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Posts Tagged ‘Transmutation of energy’

Travel

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on March 18, 2012| 1 Comment »

I wrote this experimental piece just before taking a journey that was important to me to take. As I was arriving at my destination, a large rainbow appeared . . . (Incidentally on my way to see the first show that inspired the story “Big Beat.”)

The Road Once Taken

He looked behind him once at the lifetime he is. He saw a box he calls “house,” and perhaps more often “home.” Some dirt in front of the box where grass pokes through here and there; two strips of concrete and a place his car often rests. Steps to a door in the box. He turned back toward his future, what he is that he does not yet know that he is. A long strip of asphalt he would call to anyone else “road,” and the unseen that to follow it is to discover. Not just follow it, travel upon it. Things it leads to, things that surround it. Places he may arrive at that will make him forget for the rest of the time his body breathes that there was ever a road that brought him there.

Key in hand he turns the cylinder to begin the box that moves him where he wishes to direct it; he presses the energy source to move. He does not look back.

As he watches the sunset upon the ocean, all he can think of is how much it looks like a rose floating in the sky, lighting the directions to where the impulses within him he cannot quite fully understand might move him.

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Less a Bang Than a Beat

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on March 4, 2012| 1 Comment »

The first draft was written the other night coming home from dancing to a band founded upon percussion. Draft two was written separately after dancing to a blues band in no way less sacredly. Thought I’d try my hand at a little mystical literature this week. Hope y’all enjoy!

Big Beat

I’ve heard it said the universe was created by a single movement of the hand of pure consciousness. Like the skin stretched across the top of a drum, undifferentiated matter unstirred and silent had no reason not to be created, nor reason to be, until an impulse sent through it all a wave; the big bang was initially a single beat from that which knew that light could be. In the beginning consciousness created the rhythm of the reality we all dance to till this day, the one consideration of the infinite, the single stroke writing all of creation into existence. What followed was the wave from that first consideration, that gesture toward the substance of the infinite. The wave was a sound.

Those clinically inclined call this “Big Bang,” and as our common mind can conceive it, the symphony that erupted accordingly, more or less confirms this to be as accurate an analysis as any. In the beginning, once it was begun, was the sound of creation itself riding its own wave. The ripple of amplitude spreading across untouched substance gave rise to matter crashing into itself on all different wavelengths and frequencies. Some created stars and moons and planets, some created atoms that were attracted to other creations still. In many places holes were cut from where the matter had been molded into itself. From Conscious beat to sun to atom, the universe made music to behold the creation of itself. What thought it was pure existence into all that had not form; the hand came down upon one point just once, and the ripple of every frequency flowed from center outward. Every variation, every manifestation, every formation from the original bang, the solitary beat that put into motion the music which sang out infinitely in the ears of all who can be conscious of the creation we find ourselves dancing to, even before we know we can hear.

Some say that it was spoken. Or less, that all was, is, and will be again, with merely a breath. That life is more a song than the beat that accompanies the flow of our very substance as we listen to the single word the Many or One spoke for us all to hear for all time. And as we sing and dance, listen and step, and harmonize, whatever form the origin, which certainly contained both, it is the participation in the song, whatever our role in it, that qualifies for worship to that which we are happy to have become.

And it’s even been said that Shiva dances to destroy what we know of our entire infinite universe. To dance, though, one knows breath. And one who follows the God of destructive dance knows that such a dance is danced only that another breath may create us again; not an end, but a beginning. Shiva dances as another beat of Consciousness keeps itself dancing, larger than we can imagine. How merciful the music makers that we need never know the completion of one breath or beat to another as we reside within the dance of our own songs safely with the one Big Bang singing all the existence unto us we would ever want to know.

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When All Else Fails . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 25, 2012| Leave a Comment »

And now for something completely different . . .

To Health!

He sipped his beer slowly, methodically. He blew what little foam remained floating ever so lightly, just so as to make it feel the breeze of his breath without actually moving it closer to the side of the mug. He raised the edge of the cup to his lips and took in a sip, letting the bitter sweet rest and pool briefly on his tongue before swallowing it down, replacing the mug to the coaster where it had sat before. He stared into what foam remained as though trying to gaze into the deepest recesses of the universe.

“A women is it?” Pete tried to draw his attention away from a distant galaxy.

