Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Bob Dylan's writing

From the inside cover of BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. Not just a musician and poet, but it is amazing how much new literature I am reading that seems to have the elements Dylan put into his inside cover pieces:

I'm standing there watching the parade/
feeling combination of sleepy john estes.
jayne mansfield. humphry bogart/morti-
mer snerd. murph the surf and so forth/
erotic hitchhiker wearing japanese
blanket. gets my attention by asking didn't
he see me at this hootenanny down in
puerto vallarta, mexico/i say no you must
be mistaken. i happen to be one of the
Supremes/then he rips off his blanket
an' suddenly becomes a middle-aged druggist.
up for district attorney. he starts scream-
ing at me you're the one. you're the one
that's been causing all them riots over in
vietnam. immediately turns t' a bunch of
people an' says if elected, he'll have me
electrocuted publicly on the next fourth
of july. i look around an' all these people
he's talking to are carrying blowtorches/
needless t' say, i split fast go back t' the
nice quiet country. am standing there writing
WHAAT? on my favorite wall when who should
pass by in a jet plane but my recording
engineer "i'm here t' pick up you and your
lastest works of art. do you need any help
with anything?''


my songs're written with the kettledrum
in mind/a touch of any anxious color. un-
mentionable. obvious. an' people perhaps
like a soft brazilian singer . . . i have
given up at making any attempt at perfection/
the fact that the white house is filled with
leaders that've never been t' the apollo
theater amazes me. why allen ginsberg was
not chosen t' read poetry at the inauguration
boggles my mind/if someone thinks norman
mailer is more important than hank williams
that's fine. i have no arguments an' i
never drink milk. i would rather model har-
monica holders than discuss aztec anthropology/
english literature. or history of the united
nations. i accept chaos. I am not sure whether
it accepts me. i know there're some people terrified
of the bomb. but there are other people terrified
t' be seen carrying a modern screen magazine.
experience teaches that silence terrifies people
the most . . . i am convinced that all souls have
some superior t' deal with/like the school
system, an invisible circle of which no one
can think without consulting someone/in the
face of this, responsibility/security, success
mean absolutely nothing. . . i would not want
t' be bach. mozart. tolstoy. joe hill. gertrude
stein or james dean/they are all dead. the
Great books've been written. the Great sayings
have all been said/I am about t' sketch You
a picture of what goes on around here some-
times. though I don't understand too well
myself what's really happening. i do know
that we're all gonna die someday an' that no
death has ever stopped the world. my poems
are written in a rhythm of unpoetic distortion/
divided by pierced ears. false eyelashes/sub-
tracted by people constantly torturing each
other. with a melodic purring line of descriptive
hollowness -- seen at times through dark sunglasses
an' other forms of psychic explosion. a song is
anything that can walk by itself/i am called
a songwriter. a poem is a naked person . . . some
people say that i am a poet

(end of pause)

an' so i answer my recording engineer
"yes. well i could use some help in getting
this wall in the plane"

-- By Bob Dylan

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

The Earth Died Screaming

This is the first paragraph or graphs of my second novel. I am still looking for a home for this piece. On the outside it reads like a novel, but it is the most symbolic fiction I have ever written. You would Start with these images to understand the motive or underlying story.

And this one:

