Gray Eyes and Magic Guns

"Did you expect to find me swimming with these bodies? You know you shouldn't have, probably for a couple of good reasons." She took hold of my arm, pulling herself out of the squalid water.

Was she smirking?

"I wasn't expecting anything, my friend - but I'm more than happy to see you here, out of these bodies in which I seem to have found you," I mused with a tired grin. The desire was certainly not to antagonize, but to cast my curiosity on that which she seemed to regard with unexpected clarity and composure. There was a sensation of confidence in her tone that, at present, I envied. If she had seen something upstream, maybe she...yes, she most likely could readily offer a more sensible construct of our shared circumstances than I had yet construed.

The immediate environs were not entirely appealing. The skies, a dark tract of murky gray, descended rapidly in large droplets; the bleeding clouds lined the heavenly expanse like scaly flesh. The two of us sat on the edge of a bridge, our feet dangling inches from the crawling waterway, itself an entity of intimidating proportions. The water beneath us reached outward in all perceptible directions...Say, upon what was this bridge built? Was it touching solid ground somewhere, out of sight?

The immensity of the waterway encircling our location shook thoughts of the bizarre bridge far from mind. This infinite river, in its tow, carried with it the bodies of countless familiar persons in vast supply. None of them were physically harmed, nor were they marred, nor even in casual disarray; by all appearances, their waking lives had abruptly ceased, and no one could be more surprised than they. But not one had offered proof of consciousness until moments ago, when she calmly emerged from their endless numbers.

I knew them all. So many, so many. Every man and woman floated by in silence; every voiceless face induced stories that seeped from my memories. They were not all Friends as I'd known them, but certainly none of them deserved this predicament. Were they really dead? They had to be. Their large gray eyes were opened wide, far too wide, to such an extent that their eyelids should have torn apart. Almost as though small, invisible hands gripped and pried at the eyelids. So-called windows into the soul.

Windows to the soul. A sorrowful notion arose that these passersby had sought in life to protect and conceal their private and personal essences, their quiet joys and their sullen remorses, in the introvertedly controlled manners that an individual must, to balance sanity and civility. Yet something here had pried, physically, and forced itself into their sacred, fragile essences. Something in this place sought to obliterate their metaphorical defense; their so-called windows had been shattered, utterly, and floating husks of soggy flesh were the lone remnants of these unfortunate soulless multitudes.

After having sat in this place for a time, watching as the waterlogged friends and colleagues floated onward, I pondered whether a leap into the waters would be necessary as some form of eventual escape. Could the bridge lead somewhere? That seemed absolutely unlikely.

Now though, at last, I was one of two. On a bridge to nowhere. Surrounded by a small sea of bouyant carcasses. And nothing was fighting to tear open our eyes, as my imagination feared. Things were looking up.

"In truth, I'm here to tell you one thing," she said, "but first, I need you to throw away your knife."

"What...what knife? I don't- Oh." She was right. A small blade was clutched in my left hand; I had unknowingly been plunging it into my legs, repeatedly. Why didn't I feel it? Was I drugged? Did I take drugs? No, I was merely stupid. I pulled the bloodied knife from my leg and tossed it into the waters below. Small tendrils of blood danced from the blade and swam away like tiny snakes.

Curiously, she then set a gun on my lap. An unremarkable little handgun. I glanced at her expectantly for elucidation.

"Two bullets. You'll need to use both of them on yourself."

With a laugh, I gazed out to the horizon. Realizing there was no horizon to see through a newly formed mist, I looked back to her. "To what end?" A glance down at the handgun, reflecting on the situation; it would be nice to escape this place...

"No. No, Josh. Using that gun won't kill you any more quickly than this place will. You've been here too long already. No, this is sort of your Red Pill/Blue Pill choice - and it is a choice. Use the gun to shoot your heart, and then to shoot your head. Both of those things have taken control of you, control that rightfully belongs to you. As long as you surrender your control to Heart and Mind, you'll barely survive. Killing them is your only chance to live."