Instead Pete was given a reply by subspace from some distant region, his gaze remained fixed and unflinching as he responded without altering his facial expression or appearance of concentration, “Naw, haven’t had one of those to think about in longer than I care to think about. Fact is I really aint got anything to do, and I haven’t had a drink in a bar in a long time. How bored’s a fella gotta be to wonder into a bar to savor his favorite beer in a glass poured to him by another man because he just can’t think of anything else to do with his life? House is clean, TV is the same old shit since Shakespeare told by a fresh pair of tits, fiction books are about the same without the tits, and there’s nothing I feel like learning to crochet or diet; don’t feel like learning to be the Buddha this week. Christ, I’ve even listened to my 557 CDs enough times to choke a moose. This was the most creative idea I could come up with, and I aint here but to sip slowly on the same type of beer I’ve been drinking for over 20 years. I know what I like, I stick to it!”

“And you say you don’t have a creative bone in your body?”

“Actually, when I’m not pushin’ paper at the office, I’m painting. I’ve been through school to learn different ways to go about it. My style changes with wind and mood alike. I know myself well enough to know I’ll probably be painting a mug of beer in about 27 different ways shortly after I get home. Life as I know it just don’t seem fulfilling right now. Creativity or not, here is the beer to give me a perspective out of the ordinary.”

“How long did you say it’s been since you’ve . . . uh . . . thought of a women?” Pete asked hopefully.

He took a moment, looked up from the couple of suds left at the top of the liquid, and smiled. His gaze returned to the Crab Nebula. Despite this, his voice couldn’t conceal the hope of hope as he responded, “Petey, I may have something more to paint when I get home than merely beer.”

Without hesitation or method, he raised the cup to his lips and took in a long swig. Putting it down, his throat felt satisfied as he saw the outline of his own solar system begin to emerge in what he saw remaining in his cup.

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Outside The Wall

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2012| 3 Comments »

This week I wanted to write something with a moral, and this is what entered my head.

Smiling Wall

Snareoth sat down to write upon the wall. Surrounding him, men of the faith praying to the last remaining vestige of the ancient form of their religion; a religion they pray often their Deity resurrect by raising the other walls of the temple to make the vessel of their faith whole. Many a tear they shed that only this single wall remained of times glorious since past. Many a garment rend when initially the other three walls were brought down, and millennia later, still tears shed that what was once has not again been made whole.

In the center of the convergence of faiths that had brought much blood to brothers of species, Snareoth sat with his bag and prayed silently as all around him others in the sacred garb bent there knees, chanted and recited, and stuffed messages to God into the cracks in the wall. Raising his head from his reverent request for guidance and assurance of his faith, he raised his head to the wall erected as the home of his people’s God, and opened his bag. From it he removed mallet and chisel.

He unrolled a small piece of paper inscribed with his most ardent of prayers. He looked it over and placed it on his lap; he wished to see the words to God he wished to express from the wholeness of his being. Those around him, over him, took no notice of the peculiarity until his hammer struck the first faithful blow. Before the second fell he felt a kick in the head.

The paper upon which was written the prayer he wished to inscribe upon the wall fell from his lap as he was dragged from the wall; 50 screaming at him, a couple being held back from further striking out at his head. The women praying toward the wall at the other end of the courtyard stood on there toes to watch the commotion breaking out amongst the men.

One very old holy man turned his head when he had heard the hammer’s blow and surveyed the scene from a distance as it unfolded. He saw the small piece of paper fall from the man being carried away who had held the chisel and mallet that now lay upon the bag from which they had been taken before etching a single mark into the wall’s face. He picked up that paper wondering what word would dare be inscribed into this most holy of all his people’s shrines. His eyebrows raised.

But for those closest by, the strike of a hammer was barely heard throughout the courtyard. Those few turned from the sight of bitterness to this new scene, as they wondered how it could be that such a sound could ring out again so soon. Turning to those still watching the original man being carried away, they tapped the shoulders of those close at hand that they might hear the third blow against chisel, against rock. Known throughout the land by many as a great teacher of the prophets’ words of the divine, none close by could fathom stopping the old man as he continued chiseling where Snareoth had left off.

