Redmond Wallace

another try

2011-12-20T07:30:00.000-08:00

I've been playing with Geogebra. This is really just some testing of how to get stuff working. It's pretty neat, though.

Procrastination is an art, as I view it.

2011-12-19T05:41:00.000-08:00

You know I have something I should be doing if you see something up here. You also know you are getting older when you do something productivish when putting of the important work. I can even be caught cleaning sometimes lately.

Apparently, a bunch of stuff is happening in the world. A crazy short man is dead, troops are out of Iraq, and a few people are baling cash while the rest of us fight to make the rent. Does any of it matter during football season? Here's a lesser known fact, I have fallen asleep to almost every football game I have seen. It's really not as interesting on TV as people think it is. I had more fun watching games in high school. I'm not sure, but I would haphazard to say that the same disconnect we live through the televised events is the one that makes the "end" of the War such an apathetic event. It was reason I voted for Obama and is far too important to undervalue but we do so anyway.

I must be on now, but my prayers go to all the families hurt by the endless war. It decimated one nation, brought ours to its knees and has trampled the lives of millions. So many of our veterans will lead hollow and confused lives, as happens after every war, and the rest of us will say we feel sorry but rarely give the support. The only saving grace is that it has come to a close.

Uggh, I must get my son ready for daycare soon and take a nap and some other stuff. The next post will be less down but that's what was on my mind for the moment.

More pictures with few words.

2011-07-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

Work starts soon so I'll dissappear into my other existence but I have been having fun with the camera this past few days. Let's see what else I can take pictures of.

I had some idea of something smart to write but I forgot what it was. The summer vacation is all but over and it is time to reembrace the rest of my life. I entered the summer with grand ideas of planning every element of the year and being the best teacher I could be. Well, I had stuff to attend to and then I got a little lazy. I'll surely be better but I sure should have used the time a little better. We work to hard to succeed but find ourselves flailing through a slow tumble past happy dreams and into the mire of mediocrity. What do the great men I read of in the books do to take over their world? I need some of that so I can make things right by my eyes. Reminds me of a great quote I heard; this is the mangled version but it went like "Education should provide you the tools to live a decent life, and if the world won't let you, the tools to change it so that you can." On that, we're gonna go on a walk.

Just like everyone else with a camera..

2011-07-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

Feel free to give me your opinion on these. I'm gonna learn how to make good photos. The editing always feels cheap but some of it is pretty fun. The goal now is to make things a little more surreal and less bad then before.
I forgot...The ones that look like a ditch at night are, well, a creek that is in a ditch that goes next to our house. I like overgrown urban space. People who fear man will destroy the environment should pay more attention.

Some vacation shots.

2011-07-05T15:17:00.000-07:00

I'm about to head out the door to pick up the child but figured I would start getting some pictures of our first real vacation together. Some of these have been edited a little but the badlands are really pretty gnarly any way that you see them.
My newest silly goal is write more seriously on this page...let's see how that goes.

It's time to figure out who the man is so we can finally sort the ignorance out.

2011-05-23T06:39:00.000-07:00

Dumb people who think they are smart cause nothing but trouble. The ones who can convince people they are smart become politicians.

Waitin.

2011-05-21T21:04:00.001-07:00

Ordering some wings from a place not cool as this sign, but what is?

Notes and a picture of water.

2011-05-14T10:02:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a phone camera to gauge reality....Anyway, that's about a mile from the river's normal bank looking in the opposite direction. This is the spot where I usually take the exit to get under the bridges but there seems to be a raging current in the way. It's not just how high the river is but how fast and far away the water is moving. I will be curious to see how everything looks when it goes back down.

On the good news, passed my classes and got a positive review from my principal. Work is a thousand times better when you work for someone who likes what you do. I am most excited that I get to teach the same students for two years in a row. People get into teaching with the belief that they can make a difference and I have a real opportunity to help the kids appreciate a world beyond what they are used to. Much of popular culture does not embrace higher learning and the path to knowledge but my beliefs in the virtue of learning are supported, if but for a moment, when a student sees that that universe is far more complicated, beautiful, and elegantly ordered chaos than the narrow view his scope of life has given him.

Go grizzlies.

Who knows.

