William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb Part 7: Thank You

2011-12-06T14:05:00.004-05:00

Another originale by William Wallace.

Concept by William Wallace.

Inspiration by William Wallace.

Characters created, developed, and manipulated by William Wallace.

I’m so uninterested in your ignorance that it’s disgusting. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything?

A man is standing in the middle of a road during a downpour. It is late evening and the rain clouds give the world a blanket of darkness. A streetlight illuminates the man’s presence. His shadow stands many years taller than him. The rain strikes the ground and it sounds like moments of static. Cars rarely pass by and when they do they slow to a comfortable speed. The drivers and passengers, if there are any, stare blindly at the man who is staring at the ground. They assume he is homeless, or at least very poor. They don’t know his wealth because you can’t read it in his appearance. He is rich beyond belief. The value of his wealth is measured in emotions and associations not in material items or currency. In his hands he holds a book written many years ago. It is a Thrice Told Story. The pages are soggy and soiled but the ink does not run. He flips the pages methodically as he reads with great care. There are thousands of pages but he keeps reading and reading. It’s hard for me to acknowledge that as I look at the man I’m really looking at myself. I stare at the mirror constantly but I don’t recognize the reflection. I’m standing in the rain reading this story and writing it as well. The Thrice Told Story. I want to reach out and stop myself… I want to ask myself why I’m just standing there. Move, do something, get out of the street! I yell out. But I don’t listen. I’m ignoring the person yelling. I yell again and I still ignore it. A car approaches from the distance and I plead for that man to move. I hear an onlooker scream for me to get out of the road but I read on. Keep reading and reading. The car grows closer and the headlights grow brighter and it starts to slow down. I am hysterical on the sidewalk and my voice cracks as I shout. The onlooker is growing frantic but in his panic he doesn’t yet realize that the car has completely stopped. I watch the car stop from the sidewalk and I see myself communicate with the driver. The driver asks if I need help but I tell him that I am fine and would like to continue reading. He is confused so he drives away. I see the car drive away. I stare at myself in the road in amazement and then I wake up. I wake up and I am standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road reading a book that is waterlogged from the rain.

I promised that this is only the beginning…

I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.

I reach out to myself but something is wrong. I don’t reach back. I notice that my skin is falling off of my body and my intestines are sprawled out behind me as if I have a tail. It’s dragging behind me but at least it is not a chain. If I can just make it out of the rain then the flood might stop. Answer me Thomas, you fucking idiot. Reach back. Take the hand. Get out of there. But I don’t. I tell myself that if the rain would stop I would sing out and sing out and sing out and sing out. But it doesn’t and I can’t. My vocal chords are shredded from the incessant monologue, which insinuates that it never stops. It doesn’t stop. Stop talking Thomas, you fuck, stop talking. Stop talking and sing out.

Stop talking. All they do is keep talking. They tell you everything but they’ll never tell you about the friends you lose. I guess it’s just assumed and observed and brushed under the rug. Should we even assume anything? It’s strange that at this point I need more than a few bottles to get anything going. To feel motivation. And don’t I always sounds reflective? It’s pensive, I don’t want to keep giving off a feeling of nostalgia but don’t memories make your world go ‘round? Apologies look cute on paper but what if you don’t mean it? If you don’t mean it don’t even bother to think it in passing. Passing. Passing. All we are doing is passing by each other like ghosts.

And oh how I would love to do everything you want to do. We could travel the vestibules and valleys and everything in between. Is that wrong to say? Are we just deceivers? I hope not. But if we are then deceive me because I am in awe of the virtue. I couldn’t believe I was so nervous. I even had to change my shirt. But after you expressed similar signs of tension I was relieved. I can commiserate. Cross my heart, I swear. I swear that you’re making me nervous but I can’t help but like it. Oh God how I would love to do everything you want to do. I swear it.

The shriek is almost unbearable. “What made you go?” Every part of her shakes as she says it. Every road every plain every hilltop every shrub every crack in the pavement quivers as she yells. What can I say? The congregation is shouting. “This is what it takes? This is what it takes?” I try to apologize but I am muted by her grief.

[Excerpt] I exist in a radius circled with dust older than the ashes of my family's American flags. We pay by the hour to be amused by the meek. We obtain virtues from our Mothers and Fathers who obtained virtues from their Mothers and Fathers and so on and so forth. I have never claimed to be a patient man and I know I am no such thing. If you let me in the door I swear to you I’ll leave in a minute. I’m only here to take a minute. Am I losing my grip? My knuckles are being beaten to the bone and I can’t hold this minute anymore. And what matters most? I’ve gotten so comfortable with playing the robber, the thief, that I’ve become bored of it. I long to be the bank, so timid and vulnerable. Hold me up at gun point, everybody down! Everybody down this is a stick up and you better not forget it… Machine wash warm with like colors. Use only non-chlorine bleach when needed. Tumble dry medium. Cool iron if needed. For more information see “Out Like A Lamb Part 7” by William Wallace. [/Excerpt]

I recall breaking down scratch tracks and demos and now I realize that this is all we do. I want a listener but this is just a rough mix and I want it to be professional. So I’m just sitting here with my golden crown and my golden pen and some alcohol terrified that this is all it will ever be. You are miles from home and what matters most? I’ve gotten so comfortable with playing the robber, the thief, that I’ve become bored of it. I long to be the bank, so timid and vulnerable. Hold me up at gun point, everybody down! Everybody down this is a stick up and you better not forget it. Discover the password like a scavenger hunt and clean out my vaults, please. I’ll play the bank and I’ll never speak a word of it. Across the street they will look out of barber shop windows in horror but I promise I will not let them speak this to anyone. I won’t. Their faces are half charred by the fires of their Daddy’s wars. The rain trickles slowly down the drain but it’s not red with our blood. The thunder roars loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you hear is the rain. The static discharge. Just the rain.

I sat down at the bar one night and I started talking to an elderly man. We were both at the bar alone and over drinks we started to talk about life. Listen to me, he said. I want to tell you something. I am an old man, years past my prime. But I want to tell you something. Go to school and learn. Learn as much as you possibly can. Get a good job and find a good wife. Do what you have to do to take care of her. Support her. Work hard. Have kids and teach them things like respect and integrity. Be stern but fair. Never show signs of weakness. Take care of your parents the way they took care of you. Be a provider. Show people respect and they will respect you back. Buy the cheapest house in the nicest neighborhood. Fix it up, take pride in your house. When they play the National Anthem you stand up, take your hat off, and put your right hand over your heart. When you go out… to the grocery store, to a restaurant, to a gas station, to the airport and you see a man in his military uniform you shake his hand and thank him. Even though he can’t drink in uniform you buy him a beer and tell him that it will be alright, he deserves it. He will refuse, but you don’t leave until he shakes your hand. Respect your elders because they are wise, they have worked their whole lives for this wisdom. Their hands are cracked with honor. Take pride in what you do and have pride in your children. When you grow old they will have nothing but good things to say about you. You may even get awards for your contributions. If you live this way you will never be forgotten. Your family and friends will attend your funeral by the dozens. Your name will live on. Do what I say, and I promise you they will remember. Oh, and one more thing. Stick around until the bar closes… and at last call buy two drinks.

It was so passive, that conversation and, and, umm, oh I’m such a fucking lush…

William Wallace

BraveHeart

The Red Cup Rebel.

The Midwest Magician

Out Like A Lamb Part 9

2011-05-01T15:21:00.003-04:00

There’s something about a working class town that sends chills up my spine. The same way I have to pay attention when the National Anthem is being sung. I sit passenger over an overpass and look to my right in a foreign city and see smoke stacks, factories… small houses, fireplaces… smoke stacks, factories… it reminds of home and family. Every time I blouse my pants it’s the product of the hard work and blood of my father and his father. And oh, oh your friends say Delaware is beautiful. But they didn’t live here and they didn’t die here. Where the cracks in our family’s hands line the streets and the corners. Where the cracks in our family’s hands are more than stories and scars. Saturday mornings spent listening to marching bands. Saturday nights spent sitting around a fire in the backyard. And a history of tradition left under a Christmas tree next to a hospital bed year after year.

I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
She screams out. “I bleed lines of mules and madmen.”
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
She screams and screams.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen.

And the walls mute her. They mute her if she is screaming. She wants to reach out but she doesn’t. It gets buried deep underneath her skin and bones. All the way under her organs and blood cells. The blood travels from her heart to her brain which conducts the fingers holding the pen. And her pen writes her story in a book kept under lock and key. Just like her heart. But still she screams. What do you think about all of this? Sometimes I think there’s still nothing like your smile.

So… what do you think about all of this?

I think that I took you to my parents house and introduced you to my friends and I think I write it all here because I could never say this to you. I’d be a little embarrassed and you would never admit to wanting to hear it anyway. Although I think you do. You just don’t want to want to think you do. But you do. It’s supposed to get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t. Not for all of us.

I think I’ve seen a lot of beautiful cities from airport windows. Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Atlanta, San Antonio. I was there between flights and that was it. I think I’m too used to packing bags. I’m too used to saying good bye. I’m too used to embracing. I’m too used to getting dropped off. I’m too used to all of this…

I’ve been having dreams lately. I dream of dreaming at home. In one of my dreams I dreamt that a little girl was sitting on a fence outside of my window and she wouldn’t stop crying. I also dream about people, people that I know and some I haven’t met. People of all walks of life and we socialize beautifully.

Too used to all of this… I get out of the car and hug my Mother, I always hug her first. I make sure she is first. She always starts tearing up at this point. I hugged my Grandmother yesterday, I wonder what she thinks about all of this? I know she hates it. I shook my Brothers hand earlier. I am proud of the man he has become. I am proud of everything he does. After I hug my Mother I will shake my Fathers hand and I can tell that he is proud, as much as we hate saying goodbye. This is how it always is. I walk inside the airport and get in the security line. Waiting and waiting, all of these commuters are…

Before all of this I say goodbye to my friends. We hug and reminisce and hug again and repeat the cycle until I finally have to walk out the door. We always leave on good terms but I develop a hatred for every single one of you. I have to admit it hurts when I’m asked by others how you’re doing. You vanish and return based on my appearances. I’ve always wanted our definition of family to be more stable than that and if we have different opinions then so be it. I will see you when I see you, I just wish you saw my house more than I do.

Waiting and waiting, all of these commuters are just waiting and waiting. And I stand behind them bleeding lines of mules and madmen. I notice a sign to my right that portrays what an “expert traveler” looks like and it looks like me. Nothing but carry-ons because I’m never staying anywhere for long. This line is moving far too slow and I’m wondering how the security line could possibly take this long. It’s an assembly. Take off belt, empty pockets, take out laptop. Place all belongings in a plastic bin. Take off shoes. Walk through the metal detector. Gather belongings. Fill pockets, put on belt, put on shoes. Stare at a screen and hope that your gate is not the farthest one from where you stand. And of course it is. I hope there is somewhere I can have a drink at close to my gate. There isn’t. My iPod is drowning out all sounds. “Flight 1931 to Denver is now boarding first class and priority flyers.” I’m not going to Denver. Finally my zone is allowed to board and it’s funny because I’m in civilian clothes and I get no special treatment. I board/bored. I struggle to find room to stow my carry-on as a flight attendant greets me. I’m already disgruntled because I have the middle seat between Crook in His Suit A and Crook in His Suit B. Their condescending eyes descend on me and I can only hope they are as upset as I am. The flight attendant goes through emergency procedures and I could care less. I hate flying. The Captain gives his mandatory speech and we taxi down the runway. We gain speed and ascend. I’m not allowed to listen to my iPod yet, but as soon as I hear the flight attendant give me permission I play my music so loud I can’t even hear the jet engines. It’s like I’m not even flying, like I’m not even there. Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. Fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.

These fucking dreams again. This little girl is following me around and before I can even speak she says “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” And she keeps repeating it over and over. She follows me in every dream. I try to touch her, to move her from my path, but she is constructed of the toughest porcelain you can imagine. She has one phrase. “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” I wake up constantly. Fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.

Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. I pretend like every word he sings is about me. Yeah, that’s my vanity. I pretend like every word she ever writes is about me, but that was actually true at one point. We reach a cruising altitude. I’m currently wondering how I’m going to deal with all of this… I mean, I’m only 40 minutes in to a 4 hour flight and I have to use the restroom already. The Suited Crook to my left with the aisle seat has his laptop out already and I would hate to inconvenience him. I can’t nap because my mind is racing and I don’t want that little girl around right now. I’m already coping with loss. A constant cycle of loss, cope with that. Coping and coping. I finally muster enough of the appropriate amount of courage to ask the Crooked Suit if he could let me out. He looks at me like he’s annoyed, but he agrees. I urinate and I wonder if I tried to open the hatch how quickly I would be beaten. I also wonder why the middle-aged flight attendant didn’t follow me in here. There’s occasional turbulence. But fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.

These dreams again.

Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. Up here, oh up here, everyone is so vulnerable. Everyone is so vulnerable up here. We have that in common. What happens when innovation becomes the standard? Sometimes I feel under fire like I’m Joseph the Dragon Slayer. I want you to tell me where it comes from, because I already know where it goes. For right now it’s following longitude lines and GPS coordinates. Ground stations and waypoints, look it up. My music is playing and that’s what is making me feel grounded right now. “Many children will burn soon . You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” Oh no. I feel asleep for a second, and that little girl is offering me some water while a unicorn is handing out pretzels. Thank God that it’s only the flight attendant for now. I look out the window past Crooked Suit B and to my complete horror I see the sky open up and a dragon flying out of the fissure straight towards the plane (plain). The little girl is riding on the dragons back and she saying “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” Oh, no. I wake up in a panic. I’m sweating and nothing is abnormal. The Captain tells us we are beginning on our descent. The flight attendant tells us to turn off all electronics and… fuck this.

I lose my short term memory for what feels like days at a time. It might be by choice. Maybe it’s because I can ruin relationships better than I can start them. I guess. Yes, I guess I get mine. And guessing is what you do when you’re not sure. You consider the options and guess. And I don’t even care.

As we descend I think about how my Mother always asks me to write something nice. So this next part is for her.

As we descend the steps are basically repeated in reverse order. I hope we enter a black hole on the way down and I somehow wind up in my mid 1990’s day dream. I go there frequently. And trust me, we are descending.

Andy, Billy, grab your jackets it’s time to go over to your Grandparents. Christmas morning.

A father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin… things will never last this way. We could never be that lucky. We could never be that family. We grab our jackets and get in the car. Our drive is short because we always lived close. And here is the kitchen table. All cutlery laid out perfectly. Decorative plates and napkins. We could never be that lucky. And this is my Fathers world.

This is my Fathers world and you are just living it. And I thank you. And I thank you. And you. And I thank you. Thank you.

Another orignale by William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb part 7 coming soon.

Sole Control (Extended Version)

2011-03-22T16:14:00.001-04:00

I was just walking down the street when my friend Dustin stopped in front of a Foot Locker and pointed out an advertisement hanging in the window.

“You see those Jordans? Man, those are the Jordan X’s. They got all his accomplishments inscribed on the soles. These are going to be the hottest shoes when they come out.”

I was only like 12 years old and had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t even really like basketball, but I saw those sneakers and knew I had to have them. The black, red, and white color scheme wasn’t anything my eyes hadn’t seen before but they still hypnotized me. I looked down at my ratty all-white Reebok Classics and felt embarrassed. I went home that night and started scrounging up any nickels and dimes I could find underneath the cushions of my parents sofa. I didn’t come from a poor neighborhood, my family did well for themselves, but I knew there was no chance in hell that my father was going to buy me a pair shoes for $175. No way. I didn’t even bother asking because I was afraid of his response.

I started dreaming about what I would look like in those Jordans. I wanted some classic fit Ralph Lauren Polo khakis, a nice Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and maybe one of those Chicago Bulls Champion crew neck sweaters… no, how about a throwback Flyers varsity jacket from Mitchell & Ness? Sometimes I can’t remember what I was thinking. Yeah, that sounds right. I didn’t even care that the red wouldn’t match with the orange, I just had to have it. So how does a pre-pubescent existence come up with that kind of cash? I turned into a brainstorming machine. I would walk around downtown pretending to be some abandoned kid and the old ladies would give me money. Sometimes I would just try to pick pocket them, in which cases they practically always caught me. Late at night I would smash car windows to see if the owners left their wallets or some loose dollar bills in the center console or glove compartments. I usually just came up with some loose change found in the cup holders. I would go into Laundromats and press every coin return on the washers and dryers. Once in awhile if I felt motivated I would go to the old Veterans houses that lived on my street and offer to mow their lawn or wash their cars for a few dollars, but that was rare. I was about fast cash… mostly fast change, but I had to start somewhere.

It took me 3 months to save up that money, but I did it and I bought those Jordans. I was almost too afraid to wear them, especially because the rest of my wardrobe was significantly lacking. Faded blue jeans and a dumb ass Midway Little League All-Stars t-shirt didn’t exactly compliment my prized possession. Either way, I was hooked. I did whatever I could to get the newest, freshest, most talked about shoes before anyone else had them. Whatever it took. As I got older the level of my crimes began to elevate. In high school I was introduced to marijuana and figured fuck it, I’ll sell a little bit for the money. It was easier then getting a job, without a doubt. My sneaker collection began to grow from Jordans to Air Ones to Air Max 90s, 93s, 95s, 97s. Anything with that check and even some New Balance and Reebok Pumps thrown in there. Blazers, Nike SB, Structures, Trainers, Stabs, Adidas Classic Shell Tops, Wallys, it didn’t matter, I had it.

As it turns out, I wasn’t just addicted to the shoes. I became obsessed with the lifestyle. Fashion is expensive, so my endeavors were forced to expand. I started dealing a little cocaine. Actually more than just a little. You know how it goes. You start in the minor leagues selling dimes to your friends after school and graduate to the majors. We all know the story so let’s just skip all that.

I had a nice apartment downtown after I dropped out of college. Chemistry was really the only class I needed. English, Sociology, Western Civilization? No thanks. I was driving around in a BMW M3. Black with black rims and a subtle tint. For business purposes I drove a not so glamorous Toyota Camry four door sedan complete with dryer sheets lining the trunk. It had a nasty dent on the passenger side door, maybe from a shopping cart but who really knows? I didn’t smoke cigarettes but occasionally I would burn some non-menthol Newports or Camels inside of my car just to eliminate any lingering odors. I was, by no means, a kingpin. I still answered to somebody who answered to somebody else who answered to somebody else and etc. However, I did oversee the movement of a fair amount of drugs.

In my apartment I had to dedicate a room to my shoe collection which had begun to get out of hand. I was buying shit that wasn’t even special edition or dead stock. Just regular Nike Classics in plain colors. I had a lot of Euro releases that I gave up an arm and a leg for, but they were worth it. The way the 97s gleam when a camera flash hits them, it’s incredible. And the look on peoples faces when I was walking around in Air Max 95s that had Burberry print? Priceless. Ugliest shoe I own, but it got attention. Was that what was I looking for? Maybe. Or maybe it was that feeling you get, you know the one. It’s hard to explain. You walk into that little boutique and see those Air Structures down towards the bottom of the display. Teal with blue and a little black. You know that nobody in a 10 mile radius has any idea how hard those sneakers are going to hit when you put on your Ralph Lauren Polo khaki shorts that you wear a little high because you’re ahead of the game, a pair of black socks mid-cut on the ankle so you can see the Champion “C”, and a black short sleeved t-shirt with a front pocket on it. It’s sort of like when you’re fooling around with some girl above the sheets and she’s licking on your ear and shit and you touch her on the outside of her pants but you hit that spot and she thrusts her hips into yours while skipping a breath and you KNOW you are about fuck this girl. Yeah, sort of like that. But better, because you talked the oriental woman down to 70 dollars which is more than a fucking steal. They should lock me up for that in itself.

Anyway, some pressure was applied to a few of my affiliates and I got touched. Same old story. I’m doing a little bid upstate and my life is pretty much ruined. All of my shoes are being kept in a storage space for me and I’ve been tossing around the idea of selling them once I get out to make a little money. I probably won’t though. I’m standing here looking out of this little window in an orange jumpsuit with some numbers on the back in the freshest Orange/Black/White Air Max 90s you could ever find. Orange laces. I just wanted you to know that. Now would be a great time to have that Flyers Varsity Jacket from Mitchell & Ness. See you in five to ten.

All for the sneakers.

William Wallace

Unfinished

2011-03-14T13:39:00.006-04:00

These plains are unfamiliar but still they roll.
It doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve become a stranger to landscape.
It’s almost disenchanting. Almost, but not quite.
Not quite only because when I feel like a mechanism I know it’s only a product of my own mind.
To converse: to feel human. To feel more alive than you could ever make me.
It should get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t.
You have not reached my age or clout.
That in itself is troubling, but not enough to make things stir.
You have not reached me.
It should get easier now that we’re older but it doesn’t.
More RF transmissions stealing our vision.
Our pets have been spayed and neutered although our own crimes are going unpunished.
However.
Would you even lend a helping hand?
Where do your laurels rest? By the wayside?
Throw all caution and safety there.
Do something unexpected.
I’m aware of the nutrients that have been lost in battle
And when I find them I put them underneath of my pillow.
Maybe he will come down and regret with us.
Oh, Good Evening to you, Governor
And Good Evening to you too, Sir.
How else shall you break us down?
Good Evening to you too, Sir.
Good Evening, Governor.
What taxes have you planned for tomorrow?
How else are you going to rob my father?
And you, Ma’am… Good Evening.
How innocent do you plan on being perceived?

(There was supposed to be more in between here.)

I have shattered the concave and everything was left.
I extracted your essence that enables my existence.
Inhale, exhale your reflection.

Willam Wallace - The Heart, Blood, and Care Taker of the GMK

Out Like A Lamb (Part Seven of To Be Continued...)

2011-03-07T13:14:00.004-05:00

but in his panic he doesn’t yet realize that the car has completely stopped. I watch the car stop from the sidewalk and I see myself communicate with the driver. The driver asks if I need help but I tell him that I am fine and would like to continue reading. He is confused so he drives away. I see the car drive away. I stare at myself in the road in amazement and then I wake up. I wake up and I am standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road reading a book that is waterlogged from the rain.

I promised that this is only the beginning…

I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.

What happens when innovation becomes the standard?

I promised that this is only the beginning...

To be continued...

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb Part 8: Thomas Writes A Story

2011-03-01T17:15:00.004-05:00

My name is Thomas and I wrote a story. There were pictures to go with it, but I lost them in the fire. What fire? No, just read the story. They have a lot of waivers.

Dragons are real and my story is about them.

There was once a dragon slayer that had never slain a dragon. However, a dragon had never slain him so he managed to maintain the title. Monsters are not real and this dragon slayer did not slay them. If he did, he would be a monster slayer, but there are no such thing as monsters so this entire situation is hypothetical. It was interesting that the Kingdom he belonged to allowed him to boast as a dragon slayer. Have you ever met a bar tender that doesn’t tend to the bar and continued to refer to him as a bar tender? Of course not.

I shall call the dragon slayer Joseph.

Joseph had dreams of becoming a knight. He was something of a klutz so he never really achieved his dream. The King never “knighted” him, instead, he was given a special duty. He was ordered to protect the Kingdom from dragons. It was a cruel joke. Nobody within the Kingdom believed that dragons existed, so they ridiculed Joseph. He was not the pride of anything or anyone.

He remembered no family and no friends. Just his sword and his shield and the woman that never loved him.

“Good Morrow, Joseph… slay any dragons lately?” This is how they mocked him. Joseph looked so knightly but he felt so empty. I shall call him Joseph the Dragon Slayer.