By the 10th blow of the hammer, far on the other side of the courtyard, those carrying Snareoth away stopped too and turned toward where they had come when the initial slight had been done to their sacred space; they listened to the sound make music where once they had heard blasphemy, though confused, they knew not how to this music dance. From a place on the ground where he had been released from the mob’s grasp, between legs Snareoth tried to see from where he had come as he heard clearly the chisel’s strike through the dead silence of all who could not conceive what they were witnessing.

But none made a motion to stop the old holy man as they watched him inscribe into their holiest place letters forming words. And because none of them could fathom raising a hand against him, or dissenting to the reverence they held for him, in silence they all watched as something new emerged upon the wall’s face. Snareoth crawled past the mob and slowly rose to his feet; a tear rose and fell to his rising lips as he beheld a miracle enacted.

Many were gathered ’round as the final chippings of the last word were embedded into the wall’s side. They began to murmur amongst themselves as the message was discerned clearly before the last flecks of stone fell to reveal fully the final letter. All those watching from further back were anxious to hear what those in font saw the message to be that could be so important this holy man would deface their most sacred monument.

Snareoth heard the last strike of the hammer as the man beside him asked the man in front of him what they said the message was. Said the man, “It is a prayer!” As he finished his sentence Snareoth beheld the falling of the wall into dust where before the great temple had been. The answering man looked dumbfounded to see the open air before him as a great deal of dust began its decent to finally settling to it’s home of the Earth where it had not rested for a long time, and almost absentmindedly he spoke the prayer that those before him had recited that those closest had seen etched into the wall, “May I not be harmed as I write a prayer to bring all of mankind peace.”

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The Warrior’s Way

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2012| Leave a Comment »

More of the same in terms of process. In this one I found my end point a day or two after writing the first sentence. For me not knowing what I’ll write from beginning to end is a journey. I have fun as a story emerges that is more from a subconscious exercise than a conscious one . . .

Tunnel

A clear tunnel as a wind-swept cloudy-gray swirled all around him. He ran his sword through the wall of vapor as he walked, it tugged lightly against his weapon, calling it to unknown realm, or perhaps oblivion.

He had opened a door he found in a tree as he was patrolling the forests. He felt air rushing past him toward the light he stared at through the open door; he saw nothing but it. He had decided to walk through to find out where it came from, what it was, if it was useful to the others. As he walked through, the door shut quickly behind him, and now he found himself surrounded by the tunnel, staring at a long path, a light somewhere in the distance. He walked.

The ground below his feet was mossy, few dry scattered leaves here and there. No breeze from the tunnel moved the leaves but his own footfalls one after the next. Looking back toward where he came, he saw no place a door could have been, just a shadowy more-of-the-same that extended back apparently a half-mile or so. He took another step forward.

He walked for what felt like hours with his sword in hand. He didn’t know what may be ahead for him, he supposed some sort of magic to have brought him where he was, while he did not feel danger, he would not be caught unprepared. After what felt like several hours walking with his sword in hand, his sword began to feel heavy.  He sheathed it. He took another step forward.

After what felt like more hours he stared into the wall of the tunnel. In the mists he saw shapes and forms as he remembered seeing in clouds one day when he had looked toward the sky from a place by a stream. He saw his fellow warriors in combat against a dragon. He saw a hand wipe away the battle, the outline of a face, a pair of eyes open toward him. He saw a stream and a man beside it staring up at the sky; he saw clouds swirl before the man, speaking to themselves, and beckoning him forward. He shook his head from side to side quickly to break up the wanderings of his mind. Again he saw a wall of swirling mists. He took a step back from the wall, back to the center of the path. He took a step forward.

As he walked he began dragging his sword behind him through the leaves, across the ground. He ran his sword from time to time through the mists to feel the light tugging that reminded him he had some reason not to wander off the path. He sheathed his sword again and noticed that the light did seem brighter if not particularly closer. He was about to sigh when he heard a voice echo in his mind, “Leave sword and sheath behind, or no closer will your footsteps bring you.” He considered it unwise to follow the voice of a magic that might leave him vulnerable. He stepped forward despite that voice and kept walking. His resolve continued for what felt as more hours, and the light did not become brighter.

