Forwards is backwards is in reverse.

One of the most remarkable aspects of human nature is the complete and absolute difference between one person and the next. 

I am especially amazed by how one person is able to move on from something so much easier than another one.  Being fixed into a position and feeling powerless to move seems to affect every other person on earth, meaning the other fifty percent "unfix" themselves and walk forward eventually, or often immediately.
 
Maybe it is God and nature's way of maintaining a sort of balance on the earth.  When there is loss, one continually grieves as the other moves on...possibly being the idea that even though life goes on, a part of that person remains alive.  Love.  Another example.  One will continue to love somebody even when said person eased forward, far ahead of that person...so that way, something never meant to be makes a much better fairy tale.

All of this, really, is probably total garbage, but at least somebody has thought about such rubbish and had the decency to write about it.

*Strongly recommended film: The Beaver - a little gem no one saw because it had that evil Mel Gibson.  Listen, get the hell over yourselves and realize the world is fortunate it will never see certain aspects of you we may find as equally or far more repulsive.*

Lady in the Chair

Lady across the table
Sitting in your chair
Pink jacket adorning your form
Curls in your hair

Speaking in a mystery
Not hard to understand
Speaking with a lady
Speaking with a man

Darkness follows closely
It loves you much, indeed
Holds your past in vicegrips
Brings you to your knees

I cannot know your story
I do not know your heart
Nevertheless my spirit
And soul, they break apart

Your words within my earshot
Remind me of a child
I knew upon a time
For 'ere a little while

He walked his life straightforward
Until he was a man
Followed by a shadow
That always held his hand

The same one follows you
As the one behind these eyes
Which clave unto this child
And never left his side

I say a prayer for you
In silent, broken words
That may or may not be
But pulse with blood, so pure

Please utter prayers for me
If you can or dare
In a language of your own,
The lady in the chair.

*Sitting at Starbuck's in Hendersonville @9 pm on a Friday evening at the back of the store, behind a face with a story.

Head

I am currently dealing with a rare, 24-hour plus headache which has resulted from stress incurred as a result of my place of employment.  Even though the world does not give a shit, I will resume blogging when this headache has abated.

Writing fancies of recent...

I am currently toying with the idea of what, how, where, when, and above all...why...my next manuscript should include mythological or biblical background. I have no desire to delve into historical fiction, but since I have enough knowledge of biblical history, and the sense to educate myself on mythology (via history degree!) in a timely manner, methinks I shall do so. As far as the mythological, I am still a new learner in the sense, but here is my fancy of recent: the story of Medusa. I tend to feel rather sympathetic toward the character of Medusa in light of more modern renditions of the story. She was basically a lovely creature, ravaged by Poseidon, punished by Athena, and suckerpunched into a horrid existence, to which we still attach to her name to infamy. Naturally, I feel there is a lot to do with a character of that sort. Of course, my other manuscripts remain unpublished and will continue to do so until I am satisfied with my editing and I have made the all-encompassing decision to self-publish or spend arduous amounts of time pitching. Nevertheless, writing must commence soon.

We shall see.

Love Letter to Laughter

Laughter,

You are missed, my love. As a lover weeping over a darkened pit, where her loved one vanquished swiftly within the deep, I lament for your return unto me. We knew each other well. You taught me to love others more than myself. You taught me to walk into a war zone, smiling at the invisible beauties surrounding me as snowfall among hellfire. You looked at me, spoke a language known only between us, and taught me to teach it to others. But you have taken a season. I feel I have committed an unpardonable sin in allowing you to leave a void at my side, forever etched into existence to your shape, and yours alone. I cherished you, I needed you, I loved you. God, how I loved you. Come back to me, for you will be missed for all of time. Damned time.

Your servant,
Andy

The Pottie Humorist Never Sleeps

I have some details to divulge to you for your gandering pleasure. At my place of employment which shall forever remain unmentionable, I have a coworker by the name of ***. Like me, he is a dry humored fellow and appreciates my long history of pottie humor. Please bear in mind we are adult men and keep it within a reasonable context: we do not belt it in public, we do not embarass ourselves, and we keep it within the soundproof room, heard only by our third coworker (who is the sole exception when it comes to offending for the sheer pleasure of it). Nonetheless, *** attends the restroom frequently. As a recurring gag, I have begun composing some short rhymes which would be akin to being seen on a restroom stall. Since I do not vandalize, I have chosen the next best outlet for my toilet stall expressions. Below are seven, short rhymes I have composed and texted to my friend ***. They will remain untitled and speak for themselves. Enjoy, if you are indeed sick.