2011-04-23T00:47:00.001-07:00

I'm trying to see how well I can thumb type a post. It only seems like it would work in dire circumstances, if you ask me. I hope to do more posting on life and teaching. Educaton is amazing, powerful, and conflicted. The classroom as I see it is so different and the students are trully different than most people where. They do not have blind respect for authority, I only wish they would turn this into productive and positive change. Most notably, they are in continual communication with someone, at no point, d they encounter the self reflective portion of their day when they are all alone and can only speak with themselves. This leads to a social mind that can be vey powerful but a bit dumb.
That's a student I got hooked up with the museum showing off his first scroll, don't laugh at the messy work, you would do worse...

Welcome to the new.

2011-04-21T10:02:00.001-07:00

Just ate an overpriced taco. What has the world come to? About to get back in the schoolhouse.

...He is serious about something...

2010-10-11T23:11:00.000-07:00

So I was talking with my brother the other day and he helped me realize the final part of the argument I made about politicians only working to raise funds for elections. What I could not figure out was, "Why is all this money needed? They aren't living off of these millions. Who's benefiting?" My brother reminded me to follow the money and most of that cash lands to media. The papers need juicy campaigns to sell papers to sell ads. Mr. State Congressperson needs to flood the papers with his ads and get some good stories about him to boot. (Mind you, I say papers like I still call any recorded music an album).
Media is not objective because papers have a profit margin to worry about, news is recorded and edited through a human being's eyes and brain, and there is no way to report everything. I once kinda gave it the benefit but the truth is clear.
I probably read and listen to way too much sports journalism; I don't know why but I'm addicted to it. ESPN, the worldwide leader in sports, revolved around one old quarterback who has lost too many big games to count and is an ass. 75% of the stories revolved around #4, yet he lost the game. The far greater sports story was that Bobby Cox, manager for the Atlanta Braves for 36 years, managed his last game. Some people might try to argue that people are more interested in the Vikings QB than a class act manager. Most people are sick of this narcissistic, overrated quarterback. Hell, I watched the Monday Night Game, and the Jets young buck played some ball in the midst of a torrential downpour. That was a story of the game, but the story reported was of the loser. Most people watching sports just watch what is on most of the time.
I honestly don't follw politics much anymore because the outlets report the same as in the above story and any actual politics is beyond frustrating. The papers choose which stories to report and how to do so based on some real or perceived popularity. If ratings go up, revenue goes up and it pushes up the cost and need for candidate publicity. More money needs to be raised and so corporations/lobbyists/weird individuals give more of what is in short supply these days.
The news now wields incredible control in this useless cycle. It has helped lead to a stagnant Congress and an apathetic people. We could use some real smart managing these days but it's all about carrying the debate until the next election. The Constitution was designed by some smart and cynical folks. They worked to make the downfalls of government work for a better government. Greed, power, corruption, and the like are a given. What they failed to see was the consuming and sprawling power of the press and the media. So, let's say politics is powered by the media, why would a congressman or senator bicker over a vote to raise all this money. Well, the news gets to report what it wants. A $700000000 bill is probably about more than two issues and half a dozen bullet points. Of course, that's all I read 'cause I got shit to do. Now my dear public servant is judged on what he said about those two issues and maybe, but not usually, how he voted on those little nuggets of information. So now he realizes that he needs to offend the fewest possible people. He doesn't have to please the most. His handlers need to make sure no one is offended, even if it means a good Christian votes to continue a meaningless war because that's better than being seen as "too soft". -I'm searching for a better example but that'll work for now-. I'm freakin' tired and so I will pause here..Good night, have fun.

Just rambling...