He unfastened his sheath and laid it down with sword. He stepped forward. One step later he turned around to where his sword lay. It twitched, and he lunged for it. It moved toward the tunnel and immediately was lost from sight. He heard a voice echo in his mind, “Step forward now away from where that thing lay, or meet a fate same as it, a place where ever will you have need of it, the place opposite of where your steps will lead should you continue forward now . . .” He looked up toward where he had been walking and saw that the light was brighter. He was unsure, did not trust, and was unaccustomed to being without his weapon, but the light felt better than the gray, and so he stepped forward toward what gave him choice to move rather than the swirling mists which seemed in essence to tug and pull. He took another step forward.

As he stepped closer to the light, the light grew. The further he walked the more the tunnel blended in with the light. The swirling mists began to transition, slowly, from grey into lighter and lighter shades. He could swear he heard the sweet soft sound of humming as he stepped ever onward toward the light. Until, truly it became bright . . . He stepped forward.

And as he stepped forward, slowly now, the mists began to dissolve into the light and a brightness shined before him, in the distance, spectacularly bright where before the light was merely white compared to the gray the tunnel had been. It dazzled before him and grew as he stepped closer. Where before he walked toward light that at times did not at all grow, now every footfall brought him closer to a destination; something that he would come to physically before long, the shadows surrounding him now all but gone. Another step forward.

And surrounding him only white; no swirling, no mists, no gray, no tunnel to speak of, only white. And the brightness was maybe ten steps before him. He felt a light breeze of warmth caress his face coolly. As he took another step forward he heard a voice echo within his mind, “You may walk anywhere but forward and be returned to what you know, and not know what you don’t. Though, in this moment, you may be assured that what you don’t know will bring you no pain.” As this statement had finished within his mind he had already stepped four steps closer. And over the course of the next four steps, as something felt very right, he contemplated that he was bound forward by his own volition even if the voice had not caressed his mind with its assurance. He trusted his steps and wished only to know what only his steps could teach. “Extend your arms outward,” he heard in his head before beginning another step forward. Raising his arms outward, he took another step forward.

As his foot fell a final time he felt a deep softness upon his mouth followed shortly by a cool calmness of light within his mouth.  He dissolved into the light and released himself of care for his body in entirety. He was relieved to carry no longer the burden of gravity; his body inconsequential as he was as what he reached; without care of substance, he was grateful to share with what was also as he.

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My Friend

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 5, 2012| Leave a Comment »

A friend of mine transitioned a week from last  Monday. I called her Jamie, which roughly translated in French means “I Friend.” She just liked the name and would have preferred to be called that, whether or not she knew the French I couldn’t tell ya. Her given name was Jane. That I am capable of creating with my hands, I owe to her. The last decade or so of her life she awaited death as one who wished to see home after many years in jail, and was severely irritated that it hadn’t come yet whenever I saw her. I figured I should attempt to write something in the spirit of her this week since I regard her as one of my greatest teachers in this life, and will miss her accordingly.

I Friend

“God bless it! You made me laugh! How dare you!”

“Well, look, if you’re looking forward to your imminent decay, I’d like to have at least some happy recollection of you before you go off to feed the worms. And no, I’m not the least bit sorry for it!”

“I’ll haunt you for that you know!”

“I would be so lucky! You’ll probably haunt the maggots for longer. Or with a little luck they’ll regard you as a trilobite in a few million years, but this don’t look like volcano weather to me . . .”

Interlude

That’s about where I have to end this story, it’s odd having a dialogue with a dead person, even if it’s really more indicative of my mind than anything, and  I really don’t have anywhere else to take it, so, I think I’ll try my hand toward a little bad poetry and call it a week. I thank my readership for humoring me, it is what it is . . .

In The Image Of

You take a rabbit,

hippity hop,

chop off its head and feed some flowers,

don’t dare ask what kind,

cut it down the middle to remove its entrails,

and skin it nice and slow;

dinner time before the creative process begins.

When that skin is dry, stretch it amidst a frame,

awl some holes for leather cord,

around the ring hold that pelt in place!

Next pick the flowers that have grown

from the life of your food;

grind them with mortar and pestle,

add just a few drops of water,

let the colors come out,

their natural juice.

Bring whiskers together for a brush,

and point yourself in the direction of sunrise;

the colors will be perfect,

we create in the image of the divine.

I love you my friend. May you be irritated by this life no longer!

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Water Pours

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 28, 2012| 2 Comments »

I started with an image that sprang to mind, the one in the first line, then took it where it wanted to go. Just fun.

