an inquiry

Have you ever hoped to be haunted, 

to be in the presence of one that is gone?

Has the ghost of your grandmother lingered 

a while as I selfishly hope mine does?

Did the cold touch of the spectre at

hand ever warm your bones?

whaddya know

Nobody ever whispers the answer into
your ear.
There is little solace in the unknown.
All the gods returned the
letters written to them.
Science has us in the dark.
There is little comfort in the unknown.

If everything seems hollow,
empty, and alone
there is little comfort in the unknown.
We have gathered all our
brightest in a room to discuss
how we now know
there is no comfort in the unknown
but we search and forage for
fragmented truths, piecing it
together - this puzzle - in effort
to see, to understand, to grasp
the unknown.

Every variable sings life,
the constants are not
that which we perceived,
and light always fades,
shining with dim pallor
into the void of the unknown.

morning meditations

6:00 AM holds no truth. 

7:00 AM is washed in sun.

8:00 AM is bathed in coffee.

9:00 AM is when we surface

to breathe the day into

lungs weak from the bite

of crisp, high-altitude dreams.

Dirt & Doggerel

The timbre of the phrase

excites me, brings the 

language to life.

Some silly Hudibrastic

will send me searching

anew for well-wrought

sentences in the midst 

of Hemingway's descriptions

rendering a mere 

 picador a hero. 

Sonnets, roundelay, haiku;

my interest wanes at

the confident poet's sad

interpretation of Spenserian

majesty, of T.S. Eliot's

vision, or of Bukowski's

fine and oft mimicked

outlook on the art.

This is visceral though

and I must roll the words

around, get a taste for it,

chew it up, spit it back.

This is emotion spilled out. 

It's all blue and blood red,

seeping from life to paper

and then, finally, forgotten.

Thoughts on a current state of being:

A combination of weakness and cowardice keeps my jaws clenched and my fists balled up by my sides. Anger rises 'til the face I try to keep calm turns beet-red and I take deep breaths that escape me again as defeated sighs. I continue hoping that things will change for the better but the hole only seems to go deeper. Kierkegaard said, "He who will only hope is cowardly." This statement suggests that I am cowardly and I am in no way in disagreement with such a suggestion. All the hoping done yields no worthy results and every word muttered contemptupusly under my breath hurts nobody but myself and my relationship with God. The hope is a placeholder for the action demanded for true growth. Progression is the acceptance of the current state of things and the ability to understand that faithless prayers and time ill-spent hinder forward motion.

Since it is all in God's hands (which I understand to be undisputed truth) then one should always be seeking truth and improvement through the implementation of healthy habits and non-destructive activity; all of which we should thank Him for and rejoice in the blessing of repetition that brings us nearer to an ultimate truth and and undying love in Christ.

[note: All of the above is directly copied from a journal entry made immediately after reading a section of Repetition by Constantine Constantus, otherwise known as Soren Kierkegaard. The vaguebit about repetition in the final line is, of course, referential to this book.]

The Baker Hotel

On July 4th, Taylor, Ryan and Ali broke into the condemned

Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells, Texas.

The following was inspired.

Mistress

taylor

Fingertips placed gingerly on the rim of his glass he looked up at the bartender who appeared as formal as his freshly pressed tuxedo. He imagined that his head would topple off were he to loosen the bow tie for him. He took a final, deep swallow of the whiskey sour. Nodding once when the bartender glanced his way he stood, turned with an over pronounced elegance, and made for the ballroom. He spotted her across the vastness of the room. She felt his eyes on her but would not meet what she knew all to well to be his solemn gaze; a gaze lacking invitation, deep wells of regret hidden behind a stern grey assurance. Regaining his composure, slackening the tightness he felt at the temples, he crossed the luxurious Oriental rug with an air of royalty. He brushed past her without a word or side glance and approached the lobby's front counter.


"I'll have a room for the night," he said in a rich, careless monotone to the clerk who promptly presented him with the correct key in a correct manner of submissiveness.

She was waiting in the elevator when he stepped into the compartment, languidly dangling a cigarette from her thin fingers.

The operator, in a cracked voice, asked, "Which floor sir?"

Her limpid eyes locked on the key in his hand for a moment and then onto the elevator attendant.

