Coffee, Diesel, and the occasional cancer stick

Writing to me is like the highway. I set out knowing exactly where I am and where I am going, but in writing my goal is always to get lost somewhere in the middle and begin to flail in the euphoric, unbridled cavern of words and syntax. I sincerely hope that I can wind up in the middle of an essay and think, "holy shit, I have no idea what my introduction or conclusion are." Somewhere out there this way of life exists also - and to me it seems like an absolutely perfect roadtrip.

Ho-o-o-ome

Pulled out the guitar halfway to New Orleans.

I'm sitting here at chez Blasius and I'm sitting here talking to my grandparents. My little black lab is laying across my feet. I look out of the window and the green leaves seem to weep with tears of rain drops dribbling down and falling to the ground. I sit here, as I hear my grandparents talk and I can't think of anything else that I'd rather be doing.

Oregon Trail, blasphemy, and the like...

It has been quite some time since we have communed over this table - this expanse of html script and pixellated screens. For my absence I do apologize in the most sincere way.

Nonetheless, there are times when I miss you. I do, really. I sit in my boxers and think about the distance, the seemingly unbreachable distance and oh, I yearn. Do I ever yearn! However, at long last, my chance has arisen from the depths, like a sprig of grass stretching and bursting forth from the cracks in the sidewalk.

I have realized lately that college is in large part counterproductive because no one, and I mean no one should be subjected to this grueling pace. I say grueling pace in the way of Oregon Trail. The simile lies in the setting section of O.T., you can choose your pace. I, in my youth, would always try to expedite my excursion through the Lewis and Clark country by choosing the grueling pace option. This was great fun for me, as my computer time was limited to half an hour and only if the O.T. gods were shining down on you, and you were getting after it with a grueling pace could you finish in one half hour. However, with this frantic pace came a few downsides. The primary of which being that I was always much more likely to be stopped and have a note that says, "Reginald has died of dysentery" upon which time I was supposed to just continue on. Perhaps two miles later Ferdinand would die of poison ivy. This is the life of a man on the frontier who happens to be moving at a grueling pace. Perhaps, this analogy doesn't make sense to most, but to me there have never been two oxen more appropriately yoked. College is the final frontier, it is that journey to the Oregon coast, upon which time you can float down the Dulles and arrive (supposedly), safely home. This is the time when we gruel, and we grunt. Hoping, wishing that everything in our wagon won't be dead by the time we get where we are going. The counter productivity comes in here. It comes in right before you are going to get to the float down the river. It comes right before finals. It comes, inevitably it comes. The Oregon Trail version says "Rufus has died of Gonorrhea," the real life version goes a little something like this, "Oh hello friend, here I am, looming right here like Frankenstein" and you kindly look at Frankenstein and smile half heartedly as though to say, you're not that ugly. Then he prods a little more, and he says, "hey I'm here, you know me, I'm your Brit.Lit. final and you haven't paid a lick of attention to me all year, well it's my time in the sun sonny, because I own your world for the next two weeks." then you look back with a little fear and then start to walk away - at first slowly as not to arouse suspicion but as he stays with you this turns into a full out sprint. Unfortunately you can't escape from him and you end up in the library trying to conquer him. This conquering requires nights, seriously nights of no sleep where the only sustenance comes from the fountain of youth, which can also be called Starbucks. Here we are, supposedly learning about the syntax of Chaucer's tales and all we can see is this huge green monster with screws coming out of its neck. Learning is what we're here for, and learning is what our professors preach; however by calling college a learning environment they are molesting all that has ever really engaged a student. College is a poor excuse to bottle up young, imaginative people, and turn them into mundane followers. It is a great excuse to force feed facts rather than skills. We are spending our days running from mundane numbers and ideas and our nights cramming them into overstuffed brains. We are spending every waking moment trying to evade this system of learning called college, until Frankenstein comes a-calling and we finally submit and drink this knowledge like hard liquor, simply so that we can regurgitate it out on our test. Then, we turn around and we are done -- we get to the Dulles and we look inside of our covered wagon to find nothing left but the skeletal systems of Reginald, Ferdinand, and Rufus; a couple of boxes of shotgun shells and a few pounds of animal fat. Slowly, we begin to float on down the river with nothing left and we careen into the treachery that we once so longed for. We slam, uninhibited into a land mass known as adulthood that we are thoroughly unready for. So here we come, Frankenstein, Oregon, Hitler...as we stare down your cannons we will continue to bob and weave like "the world's greatest" himself and eventually, hopefully we will diagnose college as the liar it is, and begin to learn instead of get drunk. We can turn back that dial from "grueling pace" to "sunday stroll" and Reginald, Ferdinand, and Rufus may all join us on our voyage.