Unbeknownst to Joseph and the whole Kingdom, but only to his fortune, a dragon lurked in the shadows of the (k)night. The dark abyss and the terrible unknown. This dragon kept his watchful yellow eye on the Kingdom and dreamt of scorching the fortress with his flaming breath. He would leave the trees without leaves and the wives without husbands.

The unassuming Dragon Slayer would fall with the Kingdom. Rest in peace on the hills and power in the valleys.

The dragon decided the day he would attack. The Sun rose in the east on this fateful day.

The dragon let out a cry so the whole Kingdom could hear it.
A battle ensued so epic I can only describe it in lyric.
The dragon attacked with a force unforeseen.
An attack that could only be dreamt in a dream.
The war had begun, the dragon breathed flame.
Every locked door hid a child and dame.
Horses were cooked, their riders were ash.
Buildings collapsed with a bang and a crash.
All hope was lost for the King and the Crown
Then Joseph stepped out with a leap and a frown.
Joseph faced the dragon with fear on his skin
All thoughts of survival were soon stretched thin.
The dragon looked at Joseph with a curious grin
This man could not possibly believe this battle he could win.
The dragon breathed fire to boast his power
And Joseph marched forward with not even a cower.
The dragon was amused with the daring young man
Not knowing that Joseph had devised a plan.
Women and children prayed to the lord.
And Joseph marched forward with his shield and his sword.
The dragon raged on with his fiery breath.
As Joseph pressed on towards inevitable death.
Joseph approached the dragon from behind
And gashed him deep all along his spine.

Back to the regular prose. After the dragon was slain a royal dinner was arranged for Joseph. It was held in the castle’s dining hall where the décor was extravagant and the food was exquisite. The ceremony was invite only and the guests were of high value. After the meal the King called Joseph to the throne and said “Joseph, you saved the Kingdom and preserved our reign. This is the only way I can thank you for saving our lives. I shall hereby proclaim you Sir Joseph the Dragon Slayer and present with you a suite in the royal palace and a wife fit for only a King.”

The guests cheered and chanted “Long live the King! Long live Joseph! Long live the King! Long live Joseph!”

However, Joseph stopped the chant and revealed to the crowd and the King that the Dragon had not been killed. Rather, he was planning another attack. The crowd gasped, the King was speechless, but Joseph devised a plan and spoke with such conviction that he won not only the noblemans heart, but the Kings and the peasants. He wanted to strike first with a small battalion he had put together. They were to leave at midnight of the next day. The King approved Joseph the Dragon Slayer’s plan and provided him with all of the knights and equipment he requested. The kingdom gave their blessing and nervously applauded their hero and protector.

The small contingent gathered in the (k)night ready to march towards battle. No one lined the streets and no one was cheering. Parents put their kids to sleep hoping and praying that Joseph could slay the mighty dragon.

“They will write stories about us.” Joseph told them this in confidence. This is that story.

As the soldiers marched towards the battle they chanted:
And it won't be long
'Till I get back home

An originale by William BraveHeart Wallace

If you haven't already done so, go to The Infamous Mag and snag both covers of their new magazine and check out the William Wallace article in it.

Part 7 soon.

Out Like A Lamb (Part Seven of February 17th)

2011-01-12T16:08:00.006-05:00

An originale by William Wallace:

Concept by William Wallace.

...loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you...

I only really ever wanted you on Valentine's Day. And you when I was bored. And you when I was far away. Oh, and there was you, who I only ever wanted when I was close. And there was you too, and I don't remember when I wanted you, but I did. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. Just a regular Mundo de circo.

For further reading, please see Out Like A Lamb: Part 7 by William Wallace (Wallace 7).

By,
William Wallace (forward slash) Gold Medal Kids in a Gold Medal Kingdom

Out Like A Lamb Part Six

2010-07-30T23:45:00.005-04:00

Alright. So it’s me again. It’s weird now. Things are weird now. Or weirder, I guess I should say. I don’t really expect anyone to have any sympathy for me. I don’t want any sympathy. But I don’t think I have very much for other people, either. I’m still sort of sitting here wondering where it all went. Visits with doctors, missed phone calls, long drives. Where did all of this come from?

I still fantasize about the CITY. The city. Yes. The CITY. I fantasize about giving all of this up. Just giving up everything I have and moving to the city. I won’t have a name or identity. I will be a small speck on a big apple. A piece of dust in the wind. I would just blend in. No family. No attachments. But I wouldn’t just exist there. I would live without consequences. I would start dealing drugs. Cocaine or heroin. I would work my way up from a runner to a King. I would use my intelligence to outsmart any opposition. I would drive fancy, foreign automobiles. I would have parties in the finest penthouses, but money is not what would draw people to me. No. I would have a gorgeous woman with me because of my natural charisma and charm. A different one every night. At first. Then I would find a young girl, innocent and impressionable with the same charisma and undeniable charm. At first she would be frightened, maybe even confused by me. Eventually she would become curious. She would see me out with friends. She would see how I walked the streets and how I interacted with people. The curiosity would grow to interest and I would go see her. I would take her out to a nice restaurant but I wouldn’t engage her sexually. I would take her some places. I would never, ever, show her my business, but I would take her out with me to show her things. Things and places she would have otherwise never seen. I would show her how I could walk with the aristocrats and never lose a step and then take the subway into the most poverty stricken neighborhoods and never even take a second look. I would show her how I could speed down any Avenue or Boulevard running red lights and stop signs. I would show her designer clothes after hours. I would amaze her by the way I would command respect. She would be intrigued by how I would take over a crowded room and then drift into the background. I would show her how I could have VIP access to the most exclusive nightclubs just by saying the words “I’m Thomas Burr.” The name would garner the attention in itself. Thomas Burr. Cold, unforgiving. Kind, loving. I would make her my wife and we would live like royalty in this CITY. No one would even know I existed outside of the limits, but I would run that fucking city. But I would do this without any arrogance or cockiness, she would see how unassuming I was. How I could do all of this and not even be aware that I was doing it. She would be madly in love with me. I fantasize about it. I’ve given her a name already. Alice Austen. Thomas Burr and Alice Austen riding around the most extravagant place on Earth with no enemies and all of our friends.

But that’s not who I am.

This is who I am. I sometimes hope everyone is proud, but then I stop.

It’s unfortunate that the last installment was so erratic. My thoughts were scrambled. Her letter threw me for a loop and I just didn’t know what to think. I still don’t know what to think. Based on what I’ve experienced all I know is that your old friends forget about you and your new friends are likely to dissipate at some point, but your family is what you have when the Sun goes down. No price tag is too high for that. No price can be named for that. And I know that life is temporary but if we have photographs and stories we can pretend that we will always exist here. And letters too. If we have letters we can stay the same. Sometimes it’s just exhausting when you’re something that you’re not.

But that’s not who I am. This is who I am. You can wear clothes with horses stitched on… you can dress upper class but you know where you came from. You can drive through the neighborhoods. See the American flags flying, the men mowing their own yards, raking their own leaves, cleaning their own cars, drinking the beer that they worked for. The type of people that didn’t need a terrorist to remind them about what it means to be patriotic. The type of men that would die for their families. The working class heroes that surround me.

Anyway, welcome to the city where your friends won’t visit your parents. The city where they make excuses not to hang out with each other. The city where no body celebrates your 21st birthday. The city… the house that protects you like a womb. The familiar footsteps and voices that resonate off of the different shades of tan. The Christmas lights on the bushes in the front yard. The backyard with the birdbath and a holly tree on each side. The spigot that we used to drink out of that was right next to the family room windows. There was that awkward green mat that lined the front steps. The patio that would get unbearably hot had the chair that I liked to spin around in. The train set down stairs. The accolades. The holidays. The handrails. This history. Yea, this is it. The city where everything stays the same, I guess. I guess it stays the same, but you can’t believe that because look at how different everything has become. And I guess that I guess about it because I’m not sure and when you’re not sure you consider the options and guess. I consider the options. I compare and contrast. I’m confident. Supremely. It’s not me I doubt. What’s the point?

So now I’m laying in my bed and the speakers are doing what they are told and they are speaking to me…
They say we don’t have heart but it’s pounding more now than ever…
And I’m just laying here thinking…
I find it humorous that for all those years I found it hard to listen.
I’m finding now that failure hurts; I’m failure fleeting.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
And here I am, my phone lighting up with a text message from a girl and I don’t even care about it. What a boring conversation we are having. This is too easy. And another girl supposedly sent a letter in the mail, but I consider not even reading it. In fact, I’ll never read it because it’s not on it’s way. It’s not coming and I know it isn’t. And my speakers keep speaking to me and this time I am the therapist and not the patient. My phone lights up again and I don’t even respond to it. This is too easy.

I think back to when me and my best friend stood on a stoop in the middle of a bustling city… the giant city. There were vendors and men handing out pamphlets riddled with conspiracies that I’m not sure they believed in as much as they believed in the almighty dollar that is so hard to come by. Streaks of yellow pass by transporting other tourists and nomads looking for answers. There is not much to look at; we could barely see over the fence that lined the area. It was a feeling or a sense that let us know what this was. We could smell it. It was a mixture of trash, and people, and afternoon hot dogs, and cold. I could smell the cold. It was barely the early evening but the Sun was already going down. The walls told me to post no bills but I did anyway. Women walked by with heavy perfume on and men walked by in pea-coats and they were so numb but I can imagine that they pass this every day and the effects have worn off. I couldn’t stare at this forever. As we looked down at a vast emptiness, a giant hole, he said “this is what we’re fighting for.” Is it? Again, I’m not sure so I guess he’s right.

But fuck, man, fuck.

Did you know fuck was actually an acronym? It originated in the Middle Ages when religion was law. The citizens of the kingdom had to get permission from the King to have a child, so they put a sign in front of their homes that said “Fornication Under Consent of the King” or “Fornication Under Cardinal Knowledge.” Fuck.

There’s this riddle that I know and I want to take a second to see if you can figure it out. There is a green glass door and you have to figure out what is behind it. Here are some clues: There is no water, but there is a flood. There is no alcohol, but there is beer. There are no leaves or branches, but there are trees. There is no fruit, but there are apples. There is no orange, but there is yellow. There are no beds, but there are pillows and sheets. You can’t swim in a lake, but you can swim in a pool. You can’t swim, but you can go swimming. There are no buildings, but there are schools. You can’t taste, but you can smell. There are no losers, only winners. You can’t have everything, but you can have it all. That’s enough clues. Do you know what is behind the green glass door?

When I left my brothers home I noticed how much he’d aged without getting any older, but I let him know he’s not a man yet so he still has something to work for. I got back on that dreadful highway and endured. My engine was the Metal Moses and the rubber tires were following him. Anyway, welcome back to the city where your best friends are your family and your family are your best friends. And you spent years trying to think of reasons to leave but you’re still scared to death at the airport by yourself, trying to convince yourself that it’s not that long but you don’t even know what’s going to happen in two hours. You think things will stay the same but you’ve been gone for less than one day and things are already so different. It’s been a fucked up year so I guess we should just assume next year will be fucked up too.

“I’m the shit because I don’t even miss her.”

I’m starting to feel like I’m beating a dead horse with all of this. I’ll sit in here in this bed and write for a while, sometimes only a few minutes, but for how long can you just type and delete and type and delete? Type and delete. Type and delete. Type and delete. Like a hamster in a wheel or Algernon trying to find his cheese. Or a CD that will only play to a certain second, so you just keep starting over and starting over, but the song is the same every time. So you know what? I don’t even miss her. And why should I? Did she earn that? No.

So yes, I am the shit. I’m not a pessimist. Sometimes I reminisce, but that’s what we do when we’re bored. I don’t for long though because do they reminisce about me? Who fucking cares. It really makes no difference. You’re either with me or not, but I’m going forward either way. I try to apologize to Jimmy but he doesn’t want to hear it, so fuck him. Fuck him for not visiting our family in my absence. And fuck Suzanne for cheating on my best friend. And fuck Renee for every missed phone call and unsent letter. Fuck all of their unreliability. Fuck them for being occupied when I wasn’t. What’s the use of hiding anything behind a quill and some coffee stained parchment? That’s how old this is… my thrice told story. Thrice told stories. Yeah, that’s right, knock ‘em down for the Gold Medal Kids and fuck them to hell. You heard me. Fuck them. That’s the only way I can get anyone’s attention? So yeah, I mean that. Fuck all of you. I created it so I can do what I want with it. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future girlfriends will know everything about me.

Let’s keep going like this.

Couldn’t you feel the chemistry? We were practically building nuclear bombs and now I’ve got them stockpiled in my fingertips. I think most of what you believe is bullshit. I’ve had this fairytale built up in my mind. I’ve been trying to create the balance of the city and my home. At least I can admit that it’s fantasy. You think what you have is reality. It was just another dance to you, wasn’t it? That’s all it ever was. Just a fairytale. A movie role you could play until you got bored. But it seems the film ran out unusually quick, even for you. Not very surprising and extraordinarily predictable. But you have got to be fucking kidding me. That’s the best you could do? It was a poor performance. Not even a letter. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future boyfriends will know absolutely nothing about me.

Enough of this.

Have you ever looked at coins lined up? Take a quarter, a dime, a nickel, and a penny place them in a line. Do you notice that three of the coins are a lighter color and one is dark? The copper is dark. Do you notice that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin D. Roosevelt are all facing the left and Abraham Lincoln is facing right? It’s like the other three are turning their backs on him because they are ashamed. It’s a subliminal message. Is it a coincidence that the coin Abraham Lincoln graces is practically worthless? He freed the slaves and it’s a secret subliminal message.

There are a few things I believe in. I believe in family, country, and God. But I also believe that letters are the most intimate form of communication and that every powerful man should wear a watch, an attractive watch. A watch that describes the man. My brother may have gotten qualities such as intelligence and talent, but he did not get the relentless nature that I have. The extremism. However, his intelligence and talent transfer easily into society, whereas my relentless nature only exists on a blank tablet or when I feel like expressing it.

How am I different than anyone else, though? I’m trying to tell you my story but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. I hope maybe this gives you some insight into my psyche. I don’t know if it will though because I’m so void of details. Okay lets see, I’m looking back into time and the last you saw of me I was leaving my brothers house. When I got home I had a letter in the mail from Renee and it really bugged me for some reason. The envelope was business like and the writing on the front was obviously hers. My heart was like a skier performing aerials in an avalanche. I placed it on my coffee table and stared at it for hours. Eventually I started listening to some music and I did some laundry. I forgot about it, which was strange because I’d being dying for some form of communication. Correction: I was living for it. I opened the letter a few days later after I had walked past the beasts lined up. They were so incomplete here, you could just tell by looking at them. Some of them had survived many wars but here they sat, alone and slightly relevant. I walk outside and start making my way towards them. The Sun is usually just rising in whatever direction that takes place. The asphalt still smells like rain. There’s always a puddle to my right and the rising Sun shimmers off of it like fire. The birds are singing their morning song. The jack rabbits are brushing the morning dew out of their eyes. It’s unusually warm for this hour and beads of sweat drip off of my forehead like a leaky faucet. I can feel my lower back start to moisten and it’s becoming uncomfortable. I imagine that if my body experienced this type of dampness on a beach or at a pool it would be much more pleasing. I walk past a building that is undergoing treatment for a flood that I didn’t have a chance to witness. And then another building with strange hallways that elevate and sink in place of the regular straightness. The parking lot I walk through is littered with gravel and potholes. The stones are just as displaced as everything else. The Sun glints and gleams off of chrome tires and bumpers and the flatness of the area provides a pleasant view of the sky. There are people coming to work and leaving work at the same time. There is an absence of wildlife and an abundance of steel. I start to feel their warmth. They have been domesticated but they are still warm from their years of life. The morning heat reverberates off of their midsections and brings an extra warmth to the area. The hearts have been dormant for years but if you listen close you can still hear traces of the distant hum. I come around the corner and there they are, clear as day. And there they are. There they are… what was I saying? The letter, let’s get back to the letter.

Back to the letter. Here is what it said:

Dear Thomas,

I’m not really sure why I’m writing this… I actually can’t believe that I’ve sent it off but if you’re reading this then I obviously did. We haven’t really had a chance to talk, but the way you just disappeared really hurt me. You never really let me in so how was I supposed to know how you really felt? This is all just very confusing to me. Sometimes I wish you had never left. Sometimes I wish you were dead. Other times I don’t even care. I really hated you. But I’m sure you also hated me. I know it wasn’t right, maybe we should have never even started. It was all really stupid. It was never going to happen. You probably think that what you’re doing is so amazing, but nobody cares. Your friends don’t care, the people you used to know don’t care, and I don’t care. I’m sorry because that sounds awful, but it’s the truth. And I really have no place to tell you that because I’m not doing anything amazing, either. What am I even saying? Of course I care. Come back, Thomas. I want you to come back so I can see you. I don’t want things to be like this, but I know they can never be the same. I guess I should tell you that I’m with someone right now and he doesn’t know much about you. He doesn’t know that I wrote this or that I want you to come back . I swear to you if you came back I would leave him in a second. Do you have anyone? How is your family? How are you?

The letter you left at the library… I didn’t how to respond to it which is why this took so long. But this isn’t a response, this is a new conversation. I don’t know what any of this even means. Come save the city from the fire.

I want to know how you are doing. What have you been up to? I want you to write back so I know you received this. I miss you. I’ll just keep this short because I’m sure you are busy.

Renee

Was it shocking? Yes. How did I feel about it? I’m not really sure. I put it in my folder and carried it around with me. I started writing drafts that would hopefully be some sort of response, but not much of them made any sense. It sort of brought me back to that little town and me losing my fucking mind trying to impress her with a story. But like I said, things are different now. So I wrote something back and I’m not sure if it’s impressive. In fact, I know it’s not impressive, but you have to believe when I say that it took every ounce of confidence to mark it with postage. I didn’t rush it. I actually intentionally waited several weeks to send it even though I wrote the final version maybe 5 or 6 days after I read Renee’s letter. I just wanted it to marinate a little bit. Even from a few thousand miles away you don’t want to seem too desperate or urgent. But this story will take place at a later date.

I walk outside and all I hear is arguments:

“What the fuck is a thousand millions? That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“How does that not make sense… a thousand millions is one billion. You’re an idiot.”

--

“Just fucking ask him man, I don’t understand why you’re being an asshole.”

“This is funny to me. I’m going to sit here until you go up and ask.”

--

“How do you not understand this? You came over here, took my shit, and now you want to pay? Do you go to Foot Locker and pay after you wear the shoes? No, you don’t, that’s backwards.”

“Relax man, I’m just trying to have a good time.”

--

I hear the arguments but I just keep walking. I reach a place where I can think and I decide that after many stops and starts and re-do’s and undo’s I want to go back a few months. I left you in an awkward position. I never really told you how I got here. I think you would be interested where the cynical side of my writing comes from. You see how sarcastic and vicious I can be? But then I turn it around into a moderate and restrained style just within a few words. Sometimes I feel like I hold back, however moderation is important in writing because I can’t just tell you everything. Something has to be left to the imagination… I think I’ve said that before. You have to leave something to be desired. I think one of biggest problems in literature is that people that write do things and they don’t even know why they’re doing it. It’s like there are unwritten rules you have to follow and there might have been a reason for the rules many years ago, but there‘s no point to them now. It reminds of the “monkeys in a cage” concept. You could take ten monkeys and put them in a cage with a basket of bananas and every time one of them got close you could spray them with a fire hose. At first they would keep trying to get to the bananas because monkeys like bananas, if you haven’t noticed. After some time, though, they wouldn’t try anymore. If you took five of those monkeys out of the cage and put five new ones in and the new ones tried to eat the bananas, the older monkeys would beat the new ones every time they got close to the basket until they didn’t want the bananas, either. If you took out the older monkeys and put five newer monkeys in, the other five monkeys would beat the new monkeys until they didn’t want the bananas. The cycle would perpetually continue, but now there’s no fire hose, so why can’t they have the bananas? It doesn’t make any sense at this point. I don’t know how to make this specific and vague at the same time. I haven’t found a way yet. I promise you I’m trying to figure it all out. This is just what I’ve come up with so far. I guess I can begin at the airport. No, no. That’s not right. I’ll begin at the beginning. This is has to start in a kitchen. A kitchen in a house. It’s not as clear as used it to be, but all the cutlery was placed appropriately.

I promise this is only the beginning…

William BraveHeart Wallace

I bid you adieu.

Day Break

2010-06-30T20:21:00.002-04:00

With respect to penmanship and in regards to postage.

Some men climb from underneath
Imaginary mile by imaginary mile.
One imaginary step after another.
One brick by two bricks.

This is terrible… I remember thinking.
Two in one day? In one hour?
This is terrible.
I carry it with me every day.

We climb
Who knew the top could be so lonely?
And who is going to know?
That’s right.

Violet delights
Independence Day weather.
Why are you so difficult?
Just like you could let your roots get tied up in knots
And they rot.

I run imaginary miles on imaginary roads. You’ve been on the receiving end of this once before. I let you see it. I don’t feel bad about it. I try my hand at writing things sometimes. That might be some sort of a pun. Hands and writing. These are just my thoughts.

With respect to penmanship and in regards to postage.

Here we go again, same old shit again.

Some of them bind to sword and sheath.
Imaginary trial by imaginary trial.
One imaginary step after a brother.
One kick by two kicks.

This is absolute… I remember writing.
To end one day with one flower.
This is absolute.
I drag it with me every pace.

We’re blind.
Who knew the top would be so bony?
And who is going to show?
That’s wrong.

Heliotrope delights.
July 4th weather.
Why am I so difficult?
Just like you could get your roots tied up with shots.
And they are not.

I run imaginary miles on imaginary roads. A book no one reads. A movie no one watches. A candle no one lights. A story no one tells. A sad joke. You never wanted us to succeed at anything. You selfish fucks are thirsty for glory. Splendor. Grandeur. Brilliance. Laurels. Whatever.

You preach family and brotherhood but wouldn’t know what to do with it if you fell face first into it.

With respect to penmanship and in regards to the postage. The 35 cents.

The sum of them find word and wreath.
Imaginary dial by imaginary dial.
One imaginary step after a father.
One tick by two ticks.

This is hollow… I remember saying.
To end one’s day with one wilt and one blossom.
This is hollow.
I respond to it in this fashion.

We mind.
Who blew the stop so boldly?
And who is going too slow?
That’s left to personal judgment.

Lavender delights.
This cenotaph weather.
What is so difficult?
Just like you could feel your roots get tied up in knots.
And there they rot.
Whereas I embraced it,
You swore it off.

As it stands, the apple has not fallen far. As it sits, a family will gather, the sum equal to its whole. As it lays, a Mother smiles and sighs at the same time. As it sleeps, a Brother will stir once, but only once in safety. As it stands, a Father recognizes where the apple has fallen.

One day maybe I’ll be able to break the richest bread and drink the finest wine. But I’m sorry I’m so vague. So vague. So vague. So vague. So vague.

Maybe I’ll be able to watch another train go by in the passenger seat. Maybe I’ll be able to spend the night there. Maybe I could play on that floor again. Just one more night where I could sit by the framed photographs of aviation. Another Thanksgiving where we could just stand still.

The saga continues.

