Thinking about starting a Hotties Calendar
lemme know what you think

Backlogs

Dec 15th 2010

This is the season when people gather in the streets their gossip turns to holiday cheer between puffs of smoke or icy breath. Snow falls lazily and steady. Hinuet, as the native peoples of the north like to say, drifting, settles white over dingy cityscape. Winter has come. And with it, the hurley-burley of anticipation. Schools prepare for break as students prepare for examinations. Mothers and Fathers search shelves and kiosks for gifts. Children, red-nosed cold troumping through the school grounds; a flurry of activity - snowballs flung and flinging. Soon, the calendars will flip forward to a new year and people will forget the merriment of the season. With gifts gotten and snow fallen Winter will continue cold and bittersweet. Eventually Spring will come slowly like a great tilting weight. All the while utterances in frozen breath dangle - puffy clouds of curses on the cold and snow and wind. Sooner still Winter's chiding forgot as Summer is made out of Spring. Unbearable heat and noise and the price of petrol these days! Can you believe it's going to rain? The kids will play in the hot, weedy air blistful. Those of us, charged with age, squirm and sweat in the languishing days of August. Suddenly the wind refreshes too much; it harks of chill. Stalks of corn grow amber in the setting sun.

Where does the time go? Looking back can we see the deeds of Winter last? No great impact do the seasons have to us remembered - none not righted by work of men. Then, do the seasons' passing impress upon us at all? What works of grandeur did Summer leave last Fall?

There is a tree nearby. See it now: a tall, burly thing. Its trunk is ashen - almost dark not quite brown. Its branches are fingers stabbing open palms at gray cloud and sky - all its leafs long since fallen. In the snow it hides before your eyes - colored muted night. Unremarkable thing. Be still and watch close now: from simple seed to tree and sapling inbetween; Tiny leafs prod up through Spring's soft mud. A weed at first then a yearling. Now it is shooting high a great bouffant of verdant green - cool shadows in Summer sun. Foliage colored brightly orange and yellow-brown paint the winds of Autumn. Now, grown and weathered, steeped in snow this tree still creeps its longing branches out and higher. Or perhaps it slumbers hinuet all around.

What a Week!

It has been a wild week of emotional and physical rolling coastering (but, sadly, not literal).

It was mother's day Sunday. And Graduation for ISU on Friday. Between the two, the restaurant was packed. on Saturday we sat 260 tables. many of 6 person parties. An adventurous evening in the kitchen. I was in at 10am (Geangelo's opens at 4pm) for prep work. 11 on Friday by the time i got home. I s'pose the pay will be worth it. though, unlike Monica's, I get no compensation for how well we do each night. (not exactly an instinctive to work hard). I don't put myself out like i did at Monica's - I just don't enjoy the environment, the food, or pretty much anything about the place. I need the money. So for now I'm trapped. At least the cooking part is delightful. I'm learning alot and I've disposable income such that i don't hafta leach off my parents. It's curious, being employed, that is. I've begun carrying cash. I love Cash. I love having cash because i hate Credit. I hate using credit and debit cards. I hate the insanity of economics. As a side note, I think -nein- believe that automated stock trading is abusive to our apparently delicate economy. It's all too much, this economic idea of instant, invisible trade. I'm beginning to hate it all. Hang on a moment, 'cause I'm working towards something here.

  A woman in need of help came across my path. By desperate sharpie on gritty green poster board i knew she asked for help. I gave her a fiver. for yesterday nights grew cold. a midsummer frost. Her hands were cold - thawing chicken. She said any money could buy her a meal -food she said. That day. Tomorrow? Would i have a Fiver tomorrow? Will she?
  Money can't help. Only delay the inevitable. She needs a home, steady income, confidence, some place to warm frozen chicken flesh.
  Later, as i stared into a pizza. Cheese melted just right. laden with cut green peppers, spicy ham, tantalizing mushrooms and thick savory sauce. Steam, flavorful steam drifted from it - mouth watering. My stomach gnarled -growling- in my belly. I thought of her cold hands reaching - clutching- my fiver.
  $10.20 for a pie, .99¢ for a drink. A buck fifty in gas to avoid sleeting rain (same price as bus fare). Twenties and fifties lined my wallet with today's pay.

Thoughts

Words

I wish words come to me faster or sooner or stronger - clearer
But they don't. They are slow, methodical things, whispering, creeping things like most of life they are Maddeningly so. a broken faucet don't the hall dripps. droplets plink echoing in the sink basin in the depth of night. It is so quiet. The shadows lure sleep. Yet, the sound comes again. Soon it fills the airs. Drowning all other noise. quiet once, quiet again. To lie (lay) awake and waiting, breath held, for the next drop least it steals dreams away.

