Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Thoughts on Dark and Light:

Night, a far cry from daylight thoughts, descends an hour earlier. Like an enervated prayer where the ceiling of the room blocks the pleading from reaching heaven, from becoming revelation. In a sunny room, the same prayer as if from a desert sky would reach the heavens without impediment. This is what one is up against when daylight savings occurs. Books of alchemy say that darkness existed before the light. I find this supposition hard to believe. If matter, or the matter within ourselves is eternal, and created or animated by light, we must have always existed as light, for nothing is created, only formed. Darkness exists only as a place where the light has yet to penetrate. If I am to believe in darkness first and light second, I persist that Satan existed before Christ, and Christ disrupts or disturbs the cosmic congruency of eternity. If light did not always exist then darkness holds the keys to eternal mystery and light is but a poor newborn lock on the mystic door to the unknown. For some reason, this thought seems to throw my mind into a tossing sea and sets me off-balance. 

Robert Fludd, Utriusque Cosmi, 1617-1621.
Robert Fludd, Utriusque Cosmi, 1617-1621.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

No Quarter

This is a short story that didn't get published at the two places I submitted it

No Quarter

But it wasn’t them. It was You.

Yes, I did it, and for the act I take partial responsibility. It could have been any of us.

But it wasn’t any of you. It was You. You alone are responsible.

I understand. I understand, but something you aren’t considering is if it hadn’t been me, it would have been another. Quite a significant fact if you really take it into account. I won’t allow anymore of this finger pointing, this blaming, this incessant child-like chiding. Aren’t you my wife? Doesn’t the ring around your finger signify better or for worse? Though this might be a ‘for worse’ scenario, you should be on my side when the levee breaks.

After the fact, my being absent, washing the children’s clothes at the river when all this took place, might warrant my taking sides, but there are no sides to take. One either does something or doesn’t do something, and you did something, and that something makes you guilty.

So you side with the sympathizers. You will send me to the dogs and not even stand by my side.

That word again—side. I am not on any side. And I would never leave you. I would never even hold this conversation outside of these walls, but I will not like the stares implicating you, through me, of guilt, next day I go to the market or when I walk the children to school.

So this is humanity? Others, present others, I should add, brothers in guilt can just go home after the incident and wash their hands and pronounce themselves clean. If a man judges you or I, it is because his own guilty conscience wishes to rid itself of the burden of guilt all present should feel. They use me as a scapegoat.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Stymie Magazine was kind enough to publish an old story of mine on fishing. Follow the link here

Thursday, August 23, 2012

New cover to Night On The Invisible Sun is now available.

Follow linkhere

Monday, March 12, 2012

Half-Wolf, Half-Lmab, an Ordinary Man

Half-wolf—Half-lamb, an Ordinary Man

The I and I, the me, understand, the WE of the mind, volunteered without habdabs, for the advancement of a non-brimborian scientific theory, for a simple, albeit, simple is a word that should never be used without qualification, ulterior motives lurk in every nook and cranny of simplicity, experiment, no zoopery understand you,  in which, the anafractuous brain would be divulsed, by a small laser, down to the submaxillary triangle, and fitted with two metal plates that would disallow the left and right side of the brain and face from conversing with each other—a derodidymus, a two headed, halved, human brain  and face of a monster, if you will. The We, you see, committed itself to separating innocence from guilt. And, We, supposing innocence to be a right brain function and guilt a left; however we are not sure, we only believe that right and left can be used in such a manner supposing the left to belong to the class: artiste, and the right to belong to the class: communis. The We, it must be understood, wishes to halt what can only be looked upon as a contruding of thoughts when the two halves are wholed. Halved, the We can now be reconstructed with hopes of a bilocular brain, being able to isolate a thought to this side or that side as We deem necessary.  We now begin our nyctophoniac conversation with one another as We lie in bed. Tomorrow, the surgeon, along with a team of scientist looking in, will suture the face and brain back together, and the scientists will conduct their own expiscation of our minds.
                  Is that an exordium fit for your style? I ask of the simple I on the other side of the metal plates.
                  It is bombastic to the maximum, but yes, it fits the criteria I laid out for the complex and guilty I on the other side of the two metal plates.