Generations

2010-06-21T18:23:00.004-04:00

Listen:

Wear:

Visit:

More goods coming soon.

www.goldmedalkids.wordpress.com

Subjects And Services

2010-06-09T20:11:00.006-04:00

Wouldn’t you know it, but your beautiful face is all I have left. You would have never guessed it.
This is a feeble attempt at collecting my thoughts when they are purely scattered.
Purely, in a way that is innocent or pure. Thorough and definitive.
Just short drives. Short drives, nothing too far or risky.
We stay within safety. We stay within comfort.
Within radius and ambit. No. No comfort.
Do not prepare to be let down.
I am attempting something.
Obscurity by numbers.
Sheer amazement.
Nothing spared.
Cowards.
Stop.
Start.
Stop.
Courage.
No one cared.
Utter bemusement.
Infinite by slumber.
I am attempting something.
Do not prepare to be anything.
Comfortable in a new home. Comfort.
We embrace the vulnerability. Stay close.
Nautical miles. Dark red vials. Mountainous piles.
Traditional, established. In a white picket fence type of way.
This is a feeble attempt at scattering my thoughts when they are purely nostalgic.
Wouldn’t you know it, but there is substance surrounding me. You would have never guessed it.
I guess I should apologize for limiting my story telling. I just try so hard to write with a vengeance.
Vengeance. But why? I should have none. I deserve none. Just four digits and a short drive.
That’s all I’ve ever asked. This envelope torments me because I can’t open it. It won’t.
So I decided to write back and this time I make two copies. You can’t read them.
I can’t show you. It would ruin it for everyone else. The ones that can see.
Don’t try to resist. Don’t tempt your own curiosity. I have you.
In the mornings they scheme. Then they are tense.
They sear and are charred. Not burnt.
They are chomping at bits.
They line up to see it.
The parade.
Courage.
Stop.
Start.
Stop.
Cowards.
The discipline.
They line up to see it.
They are disgusting in laughter.
They freeze and are dried by the sun.
At night they fester. Then they are tranquil.
But we will not lose our discipline. Not yet devoured.
My friends once had friends. Now they have acquaintances.
And they smile and lie as if I can’t see through it all. Well dressed.
Well dressed but less inclined. Less inspired. Less like themselves. Less.
Reduced to marionettes just like the ones we hated. I dare you to question sacrifice.
I dare you to pretend like you were never side by side for the years that shaped who you are.

Furthermore.
I dare you to pretend like all of the photographs aren’t real. Tell me they are purely mirages.
I dare you to pretend like this would have been possible for either of us without the other.
I dare you to pretend like we wouldn’t love to see you two maintaining something that’s a part of me.
I dare you to pretend like I never asked you to take care of my brother. One simple request.
Tell me that a house of full of dynamite could be streamlined to static. Two houses. No noise.
You have wild imaginations if you thought you could ever just erase anything from recent memory.
But no. I digress. No vengeance. I don’t deserve it.
Start.
Stop.
Start.

WW

Out Like A Lamb Part 5: Conversations With Thomas

2010-05-16T18:06:00.003-04:00

“Okay, let’s get this started. Your name is Thomas… how do you pronounce your last name?”

“That doesn’t matter. I go by Thomas.”

“Well I’m glad you came to see me. I guess we can start whenever you’re ready.”

“I guess I’m just tired… and for the record I didn’t come to see you.”

“Right, okay. What are you tired of?”

“I guess I’m just tired of writing and talking and thinking about all of the same shit. I don’t want to talk about the city anymore or anyone that lives there. I don’t want to write about the liquids dripping off of me. I don’t want to write about the sun rising in the East because I can’t see it anymore. We’re splattered across the West.”

“What do you mean you didn’t come to see me? Who is in the West?”

“The sun is in the West. That’s where it rises. Google it. Wikipedia it. Whatever you want to do. That’s where that shit comes up. All this time I’ve been in the East thinking the world was round, but it’s not.”

“Why do you think it’s flat, Thomas?”

“When did I say I thought it was flat?”

“Well, you didn’t. But if you don’t think it’s round, then you must think it’s flat.”

“Ah. You are a slick one, Doc. That’s why I like you. The world is flat.”

“Why do you think that?”

“How else do people just fall in and out of you. Where do they go?”

“Well… I think that people enter and exit your life for a reason… even if that reason isn’t always clear.”

“That sounds like basic fucking bull shit, Doc.”

“The world is round Thomas.”

“The world is round. I don’t know, you know, I’m going to have to disagree with you. I’ve had a lot of friends make promises to me that they didn’t keep. I thought more.”

“Can you expand on that thought?”

“You know what? I have a question for you this time.”

“Well, go right ahead and ask, Thomas.”

“How many trucks are on an American military base?”

“I don’t know, Thomas. That’s an interesting question. I think it would vary from base to base.”

“No. There is 1.”

“That doesn’t seem right.”

“The truck you are referring to is called a vehicle. A “truck” is the gold ball on top of a flag pole. On American military bases there is a “truck” on top of the flag pole that is outside of Building 1, the Command Post. Do you want to know what is inside the truck?”

“Sure.”

“There is a razor, matches, and a loaded .38. You see, the flag is sacred and will never be surrendered. In the event that the enemy has overrun the base or post, the flag pole will be knocked over and the gold ball will be opened by the last soldier alive. The razor will be used to cut the flag off of the pole. The matches will be used to burn the American flag because the flag will not be desecrated by the enemy. Surrendering the flag to the enemy admits defeat and we will not admit defeat. The loaded .38 will be used by the remaining soldier on himself. The enemy will not take him alive. It is unlawful to surrender yourself when there is still a chance for victory and suicide will always prevent the soldier from revealing any information to the enemy. We will not let you take our flag. We will not give up the ship.”

“I don’t really see how that’s relevant.”

“Aren’t you the doctor? Analyze that shit.”

“Just what are you so afraid of?”

“I’m afraid that my children will be forgotten and I will be forgotten with them.”

“That sound reasonable, but why do you feel it’s so necessary to be remembered?”

“I’ve heard that if you kill someone and keep them inside of a wall they don’t go to Heaven or Hell. I mean, I wouldn’t really know because I’ve never killed or been killed, but I’ve been told that the Grim Reaper can’t get to the body if it’s inside of a wall. They soul is stuck inside of the body. That’s terrible isn’t it? There are lives in the walls… life in the walls and they can’t be saved because God forgot to tell them that you‘re not supposed to die in the walls.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Guess what, Doc? I can make music with my fingers.” (snaps)

“Why don’t you try channeling your thoughts, Thomas?”

“No more questions, Doc. I just want to go to sleep now. You know, sometimes I think my dreams are real life and that real life is all a dream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.”

Should old acquaintances be forgotten,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintances be forgotten,
And days of long ago !

For old long ago, my dear
For old long ago,
We will take a cup of kindness yet
For old long ago.

We two have run about the hillsides
And pulled the daisies fine,
But we have wandered many a weary foot
For old long ago.

We two have paddled (waded) in the stream
From noon until dinner time,
But seas between us broad have roared
Since old long ago.

And there is a hand, my trusty friend,
And give us a hand of yours,
And we will take a goodwill draught (of ale)
For old long ago!

And surely you will pay for your pint,
And surely I will pay for mine!
And we will take a cup of kindness yet
For old long ago!

Dial tone.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

-Hello?

-Hey, how are you?

-Who is this? Thomas? Is that you?

-Yea, it’s me. It’s… it’s Thomas.

-Oh my God! It’s so good to hear from you. How are you?

-I’m good. I’m… I’m doing well. How are you?

-I’m great! Just finishing up school for the semester. I can’t believe you called! What was it like?

-(Laughs) Well, um, you definitely can’t get dessert. I mean, it was okay.

-No dessert? That’s terrible. Do they yell?

-Yea, they yell. A lot. But you get used to it. Yea, it’s… you get used to it.

-And you just take it?

-Well… (laughs) you can’t really do anything about it.

-I’d never survive there.

-You’d be surprised. (laughs)

-So where are you going to be?

-I don’t know yet. Hopefully… um, I’m hoping for something… I don’t know.

-When are you coming back? I want to take you out for your birthday.

-It’s going to be awhile. I think. I’m not sure yet. Can we maybe talk about something else?

-Well, yea, sure. What do you want to talk about?

-Tell me about yourself. Tell me about what you’ve doing… everything.

-Thomas, you know enough about me. I’ve just been out with the girls. Having fun, getting into to trouble. The usual.

-I hope not too much trouble.

-No. Not too much trouble. Just a little.

-Good, good. Sounds like you’ve been having a great time.

-I still can’t believe you just left like that.

-Hey. Stop it. Stop. Not now.

-I’m serious, Thomas. I want to turn this thing around. You never really knew…

-Listen to me. You’ve had longer to get over it than me so I don’t want to even get into to it.

-So I guess your hair is a little shorter?

-Yea it is. It’s umm… it’s not bad. I really like it here. I’ve made some great friends and it’s pretty cool.

-That’s really good. I’m glad. Um… I’m getting another call from my… um… a friend, so can I call you back?

-You don’t have to call me back. It’s okay.

-No, I will. I promise.

-Just have fun tonight and be safe. Good-bye.

Dial tone.

-Hi, this is Thomas. I can’t get to my phone right now so just leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

-Hey! I was just giving you a call back like I said I would. Um… I guess you’re a little busy right now so, um, just give me a call back whenever you get a chance. Whenever you get a chance. Whenever you get a chance.

Row, row, row, your boat gently down the fucking stream.

ME

I'll Be Proud Of You No Matter What

2010-04-27T18:17:00.004-04:00

Credits on all but two of these go to other people.

Don't tell them anything.

Out Like A Lamb: Part 4

2010-04-07T21:32:00.002-04:00

I’ll see you in the east, where the Sun rises.

It’s all I see.

I was outside and he let me in, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. I’m not even sure why I went. I wish you could tell me. I was there a few nights but things got bad. I started dreaming about a former life, a previous time. There was a man in my dream and he said… He said. He said. He said… Shit.

He said “what does a Jew want with a Samaritan? You know that they have no place among Samaritans.” But didn’t I stand on my own trying to hold back the tears on parade grounds? Six to the front, three to the rear, that’s the way we swing them here. Hut, two, three, four. Hut, two, three, four. Right here where they tell you not to lock your knees, because the position of attention is an exercise of discipline.

I see the pedestrians so pedestrian just dying to feel useful like the abandoned bible in a hotel drawer. And I hope I have been useful even for just a minute. I’m just tired of being tired of being tired of being tired. I don’t want to keep carrying my chains around with me. Which is why I stayed at a hotel just a few miles from my brothers house. Or maybe he decided to buy a house just a few miles from my hotel. Wherever the coattails lead, not who they belong to, that’s what I always say. And the romance novel I left behind was just another Technicolor dance in a dream that I still have. But be it train, plane, or automobile, I still exist.

If there’s nothing better to do we can practice parade. And we will be uniformed throughout the dormitory, because if it’s good for the goose then it’s good for the gander.

You can’t outrun the radio.

“I’m sorry darling, but I don’t remember much.”

I walked slowly down the hall to my brothers room and told him I had to stay in a hotel because I wasn’t comfortable sleeping with an alien in my room. I mean… he didn’t… how would you have taken that? Do you… Do you think she missed? Anything? Renee is that you? What a gorgeous nightmare. Now it’s back to sleep in this Holiday Inn. So I walked down the hall and then I left. Christmas was early and he left the scissors neatly on the counter top but I did not run with them I only used them to clip excess strings off of my shirt.

On the walk from the parking lot to the hotel reception desk I was stopped by a man. He told me he had built 10 carriages of equal size and equal measure. Ten carriages. For what? He wouldn’t say. I knew who he was. He didn’t fool me. You know what they say: fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, not going to fucking happen. God of Israel where were you when the infants were bleeding? Was theirs the blood that ran rivers red? Save the women and children, for they are the closest to God. Save the women and children, for they are the closest to us. Save the women and children, for they are the closest to love. Let the men die first. We fight the wars. We wear the scars. Let us do it.

And after I died in battle New York named fucking buildings after me. I never was able to take a picture of them; those buildings remain untouched. It’s written in stone and your heart is the throne. It’s written in stone and your heart is the throne.

Once things change how do you unchanged them? I’m always so inquisitive. The sex is free but the sound is not. That’s what she told me. Can you believe that shit?

“Going for a walk… what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m going for a fucking walk.”

On that pad I could drift away. I would lose myself in my mind as long as I stayed in step and pivoted on the correct foot. Inline, pivot, twelve, twenty-four, left, right, left. Right flanks, left flanks, discipline, and day dreams. It was those few days around Christmas when everything was supposed to be normal again. Was it? Was it?

A story: “Yea, sure, I’ll tell you a story, what’s the heck? I lived next to this girl I liked and for years I would buy her candy and little things like that. She used to say ‘Oh, Elvin, you remind me of my brother.’ I used to think she liked me too. So my brother went off and joined the Marines and he come back from boot camp and told me he been dating the girl for years. That made me mad, so we flung each other ‘round the backyard for a little bit. We was just a few country bumpkins. He was a Jarhead, so I wasn’t supposed to be able to do that to him. Long story short, if a girl tells you that you remind her of her brother… well, that’s her way of letting you down easy.”

“Oh, Mother, He came down from above and saved us all.” Maybe I’m wrong but weren’t we just dancing? He saved them all and the mothers and daughters that lived through the flood were thankful and scared because the fathers and sons were still drowning. They screamed “To Hell with those bastards, for we have been found!” We moved like one body. Two hearts one body and you weren’t there when Christmas came early. You probably told your Mother that I left and to this I say: get the lead out of your dancing shoes.

Then I received a letter. It was from far away. Rocks and hard places.

“So I’m wondering what you think of the labyrinth being used as a torture device”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, do you think it’s cruel and unusual or do you think we should keep it?”

“Thomas, what the fuck?”

“Think about it. It’s not the governments fault what the minotaur does in there. We just have a labyrinth. Right? Am I right? Right?”

Oh, the letter was from Renee and I thought it was great. It’s great you miss me. I’m Thomas the fucking Tiger over here. You were scamming second rate lawyers in nightclubs while I was fucking whores in motel parking lots. Vacancy. Now that is real romance. You lust for businessmen with college degrees in fancy suits at fancy clubs with fancy cars that fancy you. Businessman that can organize and execute flawlessly a beautiful open-face party chock-full of Jetsetters and people that hang out with stars but aren’t actually starts themselves. But they couldn’t manage themselves out of a wet paper bag. Shoulders for my friends and backs for my foes.

And the drone continues on.

Elvin says: “You play the game. ‘I love you.’ ‘No, I love you the most.’ Hang up on her. Go to bed. Put an end to that stuff.”

And the drone continues on. You once wrote about me. Here is the truth…

They speak: I listen.

I speak. And you get angry that nobody gives a shit.

Someone please take me back to the Twenties when pilots were American Idols and bank robbers were movie stars. New York was so bright then. I asked her where all of the love had gone and she told me it was right where I left it. So I guess it’ll be there waiting for me when I get back. Or am I just looking in all of the wrong places?

Speak/Speak/Speak/Speak

!I am not the words that you so eloquently put together!

She tells me what I want to hear.

Something that really flabbers my gast: The reason that the British soldiers used to wear red coats is a fact that is not widely known. They didn’t wear them for fashion, protection, nicknames or camouflage. They wore the red coats so that when they went into battle and the first ranks were shot, the remaining ranks would not become frightened or sickened by the blood. It would blend in with the coat. This is the same general thought process that lead the French to color their trousers brown. Think about it.

I saw what you said about me and fuck it all. You should have kept drowning, Old Man. I have it with me and I doused it in gasoline.

Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!

And the chorus goes:
Here we go again,
Same old shit again.

WW

It continues...

Out Like A Lamb: Poems For Thomas

2010-03-16T20:11:00.002-04:00

Preface: www.myspace.com/sunbrothermusic. "Written In Stone"

Jimmy: Yea, we were best friends. Things change. I make a lot of money so I don’t give a fuck. I’ve managed to buy a lot of things and I’m pretty sure I’ll find another wife and another friend. How do you think I even got Suzanne in the first place? They can have each other. I’m not even mad. Fuck them. She will never be my wife ever again. I can’t even consider you a friend. You are dead to me. You will always be my brother. We will always be brothers. Until next time memories will get us by.

Suzanne: I kept calling and calling and calling and calling and calling but he never called back. I’m waiting for him. I’ve also moved on. Come back. I love you. I haven’t forgotten. We were sonnets. We were morning dew glistening on spring flowers. We were sunsets on abandoned beaches. We were sunken ships guarding buried treasure. We were what old writers wrote wistfully of. We made the sun rise in the east. Didn’t you see it, Thomas? They were just jealous. We were angels singing hymns on Sunday mornings. We were children laughing on Christmas morning. We were a midsummer day. We were murderers first. We happy few. That was us. I haven’t forgotten. What was I saying?

Old Man: Thomas was a good young man. He was strong and convincing. My wife and I loved his company. We had never had children but it felt like Thomas was our son. Sometimes when it was late at night, when neither of us could sleep, Thomas and I would talk until the sun came up. He was very interested in my World War 2 stories and he would often take notes. We would sit by the fireplace and talk about the Civil War. We would sip on tea and eat crackers. He loved the marmalade that my wife and I bought from the grocery store. He loved his room and the serenity of it. Towards the end of his stay he became increasingly eccentric, but I assumed he was just homesick. I never bothered him about keeping our guest room clean or anything like that. For so long all my wife and I had was each other. It was sort of comforting to have someone to take care of. He didn’t need it. He could take care of himself.

Thomas liked going into town. We live in a very small town. It is filled to the brim with Veterans and wives of Veterans. It is a good town. It breeds good people. We are strong here. Thomas fit in perfectly. He liked to go the library to visit a young woman he liked… I think her name was Renee. He didn’t talk about her much, but when he did he was always very polite and respectful. Thomas never really had a bad thing to say about anyone. At first. When Renee left him he became very erratic. One day he was just gone. He left everything in our guest room. I went through some of his writing. I was shocked at what Thomas had been writing and thinking. I was equally shocked at how good it was. I threw it all away before my wife could find any of it. I cried for the first time since 1946. We just try to forget about Thomas now. I hope he is okay, wherever he is. I miss the kid, though. Yea. I miss him. I miss you but we have to forget about you. Talk about civil war.

Old Woman: I would just like to start this off by saying that if any of you think this town is golden then I own a bridge in Brooklyn I can sell you. I know what my husband wants you to believe. This place is terrible. There are drugs users, alcohol abusers, and I know I can speak for more than just myself when I say that we have our fair share of cheaters. I have only ever cheated on my husband twice. He was away at war and I didn’t know if he’d ever come back. Two days after the second incident I received a letter from him saying he would be home within two months. That was the last time I committed an act of infidelity. I can’t remember the day, month, or even the year. It’s been so long. I never told him because he doesn’t deserve that. I know it’s wrong, but who are you to tell me that I’m less of a person? I’m sure you’ve all done your fair share of sinning, so just let it go.

Thomas? This is about Thomas? I taught him how to sleep and then I forgot everything. He loved her. Who is Thomas? I don’t know a Thomas.

Renee: Oh, that town is gorgeous! I love going to school there. It is a nice break from the normal hustle and bustle of my hometown. I think you need to have the balance, though. That’s the main reason I go home on the weekends. It’s only a two hour train ride, plus I always miss my friends so much. During the week I never really have time to go out. You know, working at the library and going to school can get time consuming, so Thursday nights I go home for the weekend and go out to the bars and clubs. I’m not even 21 but we get away with so much it’s crazy.
How do you know so much about me? From Thomas? Anyway…

So today me and my friends went shopping on 5th Avenue. I bought Ray Bans, YSL…I went a little crazy, but it’s my money so who really cares? Tonight we’re going out drinking and… you want to know about Thomas? This fucking city is burning and he’s not here to stop it. No, wait, I mean I can’t stop it. It’s burning and I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it. We like to go out and dance and drink. It’s just cause we’re young and search of something. I don’t know what it is… maybe romance in suits and ties and expensive drinks and downtown bars and designer shit and sex and drugs and scandal. Maybe I just like to forget about things sometimes. I don’t really think about it that much. They are just jealous.

How do you know all of this? From Thomas? Anyway…

There’s this little space in my bathroom right between… I have to stop.

This fucking city is burning and he’s not here to stop it. Are you happy now? Did you miss anything? I have to stop.

William Wallace

More soon.

I AM BACK

2010-03-05T11:42:00.001-05:00

I will have several new things soon.

I hope you are as excited about them as I am.

Thank you for being patient.

The speculation will resume shortly.

William Wallace.

Out Like A Lamb (Part Three)

2009-12-18T11:54:00.002-05:00

The Sun is up it’s all I see.

Have you ever just sat in a chair and thought about sand? You don’t really have to sit in a chair to think about it. I like to think in the shower. Or when I’m driving. Or in a chair. I also like to pee in the shower, but I don’t pee when I’m driving. Or in a chair. Sand is interesting. There is so much of it. It has no life span. It is either exposed to the Sun, submerged in water, or buried underneath hundreds of trillions of other little pieces of sand. They say that no two snowflakes are identical. Is it the same for sand? I wonder. They say that no two palms are the same. Is it the same for people? I wonder. It can’t be true. They say that no two psalms are the same, but I’ve never read, so I wouldn’t know.

I really hate the sand. You can’t get rid of the shit.

In this part of my story I will introduce you to my brother. I have other family members, but he is the only one you will ever meet. More on him later. I duped Suzanne into loving me. Fucking right, I did.

Everyone has that relative. That aunt or cousin or grandparent that sends you a sweater every Christmas, and every year you do the same thing with that sweater. You hang it up and put it all the way in the back of your closet because you know you will never wear it. You probably wind up calling the relative to thank them for the kind gesture at some point, but there is a very selfish feeling that you suppress. You wonder why they even wasted their time on such a stupid gift. It’s fucked up to feel that way and of course you don’t have the heart to tell them your thoughts, because no matter how you look at it, that person took time out of their busy day to go to the mall, spend money on that sweater, and then package it up and send it hundreds of miles to your doorstep, not caring if you ever actually wear the sweater. They just want you to be happy.

They just want you to be happy. There is nothing quite like the philanthropic family member. Transfixed on their own cataleptic state of charity. It is not even limited to family. Friends or acquaintances can fill out this application as well. It is the act of giving which is usually reserved for the colder portion of the year. Or warmer, depending on which hemisphere you live in. And because you are very quick to identify errors, you will say “But Thomas, the Western countries are the only ones civilized enough to celebrate the act of giving, the birth of Christ. Or the lighting of the Menorah, depending on your beliefs.” I would like to personally thank all proprietors for being politically correct and enhancing the holiday experience. Happy Holidays in substitute of Merry Christmas. The 21st century is a sensitive one.

In response to your Western Civilization bias, I say you are an asshole. You are no better than any Eastern native that prays and gives thanks to Allah or Buddha or Mohammed. We only believe what we believe. The radicals are few. The casual are many. It seems to be only a Western practice to forcibly spread the thought of Christianity or Democracy. Such force insinuates that other beliefs and ideals are wrong. That is what we told the “Redman” or “Savages” while we burned their villages and raped their women. Corrupting two races of young minds in the process and the saga continues. Sometimes I think that these radicals are the reason that Eastern fundamentalists hate us. A radical living in a cave built into a mountain hates me because people that look and talk like me are fools. If given the chance he would kill me and my family and himself in the process. “Your people fear what my people embrace.”

But they don’t just hate the West and our ideals. They hate each other. That is what the media wants us to believe. The rivalries they supposedly share are a fabrication of an elaborate imagination. An imagination funded by the government. The government that infuses our media with propaganda and lies. The media that tortures the citizens with images of fear and hatred and sympathy and a tightly wound ball of emotions. The government that young boys die in protection of. The media that is fueled by the organs and blood of these young boys. They die to protect us. Our safety rests on the trigger fingers of well trained American boys. And more recently, girls. They are as American as apple pie. Or the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Or 34th Street. As American as those coping with PTSD. Or those on medication for illnesses that may or may not be real and may or may not be caused by the PV pill packs that soldiers were required to take in the event of a chemical attack.