The panting, the grunting, the labored animal breathing, a host mustered into a battle against an unknown enemy. The smell, the stench, the hot breath billowing out, streaking the flanks with wetness. The dust, the sand, the bloodshot eyes looking ahead into desolate desert plains. Mud cracked, trodden down, wizened-hard, hooves plodding along and kicking up dust behind us like a whirlwind rising.
            On our backs: the burden—a globe, the immensity filled with water. Forty eight legs buckling, yoked to the staggering weight, stricken by the load, but the mass rallies onward and further into the unknown. Upon the globe, slinks an old, worn, spoiled lion, ribs jutting out of skin, lungs that cannot marshal the strength to rise, flies hovering around the head, as if the meat were already carrion. From its vantage point, the lion’s tired and cynical eyes fall upon us in vexation and seem to say: “He’s coming! He’s coming!” The lion slouches back down exhausted, stricken and consumed. Behind us lies the genuine terror, a form arisen to shake terribly the earth, moves with the swiftness and force of mighty rushing waters.
            Up front, the lead ox bellows out: “Stay yourselves. Be not dismayed. Look not back. Move onwards.” We look back. In the distance, a speck, fast but far, is closing in on us at the colossal speed of a destroying storm. We turn our head away and keep moving with the mass, pretending we did not see what we know we saw. With twain the mass moves onward. Our burden begins to increase. The hook in the nose is pulled taut. The shoulder flesh is now rubbed raw and bone protrudes—the weight is too much to bear.
             The anemic lion attempts to lift its head once more but just grinds its face into the globe. We know what the lion’s tired eyes sought. We dare not glance behind us. We need not now. For in the backward distance we hear the dreaded cry, the carnivorous roar—the roaring of the sea, a roar causing both earth and things born of earth to tremble, to come undone.
            From up front the voice beckons once more: “Gird yourselves. Keep your eyes on us.” We disobey and glance back out of fear, out of reflex born of fear, out of reflex born of fear and preservation, for we are the rear oxen. We see a lion, full mane streaming gloriously in the wind, haunches, legs and paws stretching out in full gait, veering not on crooked paths but like massive wings it fills the breadth of our backward vision. Its  face like a flint, a mouth ready to lay waste anything it snatches hold of, and teeth glistening like a sword sharpened on the stone and ready for battle—all attributes of this terror designed with one thing in mind—destruction—and it is this we see closing in on us.
            We turn our head and keep running with the mass. A nameless terror takes hold of our legs, courses through our veins, causes our back to slouch lower beneath the burden. Our heart has failed us, and at such a time? We run on, dispirited, unable to shoulder the weight placed thereon. The group is now laden with our dead weight as well as the weight of the globe.
            The lion roars. Earth and bone tremble. We feel the blast of air against us like a devouring fire, feel the heat of breath as a constant flame. We turn again to see the beast that will devour us. It is now near enough to behold the gleam in the eyes. Our right hind leg slips as we fall into the only quagmire, the one possible snare the desert possesses. The ring is ripped from our nose, and the rattling chain slithers on like a snake with no head. The mass notices not that it has lost us.  Now forty-four legs trudge on towards the empty horizon. Forty-four legs shoulder the massive weight. Fallen and left behind, we try to get up but cannot move. Each attempt of escape deepens the hooves into the pool of soft mud and we continue to slip the way a drunken man staggers in his own vomit.
            The lion is closing fast. We hear its grunting, see its nostrils rampant exhalation, feel the vibration of earth as the paws drum upon the desert crust. The mass of oxen is beyond calling back to succor us. They have their own burden and our destiny is no longer enmeshed in theirs. We are helpless. Ensnared in mud and unable to move, we watch in horror as the lion, full of wrath and fierce anger, bounds towards us. We see the elasticity of muscle in its hind legs coil and then pull taut as it leaps forward to deliver the death blow. We see deep into the dark throat and hear the roar that deafens us. The final image passes over us soundless as we prepare for the blow, as we see the stretched out lion with its gaping jaw revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth about to immure and then crush our skull. We see its claws extended and ready to extract the lifeblood in rich effusion. So immense is this final image of the outstretched lion that it crowds out the sun. And just before it devours us, gross darkness covers the earth--

Monday, December 5, 2011

Carry that Weight

Boy, You’re going to Carry that Weight

The couple leaving my office is going through some marital problems. The wife, Sharon, is addicted to pain pills, and even though she is a stay at home mom, claims no one knows what it is like to be so bored.  The husband, Gary, is addicted to pornography and can’t seem to help himself. The fight started when Sharon found a stash of raunchy, not the classy brushed-up stuff, hard-core pornography—you know the kind—glory shots, assholes with dicks in them, barely eighteen, cum in the face, and on and on it could go, should go, maybe, until one found a point to be disgusted, but I find it takes too much to shock a person who is an addict into a state resembling remorse. Yes, I told Gary about the suffering he caused himself and his wife and his two boys, and I told him he would no longer be able to exercise his priesthood, might even be excommunicated, but bishops aren’t psychiatrists, and our solutions fall short with modern man because we deny the flesh and speak only spirit, even though we, bishops and psychologists, might find a middle ground where flesh and spirit collided. Instead, we mention good old-fashioned values and punishments—duty to God, to family, vows made to a wife in the temple, guilty conscience, pangs of hell, and all that stiff stuff, but the soul of man has ventured off the straight and narrow path and onto the crooked path of self discovery.  I heard one person blame Freud, another said the devil had revamped his program and made it more alluring, as if it wasn’t alluring enough already.