"Seven," she answered for him.

Her voice contained a hint of laughter, was so smooth and sweet that the operator almost overlooked the mocking sneer that played on her lips briefly. Theodore looked at the key in his hand and back to the numbers changing above the sliding doors as they slid quietly past the five floors that separated the lobby from the room. As the lavish compartment shuddered to a halt the young man announced the seventh floor and prompted the shining doors to open with a few well rehearsed flicks of his wrist. Theodore exited first, tucking a crisp, rather large bill in the pale-faced operator's front shirt pocket. She snickered softly under her breath at the tip as she crossed the threshold onto the rich carpet of the hallway. Theodore trembled with an anger absent in his face's unshakable demeanor and marched with military formality towards the room at the far South East wing of the building, his building. At the door he turned to face her for the first time. She smiled and took her own key from her handbag. With apparent fatigue he followed her into the room, modest in size but exquisite in its decor. He sank into a rocking chair of glossy oak and plush brown upholstery. From the side table he lifted his reading glasses and a newspaper.

She cleared her throat and lit one of the cigarettes she kept in the drawer of the nightstand. Refocusing strained attention from the column he had been pretending to read, his gaze fell on her leaning back on her palms, her fingertips pointing away from her, the cigarette dangling from the permanent smirk she wore when they were alone. She crossed her legs and assumed a sloppy pose made enticing only by the cut of the black dress she wore with absolute confidence.

"Why do you keep this up Teddy?"

"I couldn't tell you really. I've been made a fool and I've been controlled. Truth be told I loathe you. You make my skin crawl. The air is thick with some sort of evil when you're around and though I cannot for the life of me reconcile the wrong done when I'm with you there's some latent terror of what would happen if I broke it off and sent you packing."

The corners of her mouth turned sharply upward into a smile that revealed both her overly white teeth and her malicious intent.

"I've broken you. One day everyone will know that you gave to my every whim. They'll know that I owned you."

She rose quietly with unmatched grace from the bed and seemed to glide to him.

"Mr. Kennedy is even lovelier in person than on the television. Don't you think so?," she asked returning to her innocent tone, and settled into his lap.

He cringed as she kissed his temple, her lips brushing against the frames of his glasses. She removed the spectacles, taking note of the lipstick smudged on the arm, and proceeded to set them softly onto the side table as she leaned forward to lie her head on his shoulder. She felt him quiver with unease and smiled inwardly at her ability to make him do so.

"Get out," he said suddenly, "it's done."

He pushed her off his lap and stood straight with newfound courage. The part of him she believed to be broken stood snarling before her and she knew that very moment that she loved him this way. When he stood for something he was a god. When he approached life like he approached business, with a raw masculine ferocity that swallowed up any pretense of calm and the storm began in his eyes, he was the image of Ares before trembling masses. He was rigid with decision and his eyes were merciless. She tried once to meet his contemptuous gaze with a submissive glance but found that she was in fact broken despite her best efforts. Rising to her feet with all the dignity she could muster she said goodbye and leaned in to kiss him. Theodore side-stepped her attempt and strode to the door, swinging it open.

"Get out. Now."

She, without gathering her belongings, walked, crestfallen, through the door and faced him for the last time as he slammed the heavy oak panel in her face. Shame and fear washed over her as she stepped back onto the elevator.

"To the roof please Jim," she nearly whispered to the operator.

"Here you are ma'am."

She quickly and quietly removed her earrings, a gift from Theodore, and slipped them into Jim's front pocket with Teddy's tip. As she stepped off the elevator crisp air hit her face, streaming with tears, and she wept openly. She stared out over Mineral Wells perched on the edge of the cupola bathed in midnight moonlight.

World Enough, And Time

ryan

Viscerally

ali

Sixteen stories of stately brick call us back to an abandoned alley for a couple quick glances tossed across the shoulder before a deft scramble over the wall with its mute NO TRESPASSING frown, running low through weed-eaten courtyards and graffiti-streaked tunnels to lie bellies flattened against the cement spine of its bridge as a siren wails its presence by. Light foot dash forward to shimmy up a column and - pause, dangerously poised, before - jumping over the teeth of a locked iron gate, to squeeze through the slip of the top of a doorway, finally boots-first through a broken window, the kaleidoscope of dismembered glass and full-length mirrors and heavily sagging ceiling shifting underneath tenderly-placed steps into the unknown dusk of what we later learn was the once-swank Brazos Club.

