guitar)
• Learn 5 pennywhistle tunes
• Learn to play the harmonica
• Write 2 new songs
• Discover 12 new bands/artists I like

Writing

• Finish a novel
• Write 5 short stories
• Write 5 essays
• Write 5 poems
• Script a comic
• Write a dramatic piece
• Publish at least one piece of writing

Art

• Fill a sketch book
• Become proficient in Photoshop Elements
• Take 6 new photo sets
• Complete 3 woodworking projects
• Learn to cook 6 new dishes

Read more!

Shameless Promotion: Vamped

So some friends of mine are doing a comic called Vamped.  It's about, as they put it, "bloodsuckers in a world of freaks and geeks," and promises to be clever and funny as hell.  They've got a kickstarter going here, so go check them out and throw them your support.  Tell 'em Zach sent you.  Pass it along.  Thanks. Read more!

A Thought: On the Cleverness of Nicknames

The moment you use a nickname, derogatory or otherwise, for any political candidate is the moment I start tuning you out.  It shows me not that you're clever, but that you aren't clever enough to know when someone else's words are coming out of your mouth. Read more!

A Thought: On Internet Activism

The internet is the absolute best way to affect genuine concern for the state of the world without actually having to do anything about it. Read more!

A Thought: On Commies!

My favorite thing about this election is that it has allowed me to yell, "Commie!" in an accusatory tone while pointing at anyone who doesn't agree with me.  I mean, who'd have thought that, two decades after The Cold War, half a century after McCarthy, we'd be able to drag that one back out with the same self-righteous, blind zeal as those glory days. Read more!

Poetry: Generations

We were a generation that had never known war.
 To be born, raised,
 In a time of peace and prosperity,
 Instills a sense of invulnerability,
 A lack of awareness
 Of the fragility
 Of such idyllic things.
 To us, Vietnam was a story
 Told by old, haunted men,
 Tragic and terrible, certainly,
 But somehow removed.
 The Gulf War
 Little more than a brief memory.
 Too short and too early
 To be felt.
 So it was that,
 When the world broke,
 Its pieces ripping away
 Innocent fallacies,
 Fear slouched in.
 Creeping through fresh wounds,
 Carrying insidious infection.

We were a generation that had never known war
 And from that fear
 Was born a generation
 That has never known peace. Read more!

Old Writing: Jack - Part 4 - Final

            This will be my final letter, though I know now that you will never read it.  I have tried to change the world and failed.  My work, my crimes, have drawn the eye of the public, even that of the crown, to the travesty that is the poverty running rampant like a sickness in the veins of London.  That I should have done so much is beyond anything I or any of my accomplices could have imagined.  But it must stop now.

            I awoke recently to the newsboys outside my home proclaiming another murder in my name.  In my bleariness, I nearly fell back to sleep before the abrupt realization that it was not by my hand that this most recent of crimes was perpetrated.  I threw myself from the bed and dressed quickly, racing to catch the boy before he moved on.  A few pence later and I sat with the paper in my lap and a terrible chill in my heart.

            That same day, I wrote a letter to the newspaper which had run those previous, denouncing this most recent murder, expressing my outrage at both the killer and the news organization that failed to realize the gross inconsistencies in the separate crimes.  I waited a day, then another.  Nothing.  The letter never saw print, just as these will not, I am now certain.  They will be too rational, not sensational enough.  I will not be the monster you need me to be.  It disgusts me.

            That someone, a twisted, deviant mind, would latch on to my, our, legacy in order to commit such a heinous act is a perverse mockery of those who have died willingly at my hands in order to usher in a new era.  More so, that the sadistic lust of the populace which has turned the media into the sensationalistic, bloodthirsty charade that it has become leaves me without hope for any of you.  I suppose, though, that I should not be surprised.  It is nothing if not indicative of the opportunistic depravity of our time.

            So it ends now.  I cannot bear to carry on this work, knowing that it has, however indirectly, led to this.  There was no justification, no deeper purpose, to the slaughter of this young girl.  I am damned.  I knew the moment Polly’s argument began to sound rational on that night so long ago.  I accept that.

            But I am not the only one.  Each of you who revel in the darkness, who feel a visceral thrill in the depths of your heart or gut at the pain of others, physical or emotional, each willing to watch the world burn around you and do nothing, will be there with me.  Indifference is the greatest of sins and you are all damned.

- Jack

1888

Read more!

A Thought: On the Good in the Propensity for Evil

Those who strive hardest to be good are those who are most aware of their capacity for evil. Read more!

Old Writing: Jack - Part 3

            When Mrs. Nichols, Polly, approached me, I am ashamed to say that I at first thought the same as any of you would think and nearly shooed her away.  She was an older woman, almost matronly, who had undoubtedly been pretty before poverty and the life it had forced upon her had stripped it away, piece by piece.  She was also, I would come to learn, a very clever woman who, despite her lack of what we in the more refined classes would call true education, had learned enough quickly enough to survive.

            When she asked to speak with me, her voice strong and resigned but with no hint of solicitation, I agreed warily.  So we walked down the streets of London, she talking and I listening, and my eyes were slowly, tactfully, opened to the world as it truly is.  We have, as a ruling class, embraced complex illusions of propriety in order to, we claim, keep the world running as it is meant to run.  Deep down, however, the real reason for our reliance on this rigid social construction is simply to keep ourselves insulated from the cruel havoc we inflict upon others without a second’s contemplation, all in favor of our own comfort.

            Polly explained carefully the injustice that existed just outside our periphery, only acknowledged when we sought out our baser fancies, and only for the brief time it took to partake in them.  It was what she had done more of her life than I should rightly be so, out of necessity, and it was what, she said as we arrived at my home, was going to be the death of her in a very immediate sense.

            By the time we’d reached my doorstep, any hesitation about inviting her in had long since passed.  We had tea and talked long into the night, sometimes about her crusade, the crux of which she had yet to spring upon me, and other about her life, her family, her world.  I was ashamed of the life into which I had been born, something she insisted was foolish with a wave of her worn hand.  She reminded me of my own mother, God rest her soul.

            By the time it all came out, her plan to change the world, the fire was burning low and the first chill of the early morning was just reaching out from the shadows.  She was, she told me, going to die the following Friday.  I began to protest, insisting, as we are wont, that she not lose hope, that disease was unpredictable and medical science expanding rapidly its understanding of the body.  As I rambled on, she watched me serenely, waiting until I had finished to shake her head softly.

            “No,” she said, “You don’t understand.  I’ll die Friday cause you’re going to kill me.”

            She leaned back in the softness of the high-backed chair, into the darkness, as she laid out her plot in intricate detail.  Her words curled inside me like some malevolent serpent, twisting in my gut, in part because of the nature of the crime and in part because, as she continued, I realized with a horrifying certainty the wisdom of her words and that she was right; I was to become a murderer.

Read more!