I’d like to know when the hatred started. It’s hard for me to imagine that in 1850 there was a Taliban leader hiding in the mountains saying “Mother fuck America.” Did they even know we were here? Did we know they were there? When was the exact day? These are the questions that I need answered. Now the children are stuck in the sand. And you can’t get rid of it.

My name is Thomas and I like to go by Thomas. Sometimes I am angry. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I am upset. Sometimes I am not. I feel a lot of different things, but I mostly feel nothing. You have met me before. The first time I was hopelessly in love. The second time I was full of vengeance. Nothing I write is necessarily in chronological order. I don’t hide from my mistakes. You are lucky, because today I am calm and serene. The same way the ocean is after the storm. There is no promise that another storm will never pass. There will be more storms. But for now we are alone. The candles are lit. The music is playing. I am writing this hoping that you will read it.

Jekyll and Hyde has already been written and read. Most of the time I wish I had been that author.

My mood right now is somber. I am serious but not quite melancholy. I am lacking a certain light but I am not dark. I am sober. I am not intoxicated or under the influence of any drug, although I am not opposed to that concept. In this moment no one is missing me or thinking about me. Not even Suzanne, and even if she is I could care less. I wish Renee was. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t go back. She left me figuratively. So I returned the favor literally.

This installment is different than the rest. I have introduced you to my brother although I have not yet told you his name. I am not writing about the old man or his old wife. I am not writing about Suzanne or Jim. I am not writing about Renee. Not right now, anyway.

They say the family that prays together, stays together. I don’t know. My family never prayed together but we’ve manage to stay undivided. I realize that the majority of what I’ve just written is useless to most of you. No one cares about my opinions on political issues or religious matters. I like to present them to you on occasion for my own benefit.

The morning after Suzanne and I had sex for the first time I skipped town. Our actions had consequences. I had sex with my friends wife. I could only assume she would leave him in hopes of starting over with me. That was unrealistic. If she was unfaithful to Jim then I presume that she would commit similar acts of infidelity in the future. As I said before, I didn’t love her and I never will. If there were no strings attached I would enjoy continuing the sexual aspect of our friendship, even if it was at the expense of my unfaithful friend and the inevitable destruction of his marriage.

I wanted to go see my brother. He lived only a few hours away from where I lived. He was younger than me by three years. He had a beautiful wife. I did not and will not ever covet her. He is my brother not my neighbor. My brother was very successful. We were very close, making me feel equally successful. I left early in the morning, just as the Sun was rising. It was all I could see as I got on the interstate and once again left this God-awful fucking town or city or whatever you want to call it. The rats in the sewers and on the subway tracks. The skyscrapers. The bodegas. Everything about it was just distasteful. I drove and drove.

I got caught up in some rush-hour traffic. Thousands of men and women embarking on their daily early morning commute to the lonely island of tedious office work and half an hour lunch breaks with the guy that doesn’t appreciate the value of silence. I think to myself that whoever designed the highway system in America was not very intelligent. I can’t think of a more chaotic scheme in the world. Thousands upon thousands of cars trying to merge and squeeze and bump and honk their way into a space that is not fit for this amount of volume. I guess when the roads were built the baby boomer generation was not anticipated. Who could have foreseen that type of population increase?

I am surrounded by an equal amount of American made automobiles and foreign vehicles. I am driving a Honda Civic. “Buy American” lost it’s luster when American jobs started mysteriously disappearing across various ponds and borders. I try to be patient in this mess of metal and multi-colored machines. Manufacturing geniuses. For miles I see nothing but the glaring red of brake lights. There are assorted state license plates furthering the melting pot mentality. I go through a couple of tolls, wishing the whole time I had an EZ pass. The radio station I have on is starting to fade to static. Instead of struggling to find something aesthetically pleasing I turn it off. After a few hours of stops and starts that remind me of children playing “Red Light, Green Light” I break out of the monotony. Every few miles I see Exit signs for towns that I will never have the pleasure of visiting, although I can only assume that they are mostly the same. Working class. Maybe poverty stricken. I wonder what GM plants are closing in their town. Did unions destroy your economy as well?

I see various billboards owned by Clear Channel that are intended to get my attention, but very few of them do. Thus far I think I’ve seen 6 or 7 Snickers brand billboards with comedic phrases on them like “Patrick Chewing” or “Dehungerize.” I am repeatedly informed about the amazing deals at the local car dealerships and when I can see whatever new, boring, sitcom is playing on ABC or CBS or NBC. Sometimes a city will pop up and I try and make comparisons to mine just based on the short glimpse I take of them. I rarely change lanes and rarely speed. I hum to myself and eventually turn the radio back on to further explore the standard verses and choruses that are polluting the Clear Channel airwaves.

I stop to get gas and my interaction with the ordinary cashier is strange. In some odd way of appearing hip or cool she said to me “What do you need?"

For these types of situations I usually have a built in response that I administer typically without any thought. For as far back as I can remember, every time I’ve entered a convenience store or gas station the cashier has said “Hi, how are you etc. etc.” to which I respond “I’m fine, how are you?”

Not expecting this young girl to throw a stick in between the spokes of my proverbial social wheel, which had previously been rotating just fine, I replied to her with “I’m fine, how are you?”

Seconds after reciting my orthodox and pre-prepared response I realized that we were operating on two different wave lengths. I abruptly told her that I needed 25 dollars on pump 11. As I was walking out the door she said “Don’t you remember me?”

I said, “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t. But I don’t remember much.”

I filled up and merged back on to the interstate. Once again I noticed signs advertising upcoming rest stops with fast food restaurant logos on them trying to convince me to make a quick stop. I was uninterested in these pathetic multi colored pleas for business. I often wondered what it must feel like to be the subject of someone’s poetry or lyrics. As the lonely sounds of top 40 radio pulsated out of my speakers like unwanted sewage I thought about this. Renee often told me about how she tried her hand at poetry or story telling. I wonder how many times, if any, I was the subject in question. I hope I was. I wonder if I was the hero or the villain? I can imagine that I am now the villain plaguing her once romantic sheets of notebook paper. That is not what I intended. I continued on my way.

Young and full of running, tell me where’s that taken me? Just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity. My reaction to this was visceral. I was used to running, but not like this. I had been on the road for roughly three hours at this point. I had two tolls and two hours left. I allotted myself very little time for reflection. It was better if I just shut all of it out. You will not gain any insight, the best you can do is assume. At random moments I considered dialing her number. Or changing direction and going back to her. That is not how it will be. I continued on my way.

I came half an eyelash away from crashing a few times. After these few times where my heart rate increased I would sigh and thank the charm resting in a compartment underneath my steering wheel. Lord, give me grace and dancing feet. Just get me to that house. It only took nine words to get me on that path, “He’s done a lot for you. You know that.” And that was the dead-ass truth. I didn’t expect much this time. I continued on my way.

I was only about 15 exits away from my brothers house. I’m not telling you his name on purpose. As I came closer I started to recognize the scenery. Empty outlets, forsaken boardwalks, lost chicken wire. I was driving on roads that lead to nowhere, to nothing. I saw farm houses scattered throughout miles of flat land like they were accidental snowflakes that fell for no reason. Although I was still on the highway, the road was now desolate and my radio began to lose signal once more. I took the exit.

As I drove down the exit ramp I saw the usual corner store and gas station. I was here now. This wasn’t my home, but it was my family’s home. These people were not like me, but then again, nobody was really “like me.” I hadn’t told my brother I was coming and I didn’t pack for an extended stay. A few hours ago it seemed like the only woman I could love was dressed in a black asphalt dress with a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. And I rode her. I don’t think I feel any different. To get away from Renee I had to use more extreme measures… the road ran out so I had to look to the sky. For story telling purposes I do not indulge in plain speaking. I do not apologize for that and hopefully you can keep up.

My phone’s battery had expired and I chose not to bring the charger with me. I can imagine that once I turned it on I would have several missed calls and voice messages from Suzanne. I wasn’t concerned in the least bit. It was around noon now and normally my brother would be at work, but today is Saturday, so I drove directly to his house. It was cloudy. His porch lights were on.

It feels like the city never changes. Who is out there? I don’t know, I don’t think anyone is. I am out here. It’s me. What happens when you do it to yourself? What happens when I am the product? I am the cause and the effect… now what? I don’t care about anyone but myself. I don’t care about my friends. I don’t care about Renee. I don’t care, I just run. That is what I do. I run. Do you care about your family? I care about my family. It’s me. I’m out here. It’s your brother. You can stay as long as you want, yea. Come inside, let me take your jacket. I wasn’t going to come inside… I, I, I don’t even know why I came this was stupid. No, I won’t stay long. Please, just stay. I don’t want to go back. You have everything. Who cares what they think? What do they think? She’s asleep? I’m proud of you. You don’t have to. It’s me. I’m out here. It’s me. Let me take your jacket. Sit down… do you want something to drink? Eat? No? I should have just stayed in the car. I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t like taking things. Just stop, just relax, it’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright. I fucking coveted her. She left me. I came back, that’s why. It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re okay now. It’s alright. Stay as long as you need. I won’t stay long. I know you won’t. It’s alright. It's alright. Thank you. It's me. I'm here.

It only took six words to get me on that path. “This is what we’re fighting for.”

To be continued...

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb (Part 2)

2009-11-24T21:05:00.003-05:00

So… In. Out. In. Out. My mother taught me to use deep breaths.

So. I was told not to covet my neighborS wife. I was also told to stay off the beach but I sat there anyway.

So I moved back to my old home and Christmas came early that year. I was back to the place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daughters got high and fucked in their parents beds. And ChristmAs came early. And I think I might covet my neighbors wife.

“What would you rather…” Hold on. Not yet. Was I writing a story? I think I might covet my neighbors wife this year when Christmas comes early.

I moved back home. Well, not home in the traditional sense, but you know what I mean and if you don’t then you still probably know what I mean. It was the post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving time of the year. That weird transitional phase between holidays. Nobody knows if it’s okay to put up the Christmas decorations yet. Some radio stations ease you in to the holiday spirit and others hypnotize you with the constant rotation of Christmas jingle and holiday cheer. There are the sales at all of the Halloween Adventure stores because , you know, it’s never too early to get ready for next year and fuck me there‘s nothing quite like a Spiderman costume at fifty percent off! Everybody is getting ready for Thanksgiving. Pumpkins linger and suddenly turkey’s are in high demand. The people that like to go to the mall are getting ready for “Black Friday.” And people that like people that like to go to the mall are also getting ready. I like to call them “thieves.” Wallets in front pockets. Oh, and Christmas came earLy. It seems that it comes earlier every year.

I like to refer to this place as “Dash American.” I’ll explain. Everyone you meet here is either Irish-American, or Italian-American, or African-American, or Polish-American, or Jewish-American, or Russian-American, or Native American. How come there’s no dash in Native American? Someone should be looking into that. Anyway, you see what I mean by “Dash American?” I cannot claim any of the dashes listed above and I can’t come up with any that could describe me. Maybe “Average-American.” Maybe “I think I covet my neighbors wife-American” if that is one, but I don’t think it is, so I guess I’m just an average American that might covet his neighbors wife.

Jesus, I hope you didn’t spend that weekend in hell for me. I fucking covet my neighbors wife. You’re not supposed to save me. Save them. Christmas came early again. You could have spent that weekend doing anything you desired. Maybe you could have taken some whore to a resort in Cancun and fucked her as much as you wanted while a short Mexican brought you pina coladas served in fucking coconuts. Fucked the way Joseph and Mary never did. I bet that is what Judas would have done. No, you had to be so righteous. You realize that I’m fucked because of you, right? How can I compare? What can I do that even comes close to what you’ve done? You turned water into wine. You gave a blind man sight. I’ve got nothing on that. But I do feel sort of bad for you, I mean, you really got the short end of the stick. You shouldered the weight of the world and we still use your name in vain and you take it.

Can you feel it? Seven long fucking months.

Your sacrifice is otherwise unparalleled. You could have been a father, but instead you chose to treat us all as your sons. They ruined it for the rest of us. Your “children” taught their children to believe that Mary was a whore. Your mother. They teach the youth that women are the root of all evil. Who ate the forbidden fruit? Who fathered Mary’s only child? That is what they teach. The image that they praise is of your death. They continue to mock your rituals. Eating your body and drinking your blood. The blood of Christ. And you still love them. They love nobody and you love them.

Was I telling a story? Yes, I was. Where was I?

So I moved back to my old home and Christmas came early that year. I re-established some lost friendships. It turns out that nobody missed me. I wasn’t surprised because I can’t expect the fountain to stop flowing just because I am on the other side of the pond. Does that make sense? I understand it. The old group of friends got back together. The first rule of acting is: never look at the camera. I don’t like that rule. I think if you applied it to text the rule would be: never address the reader directly. I don’t like that rule. It’s too impersonal. I like to feel like we know each other. The reader-writer relationship is pretty intimate to begin with. It’s like question-answer. There would be no reader wIth no writer and vice versa. No question with no answer and vice versa. We are co-dependent.

“What would you rather have, Pat’s or Geno’s?”

“Definitely Pat’s.”

“Yea, me too. You want to know why I can’t eat Geno’s?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m afraid, but let me explain. I don’t stay away from Geno’s because I don’t like it. You see, Geno’s is like that girl that cheated on and fucked over your best friend. You hate her because he hates her and you leave it at that, but you know the real reason you hate her? You hate her because you’re afraid that even after all the fucked up shit she did to your best friend, she might actually be pretty cool, maybe even cooler than your friend. At least cool enouGh to where you might like her and maybe even lover her, but you could never do that to your best friend, so you just stay away and say ‘fuck her for cheating on you man.’ And he’ll ever know that you’ve been jerking off to her for the past three years. That’s why I don’t go to Geno’s, I’m afraid it’s better than Pat’s.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you think too fucking much?”

“Actually, yea. Your wife did last night when I was thinking about how I should fuck her.”

So you thought I was losing it in the last one? I can’t explain it either. We were all friends again but I had to have his wife. I loved her. I didn’t. She was despicable. I loved the thought of her. Can you even imagine what I do all day? I sit on my hands thinking about myself sitting on my hands thinking about sitting on my hands. It’s like my brain is looking into two mirrors reflecting back and forth into reflection eternity and I can’t make them stop. I took pictures and deep breaths.

My friend’s name was Jimmy. I say was because we are no longer friends. His wife’s name was Suzanne. I say was because they are no longer married. I coveted Suzanne. Christmas came early that year. Jimmy was an attorney or something like that but it doesn’t matter. He was one of those jetsetters. He had all of this nice shit, but for what? He prayed to a material Christ, but for what? He had a secretary that he was having an affair with. He also abused the narcotic commonly known as cocaIne. He told me these things in confidence. I expressed my desire of a double-date to Suzanne and insinuated that she should introduce me to one of her friends. She agreed and the four of us went out to dinner. I can’t remember my dates name because it is not important. Jimmy chose the restaurant and I have to say, I wasn’t impressed.

We sat and stumbled through a few minutes of awkward conversation. A few laughs here and there. My date was quiet and I sort of wanted to tell her how stupid she looked. Jimmy and I were both dressed nice, not too fancy, but presentable, clean shaven. Suzanne looked decent and professionAl. My date appeared sub-par. She was clearly the black sheep of the date. I wanted to make her feel so insignificant. I wanted her to feel like an ugly duck in comparison to Suzanne. I lost my desire to embarrass my date when Suzanne said “The service here isn’t very good.” She wasn’t impressed either! Lip service. It was like an early Christmas gift. I replied.

“You know Suzanne I was just thinking the same thing. I was a little bit surprised that Jimmy would choose such a rinky-dink establishment for our double-date. This second rate hole-in-the-wall must pale in comparison to the five-star bed and breakfasts he undoubtedly takes his secretary to when he’s fucking her repeatedly on his Chicago business trips. You did know Jimmy was having an affair, didn’t you? No? tell her, Jimmy. Oh come on, he works late four times a week, the constant travel, what kind of fucking attorney do you think he is? You didn’t know? Well I have a question for you, Suzanne, why do you think they call it the “Windy City?” Well, I will tell you. They call it the Windy City because of all the blow the out of town attorneys like old Jimmy-John here shove up their unfaithful noses right before they fuck their mistresses. You didn’t know that, either? I’m sorry Suzanne, but your husband is a cheating, drug abusing, asshole. You guys have a nice evening.”

I left immediately after that. You should have seen their faces. Suzanne isn’t much of a looker, and she isn’t too bright, but goddamn she can act. She seemed so surprised at what I told her. She pretended as if she wasn’t guilty of all the same crimes. She pretended as if she didn’t love it when Jimmy would go out of town so she could have her young stallion spend the night and make love to her the way Jimmy never could. And the drugs? She was guilty as charged. She went to the bathroom every ten minutes. Either your bladder is the size of a peanut or you’re doing coke, sweetheart, and I’m putting all of my money on the latter.

Typically in every story there is a protagonist and the antagonist. I’m sure most of you are reading this thinking that I’m the protagonist, but, sadly, you are wrong. I’m the bad guy here, can’t you see it? There is nothing in the Ten Commandments about putting a powder up your nose. Yes, both Jimmy and Suzanne were guilty of infidelity but their Sunday mass trips absolve them of any wrong doing. They beauty of religion. A father or priest told them that if they confess they will be forgiven of all their sins. I bet they both sang like birds to that man. The messenger of God. That man that is most likely molesting young children underneath the pews. I wonder who he confesses to? Does the church pardon him of his sins? Do they look the other way? Those crooked fucks. That is not what God or Jesus or Mary had in mind. They were pure. I am the protagonist because I don’t go to church and I covet my neighbors wife and that is a sin. But I don’t want to be forgiven. I just want to make peace with it. I’m the bad guy here. And fucking Christmas came early.

“Oh, Thomas, was that you sitting over there on that park bench? Was that you sitting you there dead to the world? Was that you over there with your head in your hands, your stare as distant as the Midwest Moon? Was that you with the flashy clothes? Was that you eating too soon? Was that you stealing from the poor? Was that you on the park bench hunched over like the sloth? Was that you that let rage hold your tongue? Was that you in despair over another’s goods? Was that you with your pride always feeling so proud?”

Now that you mention it, I think it was me. I killed the livestock and sent the locusts. I turned the water red. Yeah, that was me. I got up from that lonely park bench and got into my car. I turned up the radio but my car plays a different tune… “The Sun is up, it’s all I see…” And I pass the pedestrians. One hand full of hope, the other full of shit. And a rope. They go home and at night they say their Hail Mary’s, hands clasped together tighter than a bullfrogs ass. Or a Jews wallet. Or a Catholics trigger. Or a Muslims detonator. Or a rapists grip. Or a Turkish prison. Or a suicidal noose. Or a child’s closed eyes. As stiff and upright as petrified wood and that is more than just a simile. And then they sleep. The Sun is up, it’s all I see. I am awake.

“Set ‘em up for the Gold Medal Kids.”

And we drank away everything and never said a word. We cussed like sailors and never said a fucking word. Christmas came early and we sinned as sinners do all night because in the morning we are not yet found. Set them up for the Gold Medal Kids. Now that I split them up I was ready to make my move and I did. The first night was a long one. I sat on my hands on the edge of her bed thinking about myself sitting on my hands thinking about myself sitting on my hands and she slept and slept and maybe she was dreaming about me or Jimmy or Christmas or who she was going to fuck tomorrow or where she was going to get her blow the day after tomorrow. None of that mattered. I left before she woke.

The Sun is up, it’s all I see.

To be continued…

William Wallace

Out Like A Lamb Pt. 3 will be out in February.

Happy Thanksgiving, Holidays, and Valentine's Day.

I'll be back soon.

Acts of Silence

2009-11-17T11:38:00.003-05:00

Any text in italics has been provided by AFC Adrian Connors and can be heard in lyric form on an unreleased song by "The Machinists Hands." They have been used with his permission. This is dedicated to him.

It is also dedicated to my Mother and Father, my Brother, and my Grandparents.

This begins in 199-whenever. Autobiographical memory can start as early as ages 3 or 4. Memory loss can start in the mid-20’s, with effects increasing into the 30’s and 40’s. Alzheimer’s, an incurable, degenerative, and terminal disease, is associated with, among other things, memory loss. It is generally diagnosed in people over the age of 65, although it can occur much earlier in the form of Early-onset Alzheimer’s which accounts for approximately 5-10% of all Alzheimer’s patients. I am old enough to have my autobiographical memory intact and I do not currently suffer from any type of Alzheimer’s and it is questionable if I ever will because the disease is not hereditary and everyone is at risk. That being said, there is a chance I may one day be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so I’d like to write this before then, because the following is based off of memory and nothing else. It should be noted that this is MY memory, this is they way I remember things, so do not be surprised if, in some strange way of preserving those close to me in my mind, some things I write are not entirely true. And we proceed…

