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Jun. 20th, 2012 | 05:16 pm

Observation: People who give you grief about smoking do not give two fucks when you quit. The only people who care are those who never made it an issue in the first place.

I imagine this carries over into any other bad habits such as an unhealthy diet.

The next time I feel compelled to suggest that someone curb a habit I will take a hard look at whether I actually care or just want to feel superior.

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Apr. 8th, 2012 | 03:30 am

I remember slipping from the chair and into the face of the mountain where the wind was bright and breath shallow. Everything here was blue and white and fell away not in increments but immediacy. Right there was suspended in a stillness that still echoes like a sunspot, sliding away just as I reach to touch it.

The chill was crisp and whole there. Beyond a sense of cold into a tangible else, so full as to be indescernible from heat.

I remember little else but contrast, sun and shadow in a duel of sharp edges and slopes, or the silence cut fine against an empty sky. If I have ever been alive it was then, turning to face the drop with an incadescent fear, and falling without restraint.

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I hearts and flowers Neil Gaiman

Dec. 22nd, 2011 | 05:48 pm

Nicholas Was…

Older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter.

He wanted to die.

The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue; conducted incomprehensible rituals when they were not actually working in the factories.

Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen in time.

He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

(The wonderful Mr. Gaiman once sent this as a Christmas card. I felt it needed to be shared because fuck this year)

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An Old Cliche

Sep. 26th, 2011 | 09:55 pm
music: The Toadies' "Tyler" as sung by Tori Amos, a capella, in a tiny midwestern bar.

I believe there is still greatness in the world and, regardless of its lack in me, I am privleged to be one of the fallible billions who are occasionally graced by its presence.

I have found a new interest in heroes - not those whose actions are benevolent or kind or selfless, but enormous of intention and effect.

I have realized in this interest a distinct emptiness of character that is my greatest flaw. I remember many years ago someone I cared about was warned that I did not know who I was and I remember railing against the thought vehemently. Over the last fifteen years I have come to realize the absolute truth of it and to realize that it was this truth that so unnerved me.

I do not write because I have nothing to say. I do not draw because I have nothing to show.

I reflect what is around me. Like the moon (an old cliche), when I shine it is not my own light.

This leaves me foolish and untempered by personal will. This is not of my choosing yet of my own design.

As I get older, all I want to do is go back and shake myself awake at some critical moment so that I might go forward with my senses intact. I am aware that I am not alone in this - I don't believe I have ever had an original thought or feeling. But there is only the getting older and the meaningless continuation. I am a poorly realized character in a poorly written play.

The good news is that I am not done. How could I be if I never started?

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Aug. 21st, 2011 | 06:25 pm

I consider it a good example of the affect that a chemical imbalance can have on the brain, a sudden rush that obliterates sense with false hope and missplaced trust (or confidence - two sides, same coin).

In the end, the original assumption is proven true.

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The New Hope Project

Jul. 11th, 2011 | 09:08 am

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Attempting to Suspend My Disbelief

Apr. 26th, 2011 | 01:54 pm

My apologies for being so quiet lately. I tend to write when I am either bored, unhappy, comfortable or truly inspired and I have been none of those things.

The past month has been a range of experiences, from the fantastic to the crushing. I have been attempting to settle in, but I still feel out of place. I feel like a guest, or a haunting.

Eventually, things will calm down and even out. I will be able to stretch out and feel at home. I have some concepts for music that I want to work on and the kernel of an idea for a long-form story (I hesitate to use the word "novel") which I would like to explore. Before any of that can happen I need to get my confidence back. I need to find my footing.

This transition has been jarring, confusing, difficult, and wonderful - everything I expected.

I just need time. Time and a hug. Time, a hug, and an almost fanatical devotion to the ooooooooo...

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Mar. 28th, 2011 | 08:33 pm

You know those times when you think, "If I could just do ______ then everything would be great"?

Is that ever true?

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On The Ferry

Mar. 25th, 2011 | 08:49 pm

Time spent afraid is time wasted. The most important question is not what might go wrong, but what could be missed.

I have been filled with anxiety for the last few weeks, inundated constantly with questions that haven't been asked. I am not unused to uncertainty - altering the path of my life has always been a fluid potential and I have never had any illusions - and yet the low murmur arose regardless and would not be supressed.

It's gone now. As I drove, the anxiety peeled away. Mile after mile and hour after hour I drove with the oddly delightful tinkle of bells accompanying bumps and turns in the road, a phantom jester celebrating my goodbye from some shadowy corner of my backseat.

As I sit on the ferry I have time to think and I feel distinctly serene. Perhaps it is a sort of gallows calm, that weightless sense of portent that preceeds truly epic calamity. I am not concerned.

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Mar. 22nd, 2011 | 06:39 pm

Reading through some old work of mine. It's all so terrible.

I did find a few phrases embedded in an awful poem that I actually quite enjoy:

"I would like to look upon your crazy sanctuary with my eyes intact
and slide my hands inside your chamber doors
perhaps to play upon that haloed altar
and twist my face into your dreams."

If that didn't get me laid, it should have.

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