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Posts Tagged ‘Tygarjas Twyrls Bigstyck’

Another Path To Take

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

I was in a bar dancing, and on the wall was a lovely picture of a sunset in which the light from the sun created a reflection on the ocean that looked like a bridge to eternity. The concept for this next story began thus.

I’ll be out of town next week. New story should be up on the 7th or so of May. Enjoy!

Forward

As I sat listening to the waves on the beach, staring at the rolling of the waves, experiencing my own breath in rhythm with the rest of life pulsing around me, I of course was thinking only of her. She was there before I could breathe, but it was when I looked at her, finally, that I could. And as I inhaled, and the waves rolled in, and I considered myself in unison with the rest of what created life, I thus considered that the thought of her created my ability to live; created a reason for me to harmonize with the song that was always playing.

Discordance was myself in relation to the rest before I realized I could modulate to coincide; I hated the distortion I created too much to notice that it was I creating it, and that if I concentrated even slightly, I could likewise attune as naturally I found myself dissident.

And now was the call of gulls, the in and out of the waves, the breath of the wind feeding the breath in my chest, which I sat silently observing as it served to paint the picture of her face in the place in me where life felt most complete. And as I opened my eyes the sun was descending, soon to be set. The rays touched water, and the closer down it came the longer the strip of light on the water from horizon ever-closer to where wave met sand.

Still above the water, the sun did reflect finally to the farthest bit of water in front of which I held my feet as the edge of the end of the wave reached out as far as it could to touch me. As a light-reflecting edge came millimeters away from my toes, I stepped forward to feel the cool of Mother Ocean, and, to my surprise, did not sink the fraction of a centimeter below the sea and into the sand, but stood upon the spot where light reflected on water. As wave rolled out I almost lost my balance as I was carried back toward the ocean on top of the tide across the sands below. And likewise I was rolled back out as the next waves broke forward. So, I took a step upon the light on the water.

Not knowing what else to do, I ran forward on the light, I could not believe it! Several feet into the ocean, upon the tops of the waves, I looked around. I squatted and felt the water beside me where light did not reflect as vividly and my hand passed into the water. Rising again I dipped there my toe into the water, then back onto the light. Looking out before me, I saw a strip of luminescence directly ahead leading on into the ocean, and seemingly straight toward the sun. I ran forward with joy in my heart.

A friend once told me he saw a rose in place of the sun during a sunset in which he began his sojourn away from his own objection to his life. Running forward, I thought I saw something similar as I ran somewhere as a natural continuation to a journey once begun from the air I found easily in my lungs where once it had not been before. After much running upon the light toward the object that sustained all life from itself unrepentantly, I decided to take my time and stroll upon the path laid before me. I did not know where this path would lead, I did not know how long I would be upon it. What I did know was how happy I was to move toward the light in a way apparently not offered often, and that I was blessed enough to experience such a thing for myself.

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Close to Nothing . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on April 15, 2012| Leave a Comment »

As I was pondering what I wanted to write, it occured to me that I simply didn’t have the time to invest in the fullness of a thought if I wanted to sleep. So, here is a meditation in accordance . . .

A Short Story

Picking up his pen he considered his own imagination and the stories he wanted to tell. He reflected briefly on her smile, of course, that which motivated the breath in his lungs, let alone the lifting of his pen. Then he considered his idea for tales at the moment; entering a picture into eternity, a surrealistic rendition of illness, the beats of the drums he listened to in the background, the internal struggle between that which he found himself of and that which he wanted to be . . .

He decided on a prosaic poem that blurred the lines between that which would be created, that which might be created, all that had come before to create the possibilities, and the form itself the indecision in his mind took; he decided that a practice of any kind was superior to the atrophy of the possibility of what might be, even if nothing in particular was created as a result. Whether anyone would read he did not know, but decided that if he didn’t tell that story of his self, there may come a time when he would never give the opportunity for anymore to be read. He decided that in the moment of creating his self, in that moment others’ perceptions didn’t matter so much then as they would later, that if he were to give them a chance then, he must work as ever he could now.

