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Jul. 26th, 2015


N!cE ScARs...

'And how are you doing in this heat?' I playfully questioned as I looked down towards her bulging stomach.  She was now seven months pregnant, standing in the shade of a picnic pavilion her husband had rented for his 'baby BBQ' - combination of a barbeque and traditional baby shower that I was invited to.

She smiled, and with a soft sigh she stated, 'I'm just ready for this all to be done.  I think that...' her words trailed off as my focus shifted to her forearms.  She had subconsciously crossed them over her belly and that’s when I noticed the numerous razor scars that adorned the inside of her arms.  The scars were bloated and distorted, but unmistakably the result of razor.  The scars had transformed from small little slices to elongated bulges, symbolically aging with her and following her throughout the various stages of her life.  They were the physical remnants of emotional scars long past, scars from many years go - most likely in her teenage years.  Now a woman in pregnancy, I began to ponder the significance of those scars.  As she rambled on I thought about how she would present those scars to her child, how she would present those scars to her grandchildren and the girls at bingo and bridge when she became an old woman.  Perhaps that's of little consequence given the scars were accompanied by a range of bizarre tattoos, including smiley faces, dragons, and an alien dressed up in a Sasquatch costume; the scars may be the easiest piece of body décor to explain.

I'd be lying if I said the scars didn't make me ponder the emotional weakness that they portrayed.  Mothers, and grandmothers, are to be emotional rocks and beacons yet to fall into a set of arms covered in scars seems to send a more subtle message of vulnerability and frailty.

Jul. 11th, 2015


WHeRe !s EveRyB0Dy?

As a child I would have reoccurring dreams of being left alone.  Throughout the dream I'd find myself in empty towns, cities, and houses where the occupants had left moments prior to my arrival.  I'd find half-smoked cigarettes, microwaves counting down the last few seconds of a reheated dinner and backyard swings that remained in motion as the occupant jumped off and sprinted towards the distance.  If I were quick enough, I would often catch a glimpse of people running away towards the horizon as I peered out the vacant window of the house or around the corner of the city street.  Often I'd attempt to run after them and catch up with their mad sprint but my efforts to reach out to them were always in vain.  The strangers, friends, or whomever the dream cast them to be were always beyond just beyond my reach in the silhouette of the horizon.  The faster I'd run and call out to them, the faster they would take off and collectively decide to ignore my pleas.

As an adult I find those feelings of abandonment and loneliness bubbling to the surface in my daily decisions and feelings.  The thought of isolation terrifies me, and anything that remotely resembles the notion of friends, family and even strangers, drifting off into their own metaphorical horizons brings forth a sense of overwhelming panic.  The feeling and fear is so overwhelming that it carries its own pull.  Sometimes we are slaves that which we fear, and hate most, and it's no different than with the feeling of abandonment.  The strange part is, as much as I want to avoid it, I find myself clinging to and making decision in favor of isolation time and time again - like clockwork.  I'm not sure if it's fear the drives me to those decisions, or the notion that by attempting to avoid something so fiercely the action backfires and draws you closer and closer to that which you're trying to avoid.  It seems simple enough:  if you don’t want to be alone then don't make decisions that lead to that conclusion; however, there is always a “but” and “I can't” and “things aren't working out” that leads to the underlying decisions that result in being alone.


The reoccurring dreams I would have were most similar to the Twilight Zone episode 'Where is everybody' (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2sZlkwQ2zow).
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Jul. 8th, 2015


Nigh† S0uNDs

Life can be difficult, stressful, and downright depressing.  To get through the 'difficult  times' I'd often find myself listing to Nightsounds radio (http://www.nightsoundsradio.org/) and up until today, I'd recommend it for anyone who was having a difficult time and in need of a comforting voice to guide them through the turmoil of the night.  Today was different though, I was listening to the host, Bill Pearce, speak of worry and difficult times ahead when he suddenly mentioned Y2K and the panic that was overtaking the nation.  Puzzled as to why he would mention Y2K, I did some research and came upon the realization that the host, Bill, has been dead for five years - the radio program was merely replaying old episodes he had recorded while alive (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Pearce).  They were old episode that went back at least fifteen years...

