See-Ya Blogger.

I have moved to Tumblr.  I find their ways to be more intuitive.  It seems a bit more futury.  I've been here for 5 years and it hasn't changed much.  I still find it frustrating to type in the "text-editor".  So off to Tumblr, I go, which also has some nice mobile applications.

www.imagesfromthefuzz.tumblr.com

You, the only reader of this blog, please visit me at my new location!

Time Traveler Continues Search for Utopian Future.

Act one was the introduction.

Act two was the part where boring shit happened.

Act three is the end, that was not announced.

Uneventful years accelerate to great velocities and
are documented by digital cameras with fast shutters
that somehow never fully capture the moment.
The images are encoded onto moving hard disks,
or unmoving solid flash storage.
They are not tangible like physical objects.
Over time, the awareness of their existence diminishes.
Like a drunken memory.
The ritual of fun forgotten.

A thought

I think I might have started working at the saddest place on earth.

A thought stream.

It is the month of April and I am about to sleep.  The future is uncertain and bleak which is fine.  At least it is uncertain. I participated in an instant message conversation. The other participant asked if I had any film ideas stored somewhere in my head.  I replied, "I am no longer a filmmaker." I am no longer that person and I am not better. I spent an hour browsing profiles of past acquaintances on facebook to compare their lives to my own. I guess I was really just looking for someone who was a real fuck up. So I could tell myself; See? You are not that person! Now that person. That is a REAL fuck up. I met an old out-of-town-now-living-in-ny friend at the local library. It was an awkward reunion. I am sensing that my old friends don't think much about me. I don't really blame them. I wish there was a way I could tell them that the charade is no longer needed. These days, I am thinking more about the idea of an afterlife. It would be nice if it was a bar and the year was 2000. It is silly. I don't necessarily believe in a fantasy realm of positive vibes and good times. I know I am nothing more than a brain executing a program. But if I know that, then why am I constantly having mental conversations with God? Why me? I ask. Why do I exist in a place where nothing happens. At this place there is no left or right.  Just a persistent halt. I watched my nephew's little league baseball game. It was a windy fifty degrees outside. The kids were more interested in shivering than playing. My other nephew turned 18. I am getting old. I would be more at peace if I knew heaven was a bar and the year was 2000 and the music was from the nineties. I despise the city that I live in for being the city that I grew up in. When I look at other cars on the highway, all I see are people that I might have went to school with, who might be laughing at me. All the time. Like they have nothing better to do with their time than to constantly think about me and laugh. I had dreams as a kid and those dreams are just as close to becoming a reality now as they were then. In the end, all that really matters is that something tangible existed at some point in time. I am not crazy. Hopelessly broken, maybe. Is it too late to pursue a dream? Are these artificial boundaries made real by the clock of mortality?

Catalogue Entry for a Dream

Glory Glory Hallelujah!
Sang the King,
in the city of hotels
by the sea.
Glory Glory Hallelujah!
Sang the King,
as he walked by an old lady
who smoked a cigarette
outside of a welcoming tavern.
Glory Glory Hallelujah!
Sang the King,
as he looked down at overcast skies
in the reflections of the sea.

There ends the land.
There ends his journey.

The Desert Dungeon

It's been one week.  I've counted the days by observing the cyclic appearance of a spot of light on the otherwise dark basement floor. It traces the arc of the sun through the sky. I could make a damned sundial if I traced its path.

My captors locked me inside this basement, entombed behind an ancient metal door, apparently to be entombed. The United State's government does not negotiate with terrorists. I guess they got the message. Before they had just thought the United States were jokesters. In this quasi-christian nation, I suppose not personally executing me offered a chance of redemption, somewhere for someone at some point. I really mean, I hope it was a religious decision.  Otherwise, they are just assholes.

I use a rock to bang on the door, whenever I think I hear someone on the outside. My paranoia has convinced me that everyone in this country is a terrorist.  Not completely sure that there is not an unspoken agreement that whoever is put in this basement, stays in this basement. Or maybe I have it all wrong. There are good people out there. Including my captors. Them, leaving me here, was an attempt to release me. Their plans foiled by the lack of ears to hear my banging and the lack of my banging due to hunger.

