A Thousand New Tomorrows

Can you feel the turning, the grinding of the gears at the core of this realm. The earth is shifting once again, pushing us into the new dawn through its temporal womb.

Or, it's Sunday, and tomorrow's Monday. However you wish to see it.

Woes of a Bodybuilder

I thought I was over this, but apparently not. I've been bodybuilding, seriously, for the last three years. The results are significant, and honestly, I'm in the best shape of my life. But, I'm a bit over six feet, weighing three-hundred pounds when everyone tells me I don't look it, that I look more like I'm two-hundred and fifty, twwo-seventy-five, give or take. I'm nowhere near what I would like to be, but that's why I work out, to get there.

No matter where I go, even at the gym, people can't help but stare. I go for coffee, people are looking, I'm working out at the gym, and I can see tension in the eyes of other guys, but for what reason - I'm clueless. I just keep my headphones on, mind my business, and follow proper weight room etiquette. My friend, Kevin, who is much more massive and muscular than I am experiences the same awkward moments, as I'm sure do others in our situation. But, we have only ourselves to blame. We work out because we love it. We love the pain, the gain, and everything else that comes with it, except the gawking, but that's just something we deal with in our own way.

Ragmop GN

Currently reading the Ragmop GN by Rob Walton. Interesting dish, covering about every era that has ever existed on the planet.

This is the kind of book that could only be written in current day America, though how long what little freedom Americans still possess remains is very speculative at this point. I'm pretty sure the majority of U.S. citizens are unaware that Habeus Corpus is no longer existant.

If Walton had written this book four or more decades ago, he would have been arrested, deemed a communist, and secretly executed on pay television in front of a British audience. He goes that far, and I commend him. He doesn't leave any of his political, religious, or idealistic views to be guessed - he bares them out for all to comprehend be it through talking dinosaurs, couch potato angels, and trucker gods.

It's a Chuck Jones cartoon punched and beaten into Orwellian picture pages. I fear for my life by just reading this sort of book. Plus, Walton has created the first heroine in nearly ten years that I've developed a crush on - - Thrill Kitten. She takes no shit, and can dish out a mean mule kick to a man's junk. Plus, his rendition of the pope has a mean pimp-slapping backhand.

Snowed In

Here we are, Christmas Day, celebrating the birth of Christ, even though he wasn't even born today. That's how special he is.

What are we doing today? Today - - is a work day. I'm re-writing a book completed almost two years ago. I was shifting through its pages, and realized, this book reads like a wrote it two years ago. It was horrible. I'm trying to re-complete it, and I have less than two weeks to do it. Plus, I have a stack of books that require reading because once the semester returns, I'm back in the classroom, both teaching and studying.

Why am I typing this then. I think only about two people will read it. Go away.

No Direction No Limits

In Baton Rouge I was Handy, who worked odd jobs around the city. In San Marcos I was Jessie, walking around, bouncing in clubs, being Jessie. In Cyenne, Wisconsin I was Glenn, a top paid bartender who'd never taking a mixing class in his life. In New York I was Chisel, breaking bones for people with loose pockets and loose lips.
In Fresno I was Sal, the surfing hippy that disappeared when the waves stopped coming.

Back home, I was born, and I told them all that I would disappear. Not a bad life.

Holiday

Lydle never knew flesh could feel so good, so elustrious, and never fading from his fingertips. The snow outside wasn't the last thing on his mind. The tree of lights just didn't occupy the same importance as usual. History was divided in two, and no one could mediate because everyone had picked a side. It wasn't black and white, no, it bled right into charcoal gray, and when the ashes fell, it was the earth that kept them, used them, and there he was Lydle, breathing them again.

There's a holiday for you.

Rapture Street

No one comes out at night. I'm in my front yard, staring at the park across the street, dark, no lights at all, and I keep expecting rotting corpses to be walking in the shadows of trees. It doesn't help that there is a funeral home right beside it.

At night, the street is barren. I'm looking down the road, no one about, nothing alive. It should be cool, but the damn humidity has obliterated any chance of us ever expecting any semblance of a winter. It has snowed two times in just under 110 years. It's agonizing, but it's home.

I Never Did.

I would never have believed that wasing up on the shore of Canada, naked, and still with money could lead to prosperity.

Again.

Sometimes you want to give in. There are mornings when you try to do good, do something for yourself, for the ones around you, and another rock is thrown in the road, only this rock was the last thing protecting the world from an avalanche.

I think about my death everyday. Now I'm just waiting to see what happens.

Zen Spectator

It's strange watching the two empty houses in front of mine just sit there, unkept, unlived, empty, and waiting for warmth of human bodies. The pain peels and depression sets in. The roof loses the will to lift the sky, and the kitchen is thinner and thinner everyday.

The yards are the only things alive in the house. Yes, in the house, but outside there are flowers still blooming, and grass still growing. They're waiting, but I don't think for people to occupy the load on the yards' back. It think they're waiting for the seasons to change so that they can go dormant, take a break from the outside world for awhile.

back to watching Beerfest.

Pleased To Meet You, Ms. Grant

I have no idea where this came from.

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

Ms. Grant fought to keep the loneliness from taking her some place where she didn’t really want to end up. She had spent enough time by her husband Dean’s side that she figured she had earned the extra space on the bed. The last thing she needed was to wind up right next to him in their burial plot mere months after his passing.

The pancettas were clearing the way nicely for the roses to take top spot in the garden. This was her life now, and nothing else came close to it, not cooking, baking, pottery, painting, none of it stood up to the wonder of growing living beings that could potentially grow up to be some of the most beautiful things ever sprouted from planet earth.