2010-09-29T06:01:00.001-07:00

I have almost figured out the lie that is politics. Actually, we could all see it and it was too damn obvious like the Wizard forgot to pull the curtain. It happened this week with the defense bill, I could check my twitter feed and figure out the convuloted number and term but that don't matter. We know the story. One “party” attached don't ask, don't tell and immigration to the bill and it got voted down to be pushed after elections. Aha, caught you bitches. The Democrats will say something like “My estimeed opponent voted against a raise for the men and women in uniform who pledge the ultimate sacrifce. The Republicans will say “My estimeed oppenent want to ruin a soldier”s wage on the earmarks of liberal idealogies. Now both sides got big fighting words for elections. Broke Americans will give money to these greedy bastards to support the cycle in the name of what they believe to be a right.
This type of action should have the quasi-rational middle ground spitting mad. To be sure, all of the elements of this bill had value and need to be decided on. Defense spending is an assumed neccessity and from what I can tell, the only people making money these days are building tanks. Don't ask, don't tell is a violation of civil rights. I don't think repelling it will cause millions of prissy queers to enlist and demand a change in the uniforms; it just means gays that enlist won't live in fear or get discharged for having caught gay from their nature. I am in a multicultural education class now and it has helped me see things differently. Most of the students are from small town Tennessee and grew up in white, Baptist, and “straight” places. Ignorance is a big problem, particualarly when people are not exposed to differences. This is not the same as stupidity or crazy right wing nutjob. Ignorance just means that one does not know. I'm not sure why it's so prevelant in a time when Google and Wikipedia have amassed most of the knowledge of humanity but it is. We had a discussion on Islam in this class and a great number of the students (mature, thinking adults) did not know that Muslims are children of Abraham. Many were also surprised that Jewish people read the Old Testament. These are the three most important groups in Western history. It's almost tragic that so few don't know that how close these groups are. Then again, I'm not religious and don't comprehend how consuming the belief structure is. Many people feel that the only way to follow their religious beliefs is to become a new person that sees the world only through the eyes of belief. When they do so, they often see other religions as offenses to their own. And so, we are the root of the problem. Individuals want to believe that all people are the same and just like them yet each individual wants to feel like a unique snowflake. We have a conundrum.
God is really powerful and the one who controls the Word can control masses. This is why the Catholic Church only wanted clergy to be able to “interpret” the Bible. To be sure, religion is behind much of the good in the world. The majority of the teachers I have met have a deep faith and it is what pushed them to teach. I was probably the punkest mother fucker of all the teachers and I'm a pretty tame dude. Without the strength and guidance of her aunt, my wife's family would be suffering beyond normal capability. The Mormon's provided untold aid in New Orleans and the list of deeds goes on.
The key then, is enabling everyone to realize we all have our own faith as surely we are all individuals. It may align with others and a church community may provide strength and support but no way other than your own is the right way. Not sure how that's done.

....alas, I forgot about the immigration part but it seems some wetbacks came in and stole my job of unemployment...

Why am I saying this?

2010-09-01T00:41:00.000-07:00

That might be the worst title to date. It's about as bright as reading the message board on anything political. I've decided that Glenn Beck doesn't bother me. I can't watch his show for it's neither interesting nor entertaining but that's a matter of taste. I am confused by the growing mass who repeat his vitriol. The hate speech is frightening stuff. Hate is what drove those planes into the towers and gassed a whole mess of Jews and hung the strange fruit all over the South and... The emotion most easily distorted is hate. If you got some extra hate, play football or start boxing or roll around trying to rear naked choke hold someone, get it out. Don't rant and rave in the growing empowerment of faceless internet debate.
Twenty percent say Barry Hussein Sheik Obama is a muslim. Twenty percent also like Nickleback. My only hope for sanity is believing that they are the same people. We are in trouble if they are two separate groups. That leaves a piss poor majority, half of which doesn't care. We're have between thirty and forty percent of the population possibly rational and motivated. That's not a scientific measure but it doesn't make me feel any better.

If Bush younger was a great leader in the War on Terrorism, how the hell did we elect a terrorist as President? That would have to be the single greatest military blunder ever. Either that or Jihad Allah loving communist faggot terrorists are freaking brilliant. The only other possibility is that it is that he is not a pawn of the terrorists but that can't be. No, there are billions of people who hate me for having my freedom to eat Krispy Kreme burgers and buckets of fried crap. They have so much time because they have no lives, no families, no work, no nothing but time to bemoan the fact that they have nothing to do and it's my fault.

The problem is that ole Whitey ain't what he used to be and he's throwing a tantrum. He wants his freedom to do what the hell he pleases and is shocked to find that American freedom comes with a few rules. We don't live in the fifties no more and most of us are glad for that. Which reminds me, if I read or see another person mention "One Nation, Under God" as a sign that our forefathers built a Christian nation, I might give up. Then again, I don't even know what the Tea Party stands for. They don't know. How it turned into what it is just speaks volume on the general intelligence of people. Go Tea Party! Go Sarah and get to doing some damn laundry because you ain't got a say in nothing about this man business. Clean my boots like it's 1775 and don't talk when I've got something to say because you are nothing but a woman.

