podcast I like

Phoning it in is a podcast where the host calls an artist and they play songs for him over the phone. It's pretty neat.

absent

I have completely neglected this blog and will try to begin posting again in the spirt in which the blog has begun. It will my my musings on my life or film or music or just whatever i fell like writing about.

I need to begin writing again anyway.

Mountians 1

Looming in the distance were sex, fear, excitement and the promise of self fulfillment. All carried by one looming, monolithic object. The mountain was vengeful, protecting, solitary, helpful, kind, mocking, tempting and many other adjectives I couldn't be bothered to recall. But there it was, sitting on the horizon hidden behind memory, smog or maybe just oxygen. Who the fuck cared? What mattered was that I was approaching it and everything it embodied with frightening speed and I wasn't sure how to prepare for it. But there wasn't really a way to prepare for any of this. Courage is.... blah blah blah....

... I'm not ready for any of this yet.

Possible short story

My younger sister lost her doll at once. It had been dark when we ran into the field to look for Bradley and we stumbled over many rocks. Once she realized she had dropped it in the night, the dog became of secondary priority. She began to wail and shake with such an insurmountable fury that my father was forced to call off the entire search in favor of returning the cabin to calm her with hot coco.

We returned, the three of us a broken party.

Hands

I've seen the way you move your hands. Loving, caring and with conviction. I've been astute these past few months and have noticed the tender care you exercise with your collectibles. You seem to remember a time when all your books were smaller, even though your library is now populated with first editions. What sort of calm serenity has led to the place you now call contentment?

Small Flight

I alone see the flight
The big ones, then smaller ones
See, even the ghosts are afraid.
They see the ships approaching the horizon
The others see nothing.
So I must be crazy, yes?
Ignorant of the coming slaughter,
My companions see no ships,
They have not yet the power to grasp them.
I feel the great pall of impending doom settling upon us.

Invisible demons dance exuberantly around the light posts.
Preparing,
Waiting,
Waiting.
Waiting for the call,
Waiting for the attack,
Waiting for their inevitable victory over our reason.

Yet defiantly we stand.
The great race.
The reasonable race.
A race so foolish we have called upon the grim reaper himself to attend our last stand.
In the dying moments of our civilization,
Again we see the tools once used to set in motion our final descent.

Portrait of a Drunk

“Is it obvious I’m drunk?”

Phil is a drinker. He enjoys his wines, he enjoys his imports, and of course, he enjoys his vodka.

“Man, I’m so not drunk! Let’s go home.”

Phil pulls out the keys to his old, beat up Honda accord. He stumbles for a moment and then seems to catch himself. His shaky hands reach for the door handle and try it. It needs to be unlocked, of course. He raised his thickly calloused hand to find the keyhole. Instead he finds the dent that he had put in it the previous weekend.

“Oh shit! Some fucker hit my car while I was in the goddamn bar!”

Phil forgets.

“Where is that fucking keyhole!”

Phil runs the key along the side of the car scratching the paint off. He finally finds the hole and turns the key. Wrong way. He tries again. Bingo. Phil opens the door and steps inside. On his seat is a birthday card for his best friend that was supposed to go out months ago. He ignores it and pulls closed the door.

The key manages to find it’s way into the ignition and Phil starts the car. Phil guns the engine not yet realizing he’s still in neutral. He looks down and shifts into gear. The car jolts to life and dies once more.

“Fucking Japanese cars. Always fucking stalling on you…”

Phil starts the car again and drives off.

By the time Phil arrives at his apartment, it’s just about two o’clock in the morning. He gets up to front door holding his last beer and his keys. He downs the beer quickly, belches, and then begins groping for the handle. His apartment is unlocked. It’s always unlocked; these circumstances tend to happen quite often. Once inside, after about two tries, he manages to get the lights on.

Stumbling in the newfound setting, he goes into his bedroom at the end of the hall and begins to pull off his clothing one article at a time. First his woolen cap from his grandmother, then his thick overcoat. He undoes his tie and unbuttons the first few buttons on his shirt, but loses interest and yanks the “lightly soiled” shirt off his head. Phil’s pants take a bit of difficulty. He tries to pull them off before he remembers that he’s wearing a belt. Off goes the belt, followed by the pants themselves.

He takes several steps and falls to the ground, his pants still draped around his legs. He begrudgingly flails his legs until he achieves his freedom. Sitting up on the ground, Phil decides to put himself in bed. He stands up, and falls flat on his bare mattress. Using his foot to find his comforter, he pulls it up over his legs, his body and finally his head. It’s been a long night for Phil. But he finally made it.