"All right then. But, pray tell - without passion and compassion, without reason and rationale, how could one hope to live with any satisfaction at all?"

She stared through me. "Do you have any of those things now? Really, do you, in some capacity?" she asked, as she slid back into the squalid waters below.

Gun in hand, I contemplated the choice of putting it to use, but was overcome once again by the oppressive silence and solitude. Wide-eyed bodies floated by, staring, perhaps feigning curious expectation.

Maybe it was a magic gun! I found myself pointing it at my chest. Squeezed the trigger.

Geez, ow. Ok, it didn't feel like a magic gun.

Obediently, I found myself pointing this lie of a gun at my head. On a bridge to nowhere, with holes in my legs and an empty chest, alone save for the wide-eyed bodies floating by; even if the gun resolved nothing it was promised, it certainly couldn't worsen matters. Things were looking up.

Of Clutter and Courtesy

I sat in my apartment, wondering vaguely where the light was originating. I had no lamps or bulbs, though the room was clearly visible as though by some ambient source of luminance. I lamented the clutter, the mess, the piles of unidentifiable junk and filth. My home looked as though it had been ravaged, and left awash in a dirty glow of gray and brown.

A knock at the door.

I scuttled toward the handle and, in the interest of feigning courtesy, pulled open the door. Before me stood a stranger, much taller than myself.

"Hello there! I am a friend of your friend, Jason! We met last year, when we all traveled to Georgia together."

In the murky gray light, I could make out his facial features, and they were wholly new to me. "You're not. You look nothing, absolutely nothing like him."

"Oh," said the stranger, visibly distraught. As though willed by my denial, his facial construct contorted and shifted and changed, reshaping into a more familiar presentation. "Is this closer to his face, then?"

"Yes, I suppose you're close enough now," I conceded.

I stepped into the hallway and shut my apartment door behind me. We were in near-darkness; a short distance from ourselves, we espied a beckoning glint of light from under another door. I threw open the door, its shuddering creak wailing and echoing inside the vast room into which it led.

A huge room, bathed in natural light from massive windows all around. The ceiling was magnificently high, and the windows seemed to extend from our floor level, to untold and unseen heavens above. Into the room rushed beams of light from outside, also despondently cold and gray and pale. It was then that my stranger-friend and I laid eyes on the table in the center of the room.

Lined with cloth and expertly presented, the table was set for some wondrous feast; silverware and glasses, plates and bowls were situated in front of each magnificent black seat, and each seat around this impressive table was inhabited by an impossibly elderly person. With ancient sunken eyes, every one of these silent turned to us in unison, their hands placed flatly on the table in front of them. As we approached, I beheld their loose and craggy skins, dangling precariously from skeletal structures that were illuminated ghastily in the soft, cold light.

There was no food on the table. In its stead, was dust, thickly caked and grimy and undisturbed. With unexpected trepidation, I stepped hurriedly toward the windows to glance outside, away from these living skeletons that were also inexplicably covered in the same thick, grimy dust, as though it had long ago become their second skin. As my stranger-friend and I traversed the room, their sullen stares followed our every step. Not a word was uttered.

My stranger-friend and I looked outward, our backs to the room. An expansive forest loomed before us, exhibiting not a single sign of life. Blanched trees arose from the ground, pale and beautiful, reaching upwards in their evident attempt to escape their own beginnings. Their boughs and branches grew up and up, until burdened by their own weight, and were slowly diverted and forced to plunge back down into which they had begun. The tips and ends of their branches resembled severed hands and arms -- without sense or reason, they were bloodied severed hands and arms. The tips of these trees bled and reached with human hands, clawing and tugging, grasping in futility. Bones from these arms and hands grew outward, splintering into different paths, seeking to escape their own beginnings.

In disgust, my stranger-friend and I turned back to the large cavernous room, which now seemed colder than before; our ancient skeletal audience still glared at us, as though studying us with as much fascination as unfathomable hatred. "Let's...get out of here," I said quietly.