Walls.

I want to break free from this cocoon of prose that I am sweltering in. Everytime my pencil flicks against the paper it seems to just shoot out rhymes. Rhyming is an insecurity for me. I am scared of the possibilities of free verse - because the possibilities are so diverse. -[refer to my previous statement about "everytime my pencil...shoot our rhymes]

Prose

fog settles on the earth
and covers my crying face
i see all of the world's feet
as they gather 'round this place
i try to look, i try to feel
but the haze impedes my sight
i turn to dash toward freedom
but i cannot find the light
the world spins so quickly
when my feet are set in stone
i want so badly to see your face
'cause i hate to be alone
as faces blur into the haze
my stare falls to the ground
i sprinted all my life to here
'cause I thought this was the fount
i want to touch your skin
and feel a sense of love
as my world crashes into yours
and blue skies reign above
now i look back upon my life
at my lifelong grind
the only thing worth keeping
is all i've kept behind.

Gravity.

Fish live pretty dangerous lives. Trout and Bass especially due to angling, however fish in general just didn't get the long straw in this whole deal. I was thinking about how when we walk around on the earth gravity pushes us down, and yes, this does in some ways affect our ability to walk on flat ground. However, what if, instead of pulling down - gravity pulled across (for example, if gravity pulled from north to south). You know it would be easy to go south, but if you had to make your way north you'd have a hell of a time. Well fishies that live in rivers basically have that kind of deal. All they want to do is just chill there like the rest of creation, but the river is always trying to pull them downstream. So, just in order to sit in one place and rest, they have to exert all kinds of energy just to avoid being swept up in the current. I think that would be the pits.

Dan

Here is an ex-presidential contender

"I love California, I practically grew up in Phoenix."

"It isn't pollution thats harming the environment. It's impurities in our air and water that are doing it."

-- Dan Quayle

4/13

"We'll get right to the heart of the matter
It's the heart that matters more"

Omaha by Counting Crows

::

They say that there is such thing as poetry which rhymes and has a somber feel. Poetry, seems more like art to me than writing. I think of writing as a form of expression, whereas poetry just seems like painting - yes, a form of expression, but in the way of expressing feeling in a visual way. Poetry is read, like words, like stories; however, whenever I paint one thing I always do is look at the painting from different angles and distances - this is the same with poetry. It is up for interpretation. This being said, it seems that I have lots of somber feeling that I like to express, but I seem to have a stop gap that makes me feel groovy whenever poetry has a bouncy rhythym. I want desperately to write a rhymed poem with a somber feel but everytime the poetry turns into a picture of a natural event - like a storm, not a break up.

::

On to more fun topics: Here's something that has been like Beef Stew for me recently: I'm wondering about how someone could best know me, without knowing me. What could they look at and see and think, "alright I'm getting a somewhat decent feel for this guy." I'd like to say something intelligent, or something that makes sense. That doesn't necessarily work, however, because I think somewhere inside of me, I don't want to be summed up that easily. I want for someone to look at my closet full of clothes and my bookshelf full of books. I want people to see some top siders and some boots next to some ghetto basketball shoes. I want people to see "Raggamuffin Gospel" on the shelf, in between "The Official Preppy Handguide" and "Into the Wild." Then if you scroll further left, you'll see "The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handguide" and then three memoirs: one - "Now I Can Die in Peace," two - "A Salty Peace of Land," and three - "The Scriptures." Now do you feel you know me intimately? -- No? -- Good.