Into The Water’s Gaze

While gazing into the water, reflecting everything it could see, as he leaned forward the nearer he came to the reflection, the reflection beginning to look as those galaxies swirling beyond the atmosphere, until he found himself melting into the pool. He felt a drop of water fall from a leaf into him, and then ripple him from center to outer-most edge. He felt the leaf fall upon his face and begin to be carried toward the vastness toward which he was naturally pulled; as close to the infinite as he could conceive as he was. He felt himself fall through the surface and to the other side.

Looking up he saw the light dancing upon a sky un-anchored above him; he saw the blue of the sky. Surrounding him he saw all possibilities of the life the water provided; he saw all the possibilities of the imagination combined. A fish, whale size, darted past his belly; he was pretty sure it was a rainbow trout. From a blackness, apparently infinite below him, he saw the crashing of particles rise toward the sky; apparently matter forming for the first time as air and water and dust all realized the possibilities of their own existence. Looking up again, he saw that beyond the blue was a pitch black next to infinite galaxies swirling throughout an apparent endlessness. He began to thirst for a grain of rice.

He saw a civilization emerge beside him, a place in which the creatures living their found themselves drawn to a natural inclination, for which the others around them made room so that they could share the ripening fruits of their natural inclination. In this distant land, as everybody naturally produced what it was they cultivated from themself, they shared it freely with all around. No one thirsted, starved, or lacked for anything they wanted. Everybody feeding each other from their selves, no one considering there was any other reason to live but to feed others from one’s own self-fulfillment.

Through the water he flew, barely but thinking of which direction in which he wished to go. As bubbles were made behind him, and he flew around and around in them, he saw the breath of the waves, the possibility of all existence each held, when next to the water they held at bay. He became as a dolphin darting between fishes many times his size. Toward the promise of galaxies beyond the single blue eye of the world in which he lived he pointed himself and flew at the greatest speed he could fathom: one thought faster than the speed of light itself. He melted Into the light.

He melted into the spectrum, stopping himself at the color of the eye of the world late on a lazy afternoon just as a cool breeze called the heat of the sun to a marriage of equality and courted it to the joy of any creation possible. He felt the green of the blade of grass upon his cheek. He opened his eyes toward the Heavens to reclaim his body from all simultaneous particles of light. He looked up into the eye of a tarantula, black, average size. It kissed him on the cheek and then scurried into the woods in the direction he would go to return home. He was grateful for the promise of warmth shared by another heart as at peace as his own.

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Vote Early, Vote Often!

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 22, 2012| Leave a Comment »

This post goes up a little late this week due to a trip I was taking this weekend, and a change in plan of story to post. In honor of a friend of mine who has a submission in this odd contest, I felt the inspiration to write something reflective of her art and the art that her art reflects. It is my sincerest wish that everyone reading my story this week casts a vote in her favor, whomever you might be. May you enjoy her art, and may you enjoy mine!

Concentrate

The bullfighter held a cape of pink flecked with gold. Her eyes gleamed as diamonds as the full moon reflected her sight to where the beast lowered its hoof before coming to a stop, staring at her as though with intention. It lowered its head and pushed its hind legs hard against the Earth, it fore-legs leaping forward from the momentum given. She did not flinch as it forced all it had toward where she stood still.

Her diamonds stared the moon into its lowered forehead; it did not look up to the cape that so enraged and confused whatever occupied its skull. Two seconds before reaching her, she stepped to the left, bowing the fullness of her body toward the creature she side-stepped as with her other foot she completed the single step out of the way, and with her right hand brought a dagger of coral straight into its throat. She swung around as its body pushed her arm out of its way; she caught hold of its tail with all her grasp as she completed her turn. As she took a knife of onyx from her belt she found herself slide across the dirt five feet or so before severing her handle from the back-side of the beast.

She claimed her cape from where it had fallen and incited the madness of her adversary’s being to boil to insanity as it turned toward her to exact vengeance. Still she stood as it rampaged toward her, she removed her sword of Ivory from her side and plunged it, without flinching, into the animal’s eye as the point of it’s horn lowered but an inch before her own. As it raised it’s head in anguish and half its vision’s defeat she grabbed hold of where the dagger of coral hung in its neck and pulled it against its turning head with all her might; as it kicked against the air and choked on its blood she shoved the onyx blade between its horns; it lifted her a little off the ground as he helped her find the blade’s way into his brain. Her feet a foot off the ground, she let the handle go; rolling out of the way of its hooves as she hit the dust below.