We hurriedly left the large, cavernous room, and made our way back to the hallway; believing I had feigned courtesy quite enough for this stranger, I quickly hurled myself back into the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind me. My stranger-friend made no effort to follow me.

A creak. That creaking noise from overhead.

What was that?

I looked to the low ceiling of my apartment, only in time to see it wholly collapse, annihilated under an untold mass of rat feces. The feces flooded my apartment, as legions upon legions of rats swarmed down from above, falling through the ceiling and into the horrible, horrible scene below. In vain, I tried to push through the dense pile of crawling rats, fighting and biting and tearing at each other, to reach the top of the pile that they each had wrought...


...When abruptly, I was genuinely awakened by my cat vomiting on my apartment floor.

It Lives!

Well, hello there, Blog. It's been quite a while. Let us catch-up on missed conversations.


Since last we spoke, there have been a few structural changes around here. Shiny new faces have come and gone; familiar bodies have disappeared, only to resurface again unexpectedly, for which I am grateful. Many wonderful and spectacular foods have been nommed. No major calamities or tragedies to report, for which I am all the more grateful.


In late April 2008, my grandparents were kind enough to provide me with two additional fuzzy roommates. They were fully assembled and ready-to-use, right out of the box, and were pre-packaged with an innate comprehension of how to control me to befit their whims. Mr Wonko and his sister, the foxy Leela -- a justified adjective, once you've seen her poofy ochre tail! -- have been with me now for more than a year. We celebrated their shared birthday on September 23rd, and if their manic behavior is to serve as any indication, I fear the forthcoming Terrible Two's from the favorable duo.



Wonko & Leela, waking from Daily Nap #6.

Earlier this year, it became all the more clear that my will is not my own, as a stray cat took over my mind and forced me to adopt him. Undoubtedly, an effort to ensure that he would live after being struck by a car. Mr Baggins is my third and final roommate; an affectionate but expectedly skittish and paranoid little fellow, with an insatiable appetite and plenty of happy drool when his head is rubbed. His life story is thus far deserving of its own "blog entry."



Mr Baggins, pondering how to regain the usage of his tail.

On other subjects, my car was the victim of an anti-vehicular hate crime -- shot in the night, and left for dead. Fortunately, Money heals the wounds that Time cannot.

I'm still employed. Friends and family still have their health and good natures.

Life plods onward. More to come.

Acquisitions Forthcoming

A momentary reprieve, to delve briefly into the Waking Life side of things.

In the latter part of last week, I had developed a plan of attack for the weekend. With pleasant weather imminent, and an old comrade visiting Columbus -- and by extension, me -- I surmised that this would be a perfect occasion to begin procuring such grown-up things as furniture. To date, the apartment in which I sit has maintained a minimal profile; mostly, it houses me, two computers, and a television that is gathering dust. Two recliners, also gathering dust. A quiet existence, and easy to clean!

The battle plan for the weekend involved the aforementioned friend's assistance in transporting a new sofa as well as a dining table set. Playing grown-up must involve material acquisitions.

Also on the agenda was finding fuzzy company, in the form of two young sibling cats from a nearby shelter (Kia and Legacy, as they are currently known).

Unfortunately, the aforementioned friend was unable to travel to Columbus by way of his broken-down vehicle, and the cat shelter seemed to be unexpectedly closed for the weekend, counter to the information provided via a telephone conversation.

No matter; all things, with time. Efforts will continue!

Warfare & Androgyny

I stood atop a small hill overlooking the massive field. The open ground stretched outward to the curved horizon before my line of sight. In front of me, a Tauren army gathered, so violently massive and clamorous and odiferous that I was nearly overwhelmed to tears, even as a passive onlooker. The whole of the immense plain was filled with these impressive bovine warriors, and they were quickly falling into formations that spanned miles apiece. In no time, it seemed they were prepared for battle; millions of Tauren began to stomp the ground, and to bellow and roar in anticipation of the battle to come.