I always thought the original Tea Party was kind of a childish act and so maybe this new one isn't so sacrilegious in that regard. For every Ying, we need a Yang so this flat planet doesn't topple over. I propose a King George III Party. I haven't got past the name but I'm sure we can come up with some zany ideas and build a following and hold a rally at Ronald Reagan's graveside. That would be cooler than chocolate covered Doritoes.

hello, old friend

2010-08-06T12:00:00.001-07:00

That's some of the start if what I missed putting one here. There is a lot to go over but I have some school work to do, boohoo. I loved teaching and had a hell of a time with my students. By all account I did a pretty good job for my first year...I had 180 students! So much that should have been written down here but I was busy with that and we got a house and the lil Dan. He has grown into a little terror of dad's but I'll get him over it.
As for teaching, I got railroaded by an %$&^$%*& principle and now have no job and can't get a spot in the city schools. The reason, I don't know but several with a better understanding of the man said that it was probably because I married the woman I love. If I think about it at all, it gets me really angry and depressed. I found the job that I love, found where I need to be and it is a place that needs committed individuals. Unfortunately, schools reek of bullshit and are too often run by self-absorbed idiots. They think they are saving the world by helping the kids, never wondering what they are doing to it when they damage the students.

who knows

2009-07-22T20:40:00.000-07:00

Trying to quit smoking and that's pretty forefront on my pounding skull. I did drink a whole bunch of coffee today and that seems to help, just can't sleep. Damn tobacco. If it was cheap and not so stinky, it would be freakin awesome.
Photos are from the aquarium in Chattanooga. We went on a trip and it was sweet. Drank beer and saw th sights and met friends of my wife and drank more beer. Sure I'll have more to add down the morning road.

dragons kick dino-ass

2009-06-16T04:56:00.000-07:00

So it was my birthday the other day. Didn't know what to do so we took our first family trip to the zoo. I was a bit tipsy before we walked out the door and made a sizable gin-concoction to go. Note, I live across the street from the Memphis Zoo so we didn't drive nowhere. It was thick hot out and we were out to enjoy it. Baby Dan had to eat when we first got there so we stopped in the Burger Pavilion and got a bottle warm while watching the monkeys through the window. The second picture is one I took and wrenched a little. The original is pretty odd. More burger places should have monkeys. We finished up and made our rounds. The cats were cool as always. Tigers are just too bad ass. The boy loved the place, even if he had no idea what was going on. He's a huge fan of being outside. I like that. Then we wandered with moderate direction toward the Polar Bears. The snakes were slithering and Jasmine got a kick out of the Komodo Dragon. That's a big lizard. We had fun watching the ducks outside of the Panda exhibit. I can watch ducks all day. I remember a pond full of them at the National Zoo and that was the most memorable part of it. They keep bouncing about in their elegant manner.
We passed by the Savannah animals on the way. The tall giraffe doors are the funniest part. I wonder what it's like to see those creatures in their element, it has to be something pretty incredible. Hell, I still can't get over a ten point mule deer walking gliding by when I was pheasant hunting years ago.
By the time we got to the Northwest Passage, we were heat drunk, gin tipsy, and the bears were just hanging out on their cooled rocks. We took a seat for a bit and cooled ourselves in the timber house. The Memphis Zoo has some very well built exhibits and just a nice place to get lost at. It is also a people watching extravaganza. It was time to make the longish walk home. It started raining as we walked in our door. We then slept clear through the storm that knocked out a third of the city's power. It was the way to roll on a birthday.
The animals lead me to my next point. I've been teaching a summer school class (of one) in biology. It was once my favorite subject and I forgot how much I did know about ecosystems and the like. The class was going pretty well and then I decided to skip the huge section on cell bio because we don't have time and the student not the most inclined to study. The next section of the book is on evolutionary biology and natural selection. About two minutes in telling him how the planet wasn't always the way it is, he reminded me that God made the Earth in seven days. I responded that some feel that the Bible is metaphorical and the growing body of what we have seen supports the theory that the planet is more than 6000 years old and that we wouldn't be denying his religion. "Okay, so long as we don't go into that crap that man came from monkeys."
It was to be a long two hours but the kid is pretty cool and listened enough to come up with the idea that "The Bible only says that God made Adam and unless we're all in inbred, maybe the rest of the people came about how you say." It was even better to hear in his red-as-hell dialect.
I found no solace in talking with a coworker who told me that she was a Christian and found it difficult to teach the same section in her classes. I decided to read some creationist science to know more about it. Apparently, men lived with dinosaurs prior to the flood and we even have stories of them. You see, they were called dragons. That's fucking awesome. Nothing is cooler than dragons and I'll trade in some logic to have them be extra real and I can go look at their bones at the dino museum. Also, light is slowing down. That is why scientists who use it as a constant have been wrong by a billion-fold in their estimates of the universe's age. In addition, the Earth is the center of the universe. Go check it out. Creationism.org or something like that. It had me reading all manner of strange scientific books. I'm pretty screwed up about light slowing down. If it went super-duper fast before and light is some measure of time, would Methuselah's 900 years seem way longer? I ain't saying evolution is the exact truth, but...damn, is that the best you can come up with in response. The problem is that not recognizing natural selection, which we can see every day, avoids a huge part of biology. At least you got dragons, though.
This final picture is one I took on a school trip to the zoo. Also, Jasmine took the ones of the boy and the monkeys.

