true story... (this is not done, since i don't really know what the point of it was going to be.)

He approached me on the balcony of my naval barracks, and started talking about the hard job that he had to accomplish over the weekend. I asked him, like most people would when pretending to care, what exactly his job was and what it entailed.

“Well I’m working on making firebombs tonight,” he said, as though it was something not out of the ordinary to discuss producing explosive devices in one’s room. “And tomorrow we take the fortress walls, hopefully not losing too many men.”

I could tell by his pasty white skin and natural aversion to light that the kid was a habitual video game player, but I was still not fully prepared for his complete detachment from what us mortals refer to as “reality.”

Apparently he was a member of a powerful guild by night, and only worked as an aircraft mechanic during the day to pay for Mountain Dew and an internet connection. Incredible awe doesn’t even begin to cover my reaction to being in the presence of such greatness. In fact, I took a look at my own life and began to feel as though it has all been just a waste of time.

Had I known that living far from sunlight and learning how to make things happen in a fictional realm would one day be considered a “skill,” I surely would have not spent so much of my childhood learning to climb trees, make art and identify constellations and my adolescence would not have been wasted playing instruments, skateboarding and seeing the world.

a map of stars.

-the star where i was born, first knew love, learned to laugh and began to dream.

-the star where my body felt like water, and i met the king and queen.

-the star where my words began to almost explain emotion, and where i tasted vanilla.

-this star became my home, but i will share it with you.

-the star on which i was always asleep.

-the star that was far too great to understand, i was only able to sit and stare into space.

-the star on which we could only be heard when silent.


-this is the star where we fell awake, and had dream in vivid colors.



-this is the star where i fell in love, again.



-the star where time stood still.

You should tell me a bedtime story. It'll help your writer's block, and help me sleep...

once upon a time,
in a land to the north,
surrounded on one side by forest
and on the other by sound,
there lived a band of children
deserted by their families
and shunned by society.
.
this only led them to find their own way
a way of light and beauty
and wonder.
.
"what shall we do with freedom?"
one of them asked the others

"we shall do with it what it is there for, to live life fully."
one replied.
.
"and to not cause harm to another being?"
one asked, to nobody in particular.
.
"yes, for a life that causes suffering to another being is not a life worth living."
the first one replied.
.
then they all went skipping off into the forest, content in their decision on how to live life.
and they were promptly eaten by several large bears, who had an entirely different view on how best to live life.
.

dew.

a true and mostly accurate history. (fiction)

slate.com WAS hosting a story contest. the challenge was writing a fictional story describing the significance of this useless object. the deadline is already over, and i hadn't thought of anything, so i just started writing and this came out.


Taken from volume 17 of “A true and mostly accurate history of little known achievements that our fine southern states accomplished during the terrible conflict” by Randolph Bevington II.

Although not usually included in most histories of the southern United States, there was a brief time when the world of civil war chefs and barbers overlapped.
In early autumn of 1865, less than a year before the end of our nation’s bloodiest internal conflict, two unique circumstances occurred that changed the world of culinary experimentation and follicular removal forever.

A blockade set up by confederate troops around Savannah, Georgia effectively cut the city off from both land based and sea based access to supplies. While some historians might argue that the lack of ammunition and other materials were the downfall of this group of hardened soldiers, there are other theories that stand up to the test of time.

As anyone who has been to Savannah can attest, it has long been home to a certain kind of eccentric southerner, and wartime was no different. These men were tough as nails, and willing to die to preserve their confederate states, but they were also men with a certain vanity. Due to an ill placed ink stain on a requisition form, they had received a shipment of 300 large mirrors and several cases of Barbecue sauce instead of the requested 300 yards of linen that was needed to clothe the officer’s wives and the several cases of ammunition that they so badly needed to hold off the approaching Union soldiers.
This terrible mistake led to an almost immediate drop in morale among the men. With the abundance of mirrors, they were able to finally see, after months of blissful ignorance, just how haggard they had become. They went from men who could foresee the end of the war through long, stringy hair into men who wanted the dignity of looking decent while facing certain defeat.