A rumble from up on high shook Ms. Grant, as if it wasn’t just a message for the town that it was going to rain, but it was a message for her that it was going to rain, and to protect her blossoming children of the green. Ms. Grant pursued her digging for the moment, but another rumble thrashed the clouds around and gray swept across the sky, almost pouring from a cup of space and stars. The gray convinced Ms. Grant to stop and call it an afternoon. She placed all of her tools in the garage, cleaned up, and made some tea.

The window invited her for a show. She sat on the chair left to her by her grandmother nearly fifty years ago. It was a comfortable old thing, red velvet with gold rhinestones outlining the entire frame. Ms. Grant went to great lengths to ensure that the chair would last her just as long as it did her grandmother. That time was almost here, but she chose not to think about it.

It was amusing to see how Ms. Grant could ignore the inevitability of death, seeing as how it rang her phone nearly every day. Before Dean passed away, a friend of theirs, Geena Halloway was introduced to the six foot drop, and after that Dean’s good friend Hector Gacias came down with pneumonia. Had he been younger or healthier, his chances of surviving would have increased, but because of his old chain smoking habits, and a kidney that spent its last ten years hanging by a limb courtesy of decades of alcohol abuse, his life wasn’t meant to be extended.

Everyday, it was as if Ms. Grant was losing people. She still thanked the almighty for keeping her daughters safe, and marrying quality men, and for producing the greatest grandchildren in the world. Now if only they’d stay away from her garden whenever they visited.

Despite living alone, Ms. Grant never felt like the house was empty. The days would go on, her television programs would show, and the news continued to be depressing. She stopped watching it regularly shortly after Dean’s funeral. Occasionally she would tune in, watch a few minutes of it, but it was always too much for her; too much violence, destruction, sadism, all of it - - too much. Watching the news made her appreciate the small community she lived in. New York, Los Angeles, Detroit, all those large urban areas, always with their gangs and their gun fights, police abusing their authority, priests enacting and unforgivable sin, sometimes right within the house of God himself. It disgusted her, nearly to the point of tears, but she was stronger than that. Being married to an ex-marine, and the daughter of a coal miner, made her not only tough, but patient as well.

You're No Fun When You Sleep

It's the end of the world because Kirk Douglas said so. I've been saying it for nearly a decade, science has been proving it for longer than that. The world is warming, the waves ar growing, and the ground is being raped, and all I can think about is how much miss the cartoon "Exosquad."

The theme song, I can't recall for the breath off a burning kitty (never mind --found itover here.) but it was much more intelligent than any average Saturday or weekday five-thrity, six in the morning animated program. It was highly political, characters died, characters that the writers and performers had made you care about.

I was thirteen or fifteen back then. What the hell did I know? I want it on dvd.

At this moment Earth is rubbing its plates together, recycling the core at its center through spewing lava out of volcanos. Beautiful when you think about it. It's still a part of our doom, but at least our end will be glorious and colorful.

Oh, it will be utterly blique, decimated, and decayed by the time we're through, but the reaping, the cleansing, the annihilation that will commence will blind us by its brilliance.

Flesh On Wednesday

There's a charming sonic boom crushing all of the wildlife outside. The tank treads are tearing up the streets, I'm sure, and tomorrow, I'll awaken to a crowded city, police and firetrucks flashing along, doing those waving motions with their arms and blocking every good chance there is to make a turn.

There are days when you have to let the enemy have one - and ONLY one. If you don't compromise with the thing that is blocking the air, then you will not know what it takes to tear it apart from within. Getting inside the heads of some people, it makes you yourself wonder how far you can go with this life. You experience so much in a short time span, it's honestly - - it is honestly what I think warp drive feels like.

I will shed skin straight through to my skull to get what I want right now. Sometimes, it is the flesh that is the obstacle.

Electoral Text

I've come to realize people do not vote because there's no physical response, no action oriented response according the voters decision.

American Idol: people sing
Last Comic Standing: you see people abuse television

...and those are the only two I can think of, I'm sure there's more, but I'm not that depressed.

My solution for future Presidential elections securing larger voter turnout, and full endorsement by the public.

The two candidates each pick three sports, those that are capable of being conducted in a one-on-one contest - basketball, tennis, etc. at least three will be necessary, but if there are more, even better.

The candidates have chosen the three or more sports. The public is allowed too choose, through internet, which should be accessible to all phones by the time this type of action comes along, if the election sports event is to be decided by one sport, or more sports, single elimination, or two out of three.

People don't need to go out of their homes, and they have something to look forward to on television later on. They can purchase their alcohol, do their drugs, drive their fast cars on the way to the booze and pills.

I was anticipated more bloodshed, but I can't find it.

Drug Chug

I miss drugs. Not true. I miss weed. I did alot in my youth, slowed down in my teens, and early twenties. Now, it's just a whiff here, or a friendly breeze there.

But again, if I were on drugs as much as I'd like to be, I'd miss the absolutely ludicrious things I observe while being sober. I'd miss the amazing reflections one can see while looking into the saliva bubbles that babies make. I only stumble across beaten bums, and not dead ones with syringes sticking out of their eye sockets.

There's a fast lane on my left hand side at all times. I never noticed it before because I was always on it. Once I swerved to the right, I began to noticing the sunrise, and the solitary confinement it takes away as the night disappears, like a vast gorgeous dome being lifted, welcoming in the rays of something brand new as they are emitted from something that's been around for billions of years.

I've been laying off the science lately. I need to get back on track.