weirdness is my game

2009-06-07T19:35:00.000-07:00

Been having some fun with the boy. The other big news is that I got a job teaching Calculus at Central High. I figured I would be at one of the rough as funk schools in town but I lucked into the place I most wanted. Who would have figured that a writing degree would land me a job as a math teacher. It doesn't surprise me all that much.
Finding out that a couple of my friends are going through divorces. I hate it for them. One of the greatest things about being married is having that one person with you when the chips are down. Relationships are a hard thing, though. They are so easy to damage and so hard fix. I really don't know much about them but I'm pretty sure you gotta fight for each other and not each other. Sounds like a kid is yelping and I told him that I would read to him. He has no clue what I'm saying but he deserves a good yarn or two.

that's some milk falling out of his mouth

2009-06-05T21:26:00.000-07:00

it's all about the love.

2009-05-28T02:06:00.000-07:00

Grace in Unity, that's the name of the candlestick holder. My friend Dave ordered for his wife and had me give it to her on his wedding day. The other picture is from the Tampa airport. I hate flying. I used to not mind it. Hell, I once liked it. I just don't get how they can treat us, the paying customer, like shit. I know it's because they figure they have no competition but I know my truck can get me there in almost the same time as your screwed up planes and my knees won't be in my asshole. I moved from the love and that is a bad thing since the point was the power of faith in another. As they day, find yourself a woman and you'll find love someday.

2009-05-22T10:05:00.001-07:00

Trying the tech thing. needless to say, good people make the bs tolerable.

he's cute.

2009-05-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

That's my boy. He's not crying in this picture. He likes to cry. I don't much about kids so I can't brag about fantastic he is. He eats, poops, sleeps, and hollars. Actually, he's starting to smile and playing a smidgin. It's weird trying to figure out what a baby sees and knows. I'm pretty sure it sucks with all the lights and noises and everything must hurt.
I got back to the odd adventure tale. I think I needed a bit of headspace and months of math problems has done that. Beyond that, not much to report from the land of me. Have fun and smile well.

hey tralala

2009-05-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

This is not the best picture I could take of one of the cooler things I have made. It's a candlestick holder for friend. It's the first piece I have made with a meaning. Be curious to know what you think it is. I'll let those who are interested know when I get another picture up since it the piece is a surprise.

Been busy with the work and the baby and not really worrying about the vagueries of the rest of the world. That's how they get you. The other way is by the man being hell bent on screwing those trying to make it while giving the world to the lazy. We decided to try and apply for food stamps because food is good and we are barely making it. Turns out, they would give us free everything if I up and quit and sat on the porch drinking beer all day. The social benefits should go to those trying. It's a positive reinforcement. Too little of that in this land. Same with teaching kids. No, no, no. Don't touch that. Be quiet. Stop. Support and promotion of good habits and choices goes a lot further than penalizing the bad. What do I know. You can carry a gun into a Tennessee bar but not a cigarette. The logic defies me. Silliness, I tell you. Probably some other interesting observations but they fail me at this moment.
Kids are neat. Different than grownups and less bastardly.

what you know about all that.