Two men would be the catalyst that the men needed to, if not win the war, at least feel good about their outward appearance while losing handedly. Laswell Covington, a cook from Savannah who had been drafted to feed the troops, and Jamison Leavenworth, a prominent local barber who had accidentally volunteered his services in exchange for a cup of sugar were those men.
Using the supplies they had on hand, which included the barbecue sauce, mirrors and several straight razors, they went to work. Mr. Covington applied the barbecue sauce as only a master chef can, and Mr. Leavenworth proceeded to give the men the close shave that they so richly deserved.

When the Union army took the city a few months later, they found something that many would never forget. A group of well groomed men who seemed to be, judging from the overwhelming odor, rather intent on guarding a barbecue loaded with vittles. They never found the barbecue, and we will never forget those confederate heroes.

Item No: _______________ Sauce jar, with lather brush.

Books for Kids, by Famous People! (fiction, but partially based on fact)

This fall will see the release of several books by famous people that are destined to take the publishing world by storm. Here are a few exciting previews of what’s to come in 2009:

“Nothin’ Beats Winnin’ like Beatin’ a Dog” by Michael Vick. In this heartwarming tale of being a grownup with everything to lose, “Li’l Mikey Vick” is the star of his neighborhood’s touch football team, but then his li’l head gets a li’l too big. To celebrate their victory against another team, he tries to teach his puppy how to play football! Hilarity ensues when the poor little rascal can’t play by the rules, so Li’l Mikey has his pals mercilessly beat it with whatever happens to be nearby. This story is sure to be a football season “read it to me again” tradition for years to come!

“Goodness Gracious! What is that thing?!” by Lady Gaga. In this picture book by the famous singer, young readers have to figure out what the hidden image is on every page. Is that a Bull or a Cow hiding behind the haystack? Little detectives will spend hours poring over grainy pictures trying to figure out this, and other mysteries!

“I’ve got you covered! Just Kidding!” by Republican Congressional Members. This wonderful little flipbook is a fast paced look at healthcare reform for the little ones. Watch as a frail elderly woman stands on a rug with the words “health coverage” written on it, only to have it pulled out from under her. Kids will want to see it over and over again! This is a fun sequel to the classic "Hey, My Social Security Umbrella just Collapsed in a Rainstorm!"

“Here’s to Fiction!” by Tom Cruise. Lovable nutcase Tom Cruise tells the miraculous, and utterly believable, story of scientology to youngsters. Watch your children’s eyes light up with awe when you tell them that people’s souls were sent here billions of years ago by a galactic ruler, only to be stored in volcanoes for millennia before being let out to unleash misery upon humankind! This timeless tale comes with a play E-meter so the little ones can test each other, or even the plants in your garden. You’ll all be jumping on a couch after reading this one!

“Oops! It’s Li’l ‘Nam!” by Unkle Sam. Oh No! Looks like Unkle Sam is in another fine mess when he decides to fight two kids who live down the street because he thinks one of them threw a rock through his window, threatened his dad and killed his goldfish! The joke is on him though, because it was actually another kid who did it, but that kid gives his parents fuel for their “fun-mobile,” so he can’t get them mad! Looks like he can never get anything right, but he can’t back down so he just keeps going! That little guy is inspiration for everyone!

“My Guy in the Sky is Better than Your guy in the Sky!” featuring Li’l Israel. This timeless tale shows what happens when years of miscommunication result in some pretty serious problems. “Li’l Israel” decides that his neighbor, “Li’l Palestine,” is living on his land, even though Li’l Palestine was there first! Uh Oh, looks like a wall’s gonna go up! If only Li’l Berlin’s mistakes taught these little fuckers a things or two about civility.