Thursday, December 1, 2011


My new story about turning into a weed is up at METAZEN

Note: at Mikealdixon.com, a whole history of tumbleweeds awaits.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Pushcart Nominee

Thanks to Untoward Magazine for selecting Percival as a Puscharter. HereI mean...Here

Also, for those who would like another look at Percival go here

Monday, November 28, 2011

New record


Friday, November 18, 2011


Written for Dogzplot only:

I’m not the biggest man on the planet. A buck thirty dripping wet, five foot eight inches with heels—biceps, triceps—I got them. I decided to be the first gay man, at least the first out-of-closest-queer to take up MMA and kick the living shit out of one of those steroid freaks that eat, drink and sleep manliness in like a protein shake, while yelling out every damn cocky phrase invented. You’ve seen the type (not me, of course. I’m an anomaly): hideous cut off shirts, a couple gaudy tattoos, and a chick whose face is a double bagger but whose fake breast look like the speed bag the freak practices with at the gym. He laughed when we touched gloves. He should have taken me serious. After dodging two of his jabs, I knocked him out with a left. I stood over him, and with eyelashes painted, glitter sprayed and lipstick on, as he came to, I told him, “you just got knocked the fuck out by a queer.”  Humiliated for life, but what made it the sweeter was his friends wouldn’t stop repeating my line, reminding him what type of person knocked his ass out.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Chasing the Dragon

Elimae passed on this one: I like it though, so here it is.

Chasing the Dragon

Yin and Yang fought so hard for space that the white and black could not be told apart, a limited, melded grey circle accelerated at such speeds that it would be impossible to estimate ad unguem factus the rate to which they reached. The circle began to burn a hole in the earth and plow through eras, eons:
Paleo/Precam/Hadean, and hit the center streaming, impossible to gauge which half of the circle won before it burned up.

Ouroborus is an impossible dish to serve at even the most expensive restaurants. Chefs called in from all over the world studied the problem as it circled, tail in mouth on the stainless steel table. We wouldn’t know where to stop or stop, they told the owner.
Don’t you mean start or stop.
It would be impossible to know the beginning from the end, a brazen Indian chef, known for his curry dishes, added.

Todd told Mark that since life is infinite, or the life after life is infinite, a dialectic nightmare so to speak and when put in terms of casual conversation, there is only one choice not two. Suicide is a far cry from ending life. The choice to live is all we have, and dialectically speaking, isn’t a choice but a negation of choice, something forced not spoon-fed us from a Gerber God. Free will is a device the devil made up. Nothing is ever free. Choices consist of more than “pleasure principles,” biological functions, consciousness and unconsciousness; they stem from more than regurgitated nerves and instincts of those Neanderthals. I’m confused said Mark. Did you choose to be? Todd asked.

The chicken and the egg existed at the same time. Due to Catholic and doltish thoughts for about one thousand years, some agreed that if ex nihilo were an actual possibility in the chain of possibilities then the point is mooted. I watched the shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave with my mate Sartre and he preferred staring at the wall. Said THE WALL made life more interesting than trying to measure the distance between the wall and the light outside. He then said the outside light consisted of nothing. Interstices, my boy. Anytime you get a chance to put the word interstices in your writing, do it. The blank spaces between each word are more significant than some of the words.

ApoetinNewOrleans,Ibelievehewasbornthere,feltchronologicaleventsoccuredsorapidlythatnosuchthingAschronologyexistedandallhumanscoulddo,thembeingsuperiorthanotherappendagesofnature,wastryfrommomenttomomenttopiecetogetherwhathappendandimmediacyandrecollectionwerenodifferentbecauseneitherreallyexistedifyoucouldn’tprovethatoneexisted.HeshothimselfbeforeandIemphasizetheinsignificanceofthewordbefore,hefinishedhisfinaltheorem.ItstillirksmethatJOHNKENNEDYTOOLEwonthePulizerafterhisdeath,orwasitbeforehisdeath,deathbeingbutasleep.Marcel Proust had padded walls and a wonderful memory.