2009-05-11T11:13:00.000-07:00

I've been waisting too much time and been too busy to care. I decided that I'm tired of being broke and a quick view of hospital bills made me hate something that I can do nothing about. I thought maybe I could start another pointless revolution. Then I figured I just need to find ways to make some more cheese. This led me to remembering that the broken system does provide the individual motivation. If it was free and easy, great works would not be finished and the improvement through hard work would be a distant dream of all the fat and lazy cats licking the sunshine of a perfect society. There's more to say on that but I've got to get back to the this job of mine.
These are some wacky pictures. I like them. Who knows if you do. Ha.

it's 4:00 a.m. and there are construction workers in the new building across the way

2009-05-04T02:03:00.000-07:00

It's some time in the middle of the night and I think I'm too tired to fall back asleep. Poor kid is feeling like crap and they got him on enough medicine to make me want to rip my stomach out through my throat. He's doing better and I have learned a thing or two. Not even the smart men in white coats know whats up with babies. They just start testing until they find out what's wrong. Makes sense considering the array of symptoms consist of sick feeling and crying. I need to get some new and interesting reading material up here.
Politics are boring as ever and I doubt anyone that reads this would care to hear what I think about playoff hockey. This was just something to spit out so that I might fall asleep and I think it's gonna work...unless someone starts feeling extra shitty.
On another note, how can one have semi-solid crap from a liquid diet?

it's raining and i don't like hospital guest bed things

2009-05-02T09:03:00.000-07:00

Turns out, the crying all night was him trying to tell me that he was sick. I have learned that I dislike the hospital waiting room way less than the young people's e.r. waiting cell. It is even less fun with all the swine flu papers on the wall and everybody wearing masks and the news people being all scary.
I will say that my boy is pretty damn tough. I watched him get a spinal tap with nary a whimper. I probably would still be swearing and moaning if someone stuck a needle in my back. He's regained his color and his fever has subsided so the antibiotics seem to be working which hopefully means he doesn't have anything severe.
The most touching part of the whole adventure to date happened when I came home to get toothpaste and the like. My dog was whimpering and confused, she knew her baby person brother was sick and he wasn't home. That's my dog in the picture. She's the sweetest most useless animal. She rolls in stinky shit and sleeps on the bed when no one is home. Well, I've got to continue helping a young man write a paper about The Great Gatsby.

yabbadoo

2009-04-28T10:06:00.000-07:00

Rum-tum tiddle-iddle. I read some Winnie-the-Pooh last night and it is better than I remember. I need to get more than the one or two stories that I have. The writing has an elegance that is rare in children's literature, without being inaccessible. This is a day or so later and I'm a little sleepy but thankful for wonderful people and kind deeds.
Look at this a wacky picture I made after I let two of my students play with a silly program called Evolvotron. Let two sugared-up kids loose on a computer and who knows what will come from the other side. I think they sent my poor machine through a billion iterations but we got some neat stuff out of it.
I've been putting baby pictures in the "pictures of stuff" section. Feel free to comment or if you want them here, let me know. He is a cute thing, despite the nasal crying in the bit of night recently reserved for sleeping and stupidity. Drunkenness is overrated. Geometry knowledge represents.

babies, bits of a past adventure, and procrastination.

2009-04-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

One picture is something I edited from a day hike I took on crazy hot time a couple of years ago. I went to Village Creek State Park which is on Crowley's Ridge. It's a different world on this long, low ridge that runs from Missouri to south of here. I am unsure of the geology of it but I believe it is the vestige of an incredibly old mountain. I remember it being insanely hot and walking down a sunken confederate road and these crazy trees with roots half naked.

Now, the next picture is about the widest I have seen Daniel James open his eyes. He is a cute thing and I was not one for cute.

2009-04-20T21:13:00.000-07:00

I lied. Who knew that I am a rat bastard? My awesome wife likes to remind of such. I think I do a pretty good job of beating myself up about such things. Not as much these days. I can be quite good at defining myself through my flaws, both perceived and real. I'll probably keep doing so even though a the scent of better habits helps me through. Just jotting some silly notes down here is the baby step to getting serious about writing everyday. I lost the drive a coupld of months ago. I feel that is a natural stage in the process and one in which the successful define themselves by overcoming stagnated spiritual motivation with developed need. What am I talking about, I haven't finished one big story and wonder if I ever will. The motivation to write has dwindled and no I must work on rebuilding it. Standard Issue needs a good role model, right?
Before I forget, the strip of black on the right of the picture is a few curls of Jasmin's hair. She refuses pictures and that's the way of that. One of the twusts of hair fell out last night and I have kept it in my pocket all day. It was my charm for the for today and I hope to carry it forever.
Oh that note, sleep well and that's this..