“I can read a menu, and you’ll laugh” by Dane Cook. This is destined to be a classic! Legally retarded celebrity Dane Cook recounts every single detail in his day, using mainly capital letters and exclamation points! If you thought hearing about dry cleaning and ordering fast food wasn’t funny, you’re right, but he sure is loud and in your face!

“Ouch, That’s Hot!” by Megan Fox. Sexy actress Megan Fox proves how smart she is by publishing this book of real photos featuring hot or otherwise dangerous things that she touched to make sure people knew what they were talking about. See how surprised she looks when the radiator cap pops off and sends scalding water all over her! This book will certainly teach your kids what not to do, by following this leading lady’s example.

“How Many is Too Many?” By Nadya Suleman. Everybodies favorite media whore and mother of 14 teaches counting and responsibility to your little brood! This story about a little girl in a fantasy realm where responsibility doesn’t exist will have your kids saying “I wish the king would give me magical stamps for food so I can live with my retired mother and have a million babies,” just like the Princess Nadya does in this fairy tale. There’s also a great lesson about taking “magical herbs and spices” that can make the human body capable of doing things that it really shouldn’t do! This book also comes with 14 rubber balls that your little tikes can attempt to juggle, with often hilarious results!

(fiction) Yes... I'm not really sure what to make of this either.

The past few decades have seen amazing advances in medical technology and understanding. We have seen robotic limbs for amputees and artificial eyes for seeing impaired people. Scientists have created pills that allow men with severe penile impairment to achieve a lasting erection, and woman who cannot conceive are now somehow able to bear multiple children. With all of these accomplishments, one small section of the population has been left behind in this great leap into tomorrow, and they cannot be forgotten. They are, of course, people who lack the social skills required to communicate with other human beings.

lessons from a ghost

introduction: I wrote this story while taking a "creative nonfiction" writing class a few years ago. The assignment was to interview a friend. I thought it would be more interesting to completely make up the interview from scratch and see if i could pull off the realism. Apparently it worked. My teacher loved it. I was taking the class with one of my best friends who seemed just a little annoyed that I didn't find a "real" subject, and had my story presented by the teacher as an example of what he wanted. The subject was a real person who did indeed fall from a moving train and ended up living on the street, but the details are fictional. The city is real, but the walk with him is all fiction. There are a few parts that are not perfect, but I'm not editing it, just presenting it the way it was and still is.


_____________________
Lessons from a Ghost

I’ve known this kid Simon, a man now I suppose, since we were enrolled at the same high school. Enrolled because we attended sporadically, instead focusing on photography and music and the finer art of just hanging out. Looking back, I guess our friendship really only lasted a couple of months, if that, but felt longer in a high school sort of way.

He’s living on the streets now, and he says he’s hearing voices. He fell off of a train two years ago, and ended up bloody and stitched up in a hospital after some lady found him and dropped him in front of the ER doors. He says the voices started sometime last year. “They’re not like, solid voices telling to do things or anything,” he says to re-assure me, “They’re just, Voices with no source.” He tells me this and gets a panicky look in his eyes, like he’s afraid my opinion of him will change, but I keep listening and we continue walking.

I’ve met him downtown to walk around and see what his life is like for a profile I’m writing on him. I eventually have to abandon the profile at the last minute because I can’t find him for a second interview. We walk up to Northwest Portland, passing our old high school. It’s amazing the difference a little time can have on different lives: I’m going to college now, and Simon is living on the street.

We joke about a prostitute we used to call Tina Turner who turned tricks and smoked crack in the public bathroom outside our high school. We sit down on a bench in the park and smoke some cigarettes, talking about our lives. He tells me about his street family, and how much everyone takes care of each other. I tell him about school, what classes I’m taking, but I feel guilty, since he used to go to PSU also, dropping out when the voices grew too loud to concentrate.