Layers of unbelieving understanding starting to unfold as we creep reverently on past a forest of strangely sobered arches, through dense carved doors in a segue to the soar of the lobby, its chandeliers still swinging like a first loose tooth by one frail nerve, drapes still swooned across windows slicing light into mote-thickened arcs, rugs still smooth as a lick of pomade against the span of its echoing stretch - we fling our voices out in glee and pull them back in whispered awe.

Outstretched hands and feet now feeling out the staircase, pocket knife first, up by one swirl to the lobby's upper ledge, emptied out beside the blinded eyes of iron-lidded elevator shafts dropping silently to stomach-felt depths.

Rooms petal off by function only dimly hinted at, here by a densely rust encrusted typewriter in a jumble of otherwise unidentifiable machinery, there by glass doors folding inward for all the eye like phone booths, us gingerly pushing with our toes at a pile of chairs, running our fingers through the dust icing fitted marble counter tops, casting our questions up at the globed dome of what must have been another ballroom.

With our hints we gather artifacts, typewriter keys tucked in pockets and ashtray bowls carried under arms, the crowning find a lone rocking chair of scrolled arms rolling into curled legs holding straight the perfect line of a brown upholstered back - letting ourselves out the window, histories clutched tight to the chest in a shifty gait past the pit of the pool across the naked stretch of the lawn, our car and triumph a short leap over the chainlink fence beyond. Dangling precariously along the edge of discovery when a car turns the corner, slows, windows rolling down and heads popping out flinging questions - parried to find them harmless observers, envying our bravado and eying our treasures, parting with a word of warning.

Five minutes later sliding into a dinner booth, still dusted with asbestos and exultation -

"Do you know anything about that abandoned hotel around the corner?" we ask the waitress with barely veiling innocence.

"Oh yeah. It's famous around here... people are always trying to break in, but they have someone watching it all the time. It's automatic jail time, if you get caught."

We smile, and order our drinks. In the parking lot, in the dark, a chair rocks slightly.

A Truly Joyous Jumble

Fifteen miles into a bike ride through the country and my knees stop aching. Ten minutes into a swim when the scrapes on my shins quit stinging. Twenty-two years into a lifetime and my soul starts truly yearning for a God that's forever present. Three lines into a blog post and life seems a wonder.

Staring off a monolith into a valley of sticks and greenery. This is where I find myself the weekend of May 29th. Flash forward less than two weeks and I am sitting below a florescent light, at my desk, dreaming of cliffs and clear, bluish-green water. Escaping into the yellowing pages of a Hesse novel is no match for total immersion in water lapping against a rocky shore of a small, hill country community.

The days have grown much longer and the expanding schedule for each day is, surprisingly, not burdensome. Each dip in the city lake, every sunset reminds me that He is rolling out beauty in every direction. Warmth from a fire crackling in the 'rocket ship pizza kiln' consumes doubt and apprehension. This life is for living and it's time to get busy doing so.

"I don't want to be a fair weather fan caught in a trough drifting again. When the tempest comes, and we know it surely will, I hope we ride the wave and learn to sit still. Life isn't poetry. It ain't a book you read or a movie you've seen. It's not the fickle flesh or the drugs that make us feel the best. It's the culmination of faith and the guiding light that leads through the pitch of night."

-evergreens

A Long Day

It was an arduous day and creativity of any kind was omitted as will be reflected here for the most part.

Frustration with a busted radiator and a dead end job has me a little rattled but I'll make an effort to give project updates.

Ali is making a home for our co-op garden in her backyard since we didn't start early enough and I, for one, am quite excited to see what we reap. More than being ecstatic about seeing the growth and production of the work scheduled to be put forth I am bubbling over with anticipation at the thought of the dishes Ali will concoct using the yield.

Finished working out lyrics and a basic guitar structure for a new song which will be added to the original set I've been working on and really need to start and finish the recording of said songs. The completion date is still set for mid-May which means I have work to do.