Took a healthy* shite at work,
That way we don't go beserk
Cause when you try to hold the loaf
You ruin your mind and then your soul.
Sent 12/13/11 @ 12:45 pm

Food goes in and doo comes out
That's what eating's all about
Slimy, chunky, without farts
It's our human work of art.
Sent 12/14/11 @ 12:52 pm

Day three in the can I am
Squeezing out the snake again
Brown and with an angry hiss
Followed by a steamy piss.
Sent 12/15/11 @ 1:11 pm

If this keeps up, these dumps of mine
Perhaps one day, they'll come to life
With crackled bodies and pungent stink
With fibrous eyes and corncob teeth.
Sent 12/16/11 @ 10:24 am

Carrots and prunes and oats in a bowl
Made a concoction and flew out my hole
Then they grew weary of going down south
So they made a u-turn and came out my mouth.
Sent 01/03/12 @ 1:00 pm

I took a shat, I tore it wide
I tore a hole through space and time
Now here I sit beneath a tree
In 782, BC.
Sent 03/06/12 @ ???

Perched upon my porcelain throne
Relinquishing the corn and bones
An iron-fisted reign of thrusts
Alas, is ended with a flush.
Sent 03/13/12 @ ???


*sigh* May God have mercy on my soul.

*'shite' is spelled this way intentionally, as it is the more wholesome, Scottish way of pronouncing it.

Untitled

Dream your precious ways this night,
As you lay down your head
Your bed's embrace,
Your pillow's grace
Caress you in my stead

I know not what your visions are
And pain in my heart grows
But doubt is mired
By my desire
To grasp with the unknown

Just know that here is mere a man
A human is his name
But in his blood
Breathes streams of love
At one glance of your face

So as you lie your stillness down
My rose, my rose tonight
Your name: my star
Be near or far
Has bathed me in its light.

Goodnight.

Day of the Dead

Today I went to visit the grave of Tiffany Campbell, the girl for whom I wrote a poem previously.  I go there every now and then, the same way I do for the other friends I have known personally to pass away.  The same goes for pets.

I am struck by what seems an issue to not even worry about, yet I do.  I have lost about two personal friends in my youth and some pets...that is it.  Here and now, in early 2012, I have lost no immediate or extended family, meaning all of the family I have had from the point of my birth are still living.  This is a blessing, but it makes me apprehensive as to how much I may have taken them all for granted.  Plainly put, I am curious as to how I will take it when they do pass on.

Death is as inevitable as the sunrise for us all, but the truth is that very few of us realize this.  It is both Freudian and biblical concepts that we, especially when we are young, tend to view ourselves as immortal.  It seems it is only when we have come close to death or are facing it directly do we attemt to reconcile it somewhat.  For me, everytime I see or hear about it happening to a young person (car wrecks, suicides), I am struck at how a person was just bursting forth in the springtime of their life and they are suddenly in the ground, returning to the soil.  It becomes such a moving thing for me the closer I draw to it myself, which is occurring as I write.

Just today, as I prepared to walk away from Tiffany's grave, I noticed a familiar name on the nearest tombstone.  It read: Dennis Thompson (1980-2011).  He had been thirty according to the dates...my age.  According to a laminated obituary still hanging from his vase it was, in fact, the same young man I recollected.  He was ahead of me in high school by two grades and I was not even aware he was deceased.  It appears that death is far more present than I previously imagined and that destiny, herself, has even taken a fancy at toying with me through random gravesightings.

All I know now is that life seems so much shorter and more frail this evening.  Moving forward is the only true instinct we have besides bargaining with our Creator for extensions, whether we do the latter out loud or not.

It is a real shame when the scriptures declare: "the dead know nothing."  God only knows what a tale they might have...certainly more worthy than these blogs.

A Message from my Slumber...

Goodnight to you who longs to have somebody to say goodnight to.  To you who longs for a simple, reassuring embrace in the tortuous solitudes of life, I simply embrace you.  For you who are beautiful, but broken inside, I trade my wholeness for each of your broken pieces.  At this point in the race, I feel sometimes the best ounces of energy are spent so if I could, I would gladly give you what I have for whatever you lack.  A fortune I have not, but an understanding of love I do.  If that cannot help you, what will?  Love from my withered heart to you tonight.  Sleep well.

What I Love at 5:08 pm on a Friday's eve...

I love the following things (in no particular order):

: flossing my teeth
: the feeling one has immediately following a sneeze
: crunching on a dried leaf during autumn
: having an obese, black pug sleep in my lap
: pulling a pug's tail out straight, just to have it furl up again
: softly caressing my own forehead as I am drifting off to sleep
: the smell of a good woman's perfume
: the smell of tobacco barns smoking in the autumn
: nostalgia from any pre-1997 Simpsons episode
: becoming tired while at home
: completing a book
: writing and completing a book
: hanging with out-of-state friends
: having a degree, useless or not
: being alive...