“I’ve been gaining, gaining strength.”
This is true. It’s like a freight train at full speed. It is a law of motion. It is gravity and inertia. “Objects at rest stay at rest. Objects in motion stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.” I am not peaking. It is a steady pace. A long desolate road. But I’m not driving on the road, I’m building it. Sometimes when I pull up to that stop sign I don’t even shift into first gear. I keep it in second because I’m afraid of losing my momentum. The last statement is obviously fiction, because as poetic as it would be to give something like momentum extreme power, my biggest concern at that stop sign is not my momentum, it is the well-being of my five speed transmission. So I shift into first and regain momentum.
“I’ve been gaining insight into who’s choking and who’s selling lies this week.”
Those actions are so foreign to everything that I know. Your branch didn’t fall, you sawed it off. Swiftly and tactless, I might add. You are the hands around the neck. I was only there for the neck not the hands. Yea, it’s selfish. But my opinion on the subject only exists on this page and whoever reads this will never be exposed to any other story. So I guess under this spotlight, I win, which is convenient, because no one ever asked my opinion on the subject and I doubt they ever will, but I know what was said next to her hospital bed that night and sometimes I wish she’d heard it.
“A golden watch that should be mine.”
When will you get to pass down your golden watch? When will my name end up on a wall? Is that even what we want? I know it wasn’t the physical aspect. That was rightfully yours and somebody ripped it away from you. You still haven’t sold me on this being about a watch. I’ll resume later.
“I think of the faces trapped in lockets.”
Like the one that left alone. I learned a lot of things about strength from you. Undoubtedly an example of strength and resolve. Like a rock. And an equal example of weakness and fear. I noticed that you passed it down. I live with it. I’m writing with it right now. Which is why this subject will continue to stay unwritten. Next paragraph.
“That golden watch that should be mine.”
It has to be a metaphor. The golden watch could mean a lot of things. It could mean that you doubled your capability, ambition, and brutality to defend it. Besides it being a watch, I think it is a symbol for a lot of other things that were taken away from you that you had the rights to. It’s not just a watch. It’s a family. It’s not just a city. It’s a family. You can always have a watch and you can always live in a city, but you can’t always have that sense of family and it seems like losing the sense of family is worse than losing the physical family. That should have been yours.
“When I feel like I should leave, we disagree.”
When adults were children their fathers used to rake the leaves into a big pile so they could jump into them. When the kids were done playing in the leaves the fathers would put them into trash bags for the trash men to pick up the next morning. It is not until the adult is mulching up the leaves with his 22 inch lawn mower that he realizes a pile of leaves has not been present in this yard for many years. This isn’t such a big deal because no children currently reside in this house; it is just striking how fast time went. But it is a juvenile thought because we all know time isn’t fast or slow, it is just time, just seconds. Just as some parents fly flags or yellow ribbons when their sons go to war, some parents stop raking leaves when their sons become adults. Some children become adults and some go to war and both of these options frighten parents and most of the times the parents and children disagree. They agree to disagree and disagree about nothing.
“I’m told to stick to my convictions and commitments, say thanks for the two weeks before you leave.”
This is now a sacrifice. It is a young war. Sometimes sons go to war after their fathers go to war and when the sons become fathers their sons might one day go to war and the cycle is perpetual. Sometimes the sons die at war and unless a family has several sons or the family has only daughters, the cycle ends there. Sometimes the sons keep fighting forever and so it has been throughout history, sons go to war and fight to one day see their sons go to war and fight. Sons might like war but I don’t think fathers with sons do. It is the sons war now. Our war.
“I’ll only be out half the night.”
I remember loving that house. I still love it. From a very young age I told myself that if I had the opportunity I would purchase it. There was always so much life, so much pride. We are proud. We are strong. We have plaques and medals proving our value. And if life is split into day and night then as sons we have guided others through the night like a light from above. Half the night. I still can’t stop the goose bumps when I hear the song. I think it’s something you have to grow up with. The houses you moved into after I didn’t love as much. Or at all. There were no memories there for anyone involved. Don’t blame the houses, it was our fault we let them slip away. The train yard were we would watch the trains go by. Watching football on Thanksgiving in your living room. Christmas morning in the family room. The way you always unbuckled your seat-belt when we entered your neighborhood. We let those memories slip away and time took them from us. Time took them. No. Time is not a giver or taker, it’s just time. It’s just seconds.
“You know my city’s got simple ways of keeping me coming back.”
When the sons go to war and live they will come home. They may not be the same as they left and this saddens the fathers because they were once that son that changed at war. The mothers and daughters don’t understand. Maybe if the son is the first in his family to go to war then even his father will not understand because not every father goes to war and not every son goes to war. The ones that do go to war have to come back. They are not told how to go back, only to go back. “How does this work?” a son might ask his father. Nobody has an answer. You will return to your home because for years and years and years you thought everything was so complicated and chaotic but when it is time to go home you go because of the simplicity. Not everyone that wrote a letter was being selfish. Maybe some people really are proud. Maybe you really did leave some people behind and they miss you. Maybe some of the letters are not written out of vanity. Maybe these are the reasons you go back. Maybe not.
“So slow to respond that we left you behind.”
You might think you left the others behind when really they will leave you behind. You have gone away and everyone else is right where you left them. Still learning, still drinking, still fucking, still remembering, still getting high, still laughing, and not one of those times do they think about you. And if the young girls write you letters it’s only to fulfill some sort of personal obligation they feel… or it gives them a certain satisfaction as if their letters are making an equal sacrifice just because they’ve traveled as far as the recipient. So if the letters that they wrote are making the trip and the sacrifice and they wrote the letter, then in some small way they are also sacrificing. False. It is the same. It is the same for the young girl writing her Navy boy who is stationed in Jacksonville. And it is the same for the young girl writing her Marine boy who is stationed at Camp Pendleton in California. And it is the same for the young girl writing her Army boy who is stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. And it is the same for the young girl writing her Air Force boy who is stationed at Sheppard AFB in Texas. And it is the same for the soldier overseas. However ignorant or soul-less that may sound, I think we’ve all become numb to it. There has to be an end to justify the selfish means.
“We never gave up we just turned our attention and that’s exactly where you stay.”
You would never know it by looking at it but that vacant space was once alive. I swear it was once alive. There were colors and sounds pouring out of it. Now it’s empty. Empty just like the room felt two and a half hours away. I swear we were once full of life. Now it’s like staring into a black hole. You are looking, but nothing looks back. There’s nothing to see here and nothing gazes back at me. I try so hard to hold onto the memories that I love, but I’m realizing that they are being replaced by a shell. It’s not that I’ve given up, there’s just no point in looking back. The past is gone. The present is now. The future is not yet written. I can only be concerned with right now. I can’t disagree with what has happened but I still argue with it because I’m discontent with the outcome. What a strange argument. I can’t not believe in the past.
“Waiting for your train to make its debut.”
Food for thought: Camels do not store water in their humps as is commonly believed. The humps are actually a reservoir of fatty tissue. Concentrating body fat in their humps minimizes heat-trapping insulation throughout the rest of their body, which may be an adaptation to living in hot climates. The camel is the only animal to have replaced the wheel (mainly in North Africa) where the wheel had already been established. The camel did not lose that distinction until the wheel was combined with the internal combustion engine in the 20th century. We are not the camel. Yet. The camel bleeds the sand from my fathers boots. But mine is still red. I don’t remember everything. I remember understanding the sacrifice. I embrace the sacrifice because I am a son and not yet a father. I don’t remember anything.
“I think of the faces trapped in lockets.”
I think of them too. Not familiar faces. Faces that I don’t know and never will. Faces that no one in my family knew. Sometimes I’m curious about their names. I no longer reek of innocence but I am not yet bored and tired with monuments. I fantasize about having my face in a locket and my name on a wall for some young boy to read and maybe he’ll even touch my name and wonder who’s son I was. Or maybe a young woman will see it and she can romanticize about finding herself a young soldier to elope with and pester and argue with because she‘ll never understand that his life is not a movie scene. It must be very Shakespearean to be capable of thinking those things. Unfortunately there was nothing poetic for those names and faces when they were more than just names and faces. Whatever caused their names to be etched into that wall was actually the exact opposite of poetic: frank and to the point. Deadly. Misunderstood. Malnourished. Weary. Deadly.
“That golden watch that should be mine.”
Poetry sucks. It is sad and depressing. Full of hidden meanings and random phrases of bullshit. Unfortunately, sometimes I find myself trapped in a mindset that is similar to poetry. I’d like to get away from that for this part. Let’s be frank: everyone’s favorite thing about letters is that you can say whatever you want, however you want, in whatever tone you want and the best part about it is you don’t have to listen to any response. You say what you want to say and that’s it. Nothing poetic or artistic. You either say “I love you” or “I hate you.” What would I write in my letter? It would be easy to say “I hate you” and very typical to say “I love you,” but I have to say something different. Or maybe I’ll just say nothing. Maybe not.
“Standing in the path of photographs soaked in air.”
It is hard to argue with some things and I’m slowly realizing this. It is hard to argue with the past. It is hard to argue with a photograph. You lose. The photographs don’t change, you do. Some Native American tribes refused to let the white men photograph them because they thought they lost part of their souls when the pictures were taken. Now we all know goddamn well this is a ridiculous and, for a lack of better words, an utterly fucking absurd claim. But maybe it’s not all untrue. When you become a father and you look at photographs taken of your childhood, when you were a son and only a son, I think you realize that you’ve lost pieces of yourself along the way. Then you look at photographs of when your growing son had not yet begun growing and you realize that he’s lost pieces of himself as well. Should the photographs make you sad? Why do we cherish innocence and naivety? Because fathers wish they didn’t bleed sand and sons won’t know the difference until they are fathers and then they will become saddened by the photos just like their fathers were. The cycle is perpetual. Sons and fathers bonding over old men’s wars. Some things cannot be taken and some things you give away, but cigarettes are just cigarettes and this picture deserves a frame.
“We’ve never taken larger steps before.”
I’ve been told that the tone of my writing is despondent. I have to say that I disagree with that. Although at times I can see clearly where someone would think that, I feel like I should defend myself by saying that the majority of things I write are riddled with positivity. It is not my obligation to identify this as the writer, it is yours as the reader and if you can’t identify the positives then I think you are the one who is despondent. The despondent one just looking and searching and digging and clawing your way to more hopelessness. Praying that you are not the only one that feels so alone. Hoping that someone else is more hopeless than you. If anything I’ve ever written comes off despondent it probably has more to do with my extreme disinterested in what the reader gets out of my writing. Or my extreme disinterest with what is considered “literature.” Or my extreme disinterest with conventional writing standards and correct grammar and sentence structure. Or my extreme disinterest that some how, some way, dead soldiers became fourth page news. But no, I’m the despondent one because I don’t write love songs to girls. I am not despondent I just refuse to fall into any societal black hole. The world is fucked but I am highly optimistic that we are doing unbelievable things for ourselves. I think you know what I mean by “we.” Nobody even noticed this.
“There just clothes; your just a voice.”
I plead the fifth here. Silence is not golden. Silence is ugly. I believe silence speaks volumes and I have more respect for the men that keep quiet than the men that speak out. Fuck it, you would never know the difference anyway.

Yours truely,

Out Like A Lamb

2009-10-26T18:51:00.005-04:00

“A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?” - Albert Einstein.

All I could hear was the ocean. It took me a couple of seconds and senses later to realize that I was actually sitting on the beach. It was hot and bright. I got to my feet and heard a voice coming from behind me.

“Friend, friend, get off of the beach. Get off of the beach!”

I was drowsy. I turned around and saw an oLd man standing on a concrete path about 25 yards away from where I was standing. The urgency in his voice caused me to run towards him.

“Are you okay?” He asked me his question before I could ask my question.

“Yea, yea I’m fine…”

“You know you’re lucky, right? It’s dangerous on the beach.”

I was extremely confused by his latest statement, but I was just regaining my bearings and I wanted to know where I was.

“How did I get hEre?”

The old man started laughing and his body language showed signs of relief. “Friend, you’re asking the wrong question. Come inside, friend.”

I couldn’t understand why this old man kept calling me “friend.” We weren’t friends. I’d never met this man before in my life.

Everything was so blue. The sky and the ocean. The man took me in his house and it was blue. It was soothing. My previous environment was nothing like this. It was all gray. It was bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they were all gray. I was very grateful that the man invited me into his home. The old man and I had a long coNversation about how I wound up in his house. He had a very intriguing ability of avoiding questions. No new information was presented to me. He only told me to stay off of the beach. I obliged.

The old mAn lived with his old wife. They had never had kids. I couldn’t believe how happy they were together. They offered me a place to stay and although I was reluctant at first, I obliged. I suppressed any feelings or thoughts of a former life. I let my past go. I hope no one misses me, and if they do, I hope I said goodbye before I left.

Fast forward. Say it.

After a few weeks of getting accustomed to this house and this family, I began to venture out into the town they lived in. It was a quaint little town. There were antique stores, sea-side restaurants, and white picket fences. It was the sort of town where Veterans took care of their families, the boys went off to war, and the girls waited patiently by the window. It took me awhile to get used to this. I was from a place where husbands cheated on their wives, neighbor stole from neighbor, and the sons and daugHters got high and fucked in their parents beds. I know I wasn’t normal before this, but I certainly wasn’t normal now.

It’s always easier to stop at the beginning. Do you believe that she missed…

Have you ever seen a baseball get hit so hard that the seams literally come unraveled? That is exactly how I felt. Whichever seamstress stitched me up didn’t do a very good job to begin with, but I knew that with one swift blow I would fall to pieces. I had dreams of my skin falling off of my body and standing in a dark room exposed. Only bones, muscle, and fatty tissue would be visible. I felt alone and vulnerable.

Needless to say, I had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t the bed or the room. Both were quite Comfortable. Let me describe the room. It was about the size of a bedroom you would find in any hotel or motel. The walls were painted blue and there were portraits of ships and sailors everywhere. The old man told me once about the time he served in World War 2. He is probably the most interesting man I’ve ever met. The bed I typically tossed and turned in was a twin size bed with white sheets and a comforter that had a floral pattern on it. Sometimes I laid on the carpeted floor instead. It was also blue, but a darker shade than the wall. I had a window and a lamp that sat on an end table. I had my own bathroom that was already furnished with shampoo, soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and deodorant. There was no toilet paper, though. It was as if the old man and his wife had been waiting to find some stranded young man for years. A stranded young man that didn’t need toilet paper. I bought some of my own.

The sheriff shot the deputy. Who is the sheriff?

The view out of my window was of the beach. I loved it. I needed the serenity. The old man’s wife told me that reading helped her sleep, so I went to the local library to check out some books. I had never read much before this, so I though I’d give it a try. I walked to the library and was looking through some mystery novels when I noticed that the young girl working behind the counter was the most beautiful girl I had seen in my entire life. My face got red just from looking at her. I never get nervous. What was this feeling? In a state of confusion, I rushed out of the library.

It took me a few nights without sleep to really gather my thoughts. I went back to the library and faked an interest in literature to spark a conversation with the girl. Her name was Renee with three “E’s.” She made it a point to tell me that. We were the same age. We wound up talking for a half an hour when she abruptly ended the conversation. She had to get back to work, but she said I was a good listener so we made plans to talk further the next day. I didn’t sleep that night for several reasons.

Our first real conversation went great. I didn’t talk too much about myself, but I found out a lot about her. She was attending the local university as a creative writing major. She said she loved to read and write. I asked to see some of her writing, but she refused. She was not originally from this town but had lived here for the past 3 years. She said she loved guys that were well-read and had an interest in writing. She loved men that could sing. She loved men that had seen the world. She loved men that were always there for her. She loved men that she could leave.

Stop that.

She worked in the library because she obviously loved everything about literature. I wanted her to like me, so I started reading. I wanted to become so familiar with Hemingway, and Dickinson, and Austen, and Dickens, and Twain, and Stevenson, and Wollenstonecraft, and Shelley that I could quote them on command. My life became completely consumed by books and Renee. I visited the library to see her regularly and we began seeing each other. I still couldn’t sleep.

This would turn into that swift blow that would make me unravel. .

Why is it that loyalty…? God, I hate this question. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by?

sesir nus eht erehw, tsae eht ni uoy ees ll’I

I decided that the only way I could truly impress her was to write her a story. I wanted her to be so enamored by my words that she would fall in love with me, just like the stories in some of the books that I’d read. My obsession went from reading to writing. I started to expand my vocabulary and worked on my prose and syntax. I developed my own style but I had a problem. Nothing I could think of satisfied myself, so why would it satisfy her? The dark blue carpet of my room changed to a fast food playpen full of crumpled up pieces of paper lined with scratch marks and fuck ups. The lighter shades of blue that had once decorated my walls had given way to the assorted colors of Post-It notes littered with streams of unconsciousness. My room had become a mess of random words and phrases. I was throwing different colored paint at the wall and praying that one would stick.

In my head I secretly referred to Renee as “Ms. Steak.” Mis-stake. Get it?

All I did all day was write. My public behavior was still serene, which was a stark contrast to my erratic behavior behind my closed door. The old couple became somewhat concerned, but since I still appeared to have my hygiene and bearings intact, they let me do as I pleased. I still did not sleep. Most nights I stood in the center of my room in the darkness racking my brain for an idea. Luckily for me, I had no friends to lose, but I can imagine that if I did have friends they would have left me stranded in that room.

In the same sense that every child wants to grow up to be a hero, every grown up wants to die with someone. The failure rate is astounding. We are not heroic and we all die alone.

“Play the one in Drop D.” Children were laughing June. “I tied my heart to your words, double knotted and a noose.” I don’t want them to sing sad songs anymore. But they just get sadder.

For weeks I struggled. Occasionally Renee would take the train back to her home. During these periods I rarely left my room or put down my pen. In case you were wondering, I write with a very expensive pen. Sometimes I would unscrew the tops and take out the ink stick and let it bleed all over my papers. I would get it in on my hands and my face and some of my clothes, but it would wash off. Sort of how I would later have to wash other things out of my life. Or sort of how I washed up on that beach. Or sort of how I’ll probably wash away with the tide.

Renee came back to the town one weekend with a dramatic change of heart. She no longer thought we should see each other.

Pitch. Swing. Contact. My seams fell out. One by one by one by one by one by one by one until there was nothing left. Batter up.

Where did we go wrong? Was there ink on my hands? What were we talking about? I’m still not sure what happened. I felt like I was choking. I was alone in my room gasping for breath. There were so many questions like: Why is it that loyalty…? You know I hate this one. Why is it that loyalty is so hard to come by? This is wrong. I am wrong and you were right and I’m sorry for it.

A moment of clarity. Epiphany. I sat on the beach Indian style searching for seashells. The grass was too high. I think. When was the moment of clarity? I think when the tide rushed in. Or was it out? I don’t think it was anywhere near here. The old man just wanted me off of that beach. So many questions like: How calm could I pretend to be?

Everything was frenetic at once! Do you believe that she missed… believe that she missed anything? Do you?

A week or two later I felt fine. My room was still a mess, but I didn’t want to sweat the small stuff. I even went back to the library to check out some books. Checking out books! I was cordial with Renee, but I wasn’t going to the library to read. No fucking chance. When did I ever read at the library? Never. I finally found words for her. I finally wrote her my masterpiece and I was going to mail it to the library. Post-script and put out against the elements. I actually didn’t write a post-script but I meant to. I just forget a lot of things. (I hope my hair looked okay.)

It read something like this:

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

No. No. No. That’s not right. Excuse me.

[This is usually when the page breaks. Or when the film runs out. I said it was easier to stop at the beginning.]

Page break.

It read something like this:

“I am well read, but I don’t read. I am well versed, but I don’t sing. I am well traveled, but I rarely leave. I am always here, but I’m never home. I am heartbroken, but I’ve never been in love. I am tired, but I’m barely awake. I am never home, but I am always here. I am alive…”

I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy. I think that was how it went. It might have been different. It should have been different. Maybe I left something out. Do you believe that she missed anything? I hope nothing was left out. I don’t remember the rest of it because I only made one copy.

I mailed the letter to the library. I don’t know if she ever received it because I left that town the same day. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even the old man and his old wife. I greatly appreciated what they did for me, and I regret that I didn’t thank them in person. I left with just the clothes I had on and my money. If there is one thing I want her to know is that the next time she got on that train, I’ll be in a plane. She did not do the leaving. I did. I left. All for the librarian. If I had time I would explain myself. Are you listening? I am out of fucking time. I hope I didn’t leave anything out. I hope didn’t leave anything. I hope I didn’t leave. I’m already gone.

Everything was calm at once.

I’ll never be an accomplished writer because the sad truth is that if you’ve read one love story you’ve read them all. Don’t they always turn out the same? Every time. Don’t you always want more? That’s the key. You have to leave something to be desired. So I will end this the same way I’ve always ended everything. I come in like a lion and go out a like a lamb.

I still don’t know why the old man was so worried about the beach.

Sitting at the bottom of the deep blue sea,

Catching fishes, for my tea!

We all jump up,

With a one, two, three!
　
William Wallace

Nickles And Dimes

2009-10-17T21:30:00.003-04:00

Setting: Mid 1920’s
Location: Brooklyn, mainly the neighborhood of Bensonhurst
Tone: Past-Tense

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

This is typically how it went. It was Brooklyn. There was murder, rape, assault, theft, and extortion. Even though most of us were from Dyker Heights we stayed in Bensonhurst. Nobody really gave us any problems, mostly because they knew who we were. This was our neighborhood and nobody could ever take that away from us. The Jews took up about half of the population and even though they had their little gangs they knew deep down we ran this fucking neighborhood.

Most of us were 2nd generation. We were the soldiers, the ones that carried out the orders. The ones above us were the ones that came from Italy. None of us were made men yet, but because we were in the organization by either family or friends, we basically had a license to do whatever we wanted. But we kept ourselves straight. We didn’t fuck around on our girlfriends or wives and we didn’t fuck around with the drugs. That was for whoever lived out in Manhattan. We didn’t want that shit around here.

It was business as usual this time of year and business was booming. They say that there’s no business like show business. They are wrong. Fall was creeping up on us and it was coming in a hurry. The leaves were changing on the trees and the cracks in the sidewalks were loosening up. It was getting darker earlier. Everything was turning gray.

For the sake of storytelling, I’m going to leave all of my personal business out of this. Who I am, the location of my birth, my marital status, and the possibility of my parole aren’t relevant to this. Don’t get nosey.

These fucking speakeasies were popping up everywhere. It was starting to get a little out of hand, but we were doing a pretty good job of keeping the profits in our pockets. Our speakeasies and blind pigs were exactly that: ours. As a soldier, my basic responsibilities were to go the speakeasies and get the money that they owed us. Why did they owe us money? Because we owned the neighborhood and if there was money to be made, we were going to be making it. If the owner gave us trouble, then we gave him trouble, and the owners typically obliged because they don’t like our trouble. It was that easy.

Was it violent? Yes, at times. I didn’t really give a shit, though. That was how it was. I wasn’t trying to change the world. Who the fuck was I? I was a foot soldier doing my job. If you look down on us then you are not only a hypocrite, but you are denying yourselves basic instincts needed to survive. Every man born into this world has three traits that are inherent. Fight, fuck, and eat. The “Napoleon Complex” is not limited to small men. We all have it. We have a burning desire be the alpha dog. The weak will not survive. I was not going to be weak.

Stop. Rest. Intermission. Concession.

[Break]

Resume.

I was dying to be something that I wasn‘t. I was dying to be something more than I already was. I made good money. I supported my family. What’s next? Sun, cradle, moon, hearse? That can’t be right. But I don’t know what’s right.

If you ever thought that coming to this city was a good idea, then you are wrong. It’s so bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they are all gray. I’ve watched this city ruin good people. Innocence is a vice. I’m not even so sure that anything innocent exists in this societal black hole. We tried to act like we were saints, which in itself made us sinners. We justified our actions with the thought process that even though what we were doing was a moral injustice, it was okay because our actions were culturally accepted. I used to have a defense but now I don’t.

The specifics are not important. I don’t remember the date. I met some friends at a diner on 18th Avenue. We then went to meet with some of the made men. One of them told me that a guy on the Boulevard had recently opened up his own blind pig. The Boulevard was our area and he was trying to make money. We don’t get fucked. Myself and two others were instructed to pay this man a little visit and, hopefully, work out a deal with him. We drove. I rode in the back.

We arrived at the location, went inside, asked for the owner, and found him. We convinced him to sit down for a brief meeting. He was stubborn. The job was so predictable sometimes. The three of us were pretty seasoned veterans just waiting for our chance to accept more responsibility which meant more money, more privileges, and more glamour. The owners of these fucking places barely had anything to offer us anyway. If there was any extra money to be made it was nickels and dimes.

Since he didn’t want to co-operate we took him outside. We started roughing him up a little bit. Nothing serious had happened yet. Yet. A pedestrian walked by and asked us what was going on. I turned around and said, “There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

“Either you can shut the fuck up and keep walking, or you can go next. What’s it going to be?”

The pedestrian left. I’m not sure if they ever called the police or not.

Shortly after the pedestrian walked away we continued to extort the owner. We had beaten him pretty good. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots. My partners were dead. The owner and I were still alive. I think the third shot ran astray. I helped the owner get to his feet and he began thanking me. I did not speak to him. I searched through his pockets and took his money. He had exactly 45 cents in nickels and dimes. I looked at the change in disgust. I studied the coins. My face was imprinted on every coin. The years were foreign. I didn’t know what to say or think. The man shot me with a nickel plated .380. I stopped on a dime. I looked up at him from the ground and he ran away.

A wise man once told me that you should believe none of what you read and half of what you see. And there’s nothing to see here, so keep it fucking moving.

WW　

Sorry

2009-09-25T12:48:00.003-04:00

Obviously I haven't posted anything I promised.

This weekend.

The Pot and The Kettle

2009-08-30T01:15:00.002-04:00

The city was large and hungry. And poor and homeless. “Will work for food. Or money, or shelter.”

It was a statement. “Post no bills.” With three words the walls stayed empty. Naked.

There were tall buildings and long buildings; small buildings and wrong buildings. There were bridges and trees; syringes and disease. There were tourists and residents; florists and presidents. It was beautiful and I never gave a shit about it until now.