A great gift in the form of a classic Schwinn has resulted in several trips to the bike shop and a nearly finished product which has already provided me with great times and enjoyable exercise. Once it has been completed I will post photographs and gloat over the luck and yet again give excessive appreciation to Ali.

I sure hope William follows this up with something worthy of attention. I would love to see some more of everybody else's work here...

Adolphus and Slungman discover that hills have two sides

Nothing has been left barren. Spring is in full swing. The days have been warm and after the sun has set the air becomes chilly, swaying silhouettes of trees to and fro on winding country roads. A storm left branches scattered on the road and the twigs scrape against my hands as Conrad and I go for a late night bike ride to stretch our limbs, expand our lungs, and escape the cabs of cars or the sterility of office buildings. A scent of honeysuckle on the wind and the lowing of cattle in the fields accompany the whirring of tires as we drift over the asphalt. I feel released from some imagined weight as we glide down hills, the sweat from pedalling hard to escape yard dogs drying as quickly as it came. The chain clinks slightly as I push the pedals back, positioning them in anticipation of the next upward slope. Everything is more beautiful when you can be a part of the scenery that you're passing through. Twenty-three miles of open sky and wind swept fields on either side; it's a painting that you soak in and appreciate, a panorama in which you are not the primary subject. To feel small like a speck of color on a canvas is to feel a sort of freedom. Stress from the week's work melts away at every mile marker. The strain of calves and thighs dissipates as we lean against a fence pole in want of water and a cigarette. A blanket of star speckled blue stretches further than imagination reaches. There was only the last stretch of road on the return home and that unfettered liveliness rising in my chest. It wasn't a song but the first movement of a symphony.

Evergreens Re-Do

...and one day we'll be evergreens.

We'll outlast Winter and breath in new life. We will bloom in Spring and lift our hands to hope and wisps of feathery clouds until Summer creeps in, washing the land in light, darkening our exteriors while brightening our disposition. The sun will bare down on open fields and the wind will be welcome to beat against moist necks and damp hair. The Autumn phoenix will again dance and burst with color before the coming onslaught of grey December days short and icy. So the seasons circular track goes and the years overlap as hairlines recede. Youth - for now under appreciated to the point of being virtually overlooked - will slip from groping hands and age will settle into our hearts and joints. Sometimes I feel the aging process when I tug at my beard and remember the thinning spot on my crown. Exhaustion sets in well before midnight and I battle for one A.M. to prove I'm still youthful. Will we welcome death and join our maker after deep sleep and the cessation of memory or struggle to grasp the life we once led? The last breath should be exalted and prayers whispered in earnest. Our final exhalation should be spent giving thanks for the time here and praise for the eternity to come. And one day we'll be those evergreen on the hillsides, those reminders of endless life and the vision of hope to those lost in the barren Winter.

The root of art and decline of faith

"He thought that fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do."

-Narcissus and Goldmund by Herman Hesse (an excerpt)

This particular passage does not mirror my own beliefs. I rather like to think that all creation is done to canonize the beauty in life but see so many examples that are summed up so well by this description. Take Guernica, for example, or every Carissa's Wierd* song you have ever heard. This weighed on me pretty heavily when I first read it and thought it would be worth sharing.

(*Yes, weird is spelled incorrectly but there's a reason this group was referred to by so many

music critics as "music's spelling bee champs".)

forward motion?

I would like very much to inform you all that I've spent the week coming up with something new to post here but time has been dedicated to porch sitting and quality time with friends and family. Instead my day will be used as an opportunity to give a progress report...

The seven songs listed in a previous post have undergone some changes. "His Name was James" has been extended from a little, two part progression to a finger picked introduction to be followed by a few extra sections. On the new additions some of my talented friends will be accompanying me and contributing new ideas to improve upon the original concept. Aside from the expansion on this particular song lyrics have been finished for "Evergreens" and "Death Egg". I'd also like to take this space to say that the latter is actually an instrumental blues song that David and I wrote together and the recorded version that's being worked on is simply going to be a stripped down version rearranged for a single guitar. The other songs are receiving finishing touches and I've given myself a deadline of mid-May to complete the project.

Sorry for the brevity and lack of content.