                  Good, now We can continue our conversation from a moment ago. Let me pick up the fantabulous thread where We left it. The simple I was saying that innocence must be separated and singled out for it to have meaning in and of itself; otherwise, it tends to the demersal and is overlooked by high and horizon looking thought, or as the simple I put it: It is convoluted by guilt and other human attributes owing origin to convoluted thinking. It is most beatific when standing alone. But says the complex I, and understand my rationale to be the more firm of the two that makes the We, a lamb without a wolf is still but a lamb, we have simply removed the fence and the shepherd and gained nothing.
We have done more than this. By separating guilt from innocence, the burden is lifted off of our shoulders and we now can breathe more easily, and we can now illustrate than innocence exists on its own. It does not need the useless guilt that humans carry with them.
Ha, says the complex I, We, have isolated the innocent I, and separated it from guilt, but what is innocence without guilt? Do we not need a Guilt and Innocent standard of measurement for the one or other to have first an axiopisty, and second an dimension greater than non or plane. What, pray tell, does innocence gain on its own?
A judgment devoid of guilt, a reign free of hypocrisy and self-incrimination, and a carefree existence. The complex I cannot understand any of these things to be sure.
First of all, a judgment without the option of guilt is no judgment at all: It is Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, the complex I protests. Second, hypocrisy and self incrimination must be possible for one to feel the joys of not adhering to them, and a carefree existence is a nullibist state of being for the soul to exist needs pairs of opposites.
God is all good and all knowing and enjoys a carefree existence.
God, first of all has an opposite, and I, the complex I, the rational I, I must admit, or would argue that God does not live a carefree existence but carries the most weight in upholding the universe and all that is, besides it’s opposite; therefore, God knows the weight of existence like none other having held it up from the start. This unbearable existence is why the innocent I turned itself over to the communal in the first place, is it not? It had to be judged by something it deemed unworthy of itself.
The simple I views this as a mistake of being, and wishes to return to innocence alone. We can live without the wolf. As a matter of fact, I feel fine without the complex I.
The complex I can only consider the mistake of neotony the simple I is given over to, and must wrench from the simple I the example of the HE that bore it all, the Exemplary HE who bore the sins of others to call the simple I to the moment when His innocence was sullied by dirty hands and when He let the judgment, first of the world then of his Father, who He forsook when overcome in His innocence to the standard of guilt all of the I’s in the world had been judged by, and when He felt the sting of Judgment issued forth His exclamatory “Father, The Innocent I of Heaven, why have you let Me be sullied by sin. Was it not in his expiation that the HE took HIS INNOCENCE and offered it up as ransom for the Guilt that HE had never been privy to feel? Did not even the HE for us all need to feel the opposite before He could understand the innocence of the moment being yielded up as just payment?
The simple I must admit that the universal He did offer up innocence as payment. The simple I is falling asleep now and does not wish to wake. But the simple I wishes to make known to the complex I that the universal HE understood HE would be forsaken and left to deal with guilt alone. The HE, like the simple I, is never prepared for such a moment and it will always take us by surprise and cause us to exclaim our forsakenness. The virgin understands this even when she gives up her virginity to a worthy suitor. She feels dirtied. The universal HE and the Father of all I’s have been reconciled, just as the virgin will be when she realizes she has done nothing wrong and forsakenness is the price of true innocence.
Sleep if the simple I must. The complex I looks forward to morning. Ha, innocence without guilt. How utterly ridiculous; however, if the gimmaces of innocence could be removed from the guilty, that is guilt with no innocence, then I might do as I accord with no punishment, for judgment is a multitudinous account of the human record not singular, and without innocence staking claim on acts, there can be no judgment for the complex I.
Get over here quick, the surgeon yelled at the scientists.
What is it? they exclaimed as all examines the face of the patient.
It appears the halves have fused somehow back together during the night. I cannot pry the metal apart for the life of me.
Shall we laser it apart again? one scientist asked.
Wait, said another. Let us see how much the fusing has cohered the actual thought process of the patient. Let me try asking him a phrase or two, if necessary. 
They stirred the patient and he opened his eyes. One eye pointed left and the other right. Can you see my finger?  the scientist asked as he waved it in front of the eyes. 
We can, the voice responded in different tones.
Good. What do you think of when I say to you a green pasture full of lambs.
Mutton. Lambchops. Savior. The voice said all three with the same tone.
I believe We might need another subject, the scientist said as he looked up at the group, perplexed.
There were no other volunteers.

Sunday, February 5, 2012


Fourth novel: never unveiled any of it:

13 Seats

Death, grim and hollow-eyed, was the first to arrive, ahead of schedule as usual. He received the forwarded letter while paying a patron a visit in old Mesopotamia and immediately flew to Paris, hailed a cab to his small flat, entering only long enough to pack a carry-on, returned to the cab, circled back to the airport then bid adieu to the old world from out his window seat and prepared for the long journey to America by striking up a conversation with the decrepit and dying old man sitting next to him. Upon arrival at the designated back alley entrance, and with some reluctance, he checked his scythe at the door but refused to disrobe of his black cloak, cryptically proclaiming, “It does not leave my shoulders until another time and another place.” He entered the room with the hood drooping over his dark and cavernous eye sockets, hiding his prominent forehead, and with both hands in his hidden pockets. He walked up to the round table and withdrew the letter, the tattered edge exposed where he ran his bony finger to open it. He placed the letter on the table then withdrew from his other pocket, two dice carved out of pelvic bone, with numbers ranging from one to six etched in red roman numerals on each die, rolling the bones upon the granite top. Satisfied when the dice terminated their roll on twelve, he pulled back a chair, remarking on its heaviness, sat down, put the dice back in his hidden pocket then kicked his feet up onto the granite edge while scrutinizing the room.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Question to my Listeners

Why when we touch a wire do we remember the room and the wires? Why when eat food that made us feel sick do we remember the food and even the time of day, but not the color of our shirt?


Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Soil You Stand On

The Soil You Stand On

The condition of the construction and destruction of originals leave nothing more than carbon copies for the mind to ruminate. Yet, archeologists dig, unearth earthen pots and tell us that here, under our very feet, perhaps rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the sewer water once moved a nation of sedulous, archaic culture, settled into the lacustrine soil and washed over the Great Basin by alluvial fans in sediments.
I told the tour guide of the Middle East, while I held a pebble formed from feldspar and quartz, that this particular pebble had been used to kill Goliath. “Preposterous,” he said in his heavy accent. “That pebble could not still exist. The wind would have turned it to sand by now.”
“Maybe it had been relocated and kept as a relic of what the earth can do to a man, and now, after a time, has reappeared.”
“Things don’t reappear,” he scoffed and continued telling the lummox of tourist about the landscape.

In my home town the shibboleth story goes that if you happen or purposefully find yourself in the cemetery on 18th Street, and you drive, you have to be in a car for this to work, even superstitions have their governance, around the statue of Harry Crowning, born 1818, died 1840 in a gun fight, his head will follow you. My mother said her mother told her the story, and back then, his head really did follow you. Some drunk kids claim the same thing. Perhaps the head only follows those who believe, like the devout who see Mary in a stain. “If you look hard enough, with the eyes of discernment, you will see and you will believe,” a man of the cloth told me. “Faith sees things that the common eye misses.”
We bought a Mitsubishi van when we lived in Germany. Our tour stops consisted of my dad pulling over and beating one of four boys for not shutting up when our mother told us she had had enough. One time we stopped at Dauchau. Dauchau, held in proper onerous for all time, for being the first concentration camp on German soil, happened or happens to have been built on the very ground of an abandoned munitions factory. “Does history prepare itself for future events, or do past events rise out of the very walls atrocities were committed in?” A valid question my history teacher asked us after being struck by a feeling of disproportionate melancholy after she visited Civil War battlegrounds.
We walked the grounds, entered the barrack-looking buildings, saw the shower heads of death, people ovens, black and white pictures of what took place then we walked to an enormous pit where we were told the dead bodies were thrown. We didn’t say a word during the tour, nor after. Not until an hour’s worth of distance stood between us and that place did my mom ask if anyone needed to stop to use the bathroom. We held it in. I have heard that the pit, by some macabre occult feat of nature, continues to deepen by four inches per year. Time and pressure factor into nearly everything, including the making of diamonds and the decay of life.
In folklore, and this is my folklore, the ancients of Northern America, used to perform a ritual not unlike that of Robinson Jeffers’ poem, “The Torch-Bearers’ Race.” A flame of charcoal, contained within a wicker structure of thinned willows covered and blessed by a fire retardant, of what it contained no one knows, remained on a pole at the center of all camps, whether the camp moved or dwelled in the same area, the pole remained. It had been passed down, that from the beginning a lightning strike created the first light, and out of the crack, man and woman were created. The first order of business man and woman conducted consisted of containing the fire. They placed it in a pit and fed the flame until they had somewhere to take it. Once man multiplied, first man and first woman taught tribes about the flame and helped them construct their torches. The folklore does not specify whys and hows, but only that the flame must not go out. Since that time, bearers have carried the flame through the land, never seen by day, only at night, and lit the torch of the next tribe, so that upon waking, the next tribe must choose the runner who will continue the tradition. What it portends? I don’t know my own folklore, only that history never stops because the flame no longer lights the torch of this or that tribe.
An old man told me that we did not pick where to build modern civilization. He said, “We simply inhabit the same areas tribes waited for the flame. If you want to see the flame these days,” he continued, “go out to where no light reaches you, turn around and try to find a city. If you have gone out far enough you won’t see any light, but you will learn something brutal, horrifying but enlightening, and then you will run on.”
Under South American’s feet, stratified charcoal dates back to Pre-Columbian times.
It’s as if the fossil in me speaks these words to a future generation: You shall never annul me. One day, I shall be the soil beneath your feet, underneath the foundation of your modern house. When you look out your modern windows and see that old sunset, know, I support you, as those before supported me.

I wrote this for Precipitate: an interesting journal that is tackling the space/time/ continuum in a way very different than that of Proust's memory.