After my realization, the comforting voice now seemed so distant, so fake, so disconnected.  To be honest, I stopped listening half way through the program and had a realization of total aloneness.  The voice I had relied on to bring alleviation and stillness to the night wasn't real or at least the voice didn't belong to anyone of this world.  The promise that lay behind the message of hope turned out to be a hollow promise that belonged to days past, of audiences past, of situations past.  The message, now devoid of all human being, was cast into the impersonal digitized archive of the internet.

I even came to the realization that the whole episode was an allegory for religion, the comforting voice that you feel is speaking just to you - the one soul you can identify with at the midnight hour - turns out to be nothing more than a pre-recorded message from distant time and place. Equally depressing is the notion that I, as well as many others, turned to that message for hope under the belief that there was another human being, somewhere in the world, that wanted to provide some semblance of comfort but in the end it turned out the be nothing more than fragment of what once was, but is no more - words from a man that had been dead for the better part of a decade.  His prayers, concerns, emotions may have been real at one point but were now as dead and impersonal as the electronic speakers that carried his voice.

I had even gone as far as to donate money to the radio program and wanted to write Bill personally and thank him for the work he had done.  No use in thanking him now.  I'm not sure I'll continue listening to the program as all words of comfort and the promise of a better morning are now contrasted against the death of the host - something about the words of a deceased person promising you 'everything is going to be ok' just doesn't seem to hold as much weight as if the person were still alive.  Maybe I shouldn't care, but I do.

Feb. 14th, 2015


WeLComE /BY. FORge† /BY.

Allow me to introduce /BY to the cast of girlfriends; then quickly shoo her off to the side of the stage in preparation of the next girlfriend.

If I were completely honest with myself I would have to admit the relationship was doomed from week two, and yet here we are into week forty and she still retains the title of girlfriend....

:: The phone rings in the middle of my livejournal update. ::


"Hey!  What are you up to?"

It's /BY.  It's 8:30pm and she is currently driving back from her sister-in-law's apartment.  She decided to spend Valentine's Day with her so that her sister-in-law wouldn't be alone.  Her sister-in-law was born on Valentine's Day, and since the sister-in-law's husband has to work today /BY felt particularly sympathetic towards her plight and thus decided to devote Valentine's Day to her sister-in-law.

"Nothing.  And yourself?" I respond back in a cold callous tone.  Attitude?  Yes.  After purchasing flowers and sitting alone on Valentine's Day drinking whisky I'm ready to call the relationship quits.  I would have called it quits months ago had I been able to make decisions like a rational human being; however, mix together the fear of loneliness, and a dash of her athletically thin body, and suddenly rational decisions aren't so easy to make...

"Well, I'm really glad I got to see her today.  Thank you for understanding; it's just her birthday and her husband has to work and I just don't feel she should be alone on this day, you know?" Her words fell on deaf ears; after spending most of the day in my apartment drinking whiskey, and looking up potential MMOs to buy, I felt there was some poetic irony in her words.

We stumbled through conversation as she drove home - when the television isn't on it's quite difficult to make conversation with her.  We have virtually nothing in common, other than the fear of being alone of course.  The entire relationship was based upon a fallacy, upon the idea of hoping for something that clearly wasn't there; perhaps, through some supernatural force, we would both wake up one day and become the one the other wanted to date.  Unfortunately for us it doesn't appear as though the miraculous transformation is going to occur - actually it's quite the opposite as we find ourselves drifting further and further apart.  /BY will mark the first girl that I've had to break up with, and to be honest I have no idea how she will take it.  I'd imagine she'll get angry, bitter and vengeful upon news of me throwing in the towel but I really don't know - a testament to how little we really know of each other....