If they had wanted to release me then I'd have been released.

I am hungry. This hunger amongst the rancid smell of my own feces is sick, how can I be hungry? When the heat of the day rises to its apex the flies, shit, and humidity combine into the most rotten of soups. I'd puke if there was something in my stomach.

In these last days of my life I am surrounded by my own filth, with an empty stomach, an empty soul, cursing the heavens for making me human when I would have been better suited as an animal.  If an afterlife exists, I'd rather not bring this memory with me. If an afterlife doesn't exist. Even better.

My Online-Dating Questionnaire.

The best or worst lie I've ever told

I don't have a lie story. Because I don't lie. Come on iMatchHarmonyDNA, I am not falling for that one.

The last thing that made me laugh out loud
was watching the movie "National Lampoon's Vacation" when I was 5 yrs old.  I have not laughed since.

If I was given a million dollars
I would spend it.

Five items I can't live without
my mac, my ipod, my car, my tv, and my oxygen tank.

Fill in the blank: _____ is sexy; _____ is sexier.
me fully clothed is sexy; you naked is sexier.

Favorite on-screen sex scene
Like a sex scene that is so intense one can't help but masturbate?  That's just weird. Not the masturbating but the "having a favorite sex scene".

Activities I'd enjoy on a date
Dinner and a movie. Maybe a quiet bar where we could have a conversation. Then afterwards, if you are in to it, smoking crack.

5 albums I can't live without
I can live without albums.

My most unusual or impressive skill
is my ability to fall from great heights with just breaking my bones and nothing else.  Also I could tell you the square root of any number below 64 with the aid of a calculator.  Just give me five minutes.

In my bedroom one will find...
not a dead body.

In my refrigerator one will find...
not a dead body.

25 years from now, I see myself
as a brain surgeon, rocket scientist, or astronaut.

Meat. (Cupcake phase II)

Mike was behind the wheel of his 92 Taurus.  How did he get there?  He did not know.  How did his car come to a rest in a ditch on the side of a country road?  He was unsure.  The night's sky was brightening.  In the distance a girl was crying.

"Hello?", Mike yelled through his broken windshield into the unknown.  "Are you okay?"

Was she okay?  He was unsure if he was okay.  All parts seemed to be working except his head.

"Have I been drinking?" he thought to himself as he unbuckled his seatbelt.  He fell against his door due to the 45 degree incline of his car.  He crawled out through the passenger side.  The girl was still crying.  He stared off into a harvested wheat field.  It was dark.

"Where are you?  Do you need help?"

There was no reply.

Mike grabbed his emergency flashlight from his glove box and shined it towards the direction of the girl.  He could not see her beyond the illuminated small shards of wheat emerging from the dirt like teeth.  "I am coming towards you."

Mike walked about 100 yards before he stopped to get his bearings.  The girl sounded like she was in the direction in which he walked, but she must be somewhere else.  The crying was consistent.  The voice made Mike unsure of the age.  All he could tell was that she was young.

"Are you hurt?  Why are you crying?"

The distant trees rustled in a gust of wind.  Mike glanced around.  "Maybe she is over there." he thought trying to convince himself.  He sniffled mucus back towards his nose which he wiped onto his sleeve.  Blood.  He pinched his nose and started walking in a new direction.

He did not make it far when the crying stopped.  "Fuck.  Are you alright?"  he yelled, hoping she was okay.

The wind rustled the trees.  The sky was getting brighter.  He could make out the landscape a little through the dim blue ambient light.  For a moment he watched the stillness of the field.

"Mister, why are you bleeding?"  came the voice of a little girl in front of him.

"Why were you crying?  What are you doing here?" he replied.

"I asked first!"  she retorted

"I crashed my car over there."  Mike said pointing his flashlight towards the direction of his car.  "Now what are you doing out here."

"Mike."

"Yes?  Wait, how did you know my name?"

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Yes, I can wiggle my toes."

"Good.  The let me see it."

"I would have to take off my shoes to show you."

"But your shoes are already off Mike."

Mike glanced at his feet.  He was barefoot.  "Well okay, here you go."  Mike wiggled his toes.

"Good.  No obvious spinal injuries.  Mike I am Dr. Weizmann, you are at St. Mary's hospital."