My girlfriend told me she had the “sickness unto death.” Which of the two is it? I asked her, concerned. The first kind. Symptoms include the wish to negate existence, utter annihilation. Well that is a relief, I said. I suffer the second, and reprieve is like that guy in KOLYMA TALES who chopped off his hand so he wouldn’t have to work anymore, and when that didn’t work, he lodged his head so tight between two limbs that he hung himself. One of my greatest tasks in life is to get more people to read that book or Solzhenitsyn’s. What’s this about? I asked her. The used needle had been thrown away, but the spoon with the ring of evaporation and brown burn sat on the bathroom counter. Her arms had a few new bruises. I can’t seem to get a good high anymore. That sucks, I told her. What are you going to do?
Kill myself. Will you kill yourself with me?
I can’t, I told her. She asked me why. Because I suffer the second “sickness” not the first.
Well I refuse to chase the dragon the rest of my life. I’m going to overdose.
Please don’t. It won’t end your suffering.
I don’t believe in hell. I guess I’ll know what it is if I get there.
You are already there, my girl. There is no need to kill yourself.
One of us is right and one of us is wrong, she told me. I told her it was probably both.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

3 poems found, resurfaced, raw

Not my favorite genre. That's why I experiment with it from time to time.

Pondering Vishnu

…and now the dreamt dream dreams, and sons carry fathers on their backs. Still the rock needs defining, and the hypnotic water reflects deeper yearnings than the sturdiest of minds. The arithmetic of soaring doves, the pattern of a pinecone expresses perfection finer than a² + b² = c².
            The supreme soul, all pervading, let the eye in heaven expound, let the blue clouds communicate their comprehension, and distill the dew of familiarity over the quiet earth. Clap shut the books, abandon the cramped classrooms, and teachers drop the chalk. Let the dream still be dreamt the way it always has, supinely, two eyes staring into the vastness of heaven and wondering what it all means.

“Things that are Beautiful”

Paper thin clouds coruscating slivers of red veins on an apricot sunset
Groves of yellow aspen seizure with light from an autumn breeze
White glacial escarpments nose dive into chilled Arctic blue
Fields of green clover blanket the humpbacked land
Pitch black sky accentuates astral eyes of light
Gray pockmarks cover Luna’s cheeks
Rows of white crosses
 Descend from the sky
Wild horses hoofs’ drum desert stone
Ocean Waves shatter along myriad shores
Line upon line of arrayed tulips rainbow the ground
Mountain streams converge then plummet into deep pools
Resonant songs of morning birds usher in the bright new day
A fly tangled in a cobweb bounces and awakens the sleeping spider

…I watch as she performs the task of folding the towels in exact squares, creasing them with conciseness, stacking them in rows of symmetrical perfection. I watch all this and I know I am caught in a trouble that is beyond repair. 

“Waiting for Fall”

A lone man in the garden must ponder everything—give a name to everything—even to a nameless shape that twists inside—the shadow that clouds the mind.
My family tree is deciduous.
Its leaves must fall to the ground
—blanket the earth with the impotent,
discarded carcasses
—good for nothing but crackling under the feet of little children and leaving bare the thing that breathed life into them.
But leaves do not drop until the fall.
The children must wait.

Monday, November 14, 2011

What Science and college can do to a writer

The first page of a paper. Someone shoot scientist for believing they can't use the word "I"

Squarrose Knapweed:
Impacts on Utah Rangelands and Methods of Control

Squarrose knapweed (Centaurea squarrosa, Centaurea virgata) is an invasive perennial weed impacting many areas of rangeland in Utah. Squarrose knapweed (Cs) is problematic due to its competitive nature, which reduces native grasses, shrubs and forbs that are so imperative for wildlife and livestock. Squarrose Knapweed’s invasiveness can be qualified by its ability to thrive in shallow, dry soils, survive harsh climates, relatively high fire tolerance, successful seed dispersal methods, the ability to remain as a rosette for years in unfavorable conditions and its capacity to take over large areas of once healthy rangelands or exposed, disturbed areas. To effectively control the spreading of squarrose, a variety of methods must be employed. In order to successfully control the spread of squarrose, a potential management plan must integrate biological, chemical, cultural and mechanical control, attacking the satellite populations first and working inbound toward the main infestations.
In order to understand the problem squarrose presents rangeland managers, and to distinguish common characteristic of squarrose, the weed must be examined in modest detail. The Weeds of the West, now in its ninth edition, is the authoritative standard for basic information. Paraphrasing from that book general information as follows can be gathered. From the Asteraceae family, squarrose, a native to the eastern Mediterranean area, is a taprooted, long-lived perennial with heights reaching 12-18 inches. To distinguish squarrose from other knapweeds, it is important to note that the flower heads are pink and relatively small, holding three to four seeds. The seed heads are deciduous and fall from the stem after seed maturation. Bract tips, the most distinguishable feature of squarrose from other knapweeds, are recurved, and the terminal spine is longer than the lateral spine on each bract (Whitson, et al., 2006).  A lengthy paraphrase, but important in its detail of just how squarrose differs from othe knapweeds and how it functions as a weed. In figure one, a close up of a squarrose knapweed head, listed at the end of the paper, though not comparing it to the other knapweeds, it reveals the distinctive recurved or bent bract singular to squarrose. Once spotted, especially in a native scene, these bracts can be the easiest way to tell squarrose apart.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