So, he let his mind flow to the page free of the constraints of coherent story, and the energy needed to bind together a tale accordingly. He let his mind work unbound with his hands that his heart may have the opportunities to bind specificity to the minds of others in future tense. He breathed and thought of his breath, and its meaning; he thought that by his breath he’d rather make any effort toward what he’d have the energy to accomplish before long than waste the breath he was given by the grace of her recollection alone. He was grateful to type up next to nothing for his own sake, and perhaps the sake of anyone else even if by happenstance, than nothing at all.

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Hitchhiking . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on April 7, 2012| Leave a Comment »

As the title suggests, this week, a quick dialogue about meaning in existence. Enjoy!

42

“Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“The meaning of life.”

“Oh, that’s easy, it’s 42.”

“Yeah sure; it’s easy if you know the question.”

“You mean what’s nine times six?”

“Look, I’m serious.”

“So am I; you haven’t found any meaning in your life?”

“What, personal meaning? That’s kind of vague isn’t it? I mean, what does that have to do with why I exist?”

“It doesn’t. It has to do with whether or not your life has meaning . . .”

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Spring Has Sprung . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on April 1, 2012| Leave a Comment »

A simple little story in honor of the holiday.

April Fool

Ned lit up a cigar; it exploded. One of his teeth flew from his mouth and put the eye out of a man laughing hysterically at the other end of the room. Ned couldn’t help but laugh when the one-eyed man acquiesced to paying his dental bill without Ned even having to mention the word “litigation;” it was a word the man had already considered after being sent home once having the eye containing Ned’s tooth scraped out of his head. Ned, it seemed, had been an April victim, but not the fool of this prank.

The, now, one-eyed man had fancied himself something of an inventor, and after watching an old black-and-white movie mid-March, he figured he could put an old classic to practical use on the international day of jest. In, at least the cigar Ned had received, he clearly had over-shot the gun powder, and was more than a bit relieved that everyone else at the party had turned down the other cigars despite them all selling for more than five dollars a piece.

Three weeks after the party, an hour or two after writing Ned a check for the full amount of the dental work in relation to Ned’s front tooth, he sat before the New York Philharmonic’s rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture on PBS with a glass of scotch in one hand, and reached into his box of more-than-five dollar cigars with the other.

Even Ned did not laugh when he read the article on the front page of the town newspaper the next day. He just shook his head at the irony that the one-eyed man hadn’t thrown away the loaded cigars he had placed above the box of un-tampered cigars still unopened beneath it. The headline read, “Tragic April Fool,” and Ned was now grateful more so than ever that the fool never was he.

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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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The Kon Job

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on March 10, 2012| 5 Comments »

The video at the end tells the real story, and there’s a link to the site in the comments. I just needed to do something to raise at least a little awareness about this, so, this one should make you groan for just so many reasons . . .

Pun-isment Intended

“But I really want to say it!”

“No, no, you can’t. You can’t!”

“But I really want to!”

“No, no. It’ll undermine the entire point of the whole campaign if you make light of it in this way!”

“But I’ve just got to! It’ll bring more attention to the problem, isn’t that the point?”

“Right, but this is a bona fide monster who steals children from their beds at night, forces them to mutilate peoples faces, rape the girls stolen out of their beds at night, and kill as an army for no good reason whatsoever. What could possibly be gained from making light of such a thing?”

“Your grandfather used to make light of the Holocaust. What about that?”

“That’s different, he’s a survivor.”

“So you ask him if he went to summer camp when he was a kid, to which he chuckles ‘Oh yes, I went to camp all right,’ and it’s ok to make fun of millions of lives slaughtered, but I can’t make one little pun to raise awareness about the most wanted man on the international list? Hardly seems fair . . .”

“All right, all right. Just say it already,”

“Kony Island!”

“See that doesn’t even make any sense! Feel better now?”

“I do. I do.”

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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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