He starts to speak, but stops abruptly and looks at the darkening sky. I notice for the first time that the lines surrounding his eyes are deep, almost etched into his pale skin. His eyes seem much hollower than I remember; dark circles that used to be a suggestion are now a statement. His pupils are tiny pinpricks of black against faded blue pools. I catch myself staring too long, and go back to smoking my cigarette.
He asks me if he can tell me something, something that’s been going on in his life. “Of course.” I tell him. “Okay, I’ve been doing a little bit of heroin. Not a lot, just enough to kind of dull the pain and quiet the voices.” He tells me this, quickly looks away, and then looks back, needing some kind of response.
I ask him how long, and he tells me a few months. Not long enough to get a habit, not that he has the money for one anyway. He tells me most of the kids on the street do it, tells me that it helps to pass the time and soften the edges of a life with an unknown future. He says it’s not what people tell you, it’s not as addictive, not as destructive as we’re taught about in school. “Sometimes it feels good to have a monkey on your back, you know? It gives you something to care about.”

I’m unsure of what reaction to have first. I want to tell him to just quit, get over it, move on, but what would he move on to? I want to ask him more about what it feels like, what it does. I tell him its okay; I tell him it’s not a big deal. I tell him if he needs any help or anyone to talk to that I’m here.
He seems relieved, and says that he needs to go pick some up from his dealer on Everett. He has the collected funds from a few other street kids, and they picked him to pick it up. I ask if I can come along, he uses my cell phone to call and ask if he can bring a friend, and we’re off.
It’s starting to rain a little, the kind of rain that coats the city in varying hues of grey and white. I feel like I’m walking with a ghost, floating upon the surface of the city but not really connecting with the ground. Simon has his head down, walking fast; the monkey’s holding his reins and driving him forward like he’s a race horse with blinders.

We get to the house, one that I passed hundreds of time when I used to walk downtown from high school. It’s strange thinking about all of the lives behind every one of the doors on this street, how many illegal things are going on, how many stories are behind the closed shutters. The door is set back from the street a few feet, enough that it seems anonymous and almost unmemorable were it not for the graffiti covering it’s surface. He uses my phone again, and the door opens to let us inside.
We’re standing in a basement, low lights and exposed beams. It’s amazingly clean, quite the opposite of the cinematic shooting gallery I had pictured. The guy who let us in asks me my name, and if I want to make any purchases. I tell him I’m just hanging out, I don’t need any today, and he seems fine with the answer. He takes us further back, and up some stairs into the main part of the house and again, I’m surprised by how comfortable the whole place is, with plants and a cat sharing space with simple couches and chairs.

Simon takes out a wad of one and five dollar bills, counts it twice, and hands it to the guy who let us in. The guy counts it again. “40. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He walks out of the room, returning a few minutes later to hand Simon his purchase. “You can set up in here, but you can only stay for a couple of minutes. We can’t have this place be a fucking junkie house, alright?” The guy says this in an amazingly pleasant way, he seems to understand some of the humor in what he is saying.
“You don’t have to watch.” Simon tells me, but I say that I’m interested, which gets a strange look from the guy as he walks out of the room. Simon takes out a dirty canvas bag and pulls out a syringe and a spoon. He tells me the needle is clean, he doesn’t want make a stupid choice a deadly one.
I used to work at the pharmacy up the street, where I sold needles to junkies all day long. I remember this girl came to the door just after we closed, wanting a needle, but the pharmacist wouldn’t let her in so I stole two of them to give to her when I left. I don’t want anyone to die from something they can prevent. I can’t imagine getting clean after years of using, feeling so alive and new, and then finding out you have Hepatitis or HIV.

Simon has finished cooking up his stuff in the spoon, and is pulling it into the syringe. He had to use a cigarette filter to strain out the particles. He tells me that if any solid pieces get into your vein it can kill you. “It’s like building a dam on a river, but your heart is the delta.”
He pulls up his sleeve, and I see for the first time that these short few months have left nasty looking bruises on his arms. His skin is translucent, probably from eating shit for months, and the blue veins seem like a road map. He puts a well worn necktie around his upper arm and watches as the vein balloons up with backed up blood. He flexes his hand a few times, to get the blood flowing more, feels around for a solid place to inject, and slowly slides the tip of the syringe under his pale skin. He pulls back on the stopper and the red blood mixes with the dirty brown of the heroin. He holds it there for a split second, almost as though he’s contemplating his decision, takes a deep breath, and slowly shoots the junk straight into his vein, straight to his heart.