Through the night she watched the bull dance; watched its life dance from its body in the places causing it’s will to bend to the feel of the gaps in its being alone. After three hours of bucking and baying, it collapsed its weight upon its legs as it wailed in its own way. Hating to see the creature in pain, she walked forward, holding what she had been for several hours. Handle of emerald, blade lined with sapphire, the image of an eye engraved into the steel that held its blade, she brought the axe down hard on the back of the demons neck, severing it’s brain from its spine.

She prepared a fire for the rest of the night ahead, expecting to see the sun rise as her breakfast was about prepared before finally finding the time to rest herself fully after this mighty dance. Before her breakfast there would be hide to separate from meat; bones, brain and fat to sacrifice to the creator of her life and life’s sustenance; meat to spit and season. She looked forward to the single candle some of its fat would make. She was grateful for the meal and slumber she was about to earn.

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Lazarus Speaks

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 14, 2012| Leave a Comment »

This story was inspired by– Well, never mind what it was inspired by. Enjoy!

Bring Out Your Dead!

“Let us raise the dead!”

“He’s only pining for the fjords. . .”

“PINING for the–. Never mind that! Find a corpse, command it to rise, and we’ll be on our way!”

“You want me to do the commanding do you? And what right have I to do that? Just because he owed you 20 bucks . . .”

“It’s not just the twenty bucks, if we don’t raise him he can’t be saved!”

“Saved from what?”

“Well, Satan of course . . .”

“He’s dead, what does he have to worry about Satan for?”

“Well, if we don’t resurrect him, Satan gets him for the rest of eternity.”

“No, no, you’re thinking of maggots, and really they only get him for a couple weeks tops.”

“Hello, Lord of the Flies . . .”

“Yeah Lords of flies, not maggots. Let Satan eat corpses! If there was anything to him but meat, that’s beyond arch-evil’s grasp. Angels will be feeding on that one if there was anything to him!”

“But we need to save him.”

“What, so angels can eat him instead of bugs? He’s being eatin’ one way or the other, it’s beyond our grasp now. Hell, what would I want to raise him for if I could, so that I could tell him what to be eaten by? He’s being consumed in the best way possible, let him enjoy it already, he’s suffered enough for it either way! Lord knows he was bombarded by his options as we all are. He chose already what will consume him, just because he owed you twenty bucks that doesn’t mean he was destined for–”

“IT’S NOT THE TWENTY BUCKS!”

“Yeah sure it wasn’t, it was just the principle of the thing. Look, here’s a twenty spot so that you can rest in peace tonight. I didn’t really need it anyway, now will you please let sleeping corpses lie.”

“I guess I don’t really have a choice in the matter if you won’t help me . . .”

“He gets his twenty, and all the sudden he’s not so adamant about animating the clay of the future, tut tut. Anyway, you show me something breathing to assist I’m all for it. Would you please put that shovel away now!”

“You know, he owed you fifty.”

“Seriously, it’s not about the money . . .”

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Some kinda Love

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 25, 2011| Leave a Comment »

A deeply personal meditation for me as I enter the New Year. May the New Year bring joy to my readership and also all in this world.
How Long?
“I feel trapped between a rock and a hard place!”
“How cliché.” She smiled a little as she watched him writhe in his own mental anguish.
“But it’s as accurate a way to say it as any I know.” He frowned. “Everything I’ve lived over the last three decades tells me I’m an idiot if I look at anyone but her. But how long am I supposed to wait for her to speak to me? It’s been more than twenty percent of my life I’ve waited with her in mind; struggled, grown, worked; become something more than a lazy shit-head dominated by fear. How long am I supposed to wait?”
“You’ve already described to me the ways you feel inadequate in your life. Is that really what you wish to offer her? Sex is easy to come, like the much touted quad-hourly bus, if that’s all you want out of your life. But, as I understand it, unexpected children aren’t cheap and you’re already pretty ashamed of your debt . . . caused by necessity though it may be.
“You ask me how long you’re supposed to wait? I think the answer to that question is another question. How much do you really love her?”

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