New Experiment

I am very loyal in my submissions. I love elimae, so I thought I would try an experiment. They respond within seven days, so if my piece, "Chasing the Dragon," doesn't make the cut, I will post it here for my fans to read, but my hope is to get it published, post a link to elimae, and mark the exact time it takes from submission(November 12. 3:00 pm Mountain Time) to response. I hope to encourage other magazines and zines to be as effective. I hate the one year wait. Lately, if it makes it six months, I withdraw my work and just post it. I know others say, the longer, the better chance you have, but I see in my mind the work just getting overlooked for some reason.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

nada, nada, nada,

James McMurtry, John Prine, Leonard Cohen, Waylon Jennings, and some Hank III loaded on the Itunes DJ and the roomie headed to the liquor store to buy the cheapest vodka we can pay for. Need to bust out a short story within the five minutes he will be gone:

They say the devil is in the details, but I have yet to find a "v" or it would be true,. Now the word DEI, or god is found in details but as to all my fidgeting with the scrabble board, the closest I can get is deil, there is a v somewhere lost, maybe sunk underground or floated up to the heavens. But, until details is spelled "devtails," don't tell me the devil is in it. He's back early.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

My music Recommendation: Does Recommend really have two "m"s?

I used Arcade Fire's line from the song Neighborhood #1 Tunnels, and came up with a story titled FOR YEARS HE CAUGHT HER TEARS IN A CUP. Pank, and Roxane Gay, graciously accepted the piece, and Roxane even edited the long story for me (I love her). In the aftermath, a new Swiss publication called Novembre asked if they could run the story in their next issue. I said yes, and am super excited to have a piece translated. So, for Arcade Fire's help, I am posting the video to the song that started my thought process for my work. The video rocks.

Watch and learn

Friday, November 4, 2011

Latest Recommendations

Gould's Book of Fish
Sixty Stories
Einstein's Dream

All older book, but rereading can be so enlightening.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