Like most people, I’ve always been a little frightened by needles. I always had to look away when I was getting shots as a child, so keeping my focus on this single injection was a struggle for me. He loosened the tie to let the blood flow again, pulled out the needle and set it down beside him. “It sometime takes a little… Oh fuck.” He smiles. This is the smile of a child at their birthday party opening presents. The smile of an Olympian winning the gold, The smile that a man and woman share when they are married, the smile before their first kiss as Husband and Wife. His eyes become a strange combination of dullness and light, life and death intertwined.
He tells me that his head doesn’t hurt anymore, that the voices are only whispers. He opens his eyes wide with a clarity I haven’t seen in years and grabs my hand. “Brian, this is like being touched by the hand of god. It’s like kissing an angel. This is like the best orgasm you’ve ever had, but better. Please don’t ever, ever try it. Promise me.” The luster fades from his eyes, and his entire being seems to slow down. His life is here for now, slowed to a crawl in an opiate stupor. These hands that used to delicately hold a camera and play a guitar are now used to plead for spare change and stealthily conceal drugs for his new family. As I let myself out, I find myself dreaming that I’ll see Simon again someday, healthy and alive. I want to believe that I can help him through this so much, but it’s hard to bring down the sky with dreams, and I can’t try to save him.
I’m in the rain again, just another ghost against the grey dusk. I will live his life on paper, but never again will it be my own, even from a distance. These are the lessons I’ve learned from a ghost who I used to know.

they saw me. (FICTION______________ but I really did publish these)

a few years ago, i started putting fictional 'i saw u's' (for those of you who are not in portland, they are like "missed connections" or "chance encounters" or whatever your local free, alterna-weekly calls them) in the portland mercury. they were to no one but myself and who ever might read them. it's rather interesting trying to get a point, pointless as it may be, in 40 words or less... (that being said, I still think that Twitter is one of the most moronic concepts, even if the challenge to make it work coherently is tempting.)

sadly, i lost all but two of them.



THE THIRD COMING
Man, it's me, GOD. Jesus has been
trying to come back for a while now,
but it's rough on earth. He's been
aborted twice, and he's scared to
Come Again. sorry.


YOUR HEAD OR MINE?
Who is that gorgeous face atop that
perfect walk. I catch your eyes as you
turn to face me. I catch glimpses of you
peering out of windows, cars and puddles.
I wonder who you might be,
Oh wait, you're me.

Feral Cats are My Fave! (FELINE)

Language Barrier

There is really nothing quite as frustrating and entertaining as a language barrier between two people. It’s not something that the average person who stays close to home thinks about, but to a traveler it is an almost daily occurrence.

When I was 14 years old, my mother decided on a whim to move me to China with her and teach English at a university. Since I obviously know the English language better than someone who is not a native speaker, I was asked to teach at the middle school for the children of the university professors. I walked in with great ideas about how much I would enrich these kids’ lives. They would walk out of the classroom thanking the world for providing them with a teacher of my caliber!

Imagine my surprise when I walked into the classroom on the first day and realized that most of the kids knew English better than their teachers because they spent so much time memorizing Hollywood movies. They knew so many different phrases, yet couldn’t really grasp what each one meant in a complex way. They were using swear words without finesse, and I felt it was my duty as a 14 year old American kid to be a diplomat for my culture and provide knowledge from across the ocean.

“Teacher Brian, Teacher Brian! Are you talking to me, you shit bitching cock? Fucking you asshole!” One happy little knowledge seeker said, after politely raising his hand.