The trees rustled in the wind.

"Mister?  Are you okay?" asked the little girl.

"I don't know.  Where is your family, I will take you there."

"I don't have a family but I have a house!  You want to see?"

"Okay, take me there."

The house was not a far walk from the field.  It was an old two story farmhouse.  A crow cawed while stood on a straw scarecrow.  Next to the scarecrow was a stone well.  And behind that there was a barn.

"Are you coming in?"  asked the girl standing in front of the entrance to the house.

"Yes.  Is this a relative's house?"

"No, I don't have family.  I stay with Stan."

"Oh, you stay with Stan.  Is there a phone inside."

"Yep."

Mike walked into the house where inside the walls were wallpapered with a floral pattern.  Down a long hall the kitchen had it's lights on.

"The phone is down there."

"Okay.  Is Stan awake?"

"Stan is always awake."

"How is Stan always awake?"

"I don't know."

"Is Stan here?"

"He is upstairs."  she said, gesturing towards the stairway near the entrance to the door. "Do you want to meet him?"

"Sure.  I'd like to talk to him after I make a phone call.  Do you want to tell him I am here?"

"No.  That's okay, he already knows you are here."

"How's that?"

"He was looking through the window."

"But of course."  Mike said a little irritated with the ambiguous language of the small child.  He made his way to the kitchen which was surprisingly tidy.  It looked much like a typical kitchen from the 1950s.

"They don't make them like this anymore.", Mike thought to himself while picking up the phone.  He paused for a moment thinking of a number he wanted to dial.  He did not want to dial 911, it was not an emergency.  He dialed the operator instead.

"Operator." replied a tinny voice.

"Yes.  Can you connect me to the police?"

"What listing?"

"I don't know, hold on."  Mike looked down the hall where the little girl was playing with a doll.

"Hey."

The girl looked up.

"Where are we?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

Mike got back onto the phone.  "Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry.  I don't know where I am.  Could you just track my number or something?"

"Yes I can but that would be an extra fee.  Do you consent?"

"Yes."

"Okay.  I am connecting you with the police department right now."

The phone rang several times before it picked up.  "Dispatch." replied a man on the other end.

"Yes.  I was in a car wreck on…." he looked down the hall at the girl once again.  Covering the receiver with his hand as he asked her what road was it.  She shrugged her shoulders.

Returning to the phone he said "I don't know what road I am on."

"See any street signs Mike?"

"No I didn't.  How do you know my name?"

"Mike? I am going to make a hole in your head."

"What?  What for?"

"To relieve the intra-cranial pressure.  Your brain is swelling, I need to drill a hole in order to relieve it."

"Then by all means doc drill away." Mike said.

"Mister?" asked the little girl tugging on his shirt.  Mike was on a couch watching TV.  On the screen was cop drama, with a man talking on a phone.  Mike turned his attention away.

"What is it?"

"I have a name you know."

"Do you?  What's your name?"

"Melissa."

"Nice to meet you Melissa.  I am Mike.  Is Stan okay with me staying here?"

"Stan is happy to have guests over."

"Tell Stan I will be out of here soon." Mike returned his attention to the the TV.  He flipped through the channels.  Stopping on a program which showed real operations.  A group of surgeons were drilling into a man's skull.  The camera cut away to a waiting room where the patient's family waited with worried looks on their faces.

"I can't believe these people let themselves be filmed in this situation."  Mike thought to himself.  "Why am I even watching this show?"  Mike flipped the channel.  There was a horror movie playing.

"What's the name of this film?"

Melissa shrugged her shoulders.

"I think I started this film before and never finished it."

On the screen, it was night and a man walked with his flashlight through a field that was shrouded in a low lying mist.  Every little noise he heard, he flashed his light, which looked great in the mist, towards its direction.

"Hello?" blared the tiny television speakers.  The man backed into a tall figure.  He slowly turned around and was shocked as he pointed his light at a huge wrinkled man in overalls.

Run!  Mike thought in the back of his head.  Run you stupid idiot!

"Wh, who, who are you?" asked the protagonist in a stutter.

"I am Stan." said the old man in a grizzled voice.