The Tauren emissary returned from the distant reaches of the open plain, with word of their opponents. The innumerable soldiers momentarily quieted, to heed the forthcoming news.

"I can't find them! Are you all quite positive we're in the right place?"

Millions of Tauren stopped stomping the ground, and instead moaned and grunted and ambled back to their tents. Somewhat disappointed, but with newfound curiosity, I approached the Tauren encampment.

I was surprised to find that the warriors had quickly pulled out a number of items, and wares, and placed them on display near their respective areas. With my head down, I approached one of the massive beasts, and inquired into this new development.

Speaking in an unexpectedly high tone, the Tauren before me squeaked, "Oi, these battles. They ain't free. Not free at all. Very expensive! We all have lives, y'see, and these here fights stop us from earning the gold from our Daily Quests." He paused to stomp at the ground, and snorted. "Pity! To recover our losses, we set up shop for you peasants. That's right. We need your money, and we can't just take it from you. No. Quite wrong. Which is why we kindly ask you to buy our wares, help us afford these vicious battles. Good shows, they are!"

"Not today, it wasn't. With all respect, it was like staring at a cow field. Many of you pooped. The piles are still right over there."

"Ah, yes. I'd love to bash you for your crass tongue, but quite right. Quite right. Today was not the finest."

"What is this that you are selling, good sir?" I inquired.

"ACTION FIGURES!" he proclaimed with a broad gesture, sweeping his plated gloves over his merchandise. With glee, I inspected the array of action figures and collectible toys. All were modeled to the likeness of the Tauren fighters, and fully articulated! The detail was incredible; clearly, these were quality action figures, well worth the investment to assist in the funding of the Tauren soldiers, such as the fine cow with whom I had been speaking.

Pointing at a cluster of toys that had caught my eye, I glanced back up to the Tauren and mumbled "...And what of those? They don't seem to match the nature of the other figures."

"Oh, right, the wheelchair crew. Odd lot, there. Yes, you ought not say I told you so, but we honestly haven't a wheelchair crew. We Tauren could hardly sit in the things, let alone fight in them. But, you know how the world is these days. Yes, yes, political correctness all around. Pity, really."

Without commenting further, I purchased a small allotment of figures from the verbose Tauren, and returned to my car, on the other side of the hill. Two of my mafia friends were near my car. I could not remember how I knew them; I didn't even know their names. I also did not know why they were bothering Jackie Chan, who was clearly wearing a costume for a recent film shoot.

"I am no woman!" Jackie Chan shouted at my two estranged mafia acquaintances; to their credit, his costume was an extremely feminine dress, bright and flowery. "This is a costume! A dance scene in my next movie! Stop touching me! Ew!"

I stated the obvious. "Guys, that's Jackie Chan. He's not a woman; stop flirting with him. And check out these sweet Tauren action figures I just bought!"

The two mafia men recoiled, realizing that they had been attempting to grope a man in drag. Jackie Chan frolicked away. The two men glared accusingly at me. I was beginning to suspect that they would not be interested in my new action figures.

"He was going to let us make fools of ourselves! He knew that was Jackie Chan all along! Ugh! Quick, grab him!"

The larger of the two men grabbed both of my arms, and for a moment, I lamented that I never was able to play with my toys. Good lord, this man was huge -- I had not noticed that he was very easily eight feet tall, and frighteningly bulky.

"Break his arms!"

The big man shook my arms slightly. He looked back at his comrade with a pathetic pout, and announced, "Aww, he's too scrawny! I can't get a grip on his little sissy arms!" As though to prove his point, he shook my arms again. He seemed to be telling the truth; his fingers were more massive than my arms, and he lacked the dexterity (and mental fortitude) to consider any other way to break my arms than via his tried-and-true method.

"Oh, he's cunning! Well then, I suppose we'd better take him back and force him to watch Jackie Chan movies until his arms break. Throw him in his car! Get in the backseat, you squab, I'm riding shotgun!"