The Shifting of Tides

An uproar of laughter and good, though drunken, cheer passed through walls not fit for privacy. Past a door marked "B" there was silence. The old man who inhabited the cramped space behind sat on a leather couch, cracked with time, and stared with a certain emptiness out of the facing window with shutters thrown open. The walls were wanting of a new coat and peeled in an unsightly fashion. A chip of ancient paint fluttered from the wall and drifted across the room, settling on the knee of the elderly man's pressed pants.

He glanced down, plucked the little chip between his gnarled index and thumb, and glanced meaningfully at it. His head cocked ever so slightly to the left as he examined the chip, consciously frowning as he deposited it into an empty, glass ashtray. Death crossed his mind for the first time since his formidable years in the service of an ex-lover's father who had employed him during his reckless twenty-somethings. In the midst of emotional upheaval brought on by dissipation of this affair and loss of work he left the country, fled to Spain, and had ever since dwelt on an overly-romanticised loss of love in the leaky, decrepit apartment in Madrid. Every day for forty years he had rifled through old photographs of her and drove himself into a vacuous hole as the lines deepened on his brow. She had been exquisite. As a young man he savored each word she spoke, drank in her elegance, breathed deeply the aromatic delusion of love. He was intoxicated by the misconception that she had returned these emotions and had always since been hung over, recuperating from the loss.

For some reason he saw fit to accept the pain now. A pile of yellowed letters he had written to her shortly after his arrival in this place hid a worn though unread Bible. He lifted the book with shaking hands, plagued by arthritis and flipped pages that cracked like dry leaves underfoot in late Autumn. Pausing in the book of Job to read a few passages he couldn't help but laugh a bit at himself. The old man's suffering was a product of withdrawal from society and he became aware that his exile was but a choice made, his own open consent to welcome loneliness. There was a second chance for life awaiting him patiently which had only just become apparent. He had woken from a dream to meet life and sank to his knees before a dusty coffee table. He was made to endure this hell he created by design and he could not begin to imagine what wonder awaited him beyond the four walls surrounding him.

Lighting a thin cigarette, hand-rolled and a bit loose, the newly released prisoner peered out of his window at the courtyard below. Several Spaniards and English women, intoxicated by both the beautiful accents and rich wine, danced with the fervor of adventurous children. A stream of blue-grey smoke passed his cracked lips and dispersed outside the window. Below a well dressed young man looked up to the second story window where the old man stood. The younger of the two smiled brightly as he tipped his fashionable cap. The elder for the first time in years felt happiness spread through him and manifest itself as a wide grin. His knees went weak and his chest tightened. The young Spaniard's smile melted to concern when the old man crumpled to the cold wooden floor still smiling, musing at the idea of joining the fiesta.

While Observing at Dusk

The first installment of 'Tuesdays with Taylor' is really quite a shallow and probably undeveloped one but a deadline is a deadline. This bit was just buried somewhere in my journal and I have decided for the sake of sticking to a schedule to go ahead with it since playing basketball by streetlight was ever so appealing. Here it goes...

The Sheltie puppy darted beneath the plank table and gazed out upon the garden as the sky turned to pale shades of pink and orange. His eyes roamed curiously until he caught sight of a thieving raccoon moving on padded feet to the tomato cages. The great fruit heist was at hand as the brown and white youngster darted down the hill bounding clumsily to accost the slinking bandit. He let loose a low, almost comical rumble from his throat. The underdeveloped muscles trembled with apprehension but his determination, overriding any precautionary hesitation, drove him down the hill towards the thief.

Arriving at the scene of the crime, the pup stumbled unprepared within striking distance of the nocturnal, stripe-tailed rodent's claws. The raccoon snarled, swatted, and I grimaced as the furious little claws batted at the wet, inquisitive nose of the unlearned youth. This black and grey,

bushy-tailed, nighttime burglar treated the bold pup's snout to a melee he wouldn't soon forget, snatched the red, ripe fruit from the vine and stole away into the trees bordering the garden's edge to wash the spoils in the creek. I washed the defeated pup's nose while his enemy ate his fill at a safe distance under the cover of night and tree limb.

A skunk darted behind the trash cans near the back porch and his ears perked up and spine went stiff...