"St, st., Stan?  Wh Wh What are you doing here?"

"What are YOU doing here?"

"I was lo lo looking for my girl."

"She is not here.  This is my property." said Stan.  The unnamed protagonist glanced at Stan's hands which held a shotgun.

"If she is not here, then I guess… I guess I'll be on my way."

"What's the rush?"  said Stan.

"It's just,", the protagonist gestured towards the shotgun.

"This?  I have this because, you could never be too sure."

"Of course," said the protagonist looking around.  "Even out here?"

Nodding his head, Stan replied, "Even out here.  I got a phone back at my place, if you need the call the police, they could help you find your girl."

"That would be great."

This seems all too convenient?  thought Mike with a knowing smile.  He leaned back in his seat.  Glancing out the window behind him for the police to arrive.  He returned his attention back to the program where the protagonist had just hung up the phone.

"What's wrong?" asked Stan after seeing a perplexed look on the man's face.

"They're not answering."

"That's normal, this ain't New York city.  Try again in an hour." said Stan reassuringly.  "Care for something to eat?"  Stan produced a steak.

The protagonist grabbed a piece and bit into it.  "This is great!  Is this farm grown?"

"No it's imported.  You are making me hungry now."  Stan opened the fridge.  The protagonist watched Stan reach in and grab a plate.  He could see all kinds of meat inside.  When Stan turned around the protagonist adverted his attention back to his steak.  With a plop, a ring landed next to his plate.  The protagonist picked it up and stared at it intently.

"Where did you get this?  This is Melissa's ring!" yelled the protagonist at Stan who just looked at him with a smug look on his face.

"Where is she?  Where is Melissa?" screamed the protagonist, his desperation pulling his fragile composure apart.

"You are eating her!" replied Stan, with a matter of fact tone.

The protagonist looked at the plate.  The camera cut to the plate.  The camera cut to Stan.  Cut to the protagonist's reaction.

The horror.

"The horror" said Mike aloud in frustration while turning off the television.  "I wondered why I never finished that movie, now I know."  He looked out the window.

"Where are they?"

He glanced at his watch.  The hour hand was stuck on midnight.

Cupcake.

Mike awoke to the sound of a girl crying. He was unsure as to how he had gotten behind the steering wheel of his '92 Taurus. He peered through his shattered windshield to see who it was that was crying. He could see nothing beyond the narrow road illuminated by his headlamps. There was complete darkness. His shaking hands fumbled with his seat belt until it unbuckled. Not noticing the seatbelt was holding his fragile state up, he fell awkwardly out of the vehicle hitting the asphalt with his ribs knocking the wind out of him. He stared at the steam rising from his lungs while he caught his breath. Beyond. In the darkness. A girl is crying.

"Hello?", he yelled into the darkness. He wasn't sure if he hit someone or not. He willed himself to his feet where the rush of blood made him faint for a moment. Gathering himself, he retrieved an emergency flashlight he kept in the trunk of his auto-mobile. Briefly examining the damage to his car before returning his attention to the girl who was crying.

"Fuck.", he whispered to himself. Disappointed in the dawning realisation of the dire circumstances he found himself. He hit someone with his car. He checked his cell phone for reception and found the no signal indicator flashing through the cracked lcd screen.

"Hello? Where are you?", he yelled shuffling towards the dim light from his flashlight which lit his path. Mike scanned the edges of the road where only the tall grass swayed gently in the wind which smelled of evergreens. He touched his upper lip and noticed it was covered with blood. As he tasted the salt he glimpsed a human figure in the periphery of his vision.

Mike aimed his flashlight. Nothing was there. "Hello?" he repeated. The crying stopped. "Hello?" He listened for a response but it was silent. Mike felt like like he was being toyed with by some prankster.

"You are not being toyed with. At least, not yet.", came the girls voice from behind him.

beep beep beep beep beep beep

"What's that noise?" Mike was thrust in a blink of consciousness to a strange bright place. He peered into a yellow tinted light. "Am I dead?", he thought. Unlike the stories he had heard that described the tunnel with a soothing light, this bright light was not soothing. In fact it hurt his head.

"Mike? Can you wiggle your toes?", asked a silouhetted figure diverting Mike's attention.