Oh-Ma-Hah

Together we sat. The daylight flickered in and out as the clouds veiled the waning sun. Soon, the majestic purple mountains would slice through the light and the midnight blue would overtake the vast array of oranges and yellows. But, there we sat, together on a precipice of rock that jutted out over an abyss of evergreen trees.


The trees seemed to be an expansive ocean of green with a few outcroppings of dormant aspen trees. Such trees, trees who fought one another in the Garden are bare this time of year, but the Appalachians are still brimming with beauty. The hues of sunset - fading from a fiery red all the way into a beautiful swirl of blue; meet the land where the greenery, which stretches as far as the eye can see, spreads a thick blanket of grass under our perch. Gazing out into this surreal scenery sends chills down my spine. And then, as I continue to sit, the cool breath of God sends those chills back up.


My gaze turns to the newly lit stars as my thoughts drift to the wispy Aspens. Their bare arms must be so cold, and so they sit - calling out, pleading with God to warm them with new clothes. They beg for mercy, for a second chance.


A second chance - as we sit together we both lean in for a second chance.


The flannel blanket underneath to protect us from the wintry stone. We huddle together to warm each other. We knew we were in for a long haul - as it always goes when waiting for heaven's fireworks. So we twitch closer together and pull another blanket over our legs.


Soon enough the first slice of sun was cut away by the mountain. Piece by piece the jagged teeth swallowed away our source of warmth and light. As the sun passed away and the winds continued to howl we began to lose feeling in our hands. Although my sense of touch was missing I could still feel the sensation of her hand in mine. As the midnight blue enveloped the entirety of our canopy we lean back and slid into sleeping bags.


Together we lay -- Her head resting on my shoulder; together pleading for mercy - mercy for the long haul. Then, as the skies open and the twinkling lights of Heaven's courts opened session - it seemed that their deliberation was complete. The lights of heaven shined down on us, piercing the frigid night, and we knew their answer. We knew by the inner warmth that we had recieved our second chance - we knew - but we lay there. We lay there together.

lalalala

I don't care what these elders tell me any more. Everything I hear all day long is about how I need to focus. "Get on track" or the like, is all I can think of, and I absolutely refuse to do so. It is not that I am that stubborn, it is more that my brain and body disjoin. This disjunction means the body will absolutely refute any messages that the brain tries to sneak in that look like accomplishing that much famed "sometimes you have to do things you don't like" scenario. Anyway, this attitude is in some ways reflected by an action - hence the title (you know: when you put your fingers in your ears and go "lalalala" repeatedly so as not to hear what your mom or dad are telling you).

As you may well know by now, I cannot end with a simple thought. Therefore the above paragraph is thoroughly lacking in me-ness and therefore I, in my inner room, have tossed this topic through the grinders and into the blender and there is a delicacy which has so graciously popped out. That delicacy tells me that those focused moments in life, however great and official and hard working they make me feel - those moments are not where life is lived. Perhaps, there is some pressure that is imposed on me by our American Gladiator style society. This Gladiator style is as I see it most comparable to The Eliminator. The Eliminator was the final event in American Gladiators and it was full of obstacle course fare. It seems that society is similar in that anything that one desires to do - first they must jump through hundreds of hoops and perform little tricks. Perhaps, I impose these ideas on myself - the "well to be successful I must do ..." pressures. I have no reasonable idea of where these thoughts come from, however I know that I get in arguments with them quite often.

Their arguments are quite convincing, they go something like, "wouldn't it be nice to be like everyone else? wouldn't it be nice to just be a business major and alleviate some of this stress? wouldn't it be nice to get good grades? wouldn't it be nice to drive a nice car? wouldn't it be nice to get a good job out of college start a retirement fund and retire early on a golf course?" -- yes, all of those sound very nice. I can only further relate my stance as a scene from a screen play and it goes something like this:

I move stage right to proceed to an interview which will get me into grad school and prepare me for a great, high paying job. While walking, I (phantom of the opera style) fall into a trap door. [the most of the rest of the scene takes place under the stage]. I walk, fervently searching for a way back up to the stage, becoming more and more frustrated because all I want to do is get to this interview. All I want is to move to point B, however, the more time I spend under the stage, the more stage props I run into and the more I see. I eventually find a blank canvas and some paints, and I begin to paint. This expression frees me from my encompassing frustration and I begin to find myself lost in the scene.