I smiled, and asked the teacher for the chalk and approached the chalk board. Now it may seem difficult for someone who is accustomed to speaking English and grew up with it, but it’s an unbelievably difficult language to explain in any meaningful way. With most languages, there is a base that may have changed only slightly over time, but is still reasonably stable. Latin obviously went on to create and shape many languages. Chinese, Japanese and Korean all came from the same root language, and have very specific linguistic rules. Russian was made up by Greek priests to bring some civilized order to Siberia. English, on the other hand, is a strange mixture of Latin, French and whatever else happened to be lying around. We have grammatical rules that are impenetrably stupid, and seem to change every few centuries.

Try to explain, if you will, the reason why “-ough” is different sounding in “Rough” and “Bought.” If you answered “I’m really not sure. It just does,” then you have some sense of how it was to teach English grammar and words to people who have a language not even slightly based in Latin.

“Students. You cannot just use profane words in any way you like.” I calmly explained. “There are rules and explanations that you have to take into account.”

I then showed them on the chalkboard what each word I could think of actually meant and how to correctly use it. There is really no way to express how exhilarating it is to be 14 years old, standing next to a real teacher facing a classroom full of students, and writing “You can be a bitch or a mother fucker, but you cannot be a fuck you” in foot tall letters on a chalkboard.

What the young people of today are up to... (FICTION)

Although not nearly as popular as body piercing, tattoos and various other forms of body modification, a new trend is slowly sprouting up across the country. Not technically legal in this, or many other countries, and certainly not in the least bit safe; the act of removing body parts to express yourself is what today’s most extreme young people are increasingly attracted to.
Unlike most fads that were inspired by functional or decorative traditions from other cultures, (i.e. piercing and tribal tattoos,) removal has absolutely no functional purpose. In fact, most cultures view the lack of an ear or a finger as something less than desirable. This is not the case in modern day America.

“I always felt too normal, even with my facial tattoos and after having the webbing between my fingers pierced,” says Kevin Derricks, a self employed aluminum recycling facilitator from Gresham, OR. “I needed some new way to show people how different and unusual I really am, and there’s nothing more bizarre than a guy missing both ring fingers.”

Young people like Mr. Derricks are flocking south of the border in attempts to receive what many in the American medical community refer to as “really not even a medical procedure. It’s more like a well timed accident involving some old tools and what the patient hopes are their chosen body parts.”

A man in Cuatro Dedos de Descuento, Mexico who claimed to be a doctor explained that, while it may not be safe to perform the operations, they “seem to make the American kids happy.” When asked for proof of his medical credentials, the man told us they were in his other pair of pants and that he would get back to us. He has not, as of the writing of this article, gotten back to us.

While the explosive growth of piercing and tattoos rose alongside the “alternative nation” movement in the early to mid 1990’s, many of today’s young people feel that simply getting something permanently etched into their skin or having a large piece of metal inserted somewhere on their person is not extreme enough.

“I mean, I look at my parents with their pseudo-tribal tattoos and forked tongues, and to me it’s just way too mainstream,” explains a young man who preferred we not use his real name. “First I had a bunch of wire running through my whole ear, and then I realized that pretty much everyone has piercings, so I had my ears taken off last year on a trip to La Falta de Orejas last summer.”

This seems to be a common sentiment. Today’s young people feel that what may have seemed dangerous and obscure to their parents is now so closely tied to the mainstream that it’s not worth attempting to be different unless it shatters all preconceived notions of beauty, sanitary living conditions and purpose.

Time will tell whether this new movement has staying power, or if it will vanish like so many other cultural movements that tried to break new ground. We can look back to the short lived trends of dying one’s skin unnatural colors, surgical fingernail removal and implanting breasts onto one’s back to see that some things don’t last. And maybe it’s for the better. The day when toe removal is offered as a service in your local Hot Topic might not end up being a very good day, especially not if you plan on walking the mall after your spontaneous decision costs you not only a lot of money, but also your ability to walk.