"What?" Mike said while wiggling his toes.

"He is talking that is a good sign. Mike I am Dr. Weizmann I need you to stay still, you were in a car wreck. Do you understand?"

"What happened to the girl, is she okay?", Mike said, repeating himself several times to clear the hoarseness of his voice.

"What girl? Mike you are in St. Petersurg Hospital. You were in a serious car wreck.", replied Dr. Weizmann.

"I know I was in a car wreck I. was.. aski...", Mike was unable to find the words he needed to communicate. He pondered what was words were eluding him and he found the he could not ponder. He tried to speak again but it was gibberish. The light of the room became brighter as his eyes dilated. He sank away from the scene, like iron falling into the ocean. While his body was in pieces, he was floating in a pool of weak fragmented thoughts.

Dr. Weizmann, an ER doctor for 10 years, seen this pattern of degradation before from other's in serious wrecks. He responded quickly. "We are losing him! We got to relieve the intra-cranial pressure! Get me the drill. Mike I am going to drill a hole through your skull to relieve the pressure from your brain swelling. Do you understand me? He is out, start the drill."

Whhrrrrrr!!!!

"Sounds like a drill", Mike thought as he watched the television.

Those TLC shows that showed graphic operations made Mike sick to the stomach. Unable to watch any longer, he clicked through the channels to find another program.

"Fucking re-runs. A thousand channels but nothing on." Mike muttered as he surfed the channels. Familiar shows too boring to watch again passed by his eyes.

He stopped on a horror movie.

I think I started this movie before and never finished watching it.

"You aren't being toyed with. At least, not yet! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!", was the voice of who sounded like a witch, cackling, in the tiny sound the television's speakers produced.

Run you stupid son of a bitch. These movies are so predictable, Mike thought on the verge of flipping the channel.

The male protagonist in the film, a befuddled goof of a man, appeared startled as, indeed a witch walked into view.

"What do we have here? A tender little cupcake? Sprinkled with candy to make you sweeter than sweet. I will eat you for desert! Ha ha ha ha ha!", said the witch, with a campy overacting quality to her performance.

This is corny.

"Wha wha why would you wa wa want to eat me for?, said the befuddled man.

"For your soul! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

This is shit.

Mike turned off the TV just as the witch was cutting into the man's scalp with her fingernails.

"Now what? What time is it?" Mike glanced at his watch. His watch pointed to midnight.

Hallow

Rain drops fail to extinguish my cigarette nor my thoughts on suicide. I considered walking the long route to my destination. A party with no one in particular I'd like to see, or anybody who would want to see me. Which is a good thing on Halloween night. My cardboard and duct tape costume is not weather proof. I am a robot I guess. At least that is my story. Now I am a droopy depressed robot. Hopefully someone would find this amusing. Or at the least, take notice.

"Hello, who are you supposed to be?"

"A droopy depressed robot."

I clumsily stumble amongst the vampires, zombies, and slutty variations of those to get to the booze. What's a depressed robot without alcohol? I down two shots of some liquor. What kind? I don't care. Thankfully it burns. I down two cheap beers.

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am a Transformer. Did you see the movie?"

"Yes, it sucked. Which one are you?"

"Voltron."

I see Michael Jackson and Kurt Cobain. I see pirates and indians. Kids. I am not a kid. I am supposed to be a man. Who is a cardboard robot.

"Who is that underneath?"

"It's me."

"Oh, it's you."

"Yep, it's me."

"How do I know you?"

"I don't know, maybe from another party."

"Maybe."

I felt like I was about to fall off the edge a few years back but that never happened. I don't know if this was the best outcome to my life. I had no back up plan for still being around. Who thinks about where they'll be in their thirties? I should ask someone. Maybe not. That's not my character to have substantive conversations. However, I am not myself tonight. I am an alcoholic robot.

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am HAL from 2010."

"Wasn't he just a talking computer?"

"Have you seen 2010?"

"No."

"Well then, I suggest you rent it. Let me ask you a question. Where are you seeing yourself in ten years?"

"What?"

"Forget it."

How many beers have I had? I lost count. When I get started I don't stop. I need to go all the way there. Where is there? I don't know and it doesn't matter because I never get there.