Thank you for your time, readers.

Pug/pants

I spent an hour and a half writing a blog of such negative, pulsating energy, I wound up deleting it. Rather than post a thousand words, I will post a picture of me serenading sweet Quigley with a pair of pants on my head.

Tiffany Campbell (1984 - 2000)

Sweet Tiffany, near twenty-seven
Pray your restful peace in Heaven
Twelve years since your leap of faith
Twelve years, nothing much has changed
It's still the place you left behind
A planet raped by tears and time
Guess what? We're still growing old
All must pass someday, I'm told
But no more of my mundane ruse
For this day's words are words for you
There were phrases never said
Despite their dwelling in my head
One was, "You are beautiful,
You're laughter, girl, is musical."
One went, "I adore the way
You wear your shades of black and grey."
Yet one thought said, "Tiffany,
My friend, you will forever be.
Remember this please, always, dear
Regardless of the darkness here."
But thoughts, by definition, say:
A thing not uttered, locked away
A thought is not a word you speak,
Forever changing everything.
I was away when you said "Peace,"
In chains, in locks, in tyranny
But those three things I'd gladly take
In place of what I read that day
Let none yield a place for doubt:
In your place, there rests a cloud
A cloud unceasing in its mist
Of crystals, frigid, without end
Tiffany, a child once
A friend, a woman, loved by much
In mourning I remain, my dear
After twelve, long, stolen years
Sweet Tiffany, near twenty-seven
Remaining beautiful in Heaven.

Coming soon...

I believe I will break precedent and soon interweave some short fiction of some kind onto this sucker. It seems a conducive atmosphere to do so. This is where life, time, an idea, and Marci (trusted screen-reader) are all needed. Stories coming soon to a dormant bloggery near you...

Falls and Factories

It is utterly impossible to feel a connection with my Creator without the presence of creation. The photo is one of me at Burgess Falls State Park just south of Cookeville, TN, taken last Saturday. The few times I manage to quarantine myself away from the "mankindness" of life, I am rendered heartbroken at the remorseful state my life has become as a direct result of failure to make this important connection.
Life is reaching a critical state for me recently. The ability to continue ignoring the danger signs has been greatly diminished, thus I am forced to take this drastic step of compromise by releasing a portion of my inner turmoil onto this blog. It is an other-people's-opinions-be-damned state I have reached. Oh well...
But with all the trite going on right now, I am dismayed at how little I even noticed the sky, along with its sun, moon, stars, clouds, and mists. Rather, they have been a nuisance: sunshine is no longer the giver of all life on earth, but it is the bright and painful thing that hurts my eyes when I step out of the unspeakable pit I work in at 9:20 a.m. each morning after hours of isolation. The rain is not a replenishing, relaxing language of the sky but it is a potentially life-threatening stalker each morning on the highways of death as I commute the 25+ miles to the place of my ruin. Even the moon at four in the morning is a mocking reminder of nights from my childhood that will never return. The entire point is, that the current state of life is intolerable. Absolutely intolerable. I am out of touch with creation, so it stands to reason I am out of touch with my Creator. On Saturday, I witnessed the dizzying terror of possibly plunging two hundred feet below into a giant, foaming cauldron in the earth and there is no paycheck, benefit, loan repayment, or promotion remotely capable of replacing that feeling.
Damn you, factory life. May you be damned to an everlasting, unquenchable fate in Hell.

Thus Spoke Zooey

In case the reader remains blissfully unawares, I will make the obvious even more obvious. My writing has entered this darker period. It should last a while. But hey...the world needs night as much as day, does it not? Goodnight, my friends and lovers, wherever or whoever you are.

Untitled

A day and a night
My feet were in flight
They kicked up the dust
In a rhythmic lust
The day was laid back
I followed the tracks
The wooden rails' score
Rang: "One, two, three, four..."
I watched as she moved,
Fell under a spell
Not knowing, not seeing
A heaven or hell
I followed the trance
To the end of the score
The day, it's waltz ceased,
And the night took the floor
There was no moonlight
To shine on my track
Onto the sweet railings
Which would lead me back
I heard not her voice,
But echoes of scorn
From backwards and forwards,
Forbade and forewarned
I longed for the daylight
I longed for the trance
I longed for the hope from that
Sinister dance
So think of this man,
Think soft, if you can
His cries are the mark
Of him lost in the dark.

mirror definition

mirror (meer'ur) n. 1. A reflective piece of glass, usually a flat surface. v. 1. To reflect an image. OTHER DEFINITION: 1. A place I looked into this morning and discovered the most useless, self-centered, made-to-be-desposed-of, virile piece of shit humanity has ever conjured up. Origins unknown