As I drove the three of us home, I mused quietly, "All right! Jackie Chan movies! This is so awesome!"

In search of...

Well, hello there. It stands to reason that you who are currently reading these fine words know me, else you'd not have found yourself here. And, equally likely, I know you; so, in this regard, Howdy.

By virtue of our familiarity, I can forgo the cumbersome exclamations pertaining to a rationale of explication for having joined this cozy little Blogspot community. Instead, let us instead read of a recent dream - a journey, in search of food.

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Sitting quietly in a house with no light with my comrade Shawn, we gazed around the room in search of activity. Nearly silent, we both wondered why the lights and television and computers were turned off; neither of us resolved to break the silence.

I was determined to break the silence.

"Dude," I proclaimed, "I'm freaking hungry."

"It's too late already," Shawn retorted. "Nothing will be open at this hour. Besides, it's probably cold outside."

Within moments, we were wandering outside in pale blue snow. We stumbled upon a path that was marked by burning torches, that popped and sizzled and punctuated the chilly evening air. Without any other variety of guide or purpose, we began to follow the illuminated path, hoping highly for food.

We eventually found ourselves approaching a very large house; the burning torches lead to the entryway, and provided enough light to see that the house was something more like a tavern. Large, Nordic-looking individuals were entering and exiting the tavern, laughing and shoving and yelling at one another. Shawn and I presumed that large Nordic-looking individuals must also eat food, and entered the establishment to complete our quest.

Inside, I realized that this was not simply a lowly tavern; this was something more! This was a Chinese-food-bar! Scary, hairy men and women were eating lo mein noodles, and drinking flagons of warm mead; an impressive fire roared at the end of the bar within a firepit. A welcome sight: Food was cooking near the hearth!

Shawn and I stealthily crept to the cooking food, and attempted to steal away with it. Holy crap, the big scary men were fast! They noticed our pitiful attempt to steal food, and lifted us into the air! We were punted out the front door, back into the pale blue snow.

Determined not to be disappointed by such a minor setback as being mildly accosted by intimidating men and women, Shawn and I crept back through the front door. Wandering beyond the Chinese-food-bar, we were in momentary awe of the dimensions of this particular indoor establishment: The room opened into a vast bazaar, full of multitudes of people selling various items and goods! Near the center of the bazaar, we could easily discern a high-rising throne, upon which sat the Lord of the Bazaar.

Almost immediately, our presence was once again detected, and large scary men hauled us to the steps before the Lord of the Bazaar. Informed that we were lowly beggars, the Lord of the Bazaar pulled out a poster from beneath his throne; from our vantage point at the bottom of the steps, it appeared to read "Levels of Severity of Punishments."

The Lord of the Bazaar seemed indifferent. "Meh...they're only worth a Level Three or Four on this list. Go slap them around a bit, but please don't tire yourselves," he instructed his minions.

Shawn and I looked at one another. "Screw that!" I yelled, and we dashed for the far side of the bazaar.

Surprisingly, there was not a wall on the far side of the bazaar; rather, there was a mountain that rose through the ceiling, into the sky, and beyond the clouds. At the time, it seemed there was only one option: Ascend.

Shawn and I climbed quickly, finding a slight pathway that lead directly to the distant peak. Heavy snow began to fall, and we knew that, if we were ever to find food for our hungry bellies, we would need to seek out the great hermit of the mountain peak - our comrade, Orion.

After a great deal of climbing and struggling, we neared the peak. The wind blew violently, thrashing us with wretched cold and veritable clumps of snow. At last, ahead - we saw him! Orion! But did he have food for us?

Orion himself had become a part of the mountain; all that we could see of him was a portion of his face, protruding from stones in a wall of the mountain. Like the Cheshire cat, he grinned at us; the wind and snow blew more violently still, and the white clumps of snow began to cover Orion's face.

Eyes wide and teeth bared, Orion gradually disappeared under the accumulating snow of the mountain.