Found this treasure at a thrift store, thought it was appropriate for Valentine's Day...


Nov. 19th, 2014


.../AZ CaLLED.

/AZ just called.   Just about five minutes ago.  It was quite out of the blue.

‘Hey, the funniest thing happened.  I took a lot of pictures at [her cousin]’s bachelorette party and you know how I said I deleted all the photos of you?  Well, I did, but there were still pictures of us in [city] and they reappeared on my phone in the middle of the party.  Surrounded by drunk people and your pictures appeared!  Isn’t that crazy?’ she exuded in a friendly tone.

I joked that her phone was trying to remind her of better times, of times when she wasn’t surrounded by a bunch of drunk fools in a shit town but rather with me on a mountainside overlooking a beautiful city.  It was a pretty good move, though it didn’t much matter – I could tell where the conversation was going by the tone in her voice.

Receiving a phone call after three months of silence would generally lead one to believe this was an attempt to reignite a spark, though you’d be wrong in thinking that.  On the surface she was quite friendly and open, but her amicable tone carried with an undercurrent of hostility – she was on a fact finding mission.  I’ve learned that girls are vengeful post-relationship, they have a need to check on their former significant other in a silent hope that their significant other isn’t as doing as well as they are.

Her hysterical laugh at my joke had me worried, as if there was a joke I wasn’t getting.  ’So [ObLiVion_Falls], are you still in [City], are you still living at the same apartment?’


She went on to mention how she was buying a townhouse and moving towards my section of the city.  It made me sad to hear of it as it left me with the sense that her, and the rest of the world, were moving on with their lives while I was still living in the past same apartment.  Respectfully, she avoided stating she was moving in the town-home with him, but it was quite apparent she wasn’t going there alone.  We spent the conversation dancing around the issue of him.  The conversation continued for about fifteen minutes as I recommended ways to purchase cheap appliances for her town-home and she railed against the conspiracy of smart phone manufacturers to sabotage their phones to break after two years.

Then, as abruptly as it started, it ended.  She politely stated she had to go because she was getting close to home and it would be difficult to talk and carry things in – a pleasant way of not stating the obvious.  I thanked her and we both said goodbye.  Then I hung up the phone and cried.

Nov. 17th, 2014


…A PictuRE oF My HoMEtoWN.

The sun glistened through the cloud creating an amber effect that made it look as though the sky was burning – though it’s difficult to see in the picture.

The place I call home.  In recent years I’ve become very cautious in using particular words, such as ‘relationship’, ‘girlfriend’, ‘love’ or even something as simple as the word ‘home’.  The word ‘home’ is reserved exclusively for the area I grew up in, never being attributed to my current city, or my current apartment.  In the off event that my tongue does slip and I drop the word ‘home’, rather than ‘my apartment’, I immediately correct myself so there is no confusion.

It’s strange living away from your hometown – nothing can replace the sentimental value for places and things derived in childhood.  The mall in my hometown carries memories of family, memories of sitting next to the serene sound of the center fountain and eating overly priced cookies in the food court.  Back there the brick and mortar houses memories of middle-school dates, of shopping with friends and the time I purchased the broken bluetooth headset, or the last days of the toy store that went out of business.  Here the mall is just a collection of corporate stores – a long quarter mile loop of solitude that leaves you longing for more once you’ve made it around once, or twice, or perhaps three times.

Why don’t I move back?  It’s simple: fear, paralyzing fear.  It’s difficult to walk away from good pay and job security.   As a result, I fall into the perilous loop of trading time for money and security, all the while hoping for the promise of moving back to at a later date.  Day by date, week by week, year by year, the clock slowly ticks by as I literally trade time for money.  It sounds so silly, as the character of every movie always throws caution to the wind and takes off for better times and adventure, but that’s Hollywood…and this is real life.