An old old one from the John Driscoll Files

John’s Will
He analyzed the precepts of renowned philosophers: Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, and he was able to plumb the psychological depths of subjects few dare venture into. He was well versed in poetry and could recite the diverse canons of the greats ranging from Shakespeare to Milton, Blake to Stevens. If necessary, he could even pen his own heartfelt sonnets of sublimity. He had studied the physical and life sciences, and one minute he could rehearse on the formation of the earth or the vast expanses of space, and the laws pertaining to both. The next minute he would explain how a plant grows or how a cell splits. He knew art, its movements, its theories, its aesthetic. He had spent countless hours scrutinizing theology and fathoming the world of faith and God. He had spent night after night in humble prayer, attuning himself to the subtle and soft sounds directing the unseen circles twirling and twisting in melody through all facets of life. In a phrase: he knew himself, and he knew his place in the cosmos, and he knew beyond a doubt, of all the unseen sensations, love was the reigning force—stronger than hatred, mightier than hunger.
John Driscoll set off with love as his guide and goal. He was to meet Rose in about twenty minutes. He would ask for her hand in marriage. Everything had been calculated. Through his keen ability to reason, he had not only influenced Rose, but he believed he had convinced her that the two of them were to be together. He proved this through postulations and equations, through explications and derivations, all of which made no sense to Rose, but, nonetheless, could not be refuted.  Above all else, he had keyed her in on the bond—the most powerful bond—of love, existing between the two. “Simple mathematics. Basic physics,” John would explain. “And two hearts beat together as one.”
John did not know mathematics and physics were topics Rose detested. Theorems and equations functioned on an abstract plane, and Rose liked things to be more concrete. She was enamored by the physical not the metaphysical.  Having a mother who married a short man, Rose was taught at an early age how height and good looks were more important than anything else, even love.
And so, when all five foot four inches of John, guided by love’s subtle whisper, by its melodious urging, slunk down to one knee and asked for Rose’s hand, she did not see the submissive act as one of time honored tradition or of servility.  Rose only saw the monstrosity of a compressed man, and that of a man who even raised to full stature still seemed too small for her taste. Without thinking twice, Rose declined his offer and wondered how someone could be so misguided as to think just because she liked to listen to his suave elocution she would love him. 
John, too, wondered how he could have been so misguided. Did he get his spiritual antennae crossed? Wasn’t he listening to the omniscient melody that twists and turns throughout his life? Did love with its perfect knowledge strike on the strings of his heart as a joke? John went home with a dark nebulous of depression and anger hanging over his mind. Gone was his earlier notion that a presence, a melody, an actual magnanimous being somehow guided his life. How quick things fall apart, thought John. He tried to grasp what had happened. His acute sense of reason came up with the following list to mull over:  First, no amount of philosophy could help him fathom what had happened—he had entered the realm of emotion, and emotion did not follow ratiocination.  Second, the suffering was unfathomable; there were not words to describe it. Third, if he had prepared his whole life for this moment, and had been guided on by a force exceeding human comprehension, and, in essence, been rejected by the very force, or if the rejection had come by the object the force had led him to, no cognizant higher power could exist. No God would be so cruel to its subjects. This world was as absurd as well-learned men had for centuries proclaimed.
John thought about the shotgun he kept tucked under his bed. His emotions: the physical, mental, and spiritual strain from the past forty-eight hours, were too much for a rational being to bear. John tried to calm down by telling himself Rose was wrong and she would come around. This buoyed him up for a few days. It took John hours to fall asleep each night, and upon waking the burden he bore returned to him, but even so, he still had a thread of hope. “If she comes around, I will be sorry I have ended my life prematurely. If she does not come around, perhaps, I will be so far removed from the moment that the present pain will have already subsided.” John went on with his life. Weighed down, depressed, the shell of the man he once was, John tried to embrace the absurdity.
Two years later, the wedding invitation arrived in the mail. Two years is a long time to recover, but John had not yet learned how to deal with unrequited love. He had hoped some other woman would come along and efface the old image. It had not happened. Distraught, John took the wedding invitation in his right hand, and walked down to his room, counting each step as he went to divert his mind. When he got to his room, he took out a pencil and wrote the words “John’s Will” on the blank-white back of the wedding invitation. John pulled the shotgun, a Remington 870 Express his father bought him for Christmas, out from under the bed, put the barrel in his mouth and felt the cold steel and taste of rust. John contorted his knee and put his toe as near to the trigger as he could get it. He did not like the idea of using his toe to pull the trigger. He envisioned the act as an ignoble deed of self reviling self—almost like a dog chasing after its own tail, only with harsher repercussions. John turned to his “invitation-will” and was about to write something down when he began to go over his entire situation one last time.
 For John, existential thought presented a truth beyond refutation when it asked the question: What did I do to deserve this? Resoundingly, the same answer echoed in his head: nothing. If no choice was required to initiate such vindictiveness, then life was not based upon the theory of action/reaction, but solely reaction. A life of reaction is the forfeiture of free will because reaction is instinctual, only action is a pre-conceived thought which must then be consciously manifested through motion—The Word made Flesh, or the thought turned into the deed. John made a list of what made his life so unfathomable. With a shaky hand, John wrote the number one down and then the following:
John’s Will (title already written)
1. I did not choose to love Rose. It did not come of volition but through random      circumstances.