Believe it or not, the city was not always this large and I was not always in it. It is so easy to get lost there. Not me. It is impossible to get lost when you don’t want to be found. I just walked through the walls with the other ghosts. If only these walls could speak.

Inside the walls are the stories and the memories. They harbor the actions and I am just the conduit. They are screaming and we are all silent. We are able and unwilling. It is such a shame how little we use our bodies. We are only animals. We are born, we fuck, we reproduce, we foster our children, and then we die. It is an instinct birthed into every single one of us. But we are not only animals. We have evolved and now we have an inherent need for emotional contact. The walls are still walls that see everything. We are still just agents of procreation. I don’t consider myself a sucker for believing that there is more than that. We are just the conduits. The silent majority. Glorified apes. Universal Product Code.

Remember: for every rhyme there is a reason.

Rhyme:
There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark.
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with no pet and no friend and no toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Not one of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy became sad that no one seemed to care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He never grew to know his father or mother
And was certain he had no sister or brother.
No hot dinners to share with a caring family
No presents on Christmas, no decorated tree.
No comfort of home where everything is pretty
The boy felt abandoned, just like the city.

[Pause]

There once was a boy who played in the park
From the time it was light until the time it was dark,
For hours and hours the boy ran around
Not causing a scene, not making a sound.
Behind the boy was the sketch of a city
Where the trees and the flowers were always so pretty.
Onlookers laughed at the boy in his joy
The boy with his pet and his friend and his toy.
People came and went with each passing day
Most of them stopping with the boy to play.
The boy was so happy to see people care
And quickly decided that the world was not fair.
He grew up with a loving father and mother
And always made time for his sister and brother.
Hot dinners he shared with his gorgeous family
Great presents on Christmas underneath the tree.
The comfort of home, where everything was pretty
The boy felt wanted, unlike the city.

Reason:
On one fateful day these two boys convened
And everything was exactly as strange as it seemed.
The two boys grew close and managed to survived
And somehow became friends for the rest of their lives.
One boy felt wanted, the other was glad
That he made such a great friend who no longer was sad.

This is worship and this is tribute. This is no pain, no feeling. This is nothing. Just swallow everything. That being said, I’m changing it up. This time the feeling will be “to be continued…” instead of “good riddance.” I’m hoping that we can just leave it at “see you soon…” We are so small.

Everybody knows, everybody believes
Everybody goes, everybody leaves.
Nobody cared, nobody cried
I am not there, I did not die.

We are just the conduits and, somehow, no one is talking and the walls are still screaming. We are the ones that should be bridging the gap but instead we are destroying everything. I get it, we’re all angry. But do you even know what you’re angry about? I’ve abandoned it just like it abandoned me. Fuck it, it’s yours now. You can have it.

I’ve already adjusted. What the fuck makes you think I want to re-adjust? And I refuse to ever re-adjust. I am not calling the kettle black. I just can’t wait to see you.

William "ButtHead" Wallace

Fuck.

Fear Of Failure Part 3

2009-07-01T21:12:00.001-04:00

For the record: This was written in cold blood. Straight from the muscle.

This is dedicated to myself for always being me.

I keep trying to convince myself that it wasn’t the oceans fault. It’s just water. It’s just nature. The water is not conscience. I’ve done a pretty horrible job.

The clouds approached quicker than usual. I was just walking on the beach right at the edge of the ocean. A gorgeous day was shaping up to be an equally gorgeous night. Happy families and beautiful girls were enjoying the picture perfect summer day at the beach. Waves were crashing left and right. You could smell the salt of the ocean. It actually felt good to just be completely alone at this moment.

I’ve always been the type of person to want everything or nothing. It’s all or nothing. When I was an infant I never crawled. One day I just stood up and started walking. I will never change that about myself.

In the distance I could see the clouds. They were very ominous. It was obvious a storm was approaching. I realized that no one was making any moves that would suggest leaving the beach. It started raining lightly and everyone stayed put and stayed happy. I kept walking south until I reached an area of the beach that was completely vacant. The rain started to pick up so I sat down on a rock and looked behind to see everyone scrambling to get into the hotel. After the rain got heavy, the thunder and lightning followed. Despite the small amount of danger, I felt no reason to leave the beach. The lightning streaked the iridescent sky.

The solitude of it all brought me back to a dinner conversation I’d had with a pretty young woman. Actually, it wasn’t the solitude that reminded me of her. It was the lightning. I remember discussing religion and a little bit of her past. My perspective on things have changed a lot since that night and I’d like to say that she had something to do with it. I’ve never really been an emotional person so I’ve kept a lot of things I’ve wanted to say to you to myself. It’s just easier that way and writing this part was hard enough. I’m not sure if you’ll understand this, but there are things I can’t explain or choose not to explain. I hope you mean what you say because I do. One day you will find the answers to your questions and that is a promise. There’s so much I don’t understand. I know this wasn’t what you expected but it’s just easier this way.

The storm got worse. I started walking into the water. As strong as the current was, it didn’t affect me. I just kept walking and walking. I reached a point in the ocean where the water got very deep. I started swimming. About 50 yards ahead of me I saw someone floating on a piece of driftwood. I remained calm. I felt completely in control of every muscle I moved. The situation was anything but calm, and I was everything but in control. I swam up to the piece of driftwood and saw an old man holding on for his life. The first words out of his mouth were, “You’re a gift from God.”

Sitting here now, I wish I could burn all the pages. I wish I could take every idea that I’ve ever had and set it on fire. I wish I could find every physical trace of this and burn it. There aren’t any papers. I never wrote any of it down. It’s better off that way.

I was just treading water in the Ocean. It was sort of a weird time to think about home, but I did. Trying to think of what to say here isn’t easy. I have one brother by blood. One of the few people that has known me for as long as I can remember and it’s going to be hard to leave that. Then there is my other brother. We ran around this place together for 17 years and I’m not willing to just let that type of friendship go. You will both always be my brothers forever.

I told the man that I wasn’t God, or Jesus, or a disciple, or a prophet, or a gift, or anything close to any of that. I was just some stupid kid swimming during a storm. He refused to believe me and I didn’t have time to argue. I told him everything was going to be okay and then asked him what happened. He told me he was on a large boat that was giving a tour of the local oceanic wildlife. He estimated that there were about 200 passengers and 25 employees floating in the Atlantic. I guess around halfway through the tour a storm capsized the boat. He described 75 foot waves pounding the starboard. The cabin collapsed, the keel snapped in half, and the hull eventually failed. He had no idea how he got to where he was or where any of the other passengers or crew were currently positioned.

It was never the events that I specifically remembered. I’ve always remembered the car rides when all of us were together. The four of us just riding around. It was always more fun when we didn’t have a destination. It was always more fun when we were jumping off of something, hoping there were no rocks. Those are things that I’m going to take with me. Even though we had no idea what was at the bottom, we all jumped. It would’ve been so much safer to let that moment pass us by, but we did that shit together. That’s all I have to say here.

As soon as I realized the severity of the situation I decided that floating on this piece of driftwood was not the best decision. I told the man to swim behind me and everything would be okay. He said he didn’t know how to swim, and I told him to trust me. Sure enough, he swam right behind me like he had been swimming his whole life. He didn’t know where the boat had capsized, but it was only common sense to follow the trail of debris. Along the way we found larger chunks of the boat floating in this storm. The closer we got, the more intense the storm became. The waves were massive and punishing. We swam harder. As we rose to the top of one of the enormous waves I could see in the distance a large mass of what used to be a boat. I stopped swimming and so did the old man. I asked him what the name of the boat was. He said, “como un león.” I didn’t know what that meant.

Fish sleep and swim at the same time. Imagine that.

We began to approach the incredible mass of wreckage. I realized that sprinkled throughout the chaos were the passengers and crew members of the ship. They were all holding on to random pieces that had once been part of a beautiful puzzle. It’s such a shame that things turned out this way. The shore was no longer in view, but for some reason I had a complete understanding of my positioning. I took no awkward steps and I did not falter in any of my movements. My thoughts were clear and far from cluttered. As the old man and I got close enough to communicate with the stranded strangers, I yelled for everyone to swim towards me. Suddenly, the water immediately surrounding the destroyed ship settled to an eerie calm. The storm raged on all around us, but we were safe.

Until you find yourself it is impossible to lose you. I’m sorry to anyone that thinks they know me, but I still don’t know myself. But there has been one thing I’ve learned. I used to stay awake at night and wonder why things turned out the way they did. I would spend hours just wondering when I was going to get what I deserve. When am I going to get what I deserve? When am I going to get what I want? I realize now how selfish those questions are. I’ve grown out of that shell. Those types of questions are for average people. The only question I have now is this: has anything I’ve done in my life made somebody else’s better? I don’t know.

Like I said, I tried to convince myself that it was just water. The moon and the tides are somehow aligned and maybe that caused it. I just want to believe that nothing spiritual happened. It was just water.

The people gathered around and started firing questions at me. I answered none of them. The old man told them that I was a gift from God. I told them that I was not. I explained to them that if they just swam with me that they would be safe. I could take them to the shore. I would not let them drown. Everything is going to be fine. Once they all agreed to follow me, we started swimming towards the shore. I knew which way to go. There were exactly 226 of us swimming together. After about 20 minutes of swimming, the shore became visible. Once we all made it onto the beach the sun came out and the storm disappeared. Everyone was safe. The grateful people started offering their appreciation for my act. Onlookers rushed over to offer their praise. Some of them were on their cell phones with emergency units, who were obviously on their way. Some people started to ask questions and others tried to take pictures. But I fielded no questions and politely declined all picture requests. I told them that I am nothing special, just some stupid kid in the right place at the right time.

I could have been a hero, but I just walked away. Just walk away. Just walk away.

Just walk away.

Hold the applause.

WW.

Goodbye.

Happy Birthdays

2009-06-11T23:04:00.001-04:00

This is going to be late for some and early for others, but I post at my leisure so I don't really care.

First of all Happy Birthday to my Mom and my Grandmother.

Happy Birthday to Bill. Real family.

Happy Birthday to my partners in crime Adrian and Dustin. Gold Medal for life. Lets do this.

Happy Birthday to James and Soap, and even though neither of you will ever read this, you are the closest thing I've ever had to older brothers. Thank you for everything both of you have done for me.

Happy Birthday to Eli. There's a lot that I could say about you, but this is not the time and certainly not the place. One day you'll find whatever it is you are looking for. Trust me.

Aside from that, I'll have something new up soon. And no, if you feel left out I didn't forget you, you just don't have a birthday anywhere near this month.

-

William Wallace

Hindsight 20/20

2009-06-04T20:54:00.001-04:00

This is for 8 people and 8 people only. If you are wondering if you are one of those 8, then you are not one of the 8. You know who are.

I was just laying there. Completely motionless. Thinking back, I don’t remember if I felt dead. I wish I could remember what dying feels like. I only remember being numb. There was a certain strange urgency to it though. It was like my body was in a hurry to leave itself. I remember not feeling very good about that. Not good at all.

Looking down on your dead body isn’t exactly a common experience anyway. I must have took a pretty good hit to the head at some point, because I also don’t remember how long I was laying there before I was helped. Maybe “helped” isn’t the right word. Maybe I should say that when they put me on that stretcher and ripped me away from my world, that the last thing that they were doing was helping. But who am I to say who helped and who didn’t? They had the medical equipment and the ambulance. At that point I was just dead weight. A tombstone and an inconvenience.

The room was so white. It was bright. My eyes took some time to adjust to the striking whiteness of everything. There was nothing in this room except for a white rose in a white vase. The only discolorations of the room was the green stem of the flower and the dirt that it sat in. In some very foreign way, I could feel some sort of pull from the flower. Not a physical pull. It was a mental pull. I just stood there looking at it. I remember feeling really troubled about this situation. Just as I started to feel comfortable something fell from the ceiling and hit one of the roses petals. It surprised me just as much as it surprised the flower and we flinched in unison. I was terrified to look up and avoided it for as long as I could. Eventually I did look up and nothing was there.

Was I confused? I was way beyond being confused. I crept up to the flower very slowly and saw what had hit the unfortunate petal. A small drop of blood stood as the only blemish on this otherwise beautiful plant. I had so many questions but there was no one there to answer them and that upset me. It upset me because for so long I’d been the one with the answers. I didn’t know what to do. There was no exit to the room. There were no windows. At this point I was surprisingly optimistic. Then the flower wilted and died. I can’t really explain that. There was nothing on the ceiling.

The headlights seemed a lot more distant than they actually were. I guess now it goes without saying. It’s funny how things work themselves out.

Right before it all happened I remember being extremely tired. I didn’t fall asleep though because I wasn’t physically tired, just emotionally exhausted. I was ready to get out. I was so tired of people trying to make me feel like I was leaving when all I ever did was try to love them. I was only trying to help. I wasn’t the one that left. I still haven’t left. Maybe I just didn’t try hard enough. Or maybe they weren’t trying either. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Well, it still matters to me. I still want them to know. But you know what they say, when it rains it pours.

It was so bright. I was terribly uncomfortable in this room. There was no plant there that I could depend on anymore. Just me. I don’t know if I was still alive when I was in this room. I felt alive, but then again I felt nothing so I can’t really say if I was alive or not. The whole incident is still a blur. Exhausted as I was at the time, I was still pretty happy. Actually, I felt great. It was really bad timing to feel great. I’m not even sure if I remember feeling great. A lot of really strange things were happening in my life that could have easily affected my own judgment of how I felt about me. Just when I was thinking about myself for the first time in a long time, a man entered the room from a door that I hadn’t seen and asked me to follow him.

There were hundreds of newspaper articles written about what happened to me, but I’ve only ever read one. It was the first one I saw the day after it happened. The date caught my attention. September 28th, 2009. The headline on the front page read: “YOUNG MAN DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT.” I laughed at first. There was something about “Young Man” that made me laugh. I don’t know why. I started reading the article and it went something like this: “At approximately 1:30 A.M this morning, Andrew James *******, 20, was killed in an automobile accident. His vehicle was struck by a sixteen year old boy, who was not identified at press time, that ran the red light at the intersection of Hercules Road and Newport Gap Pike in Wilmington, Delaware. Alcohol has been mentioned as a possible factor in the accident. Andrew was pronounced dead at the scene, and it is highly possible that he was killed before the paramedics arrived. The other boy is being treated for minor injuries at the Christiana Hospital and is listed in stable condition. Andrew’s family was not available for comment at the time, however the police have hinted that charges may be pressed.”

There was more than that, but that’s all I can remember. I wish I could tell you what it was like, but my memory has faded since that night and now the only memory I have is supplied by that newspaper article. I remember hearing that the coroner said I died of massive head trauma. I guess that’s true. The young boy was drunk when he ran that red light. For a long time I was very angry. I was angry that some stupid kid made a mistake and took my life and he was fine, but I’m not any more. I’m no longer angry. I’ve forgiven him because he meant no harm. He’s currently spending time in the state penitentiary and I wish him the best when he finishes serving his sentence.

I’ve heard about the general reaction from other people. Most of the people that read the articles just turned the page. Some other people used it as an example for their kids. The “Moms Against Drunk Driving” organizations ate it up. They tried to vilify that poor kid and make me some sort of martyr. I’m not a hero, I just had bad timing. A few people that read it talked about it for a couple of weeks. A couple people cried and even less people smiled. The funny thing is out of all of the reactions there were to my death, not one of them satisfied me. I wish the people that turned the page read the article twice. I wish the people that used me as an example turned the page. I wish the people that talked about it for a couple of weeks cried. I wish the people that cried smiled and I wish the people that smiled knew that I was smiling too.

Like I said, I was ripped away from my world. I didn’t think I was ready to let go, but there was an interim period of ten seconds after the accident where I was just kind of staring at my body. Not at all alive, but not quite dead. I was just hovering above myself. I remember feeling weird watching myself lay there. Ultimately, I made the decision not to return to myself. I let go. It was my decision as much as was anyone else’s.

It’s been 10 days since the accident, although I wouldn’t really call it an accident. An accident implies that it wasn’t supposed to happen; that it was a mistake. I’m done believing that it was an accident. There was a reason for what happened to me, I just don’t know what it is yet. When I was alive I was never a highly religious or spiritual person. I was never too concerned on whether there was a God or not, or if we got sent to Heaven or Hell based on our deeds as humans. I’ve read before that “every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.” I always sort of figured that if there was a Heaven or Hell that I would be sent to Hell. That’s not to say I was a bad kid, because I wasn’t. I had always cheated myself out of so much that I assumed I would be denied access to Heaven. Looking back, I disregarded a lot of signs because I refused to ever believe in anything other than myself. I’d let things slip away from me because of my unwillingness to believe in something more. Even now I still only believe in myself.

The man took me from that room to a very large open area that stretched on for miles and miles. There was a long line of people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and backgrounds. People from all walks of life. I couldn’t even see the beginning of the line from where I was standing. I was handed a packet of papers that was to be filled out by the time I reached the front of the line. At the top of the paper was a date: October 21st, 2009. I could only assume that that would be my judgment day. I started looking through the packet of papers to see what kind of information was requested. Instead of filling out the required fields I started writing this very story on the hallowed sheets. Now I’m next in line and I don’t know what to think. My whole life has been all or nothing.

For so long people have gathered and prayed and cried and fought and lived and died over an idea. Over speculation. Over a story. I can’t say that I believe in this anymore than I did when I was alive. I’m not going to use death as a reason to believe. All that I can hope for is that the world remembers me. I hope one day one of you finds these hallowed sheets that were written by a hallowed pen held by a hallowed hand maneuvered by my hallowed mind guided by my hallowed heart. I hope after I’m gone the only memory you have of me are these words. I hope they provide balance and stability. I hope they provide strength. I hope one day you realize that I never made an excuse. I never betrayed a friend. I never turned my back. I never gave in to temptations. I never sat on idle hands. I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.

I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.

I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.

I hope one day you realize I never turned my back.

I hope you realize I never turned my back.

I never turned my back.

And I will be back for you.

And this is where the story ends.

And this is where you fall apart.

And this is where the story ends.

William Wallace

Forever GMK.

Beliefs

2009-05-21T16:27:00.000-04:00

It was some sort of underground treasury. A cross between a treasury and a bank. There was a long, spiral stairwell that led you to the main room of the building. There were paintings on every wall, sculptures in every corner, and people at work. Simple transactions were made here daily. Things such as withdrawals, deposits, and loans. Deep beneath the building was where they kept the gold standard, among other things. There was always heavy traffic in and out of the building.

Thousands of people walked down that spiral staircase but not one of them knew what that building actually was. Davis was only slightly different. He had never been inside, mostly because he had no need for anything that happened inside. He had seen and passed this building almost every day for 20 years but never thought twice about what happens in there. There was no reason for him to think anything. It was just an institution that handled money.

This particular institution had been around for hundreds of years. Before there was a society in this town, that building sat just below the surface of the Earth. Men and women worked inside this building years before any traces of modern life existed. These people were able to adapt easily to new and passing trends. They stayed relevant in every society that died around them. Much like the actual daily functions that took place within the walls of the building, little was known about the men and women that worked there. They were smart and knew what they were talking about, which had always been just enough to keep the general public censored.

Members of the bank adhered loosely to a set of rules. These rules were set in stone, however they were not strictly enforced. If a lonely widow defaulted on a loan, the bank was lenient on their punishment. They would reach out to the person in need in hopes of establishing a long lasting relationship built on trust, customer service, and second chances. Loyal customers were always taken care of, mostly because the bank had enough sources of income to overlook petty mistakes.

Davis didn’t care enough to open up any kind of account with this bank. Everyone in the town talked about how great it was to work with this bank, but he never needed that sense of security. He was very comfortable handling his own money on his own time in his own house. He was not brought up wealthy, so the idea of having excess money was foreign to him. However, you always want what you cannot have, and deep down Davis wanted to be a part of that bank. He just wouldn’t let himself give in.

Eventually Davis decided he would enter the bank. Weeks went by and with every day that passed the idea of entering that building grew heavier and heavier on Davis’ shoulders. On a Monday evening Davis stopped right in front of the building. His heart was beating through his chest. His palms were sweaty. He walked into the building and before he could shut the door behind him a tall, powerful looking old man in long white robes was there to greet him.

“Davis, we’ve been expecting you. Come with me.”

Davis spoke no words and made no sounds. He followed the old man down the spiral staircase that was so new to him. He entered the large atrium and saw all of the paintings and sculptures and was amazed at how beautiful the inside was. He saw all of the small offices where the inner workings of the bank took place. The old man took Davis down another spiral staircase lit by candles to a small and empty room. No paintings littered the walls and no sculptures haunted the corners. For some reason Davis was not at ease. He felt a strong burning deep in his gut. He knew this was not for him.

The old man sat down in the single chair that was in the room and said, “Davis, we’ve been watching you for years now. We know the people you interact with. We know where you spend your time. We know what you’ve done. We think you are the perfect candidate for us and would feel right at home if you switched your funds to our bank.”

Davis was speechless at first. “Sir, I’m not really sure what to say. I don’t have much money. I don’t have much of anything to offer you. How do you know…”

He was interrupted by the old man who had yet to give a name. He said “I’m not going to sit here and waste our time telling you how I know you. But I will tell you what I know. I know you’ve stolen from the rich, robbed from the poor, lied to the ones you love, and cheated your way through life. We are offering you a second chance.”

Davis responded, “Sir, I’ve never… none of that is true, why are you offering me a chance I don‘t need? Why do you care?”

“Because we are the forgivers, not the sinners. We know the truth. You could find a whole new life with us. We live our life by a set of rules, which you can look over on this sheet of paper.”

The old man took out a sheet of paper and it read like this:

1 “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You shall have no other gods before Me.
2 “You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate Me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My Commandments.
3 “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain.
4 “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. In it you shall do no work: you, nor your son, nor your daughter, nor your male servant, nor your female servant, nor your cattle, nor your stranger who is within your gates. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.
5 “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you.
6 “You shall not murder.
7 “You shall not commit adultery.
8 “You shall not steal.
9 “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10 “You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, nor his male servant, nor his female servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor's.”

Davis looked over the list a few times. He said to the old man, “are you trying to tell me that I am a sinner and you can help me?”

The old man stood up and in a deep, powerful tone said “I am your God. I am here to help you. I am in charge of this massive institution and with your signature here and a small donation, we can help you.”

Davis became angry. “Fuck you, you aren’t my God.”

“And what makes you believe that?”

Davis then took a set of keys he had in his pocket and carved a gaping hole in his stomach. He took the cold blood and wrote his answer on the paper. It said: “For years I’ve seen you let pure men starve and filthy men feast. I’ve seen you take away the vision of an entire world. I sat back and watched you lead the blind into the darkness. I’ve seen children lose their fathers in wars fought in your name. I read newspaper stories about men that committed murder, adultery, and theft only to be forgiven for a small price. Forgiveness is what you offer? For a fee? I refuse to let you steal from me. My God would never ask for a donation. My God would never let the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. My God would never punish me and tell me that everything happens for a reason. My God would never starve me of answers just so I asked a question. My God would never make me ask for forgiveness. My God would not cater to the thousands. My God would not come to me on his knees and he would not make me come to him on mine. So, fuck you. Fuck your institution. I don’t ever want to be a part of this.”

After the he read the paper the old man in the white robes fell down and vanished and the only thing left on the floor was the whole world and everything in it. Davis put it in his pocket and fell to his knees…

William Wallace.

Landslide.

The Mockingbird

2009-05-13T23:02:00.000-04:00

For Dustin. Inspired by ????????.

If all the world is a stage, then the setting will be a fishbowl. I’ve got the blue rocks, the plastic astronaut, the toy ship, and the sunken treasure. My fishbowl is bigger, though. There are real predators out here. There are real victims.