In an electronic sandbox, I can erase and continue in the same breath

From an exercise

    What ever happened to stories pasted?

    What is wrong with the pen?

    Why do I condem myself to write in an electric sandbox?

    Too easy to make changed as I type?

    Too easy for first time writing?

    Do I know the tool well?

    Should a swordsmen be given a blade before the art of defence?

    Why not the apt trainer jump to the advanced arts first?

    Later, can the basics not be filled in?

    Was it once said, the pen, as with the sword, once a stroke is made it cannot be unmade?

    Can practice be constructive when learning the same bad habits?

    Did the one armed swordsmen have a foe before the accident?

    Once started can we never go back?

    Is there art in mistakes?

    Mistakes help us learn?

    What of glossing them over with backspace key?

    Do mistakes migrate?

…

    Blankspace,

    I wish I could track changes before they were made.

I'm Back, baby!

like the breeze-gales of summer, I've returned with startling quickness.

it's not beauty, but pain - serenity - that drives our world. Ads a writer, how can i communicate the heart-wrenching truth? when i can't even say my name without pause?

this (among others) are the question(s) that turn, turn, restlessly in my mind.

the problem i see before me, now:
drinking helps me sleep.
the booze helps me speak
but it slowly kills,
kills so slow.
what do i do now?

i wish i could say,
but for now,
i'm young
resistant
and vivid

-marcus

i've decided to post my thought until i stop...

I LOVe the fact that the name 'Brian' looks like the word 'brain.'

LOL

'the being smiled at Tony's misery. he dangled losely in it's grip. "why?" tony asked with slow breath, "why are you doing this? why not let me die?"
A sad grinace fell over the being as it looked tony over. "because i can't. And i need entertainment." it was not a boast of boredom or spoken with malice. Tony paused his death far from his mind. He watched sadness seep into the great Dragon's smirk.

whoa!

i wonder what 'soft' is like to cats.

Daily

It was brought to my attention t'other day that prehaps i wasn't posting on my blog 'oft enough. THANK YOU, Ruby! for the insperational encouragement (hows the choir going?)

Anyhoo, I guess i'm well under my mark for promised posts. thats for sure. By my count i'm only 8 behind schedule after this post.

i suppose i should practice my fictional writings. But their sooooo bleedin' hard. that i thought i'd post my feelings, questions and concerns (san the "s")

Feeling:
afraid and unsure.
my fortune cookie said:

"you find beuaty in ordenary things. do not lose this ablity in bed."

makes me ever so much more ponderant.
also i'm very distracti-

Question:
Have you ever done something that you thought:

"this is a bad idea"

and asked what does it have to do with where i am now in life?
Could it really be called bad?

Concern:
I fear I have an affinity to erasure. everything i do is seemingly plagued by incompleteness and hasty editing. however, i feel that it is also a strength. I can remain conceptually attached to writings and expression during and post revision despite drastic changes both with the style and word (or other hard-to-name devises). hmm. I guess i'll simply need to erase my eraser.

tomarrow: MUNCHAUSEN (a revisial)

-marcus

Sorry about the other night's post, i was feeling quite low.
I've come to the resolve that i need to simply produce more. More time crafting words and more time authoring. (less time being a whiny, self-demining emo child)

I've been revising works. Expects some revised pieces tonite (sometime)

don't worry about me.

problem solving

in many ways i am too self agrandizing.

recentally i've been having an existentialist crisis.
Oscar Zeta Acosta is, perhaps, my favorate novelist. he wrote three books before disappearing mysteriously. until recentally I've always held the notion that great authors come from great feats. as such, i've lost sight of wat it means to be a writer.

Tony. a great wall of a man sat, leaning back, feet purched upon his coffee table. pragmatic would not be a word one might describe this aching body. his features, though old, never tired of thought. in the melon of a head lies the wisdom of ages, of love, of magic. but most of all, it is the life of experiances: an explorer in a world explored. in hortonville, wi, i've found my Delphi.

thank you.