John had dropped a class due to a schedule conflict, and the only other open class was the one Rose happened to be in. She happened to be in the class because she had not fulfilled a diversity credit, and this was the last remaining class in the allotted time period.  John did not select Rose as his study partner; they were assigned to each other by the professor. John did not choose to find Rose attractive, and he did not choose for his heart to palpitate in excess whenever they got close, or when she laughed, or when she touched his hand obviously accidental.
2. Once within the situation, there is no clear way out of the labyrinth.
John did not choose the emotional situation he found himself in, but now that he was within it, he could not control nor understand what was taking place. He did not know why Rose did not choose him. He did not know her refusal was based on something so petty but real as his small stature. He did not know why nothing made sense. Nor why, try as he might, he could not find a way out? He only knew forces beyond his capacity of comprehension had been set in motion. 
3. The absurdity of the entire situation is causing the pain.
If he could move on, the situation would be over, but constantly in his head was the reminder of his loss, and the inability to prove his love to Rose. He would not have the chance to move on. His whole life of training had come down to a miscue.
            John set the pencil down and looked at the shotgun for a moment. Trying to muster up the strength to work out his thought to its end, he remembered people who claim suicide is the most courageous act one can commit. John started over again.
With existentialists, the absurdity of life, its meaninglessness and its endless labyrinth, was not something chosen, nor could a person do anything about it. John tried to differentiate between his life’s circumstances and the general existentialists. He began by asking himself the question of why—why was the outcome of his unrequited love such an absurdity? 
John came up with two possibilities. The first has been glossed over: Life is a riddle that makes no sense, and the absurdity verifies life in an existential world as unfathomable. The second reason started to make more sense to John. Absurdity was proof the trial—and John took to this word “trial” as if it were predisposed—John was currently undergoing was mandated by a higher power. With any other trial besides the one that came upon John, he would have been both prepared for and able to handle it. The trial which came upon him was the only possibility that would have squashed his current philosophies, his rationalization, and force him, if he be willing, to create a new self. Only against odds impossible to fathom must one abandon his own reason and seek a higher power. John remembered the old scripture his grandfather would quote: “Neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD.”
That life confronts us with absurdity then is what John termed “the call.” It is the critical moment when we are forced to go one of two ways. It awakens us to the stupidity of the world we live in and requires us to confront it. When someone is called, the common reaction is one of two choices: reject or accept it. It is not surprising most will reject “the call” and view it and the life that follows thereafter as simple absurdity impossible to overcome. However, if someone is to accept “the call” and trudge through something so absurd, something that does not make sense, the person chooses to do so of his own free will, and such a decision requires complete faith and humility and the abandonment of the human convention of reason if the soul is to overcome it and not get lost in the world’s conundrum. Thus, the person who perseveres amidst the absurdity is both called and “chosen”—another word John subconsciously produced.
But absurdity, thought John, was an existential invention not a religious one. Religion would claim all things serve a purpose and are divined by the God of this earth. John’s thoughts remained still for a moment. He had reached an impasse. John began to think about the trial of Christ. Wasn’t it absurd? he thought to himself. John began to measure the irony involved in Christ’s trial.  He began by pondering the topic of innocence. How ironic, thought John, the innocent Christ, who had just left the garden of Gethsemane where he paid for the sins of all the world, including those who had come to profess his guilt and arrest him, was betrayed by a kiss from one of his own disciples. Then John thought about the trumped-up charges and the illegal trial? According to Jewish law, no less than seventeen laws had been broken that night, including: No person may be tried at night. John thought about how the witnesses’ stories did not corroborate Christ’s guilt, but certified his innocence and added to the absurdity of the entire night. Then John’s mind started racing as it thought about the ignoble circumstances surrounding Christ. John remembered how Pilate’s superstitious wife had a dream warning her not to harm Christ, and how Pilate, a heathen, a gentile, found no guilt in Christ, and how the chosen people did not recognize The Christ, and set free Barabbas, a known insurrectionist and robber, in his stead, and how Christ was hung among two common criminals, and as if all of this was not enough; John remembered that while Christ hung from the cross in agony, and at the very moment Christ needed His Father most, His Father withdrew His spirit from Him, leaving Christ all alone to die in the cruel. absurd world.
Then John uttered these words in poetic and affected soliloquy: although Adam’s expulsion from the garden may have ushered in the absurdity of life, Christ’s crucifixion was the apogee of all absurdity. The existential plea: “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me? attests to the complete absurdity of that moment. But the plea was not followed by a further denouncement of life’s aloneness. It was followed with the reconciliatory, “Father, into Thy hands I commend My spirit.” Christ, left alone to die in an absurd world, under absurd circumstances, saw through the labyrinth by Himself, and when He was “called” upon to die so that all might live, He “chose” to accept the call and lay down his life.
John could not take any more. He could not stop thinking about the trial and subsequent death. If ever, he thought, there was a time absurdity reigned supreme on this world, it was then. And if Christ had to deal with the existential world on his own, if His life afforded Him no respite from it, how could John’s? That absurdity exists, and fills our lives, is nothing more than the affirmation God has left us alone to wander through the maze the world without his influence heeded, consists of. 
John tore up the wedding invitation he had used to write down his will.  He threw it away and chose, that very moment, to never think about Rose again. He chose to face life, to face the cruelty, the absurdity, the burden. John tucked the gun back under his bed, and weighted down as never before, he ran upstairs and outside and let the existential wind smack him square in the round face.