When you are one of many you learn safety in numbers, but I missed that. We all did. The only thing I’ve ever learned is that real leaders learn to adapt. Change can be progression or digression. It can be whatever you want it to be. I’ve always chosen progression over anything. Being a stagnant body of water was never attractive to me. I live in one and it never changes.

Down here there are no cardboard cut-outs. We live so many leagues down that the water pressure is too great for many other species. No aircraft carriers interrupt our sleep and no fishing hooks offer fake meals. We are so far down that at times everything can be completely dark.

It’s so deep out here that we don’t even have tears. But we know what the fuck we’re doing down here.

Even though I was so far beneath the surface, I could always sense that there was something else out there. I always felt like if the sun was shining just right and I looked hard enough, that I could see a Mockingbird flying right above me. And sometimes I did.

It sang such sad songs. In between it’s verses and choruses I would talk to the Mockingbird and ask why it was so sad. The bird had beautiful stories and would tell me about the best laid plans of mice and men. It would reach out to me and I would try my best to help. Being from these depths you have a lot of time to think and formulate thoughts.

I would tell the Mockingbird not to worry about the past and the future but to focus on the present and the bird would listen and take it all in. But it seemed as if every night the bird forgot everything I said. All of our conversations started and ended the same. I was not familiar with the way things worked in the sky. I’d never felt the wind at my back or the clouds on my wings, therefore nothing I said held any true weight. All my words got swept away in the tide. This bird was not familiar with the way we did things in the water.

I was determined to help this Mockingbird. However, the first step in helping a bird is convincing it not to fly away and this bird had an issue with staying grounded. I can only help those who want to be helped. I can only help those who come to me. But this bird kept coming back.

It was like the bird was addicted to the pain and the sorrow and the emptiness. Eventually I decided to stop writing all my responses in the sand and looked for something more permanent. I came up with a story and etched it in stone. I thought my action would speak louder than the words. It didn’t matter. The bird was hopeless and helpless.

It hit me one day. This mockingbird was unoriginal. It was the same songs in a different voice. This mockingbird was in denial. It wasn’t unique. I am unique because I don’t sing. I am not a beggar or a chooser and I still refuse to participate in this game. This bird couldn’t be helped. Deep down I knew I was the one that could do it, but I refuse to live my life like that. Maybe some other time.

I decided I would rather drown than go unheard, so I said good-bye to the mockingbird and left. Every once in awhile when I’m by myself I can still hear the mockingbirds songs. They never change. Things never change. People never change. And the world remains a stage.

William Wallace.

Next.

Children Of Honor

2009-04-14T01:10:00.001-04:00

For Adrian.

We were born under stars. We were children of honor. Our fathers were men of respect. The year was 1843. Unfortunately for both us, we were not born into a world of unity.

I came from a hardworking family. The type of people that had to carve their names into the ground for respect. The type of people that name their children after their family members. I shared the name James with my grandfather and I wore it with pride. My friend and his family were no different then us. Our fathers were military men so naturally we would become military men as well.

Joel was always one of my best friends. We never had arguments or major disagreements. It seemed like we saw eye to eye on everything. As we got older we went from children of honor to men of respect. It was in our blood. Not everyone was like us though. The blind really do lead the blind sometimes. Not us. We were not followers we were leaders. We were the change. When everyone was going right we were going left. And I knew we were leaders because as we started going left, less people were going right.

In 1861 the South voted to secede from the Union and the American Civil War began. Delaware was the first state to join the Union and was said to be the last state to leave it. I made a decision to fight for the South because I believed in a lie. Joel decided to fight for the North. It wasn’t uncommon for boys from Delaware to serve in companies from Maryland or Virginia mostly because of Delaware’s geographical position. It was considered a border state. There were slaves in Delaware. Some men bought them and some men didn’t.

Neither of our fathers owned slaves. My father was not wealthy enough to purchase slaves, but I could always tell he envied the men that did. Joel and I discussed this and we basically came to the agreement that if we ever met each other on the battlefield that it would be just business and nothing personal. We didn’t have an argument about which side was right or about who would win. It wasn’t about right or wrong, North or South, white or black, or anything like that. It was kill or be killed. Simple.

For the first time since I can remember we went opposite directions. That was the day we were no longer leaders.

We had a mutual understanding of the situation. I tried not to think about the fact that I’d be fighting against my friend. I didn’t care about the stress I’d be putting my parents through. I was afraid that when the day came, if I didn’t kill Joel then he would probably kill me. At this point we were soldiers, not friends. Followers, not leaders.

I didn’t think it was acceptable to enslave a human being. That wasn’t what I was fighting for. I don’t know what I was fighting for. I didn’t believe Jefferson Davis was an adequate leader, but I didn’t believe I was either. My confidence was gone. It had been two years since Joel and I had parted ways. It was now 1863 and we hadn‘t spoken. I was stationed in Northern South Carolina. I’ll never remember exactly where I was. It was so foreign to me, so stupid. I thought about my friend every time I shot at a Union soldier. After every battle I survived I prayed to God that I wouldn’t find my friend on the ground. I searched every battle field. For two anxious and miserable years I felt this way.

On July 1st, 1863, under the orders of General Robert E. Lee my regiment went into battle against General George Mead’s Union Army at the Battle of Gettysburg two months after we defeated the North in Chancellorsville. I was unaware at the time that Joel was fighting under General Meade. Later on I read that this was considered the turning point of the war. I’m not really too sure about that, but it was undoubtedly my turning point of the war.

On the third and final day of the battle, the South was defeated by General Meade and his men. I could give you the exact details of every minute of the battle, but that is not what this is about. I won’t tell you about our attacks on the Unions left and right flanks. I won’t tell you about the 150 Confederate guns that attacked the Union at 1P.M on third day and last day of fighting. What I am going to tell you is that in the middle of this mess, I came face to face with Joel. He had just been knocked down by another Confederate boy. I picked him up off the ground and instead of shooting him like I was supposed to I just stood there in shock. My iron ribs gripped my lungs so tight I found it hard to breath. After a couple of seconds I realized that he wasn’t making any movements to shoot me.

Right in the middle of the chaos, the gunfire, the screaming, and the hatred we dropped our guns and just walked home. Nobody followed us, but that wasn’t the point anymore. It’s been 20 years since that day. I read that Gettysburg was the bloodiest battle of the war, and I’m not sure how true that is because I saw a lot of blood and I can’t distinguish the battles anymore. What I do know is a Confederate soldier and a Union soldier kept their shirts clean that day.

Braveheart.

I'm still genuine.

How The West Was Lost

2009-03-12T19:01:00.002-04:00

This is inspired by the Sun Brother song "Westward."

This is for you, Weasel. 16 years in the making.

Kids like us don’t stand a chance in this world
That’s why all I need are my friends, my gun, and my girl.
I am a drifter, a loner, a sinner
A friend, a foe, a killer, a winner
I am the worst thing this town has ever seen
I am the one wiping all their slates clean
I learned from a young age that I wouldn’t amount to shit
My past has taught me not one fucking bit
I cuss loud at the saloon so everyone will hear me
I shoot at the roof so everyone will fear me
I cheat during draws so no one will ever face me
I keep telling the world you know you can’t replace me
I steal from the rich and give to the poor
I am the one that you lock up your doors for
I chose to live the life of an outlaw
Disrespect me and I’ll be the last thing you ever saw
Just me, my girl, and my Colt .45
That’s exactly how I intend to survive
One night at the saloon an old man said to me,
“I’ve got a secret, and its just between you and me,
A young man tied your girl to the tracks out of jealousy.”
“Old man, do you see any fear in these eyes?
Now tell me which one of these fools is wearing the disguise?”
The man pointed to his right, at a young man in a vest
I walked straight up to the young man and poked him in the chest
“Sir, I hope you know that you just tested the best.”
“Well, I’m the new sheriff and you’re an unwelcome guest.”
“Okay, Sheriff, I just hope today you feel blessed.”
I pulled out my Colt, and laid the young man to rest.
Before I walked out the door, that old man said to me,
“Boy, do you even know where it is you want to be?”
“I’m going where there’s blue skies for miles and the land is all you see.”
“Don’t you know things like that don’t come in this world for free.”
“Well, old man, your worlds rules don’t apply to kids likeme.”
So I drank all my whiskey and then I drank some more
And made my way right out that door
Head held high and my gun to the sky
I shouted out my one last battle cry
I hoped I wouldn’t find her on those tracks bound
But I pray to no God, because I don’t want to be found
Walked straight to those tracks and laying in front of me
Was my world, my girl, my future bride to be
I untied the ropes and lifted her from those tracks
We walked into the sunset and never looked back.
I knew that old man would one day be proud,
Take a look at us now, just look at me now.

To Be Continued...

William "BH" Wallace a.k.a Winston Wolf a.k.a the Mayor of Bedrock

Son, Brother

2009-02-25T14:31:00.001-05:00

This is for Cody.

“Me and all my friends, we’ve got nothing to prove, nothing to lose.”

All Jeremy ever knew how to do was leave.

He was born on April 25, 1923 to John and Margaret Fitzgerald; Irish immigrants who resided in Boston, Massachusetts. Jeremy was 7 pounds and 4 ounces and had eyes that looked like ice. He was the third son for John and Margaret. He had two older brothers, Toby and Peter. Toby was just two years older than Jeremy. Peter was five when Jeremy was born.

After living and breathing for two short years, Jeremy saw his mother give birth to a little girl. They named her Mary and Jeremy loved her. Just one year later the final baby for the Fitzgerald family was introduced to the world. Her name was Sara and she was just as adorable as Mary. The Fitzgerald family was now complete and seemed to be happy.

John and Margaret met in Ireland when they were just 17. They married two years later and decided they would not die in Ireland. They chose to move to America: the home of the free and the land of opportunity. After passing through Ellis Island, they made the decision that New York was not the place for them. They had heard about Boston and the large Irish community there so they went in hopes of finding work, affordable living, and a sense of comfort. They had Peter, the first son, when they were 23 in 1918. They were not yet financially stable, but Boston’s factory industry was booming in post-war America and Peter managed to take advantage of his opportunity with hard work and the street smarts he learned from his father. Even though this was a far cry from Ireland, they settled in.

Once they had had five children they decided to call it quits with the babies. John was a great father and husband. He would stop at nothing to care for his family. He put family first and everything else second. Unfortunately, drinking was second. John was an angry drunk. If there were times when he had a little extra spending money he would spend time with the bottle. Jeremy was only five when this habit developed into a problem. John began verbally abusing his wife and oldest son. Peter was now 10 and occasionally became the subject of his fathers drunken rants. At the end of the day though, John put food on the table and you would be hard pressed to find a better sober father. In his three boys he instilled qualities like respect, work ethic, pride, and passion. All three looked up to their father.

Then the depression came. John lost his job and was struggling to support his family. They lost everything. Their house, their clothes, and, most importantly, their sense of security. It was 1931 when Peter became severely ill from starvation and exhaustion. He was just 13 years old when he had to start working in a factory to help keep the family floating. The Fitzgerald’s couldn’t afford hospital bills and Peter began slipping. He died that year. Just another dead boy in another starving city. A snapshot of the time.

In great despair, John and Margaret decided to make a move. Tulsa, Oklahoma was considered the “Oil Capital of the World.” Using the same work ethic and street smarts that aided him in Boston, John hoped to take advantage of another booming industry. He was unsure if he would find work, but Peter’s death spoiled the American Dream for him. He hated Boston for what it did to his first son. He took the family to Tulsa and found work quickly. Unfortunately, with the realization that he would not let another son die in Boston, his drinking got worse.

Jeremy and Toby had a strong bond after Peter’s death. Toby’s personality was naturally charming and bright. He was a care taker and a giver. When he walked in a room he had everyone’s attention. He was outgoing, smart, and confident. Jeremy was the opposite. He was rarely noticed, very reserved, and hardly ever spoke. He did learn how to take care of people from his father and brother, though. Toby dealt with Peter’s death by becoming even more vibrant, while Jeremy became even more reserved. Toby and John had a special connection as well. Everybody loved Toby. Jeremy loved Toby, too. Jeremy was not a jealous younger brother, he played his role well. But what Toby was to Jeremy, Jeremy was to his younger sisters. They looked up to Jeremy for the way he dealt with tough situations. He was stoic and unflappable. He never faltered. He had that in common with John and Toby.

The train ride to Tulsa was long. Jeremy couldn’t sleep on trains. Once they arrived and got settled, the townspeople accepted them as a part of their community and life went on. Life in Oklahoma was a far car from the hustle and bustle of Boston, but they adopted a new way of life and adapted to their social environment. In small towns, one persons business is everyone‘s business. A big city has privacy. The Fitzgerald’s never told anyone about Peter, but John’s drinking visibly got worse. He became physically violent with Margaret. She had to hide the scars and the bruises.

John was working for an oil company and making pretty decent money. Once night after John had been drinking for quite sometime, he looked over at Jeremy who was just staring blankly ahead of him. John looked at him and said, “How come you don’t ever say nothing, boy?”

Thirteen year old Jeremy gave no response.

“Do you hear me, boy?”

No response. John pulled out a knife.

“If you don’t say anything, I’m going to cut your neck open wider than the Mississippi, do you hear me?”

Still no response. No fear in Jeremy’s eyes, and no fear in John’s. Jeremy’s eyes were filled with confusion.

This was not the father he knew.

“What are you some kind of fucking mute?”

At this point, Toby heard the voice of his father and went to see what was going on. He immediately came to the defense of Jeremy.

“Stop yelling at him, Dad, just leave him alone.”

In a moment of drunken rage, John said “Shut the fuck up, and mind your business.” He cut Toby across the face.

They never spoke about the incident ever again.

These incidents started happening more often. John became increasingly violent. Toby became increasingly popular around town and Jeremy became increasingly reserved. Life went on.

Four years passed. It was 1940 now. The Dust Bowl had been pestering residents of Texas and Oklahoma for a few years now, but nothing had been too bad in Northeast Oklahoma. Not until this day. A dust storm hit Tulsa like a brick. Houses got destroyed. The Fitzgerald’s house was a victim. The house collapsed. John, Margaret, Toby, Jeremy, and Mary made it out. Sara was crushed and killed. Just another dead girl in another lonely town.

The despair overwhelmed Margaret. The Fitzgerald’s managed to build their house back on the same property. Once it was built, Margaret couldn’t take it. She took John’s shotgun and killed herself in the backyard just three weeks after Sara was killed in the storm. Depression took John by storm. He drank more and more and became even more violent with his remaining family. Just another dead wife in her dead husbands arms. Just three dead children left behind in another dead town.

Jeremy and Toby became fixtures around the local hangouts. It was their only way of coping with the pain. They refused to sit around and dwell on their losses. Tulsa had managed to get back on its feet after the storm and the town was trying to recover. Bob Willis and the Texas Playboys began performing in Tulsa and the kids loved dancing. At one particular dance, Jeremy was observing a young lady named Elizabeth Stallworth. They were both 18 and Jeremy had fallen in love. He was far too shy to ever approach her and ask her out, but Elizabeth was interested in Jeremy as well. She approached him one night and asked him to dance. He agreed and shortly after they began dating.

Their relationship went well. They seemed to compliment each other very well. Elizabeth was just like Toby. Very outgoing, very popular, well-liked. Maybe sometimes opposites do attract. She didn’t know much about Jeremy’s past, and he preferred to keep it that way. Bottling up his emotions was just how he dealt with things. Elizabeth respected that.

Jeremy was 19 when his father died. He fell off the oil rig he was working on shattered his bone structure. Just another dead man in another dead town. A deadbeat father in a deadbeat world. No one ever really gave a fuck about him anyway.

At this point, Johns death was more of a relief for Jeremy, Toby, and Mary. They had grown tired of hiding the bruises. However, Toby and Jeremy were not making enough money to support their younger sister who was now 17 and becoming a young lady. They both worked for the company that was building Route 66, but they were young and inexperienced so they earned low wages. They did work hard, though. They learned that from their father.

Toby sat Jeremy down one night and said to him, “You know I love you, right.”

Jeremy said, “I know that.”

“Well, to keep you and Mary from going hungry, I have to make a sacrifice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I signed up to fight in this little war that America’s in. I’m set to leave in a week. Look, I’m going to be deployed for two years. You guys are going to receive my checks and I want you to take that money and spend only what you need and save the rest. When I get back, we’ll get the hell out of here and move to California where it’s sunny all year round. Take care of your sister because she’s all we have left. Keep working to stay busy, and make sure Elizabeth is okay. I’m not going to die here and neither are you and Mary. We’re going to get away from this shit. You understand?”

“I understand.”

Three years later when Jeremy was 21, a military officer came to his house and told him his brother, Toby, had been killed in action. He had been rewarded with a purple heart and it was on behalf of the country that Jeremy accept it. Jeremy did without a blink. He cried for three days and screamed for three nights. He lost his brother, his best friend. Just another dead boy in another dead bunker in another dead war in another dead country killed by another dead bullet from another dead gun held by another dead boy. They didn’t even know what they were fighting for.

A few weeks later he and Elizabeth were sitting in his kitchen, talking about Toby. Jeremy refused to say anything more than “It will be okay, I‘m going to be fine.”

Elizabeth became angry with his indifference.

“How come you just won’t open to me? How come you just won’t break down and show me emotion?”

“You have to understand that’s just not how I deal with things.”

“I can’t accept that. Do you even love me?”

“Of course.”

“Then say something.”

“I can’t.”

“I hate you Jeremy, I hate you.”

Jeremy got angry, “You don’t even know anything about me! I have two dead brothers, a dead sister, a dead father, and a dead mother. I have a history of violence. Everyone I have ever loved left me and I can’t open up to you because I’m afraid you’ll leave. I’m afraid of being the only one left.”

Elizabeth started to cry and Jeremy just walked away. Mary was all he had left. They began packing their bags for California. A day before they were going to leave, Jeremy decided to talk to Elizabeth one last time. He wasn’t sure if he was going to say good-bye or ask her to come with him. It had been two weeks since they had spoken. He sat in his house moments before leaving to talk to her when he decided he was going to ask her to marry him and leave for California.

When he got to her house there was a car out front. He walked inside to see her and another man kissing on her couch. He was enraged, but instead of confronting the man or Elizabeth he just walked away, emotionless. His icy eyes didn’t dig into Elizabeth, they just looked away.

The next day he and Mary left for California. He didn’t mention what he had seen the night before to Mary. The pain and losses crippled him. Right before they went to the train station he stopped at the bank to withdrawal what was left of Toby’s military checks. Just after putting the envelope full of money in his pocket, two men pulled out M1918 Browning Automatic Rifles. Jeremy tried to run and they shot him. The men took all the money in that bank and ran. Jeremy was dead.

There was only person in Jeremy’s life who never left him and that was Mary. Maybe she just never had the chance. She collapsed when she saw her dead brother, the only family she had left, on the floor soaked in blood. She moved to California and started over.

When Elizabeth heard what had happened she cried and cried and cried and cried. One day Elizabeth died in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She took her regret to the grave.

And Jeremy was sprawled out in that bank. Just another dead boy from another dead town with another dead father and another dead mother and two dead brothers and one dead sister. When his heart beat for that last time, all he could take with him was what he’d given away.

WW

Fear Of Failure Part Two

2009-02-22T23:00:00.000-05:00

This story is based on some random true and fake events and is influenced by the movie “Guide To Saints and the album “Travels” by the band Defeater.

Some lines stolen/borrowed from the following songs:
“Big City Dreams” by Modern Life Is War
“Convectuouso” by Glassjaw
“I Can’t Go On This Way” and “Dear Self” by Beanie Sigel
“The Greatest Pac-Man Victory In History” by Aesop Rock

My name is William and I’m from the suburbs of Wilmington, Delaware. I’m 19, I dropped out of college, I feel like I’m working a dead end job, and I know that there is more out there than this. I just haven’t found it yet. Or maybe I have and I’m just too afraid to acknowledge it. I have a beautiful, restless mind. I like to cuss when it’s inappropriate. I’m a piece of shit. I am a leader. I make decisions from the heart and not the mind. I am a listener. I’m afraid of my fears. This is my story.

Life sucks, dickhead.

Every day is pretty much the same shit. I wake up, drive somewhere, see the same people, work the same job, text message the same people, take the same pictures, and say the same shit. I think we’ve all done a pretty good job of convincing ourselves that it’s the same everywhere, but that can’t be true. There has to be a place where the Sun doesn’t rise in the east. The grass has to be greener on the other side of the fence. Unfortunately, that place is neither here nor there.

People have never had a problem opening up to me about things. I think I’m a good listener and peoples actions have only made me more confident in that thought. And it’s not like I’m just pretending to listen. I really give a fuck about what people have to say… not everyone, but at the very least I’ll listen and digest what they are saying and attempt to help them. I like listening, I like helping, I’m attracted to the idea that someone is comfortable enough with me to talk about their emotions. That is a very attractive thought.

I’m the type of person that will share a shoe. If I trust you then I’ll do anything for you. That is very attractive to other people, but unfortunately some people take advantage of that quality in a person, so I have to be very picky with who I trust. I have more fingers than people I trust and that has made me a bitter and angry person. I can’t let people see that though. These fucking people will never break me.

It’s a quality that sucks sometimes. The talkers outnumber the listeners. You have to be careful with listeners. For as much as I like listening to people, sometimes I want to talk and the shittiest feeling in the world is when no body will listen. And when nobody is listening, you start going crazy. You start staying up later then you used to. You start thinking constantly and it starts eating at you. And you start resenting the talkers because you can’t be like them. And your thoughts become a cry for help but there’s no helping hand because no one is listening.

I just want to someone to listen for once. Just one time. Just once.

One day I woke up and decided I was going to make a list of things that I’m afraid of. I kind of got tired of that bull-shit tough guy “I’m not afraid of anything” role that the youth of today seems to be playing. I’m afraid of a lot of shit. But I’m most afraid of admitting to myself that I’m afraid of a lot of shit. Fuck opening up to people. I have problems just opening up to myself. I never wrote anything on that list because I’m afraid that they might come true. I’m trapped in a game of cat and mouse with myself. And there’s only been a few times in the past couple of months that my mind hasn’t been racing. I’m afraid that I might admit to myself what caused those times. I’m afraid to tell the people that were with me at those times that they helped me more than they know. I’m afraid of the responses.

All I want is for someone to listen, but at the same time, I’m afraid to tell someone what I’m afraid of. How fucking stupid does that sound? But it’s a sincere statement.

I stopped asking questions because I’m afraid of the answers. But at the same time, I’m still looking for the answers.

The day I didn’t make the list turned into another sleepless night. Instead of struggling I decided to go for a walk. I made my way to an area just outside the city. I saw a couple of bums with shopping cards and normally I would have been interested but tonight I was doing the talking. I was going to be selfish for just one night. Just one night. Just once.

I got into the heart of the city and it must have been around 5 in the morning at this point. I found myself one block past Delaware Avenue. I stopped right in front of a church. Fragments of a conversation I had with someone about religion started to flash in my head, but they were unorganized and out of place. I got down on both knees and started to pray, but I wasn’t praying to any God or Spirit. I was just doing it. It only takes a minute to pray and a second to die. And I felt nothing. No electricity rushed through my veins. No gold chariots raced around the city block. The wind didn’t even blow. All I had was blood flow and a heartbeat. Skin and bones. My heart was still beating. That in itself was enough of a sign for me to get my shit together and keep walking.

The commuters started to pour in. Men and women dressed in their business attire walked past me and I felt so much resentment towards them. I saw dead people. Not literally dead people. Just people walking around and acting like they were alive, but they weren’t. They were lifeless on the inside. No heart, no passion, no soul. They were just going through the motions and it was fucking disgusting. Just faces. No identity, no free thought. Silence and apathy.