Another Week

another 6 drinks and another week flies by!
i'm beginning to think this once a week thing is too far-in-between. it's another great break-through for me: i'm announcing a bi-weekly update and a bonus up, date when ever the fuck i feel like it.
anyways, this is only really exciting to me.
oh... another piece of news (today is sponcered by the word: "another" btw) i reported a while ago that i've got ADD and i've been suprised by the differencing reactions i've had to stimuli as compared to other people effected by the same stimuli. anyways, i'm trying something new: where i replace the methol- group prescription with another stimulate. ...no, not Crystal meth, but coffee. specifically caffeine. it's only been a day but the effects of three cups of coffee were, from my perspective, similar to Ritalin. curious.
i wanna write poem. i'm plan to entitle it "ode to gin" (at least a working title). something for next week perhaps.

(or later tonite)

-marcus

time to think

A lingering notion

Time has come for me to admit trepidation. this is the first time is a while I've used my outlets for expression - public expression.I will use this moment to shout cares ,concerns, feelings and what not without a Dam.
I feel lost - alone. I am tried all the time. My mind wonders not freely but in initially distracting ways
Today i drove to Des Monies to deliver my dear companion, Ruby, for her family needs her. Almost as much as she needs distance from them. she is so stabilizing - cooling. But her lack of ambition saps my respect. I often dream; of her. Her a lowly barmaid of sold daughter who is apt yet only desires a good husband and easy life. Courtier fodder or material of the "perfect (17th century) woman." In these haunting i see her desire only what she can grasp. I've seen this woman of prowess working geisha style singing melodiously on-high for the pleasure of brothel patrons when she could move the stars as an earthly siren. I feel worse to see that it is not ignorance (not impotence) of skill but a willful resignation that her sullied performances are the 'best' she can mange.


Enigma

I awake and realize my dreams are not wholly of ruby. I see reflection in each nightmare. Myself.
Wonder if not we are alike - two sinking stones strung together willingly in hopes of buoyancy are we to find only deeper waters? Can I bring myself to bear question? Is it i who built this gilded cage? perhaps if i did not she might fly in my absence. or that i might be cut from my own compliance, as well? I cannot. I cannot. Lest she sink deeper. It is my love; It is my concern for her that is my rock. And i am hers.

Query

Why not can i cut this chain? may hap it is the sheer devotion her for me that moves me day to day? or the light of inspiration that flares when she watches me? or the dampening feelings of insecurity she moves in me? perhaps it's enough to have written this.
someone close will read this and think.



-sorrowfully yours, Marcus

thoughts

Sympathy with the devil is helpful in the it helps one understand their only hell.

People might ask me, if they weren't so scared or bored or ignorant or put-downie why i don't believe in resurrection, heaven, afterlife, or so on. Basically if i believe there to be another life after this, i'd kill myself right now. i don't say that to be witty. I'd give anything to start anew. unfortunately, I am cured with perspective. I, more and more feel that this life might actually be Hell. Some parts of the Christian religion believe that hell is simply life without the present of God. others take a moar literal idea of and burning place of sulphur and torture. either way, the pains of day-today life feel... excruciatingly like torture. yet, everyone else make ease of it all. THATS the worst part, i think. I feel if i saw another struggle as i do, I might feel a mortality to life, but as is, i can't help but feel singularly stupid, bizzare or some other simonims that i can't thing of. preposition.

on the other hand, Everthing i am; everything that I do, i see simbalance in the actions and beings of others. 

Prehaps i'm wrong. lets just say that there's another life to be lived after this one. Be it in hell or otherwise. ...it doesn't matter 'cause i would live with the same ferocity that i live now. the extra life would be a bonus. ...hey i guess thats why they call it that. :)

 

-marucs

working

i've been working.
this might usally mean that i'm tossing pizzas, microwaving chocolate cakes or broiling noodles and sauce, but, for once i actually mean writing. (exciting, i know.) the problem i face is how to create an interesting action scene.

Neil Gaimen, usually starts with a violent act; other, Victorian writers might start with people approaching their setting (or one of them (settings, i mean)) in either case, i want a 'hook' to take the reader's attention from their sucky life into the life of my characters.

When i read a novel, the thing that attracts me to it is the passion of emotion. Anger. goofiness. sorrow. delight. fear. excitement. The trouble is that i find my self trying to emulate this, yet i i have a hard time making such an experience true to me. you see, faithful readers, i've had a problem that i choose to ignore. that problem is that i don't feel things anymore. I feel as if passion has escaped my life. I think too much, such as to complicate the simplicity of the things i think about.

no, no, thats not it. I think it's just that i feel i'm just a really boring person. which, of course, makes me think my thinking is boring. ...it's a double edged sword i guess.

a part of me knows this isn't true. but the dwelling on my boring nature, for sure, is boring.

merh.

-marcus