‘…Once I find a job as secure as this one I’ll move back.’
‘…Once I’ve saved this x dollars I’ll move back.’
‘…As soon as my 401k is vested I’ll move back.’
‘…One more year and I’ll have a pension.’
‘…As soon as \LM calls I’ll move back.’

…All the excuses in the world enable me to continually seek refuge in a fortress of solitude and security in hopes of not doing what I want will pay off and deliver me the freedom to do what I want at a later date and time - a very dangerous proposition, as they say….

…But time is ticking away, and I’m slowly starting to realize the time I have, and my family has, is limited.  We will all eventually die.  Time with friends and family is something to be cherished and it’s the sole thing I want for Christmas.

Nov. 12th, 2014


...HelP Me OB| WaN

“…And what does this mean?”

She ran her fingers over the transcription that lay directly atop my desk, or rather the utility table that had been transformed into my personal desk/workspace. It was a table that had been with me since graduate school – about six years or so ago and fit perfectly with my newly acquired lifestyle that required everything I own must be able to be easily packed up and moved in a moments notice for the moment when I finally pull my life together. While I stuck to this principle religiously, I had no hesitation in adorning the table with my own personal brand of art - simple, yet meaningful. Sprawled across the top if it was amateur sketches depicting mathematics in various forms – equations, drawings and graphs that were representative of what I had encountered in graduate school. The inscription that caught her eye was the unfinished piece that read “O B | F |”. She was the first girl to ever question the half-written words, I was quite impressed that she noticed such a subtle scribbling.

“….what? Oh that? I’m not really sure, it’s been so long ago since…” I tried to casually brush it off as if I didn’t know the origin of my own creation. Her eyes narrowed and her face took on the continence of deep concentration as my attempt to avert it off failed miserably.

“O ….B….” she began to sound out the letters as if by reciting them aloud she would suddenly sprout forth an epiphany and bring conclusion to the meaning.

“OB…1…is that like Obi Wan? From Star Wars?” she spurted out with glee, she was quite excited to be dating someone who was into Star Wars – she had a thing for nerds. Girls love discovering nerdy things about the men they are dating. While I thought the idea was ridiculous, I let her run with it.

“Yea…I think so….I…” I attempted to eek out but she cut me off before I could finish – a common occurrence.

“But what does the F1 mean? Obi Wan F1?” puzzled, she pressed her fingers to her mouth and began to contemplate the two statements together. In all honesty, she looked rather cute while she did it.

She stood there, above the desk pondering the statement for what seemed like eternity. I had learned early on that attempting to distract, or hide, something from a girl increases her desire to know that particular something exponentially. As such, I began to play along.

“F1, sounds like …help?”

She let out a gasp, “Obi Wan Help….Help me Obi Wan?”. She face broke into a huge smile, the mystery was solved. “Oh my god, you are such a nerd!” She let out a playful laughter.

She questioned why I would have that on my desk, I stated that it was probably due to an episode of late night studying when, delirious from math problems, I scribbled out the letters in a vain attempt to seek refuge from the rigorous requirements of school. She smiled and the moment passed, all the while I neglected to mention it stood for “ObLiVioN FalLs.”


Nov. 11th, 2014


To StaRt Aga|N

Not sure why it’s so difficult to come back to writing after such a long hiatus; so much has happened, so many events have transpired since I last sat down and typed out an entry that you think the words would simply take life and transcribe themselves on the page.  I’ve thought about coming back to this journal quite a few times and starting it again, but like so many things it’s always the first step that seems so difficult.  Each attempt to come back and begin writing has been beset by a multitude of factors - laziness, business, or simply the notion that the first entry back should be monumental and anything less than perfection is subpar.

Every journey requires a first step, or second, or fifty-ninth or one-thousandth step and as such consider this my stumbling back into writing.  I hope to reboot this journal and make an earnest attempt to transcribe my life and thoughts, if for no other reason than to have something to look back on and gauge where I’ve been and where I am.

No excuses.  I plan to come back and begin writing again.

Jul. 8th, 2014



I've joined twitter:


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