This seems to be how my life goes. I have this idea of something that sounds good, and then on my way there I fall into a hidden trap door. Then, on my search to find how to get back to where I was, I find something that attracts my attention. These things - things in the periphery which I never see coming - those things are where life is lived. The main points of life are fine, however the interesting and life-giving events are what take place between those focal points. The majority of life is lived en route to a finite point and therefore that is where the uncertain is encountered. This uncertainty is captured in the fractions of life - events which are overlooked, but never underappreciated.

Onomatopoeia

wind sweeps through the trees
and dark clouds hover aloft
as birds swiftly rifle through canopies

rain drops syphon through cloudy ventricles
and fall, clenched to the earth
to land and solidify into icicles

the lightning clashes with zeus' fervor
as the thunder applauds
the storm turns on her afterburner

the thunder loudens and lightning intensifies
as rain pounds the earth
who can do nothing but patiently wait by

then, at last her solace has come
as the storm is overtaken by the burning sun

as the light warms with an orange glow
the earth damp from heaven's show

the birds that hid will sing for glee
as the sun opens her eye beautifully

her blazing glare will reach the earth
and grass will spring forth in rebirth

her warming rays will cottle this child
as the oppressive cold is finally exiled

the night is gone inside and out
as all of creation awakens and trifles about

the bears eyes have opened wide
only in response to the light, does she abide

the light is impetus to the conversion
as she has overcome nature's perversion

One Fish Two Fish

You know how sometimes when a fisherman is in a boat, he'll put down a line into the water with all of the fish he's caught.

I wonder if passerby fishes look at the caught fishes the same way we look at the prisoners on the side of the highway picking up trash.

A Spot of Wisdom

"He is there whispering in our ears. We won't always hear him and thats okay. He desires for us to hear every word he says, but he died because we can't."

"I'm sick of seeing people who supposedly follow Jesus, living thoroughly unhappy lives."

"It seems rather ironic that America always sends missions over to Africa. People in Africa know Jesus. They might speak a different language, but that doesn't mean they don't know Him. There is need in Africa, there is need in Curacao, there is also need in LA and Juneau. As earhly beings we have this diea that things are bound by lines: state lines, country lines, continental lines. God is universal. he is in Tennessee, South Dakota, Zimbabwe and Asia. he cannot be contatined by our mental map. Seeking Jesus is not something that we must travel for. It's not something where plains and trains and automobiles are needed. Jesus IS real in the dirty, AIDS infested land of Africa, but he's just as real on your back porch."

Pop - N - Lock

Alright, so tonight I drive home to go visit the family and when I get there, as usual the door is locked. This really ticked me off for some reason and I nearly Chuck Norrissed the door. So as I sit inside and do my paper, because much to my surprise no one is home (sarcasm) I begin to think about why the locking of the doors makes me so mad. I think I can break it down like this.

We live in a fairly wealthy part of town, we're rockin the suburbs. Well, we have a little history of "stuff" go on in our neighborhood - like eight years ago the house that abuts our back yard got broken into while they were on vacation...other than that, there hasn't really been much burglary.

I think about this situation where we are very safe and yet we still use every precaution imaginable. I also think that some of this stems from the media (I know a cliche topic - how the media influences us) and I don't mean in the typical Duke Nukem causing kids to go around and blow up aliens syndrom. I mean I was listening to "Country ain't country no more" on the way to my house and there is a line that says:

The back forty (acres) was sold to make up for hard times
Then sold by the half acre lot overnight
The houses went up and the trees were cut down
And there went the finest deer huntin' around
Lord everyone's lockin' their doors
'Cause country ain't country no more.

Perhaps, this is just the culture we live in - one where people are so ready to steal it becomes ignorant, immature, and irresponsible to leave one's door unlocked. Perhaps, there is no longer the trust of humanity to lay down at night with the windows open. If this is the case, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because every night of my life I will sleep with my doors open. If my things get taken, then I will live with the hope that the robber simply needed them more than I did. But, if they don't I'll be irreparably upset that the world lacks the trust to sleep with the doors open.