The men and women asking me for some change was who I felt connected to. I didn’t have time to converse today, though. The Sun broke the darkness.

I found inspiration in a man that has nothing, never had anything, and will never have anything. He stands on a corner in the middle of the city and sings songs to God everyday. That is true love, something I don’t know anything about. After seeing him I immediately felt positive. I had energy like I’ve never had before. The city came to life and I walked home.

I started writing down my biggest fears. Right afterwards I started writing down the names of people that I would allow myself to open up to. Just a couple names of people that I would tell that type of shit to. It takes a strong person to show weakness. But it takes an equally strong person to accept another persons weakness as strength. It wasn’t a very long list. For the record, I burned both pieces of paper.

Not one person on that list is a fucking listener.

It’s easier for me to tell people what I’m not afraid of. I’m not afraid of death, I’m just afraid of what’s going to be written on my epitaph. I’m not afraid of living. I’m not afraid of talking in front of large groups. I’m not afraid of what people think about me. I’m not afraid of love. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid of failure.
I do not fear failure. I do not fear success. I don’t want to change the world, but if you give me a chance I swear you’ll never meet anyone else like me ever again. I just need one chance. There is nothing about me that is average.

When I got home from my walk I decided to read the letter that I wrote to myself. It meant nothing to me. I think you definitely meet the people you do for a reason. I can’t think of many other people that would do some of the shit that we did. I can’t believe we weren’t afraid. I sat back down on the couch and tried to wrap my head around what I was thinking and these words popped into my head:

“Who is the meat and who is the butcher?

I am the fucking butcher and you are not there.”

ww

Already?

2009-02-16T23:40:00.000-05:00

Rest In Peace Mrs. Calvetti. At least you weren't separated for long.

"Fear Of Failure: Part Two" coming whenever I feel like it.

Shout-outs to all my visitors who got referred from SilentWrytes.

Happy Valentines Day from the sweatshop.

WW

Fear of Failure Part One

2009-02-11T00:30:00.003-05:00

Rest In Peace Mr. Calvetti - if there is a Heaven then I'm sure God is enjoying your pizza. This is for you

For 19 years, 237 months, 12,325 weeks, and 86,869 days I’ve looked in a mirror. It wasn’t until the 86,870th day that I finally saw something. I don’t mean that in a bullshit teenage “I don’t like what I see in the mirror” or “I finally saw myself” way. Or in a Donnie Darko “a rabbit is telling me what to do” way. I mean this in a different way.

I received a letter when I was 16 and didn’t open it until today.

Until recently, it’s been hard for me to see two sides of a story. I feel like showing maturity is having the ability to accept an idea or action that you don’t agree with because you understand the difference. There have been differences throughout history. It’s usually good versus evil. Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers, Sharks and Jets, Democrats and Republicans, God and the Devil. It’s about choosing a side. Not necessarily the right side, but a side.

If knowing is half the battle, then understanding is winning the war. To really understand where you stand you have to understand where you don’t stand. Someone I know understands. She understands in a way that I probably never will. Whether it is real or fake is a different argument, but there is no denying traces of God and the Devil in our world. Good versus evil.

The Devil feeds on our insecurities. Apathy is the devil. Jealousy is the devil. Envy is the devil. Hate is the devil. Death, love, birth, spite, these are all products of idle hands. My idle hands will never be the Devils play thing.

God feeds on our innocence. Hope is God. Naivety is God. Patience is God. These are all products of diligent hands. My machinists hands will never be Gods play thing.
Everything I just wrote I don’t really believe. I don’t believe that when we die we get judged and are sent to either heaven or hell. I don’t believe that anyone is waiting for me when I die. I believe that good things happen and bad things happen, but sometimes things happen and they are more than just a coincidence. I believe I met the people I have for a reason. I believe there is more out there.

On my 86,870th day I decided to open the letter. There was no return address. Only the recipients, which was clearly mine.

I’ve seen things happen. Maybe for a reason, maybe not, but I did see myself get goose bumps for twenty minutes on a Friday night and then again on a Monday night and there was a reason for that. She meant every word she said. Sometimes people say things to you with a conviction that makes you believe what they believe. For a little while that night I believed because as pretty as she was, the most beautiful thing about her was her mind. And after hearing her speak, I couldn’t help it.

She told me really personal stories and I couldn’t believe someone would open up about those types of things to me. She told me why and how. It was weird because normally when someone tells me things like that I don’t care. But this time I paid attention to every single word because for one reason or another she was comfortable sharing something that she loved and I can’t explain that and I’m not going to try to. That whole conversation happened for a reason. Thank you.

On my drivers license it says I’m an organ donor. I volunteered for that the day I got the letter and at the time I didn’t think about it. I have thought about it since then and I hope that when I do die in a car accident that they somehow manage to give my heart to someone that needs it because there is only one like it. I’ve only met a few people with drive like mine and I can tell they have it because I have it. That girl has it.

Like I said, when I looked in that mirror something was definitely different. It wasn’t my physical appearance. It wasn’t the background. It wasn’t the silence. There wasn’t anybody on the other side of the mirror. No tenth dimension. Just a reflection. I touched the glass and it was just glass. I opened up the letter with sweaty palms and shaky hands.

I finally saw two sides. That is what was different. I saw the Cowboys and Indians, the Democrats and Republicans, the Cops and the Robbers, the Sharks and the Jets, God and the Devil, the good and the bad all in my eyes. What I finally realized was that my drive to succeed was greater than my fear of failure. There is a difference.

If your fear of failure is greater than your drive to succeed then you will be afraid your whole life.

I tried reading the letter like you normally read a letter but it was in a language I didn’t understand. It made sense that I was standing in front of a mirror. In my hand writing was words and sentences written in reverse. I held it up to the mirror and this is what the letter said:

The Golden Gate Bridge

He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word.

They were happy together. Genuinely happy. They lived in San Francisco, on Kersey Street; right next to the bay and in walking distance of The Giants’ stadium. They stayed in her parents house. They were struggling financially, but that was fine. It was spring now, and the flowers were blooming. Everyday she looked out her window she saw the perfect postcard. He did not. Not on most days anyway, but who could hate a day like this? The sun was shining, the Giants were playing, it was paradise. He answered the phone at 9:30 a.m. on Saturday May 18. He was on the phone for 15 minutes and 22 seconds before he hung up. She asked who had called and he said it was an old friend. It began to rain while they were walking home from the game. It was around five. After they ran inside giggling, he felt sick to his stomach. He looked at the clock, then ran to the bathroom and threw up immediately. She asked what was wrong, he said it must be food poisoning. At 8:00 he walked into the den.

He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word. She did not ask questions. He found that peculiar. But she couldn’t know.

She didn’t know much about him. All she really cared to know was his name, and where he came from. He told her he came from New York. He said after living his whole life on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, he wanted to see the Pacific. They met one night on the very street they lived on. She was going home, he was going nowhere. Love at first sight is the saying someone would use for this meeting.

He, on the other hand, knew all about her. She was 24, currently attending the University of San Francisco with a major in mass communications and a minor in creative writing. She was interning at the San Francisco branch of Cingular Wireless twice a week. He knew exactly when to run into her. She lived her whole life in the Bay Area. She never had great luck with guys, until he walked into her life five years ago.

He said “Take me to the Golden Gate Bridge.” She agreed, not saying a word. She did not ask questions. He found that peculiar. But she couldn’t know. While they walked to the car, a 1996 Nissan Altima with a scratch under the left rear-view mirror, he fiddled nervously with some change in his pocket; her with the car keys. The ride was silent. They fidgeted in their seats, checking the clock frequently and talking less and less often. The trip was awkward at best. It was as if they were in two separate cars under the same roof. When they arrived he told her to stay in the car, and to turn on the high beams. She did as told. Not knowing what to do, her mascara began to smear. At 9:22 he climbed to the top railing, the one that was slightly bent inward, and held onto one of the enormous beams. He felt on top of the world.

She said “Wait.” She was already out of the car by the time he looked to his right. She was 15 feet away and closing in. She said she could borrow money from her parents, anything but this. He told her it was not the money. She asked the question he expected, but had no answer to. He looked into her eyes and told her there was a lot of things she didn’t know about him. He told her he would love her forever, and maybe he would come back and visit when she had a real family. She didn’t understand. She could only whisper that she loved him. He leaned over and ran his fingers through her hair. She was still crying. She held on, but he jumped anyway. He hit the water traveling 200 miles per hour. He did not die. He did not resurface. He swam and swam. For 56 minutes and 45 seconds he swam. He was 86.3 miles underwater when he reached the gates. He could almost see the fires, and hear the screams. The war had started. Gills flapping, he said the word, and the gates opened.

She stood there for 14 minutes when she realized that he was gone. She figured he died on impact, and his body floated now on top of the water somewhere. She thought about calling the police, and her parents, and her friends. But she didn’t. She just looked at her cell phone, ready to dial his number. Maybe he’s not dead, she thought, maybe he’ll pick up and say he had a wonderful trip, but he was lost in San Diego. She called his phone 32 times. By the 6th she was crying hysterically, by the 15th she was screaming his name, by the 28th she was on the top rail bent inward ready to jump after him. The 32nd time his answering machine whispered a sweet nothing into her ear, she stepped down from the rail. She opened her purse, grabbed a tissue and wiped away her tears along with the memory of him. At 10:13 she got back in her car, and drove away with a smile on her face.

After I read the story I knew where it came from. I’ll never understand. The difference between you and me? I’m done asking questions.

Fear of Failure Part Two Coming Soon.

WW

Watch Red Bricks Turn Yellow

2009-01-31T01:07:00.001-05:00

Tonight was probably the most fun I've had in a while.

Oh, it's like that?

Yea, it's like that.

Big shout outs to the following: The Machinists Hands for the obvious reasons, Sun Brother, a few random people, "Heartless Delaware", and my old heads for the lessons. If I missed you then I don't miss you.

Negativity is a disease. Stay positive. If you need anything come find me:

braveheart.

p.s. "Fear Of Failure" coming soon.

Gold Medal Kids

2009-01-17T12:13:00.000-05:00

This is the future.

I’m writing this from the edge of the world. This is from me to you; you being the past. The four of us have grown up in a different world. I’m not really sure if there was a plan for us, but certain events have taken place that made us who we are.

In the future everything is artificial. Nature has been destroyed by technology. Everything in the world is manufactured now. Air, drinking water, wood, fire… It is all fake. The only nature that isn’t erased are the oceans. That is where they are sending me. Somewhere deep beneath the surface. 20,000 leagues under the sea and then some.

The problem was that, at some point, our society become too technologically advanced for anything natural to exist. Once we burned up all the natural resources that we depended on, we had to find a way to manufacture them artificially. There wasn’t really an exact day, month, or year that this happened, it was just a gradual slide. We got used to it.

Today is the last day before I step foot on the submarine. I’ve convinced myself that this is going to be my last day alive. Even if I do come back, I’m not going to be the same. Actually, I might be the same, but it will be everyone else that changed. Either way, I’m either dying or becoming a stranger. All I know is that they will never figure out a way to manufacture this passion.

A few months ago I dropped out of school and decided to work. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. One day some guy in a suit gave me a flyer for a government funded exploration project to the deepest part of the ocean. I signed up and went through all the training involved. I didn’t really want to do it, but the money was good. I was and still am aware of the risks, but I don’t really care. I didn’t care. Now that I’m less than 24 hours away I’m terrified.

They made it seem pretty interesting and it still is. I could see through all the typical bull shit, I know this will be a breakthrough but I know the cost for me is much greater than any number on a paycheck. All the other guys going are really nice, but I don’t feel any connection to them other than loose associates. I’m not too sure that dying together will be such a great bonding experience. I left all my human connection back home.

I hate to break this to everybody, but Delaware was first. Other states have their own claims to fame, but Delaware is and always will be the First State. Gold medal winners. Heavyweight champions. That is where I’m from. It is also the state that watched my three best friends enjoy their high school graduations without their fathers. I’ll always hate this state for that. Nobody ever gave them a chance. Nobody ever cared. To this day I’ve never met three people filled with more passion than them. There is an energy when we are together. We camouflage our feelings. You know how people say that you can see the years on a persons face? We are forever young. Through deaths and departures our youth shines through. That is why we are the gold medal kids. First place against all odds.

But at the same time, we are old beyond our years. Jaded and empty. No innocence. Lack of emotion. I’ve heard other people say it as much as I’ve said it to myself. You really have to put yourself under a microscope to realize it. I’ve broken myself down into particles of protein, bone marrow, and fatty tissue, then pieced it all back together, and for as many times a day that I question myself I never find an answer. But I will never stop searching. My legs are tired from it all. Like I've been running for thousands of miles. My mind never tires.

Thinking back, I never could have imagined a world like this. No trees, no grass, no forests, no scenery. A gray world. It makes me realize now that the only reason I ever loved the city was because right outside the limits there was always a colorful valley to balance out the gray. Like sweet and sour. Now that everything is a city block, I kind of hate it.

You know what they say, you never miss your water until your well runs dry.

Its funny now, remembering my last days back home. The last person I talked to was a girl that I barely knew. It was weird that I opened up to her about my fear. I don’t like to tell people things about my personal life or how I feel about certain subjects. I told her how I scared I was of this. She told me that everything would be okay and that I deserve everything I get. You can’t help but love that optimism. The truth is, I do deserve everything I get. Whether it be good, bad, beautiful, or ugly, I deserve it.

The day before that my friend and I were joking about if I‘d ever come back from this exploration or if I would just become lost at sea. I don’t remember the whole conversation but the last thing he said to me was “knock on wood.”

I stopped in my tracks. I had never been more scared then that moment in my entire life. It is why I’m still scared right now.

After I looked around, the entire world I lived in flashed in front of me. There was no wood anywhere.

William Braveheart Wallace

This is dedicated to Ace, D-Rock, TCP, and the Weasel a.k.a Sun Brother... the true Gold Medal Kids. Thank you for your inspiration. Constant progress.

Bear witness to the greatest.

Uno.

Never Stay Forever

2008-12-25T01:26:00.001-05:00

It was the time of year when the temperature starts to drop. Well, it does where I’m from. I was in my basement messing around with some of my belongings when I saw what looked like a young girl run past the window. I thought nothing of it until it happened again. I decided to walk outside and in my front yard was a girl that must have been about 12 years old. She had no color to her skin and hair and no substance to her voice.

Her first question was “Do you see me?”
Her second question was “What do I look like?”
Her third question was “Have you ever set a stone?”

I answered all three honestly. I saw her. She was in black and white. I had never set a stone. For the few seconds I had to think, I’d probably unset quite a few.

She then took my hand and asked me if would go with her. Instead of asking where, I agreed. She looked confident. In a flash I was in a foreign place. It was colorless and dry. I had always felt pretty comfortable with myself. I always accepted or part of a group. It was different here. Everything was uneasy.

The girl and I went for a walk and she asked me about my friends and their secrets. I avoided direct answers, but it made me think. My best friends had kept secrets from me since the day I met them. It made me curious, but I swore I would never ask them to reveal any secrets. I never want to rob that bank. I never want to unset that stone. I don’t want to know.

As we walked along some street that I’ll never remember the name of, I glanced over at an old man smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. The date said 1956. In that second a flood of realization spread over me. I finally took in what was going on around me. There were old cars, old signs, and old voices everywhere. I knew what made me feel so uneasy. Everything and everyone that surrounded me was oozing innocence. I wasn’t from this place. My home is jaded. I was an alien to this feeling.

The more she questioned me the more I exposed about myself. I felt like we had a pretty interesting conversation going, but as soon as I asked about her personal life, she disappeared. But I stayed there, frozen in amazement. The old man came over and asked me if I was lost. Before I could reply he started telling me about how diamonds are cut.

We started walking and he wouldn’t stop talking about diamonds. He wasn’t wearing any. I don’t think he could afford them. I think he was so interested in diamonds because he never had any. Like his whole life was built around the idea of being successful and rich enough to own diamonds, to buy them for his wife that he became obsessed. In place of a diamond watch or ring there was nothing. He was a failure in his mind. He had failed and others had succeeded. He never bought his wife a diamond necklace.

Maybe at some point during his childhood he had seen that stone somewhere it became stuck in his head. I can understand completely. I think we are just looking for something that drives us. I am thankful that I haven’t found what drives me yet.

The man and I walked into a cafeteria and had lunch together. We both got up to go to the bathroom when we reached our crossroad. I began walking the same direction as him and he got angry. He said nothing. He pointed at a sign that read “WHITES ONLY.” He then pointed at another that read “COLOREDS ONLY.” Everyone was laughing at me.

At first I didn’t understand, but when I looked at my shirt it was still blood red. My jeans were still blue. I was the outcast. I walked into the coloreds only bathroom and I was alone. When I came out, the man was less angry. I never got his name. Once I came out of the bathroom I realized that he was glowing with diamonds. He had a diamond watch. A diamond bracelet. He thought I knew nothing of high society.

At that second, I knew the difference between rain and snow.

The man disappeared and in his place stood a friend of mine. What was strange was that my friend was in black and white. He wasn’t supposed to be from here either. He handed me a sheet of paper and in his handwriting was a sentence that I knew only came from his mind. It said “for every dollar I earn I’ll give you a hundred pieces of copper so what you have will not burn.” I didn’t understand. This wasn’t for me, so I gave it back. Electricity flowed through my veins and I was back in my basement.

I never asked him about that piece of paper. A few days later we were out at a convenience when he asked me to borrow a couple of dollars for a drink. I took out a dollar bill and started to burn. I went to my car and got him enough change to buy the drink. The change worked. The trees were on fire. But the copper still sold high at scrap yards.

That night it rained. A lot of people hate the rain. The next week it snowed. A lot of people love the snow. People hate the dark. They hate the change. They hate change. People hate change.
Diamonds can only be scratched by other diamonds.

I never spoke about what happened to me that day. A few weeks later, I took a girl out to dinner. It wasn’t a real fancy place. We had a good time. For some reason, the waiter put the bill in front of her. I said “how much is it?”

She said “$19.56.”
I pulled out my card and put it in the book.

I pulled out my card and put it in the book.

As we got up to leave she said “oh no, its raining. I hate the rain.”

All color was flushed out of me as I said “you would probably be happy if it were snowing.”

I don’t think she really ever loved me. I don’t think she was really even there.

I dropped her off at her house and kissed her goodnight. As I was driving home I pulled up to a red light and looked to my left. A car was there. I looked ahead to check the light. I looked left again and the car was gone. I drove when the light turned green and out of nowhere the car that had just been on my left hit my car head on.

I got out to inspect the damage. The other car was a mess of splintered metal and glass. My car didn’t have a scratch.

William Wallace

Merry Christmas

Watch What Was Strong Turn Weak

2008-11-28T01:38:00.001-05:00

I'm sorry that your best days have passed.

I'm sorry that I'm wasting my youth.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Midnight Oil

2008-11-21T23:30:00.001-05:00

The decision was final. It was time for war.

It had gotten to the boiling point. I don’t think sitting back and taking it was an option anymore. Our community was fairly small, but it was shrinking. The landscapes that we once roamed were slowly disappearing and we had had enough.

We are not predators, but we are sly. That is how we won a lot of our battles. The generations that came before ours used to gather in an open plain to discuss general community decisions. So that was were we decided to make ours.

Unfortunately, this area had been overcrowded by the ones that were pushing us out. From the time the sun came up until the time it went down, they stalked this area. When we watched from a distance it seemed like they were mocking us. But we are creatures of the night.

So we decided to have our meeting in that open plain and at night. We ran there like thieves in the shadows. Everyone agreed that a war was inevitable. We started preparing.

It was early November, the time of year when the trees are burning and the ground is on fire. It has been the same in this area for years. Everything is so colorful in the fall. It’s like the plants are giving one last show before they die.

This year was different. Instead of vibrant colors, everything was cold. Everything was brown and gray. The leaves just died and fell. The trees were naked and unforgiving.

As we prepared for our attack the sun was going down. On the night of the revolution we fell like dead leaves. We turned brown and died.

William Wallace

Coming soon... "The Difference Between Rain and Snow"

The Woodwork

2008-11-07T14:14:00.000-05:00

wood·work
n
1. U.K. See woodworking n.
2. items made from wood: items or components made from wood, especially the interior parts of a building, for example, the frames of windows, staircases, and doors

What started out as a promising day turned into a disappointing one pretty quick. Three of us traveled down a beaten path to a little spot off of the river where kids jumped off the water fall and took turns on the rope swing.

We were obviously not the only ones with that idea on this particular day. It was mid-summer and out of the three I was the only one who was a repeat visitor. We were all pretty excited to take what would have been a pretty blasé summer day and turn it into something of an adventure.

We made our way down to the creek and walked over to where the rope swing had been. The tree had been cut down far enough to where the rope that hung on the branch was irrelevant. The wood was scraped and torn and I actually kind of felt bad for the tree. It was once useful and adequate but was cut down to a size that made it extremely ineffective. We all jumped off of the waterfall once. I went first due to my prior experience. The other two jumped off as well in front of a small audience. Once another crowd of people wandered down to the river we decided to make our way to the bridge and abandoned factory.

Wandering down a not so beaten path, the voices of three nineteen year olds reverberated off of the surrounding wood. After a couple of minutes we made it to our destination. The bridge was higher than the waterfall and the water underneath was definitely more polluted, and although I had made the jump before, the unanimous decision was to just walk across the bridge. We crossed the bridge leaving foot marks on the wood panels. We explored the outskirts of the factory, then ventured inside. The weakest link of our little brigade was paranoid about getting caught so we didn’t stay very long.

Whispering to each other, the decision was made to head back to the bridge. Once we got there we noticed that the sun was starting to go down so we started our march back to the car. The parking lot we left the car in belonged to a state park so we just decided to take the designated trail back.

Walking along the trail we reminisced about high school stories and glories. It started to get a little darker, and I started to get a little claustrophobic. I felt like the trail was closing in on us. The wood that earlier seemed so inviting started to look a lot more threatening.

Woodwork - crawl or come out of the woodwork to appear suddenly and unexpectedly in large numbers (slang)

What seemed like an hour passed. The look of concern started to set on each of our faces. With confidence I told them that the parking lot was just up ahead, but the night was also setting in. Within minutes, the last gasping breath of light was squeezed out of the woods and our lungs. It was dark.

We used our cell phones to provide light. The trail was gone and underneath our soaked feet was nothing but confusion and emptiness. It’s hard to find comfort when your comfort zone has been ripped away. They say every photograph tells a story. We weren’t taking pictures.

Without any direction, we marched on as soldiers do. They came out of the woodwork. We couldn’t see ourselves surrounded but we knew it because we stopped in unison. Fear quickly replaced confusion as the emotion that gripped us. It froze us. I thought this was the end of our journey. A voice said to us “The next time you open your mouths don’t let words come out. Are you proud?” The question hit home harder than a hook from Mike Tyson. I wasn’t proud, so I remained silent. I knew the answer was the same for my two friends because no words were left hanging.

Weakened knees and cold hands intact, we continued to march after this faceless crowd dispersed. It became day again. We kept marching. The sun set. We kept marching. Our cell phones died. We kept marching. The trail reappeared. We kept marching and marching and marching. And instead of being afraid or hungry or tired or thirsty I felt nothing but inspiration.

We finally made it back to the car. In real time the walk was only an hour. But our cell phones were dead. And there were no photographs. And we left our pride splattered across the wood. And we had nothing to say and nothing to think so our mouths stayed closed and our minds stayed empty.

William "Braveheart" Wallace

"Midnight Oil" coming soon.