4.20.09...part ii

2009-04-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

Check it out folks. That there is Daniel James Wallace. I'll try to not put ten million pictures of him up here. He was born today. Earth day. 420. As far as I'm concerned, it's his day.. I'm kinda tired and feel like watching some movies and sleeping. Enjoy yourselves and smile well.

4-20-09. part i

2009-04-20T08:43:00.000-07:00

So..my wife is in labor and I'm at work waiting and teaching. I don't know what all to jot and I am praying that the next post will be of pure joy. Worry doesn't suit me well. Maybe it does since no one knows when I'm stressed and anxious. This boring veneer of mine is getting a little better made everyday.
I thank the gods that I have a beautiful and loving wife and that my brother is so dedicated to his fraternal bonds that he is on his way to the waiting room to keep a post for me. Those that know him, speak dearly of his benevolent nature while swearing of his funky ways. He is a frustrating lad but that's just part of the fun.
Know not what else to say but I do say that I have been too long from writing. Rock on and send strength to those fighting through the pain and joy to those seeing light in the rain.

is it getting hot in here

2009-04-06T14:15:00.000-07:00

I started studying global warming and a host of other environmental problems many years ago. Since then, I have had enough interesting conversation to develop my own views to a lot of confusion. I think one that stuck was when I was talking with this crazy fellow, Brian Jordan, about evolution. He's a punk as funk type of soul and a hellified artist. We got into the chat as he was giving me a tattoo for six hours and I needed to do something to get past the building ache and burn. I'm a strong believer of natural selection and evolution. It made sense when I first heard about it and books like Beak of the Finch firmed up my belief. Brian's response was "None of us where there to see it so how the hell do we know it's real?" Throw evidence all you want in the face of that argument but it a simple power to it. It allowed me to question what I thought I knew and that has led me to wonder about "global warming". Why is it easier to believe that Carbon Dioxide is the culprit rather than solar cycles? Maybe we just put out more heat by doing more work. That motor under the hood likes to be around 270 and it discharges excess heat through exhaust and fans. What happens when you air condition a civilization? You don't pump cold air into a building, if you want a hint. Silly ideas, sure, but could emissions be just as so? How did that start, anyway? Usually scientists start with the clean and logical theaory and work to prove or disprove it. Someone said, "gases" and it has been an evil debate to maybe prove it since. That doesn't follow the scientific method but we all follow the theory. Solar cycles seem pretty strong. I just read an interesting article at Discover by a Dutch scientist who figured that cosmic rays change cloud formations. It's all how the experiments are done and how the results are written. The carbon dioxide argument gets weird because folks want to charge a big ole CO2 tax. We could use alternate energy but we should also be focusing on efficiency. I'm about to give up on the political debate. I was happier not knowing and just as useless.
In other news, I see that the Boston Globe is teetering. That ain't good. Profit margins, not profits. It's the dumb problem with public trading. A loss is not making as much as you did. If you can pay the bills and keep the journalists fed and all that, the rest is gravy. Bastard owners just don't want to skimp on their gravy. What do they have to do with a newspaper? Be happy you got a dollar when you should get jack for doing just that. To top it off, the papers are all to ready to lobotomize themselves, forgetting that they have a big stick of power, to stay afloat. It might be best for some of them to grown a pair and start swatting back. Go out with a fight, not like a sideshow whore. What do I know.

Peter's desk.

2009-04-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

This is a desk that I made for my oldest brother and probably the most dedicated follower of this silly nonsense. I think he also has the largest collection of my work and so that makes him cooler than you. I have been tutoring for a month or so and have learned some good things and some bad. I don't know what goes on in schools. I can't imagine that it was really much different from my days, but how does someone get a diploma and not know how to read or add two negative numbers? I'll just keep doing my job and help a handful. I feel like it will be invaluable experience when some rat bastard finally decides to hire me as a teacher. Oh, this leads me down a path of bitter confusion. The politics of education lead me directly to politics and the crock of crap we have to smell every day. Why the funk will we have to pay higher electric bills for "clean" power and the banks get a wad of cash to piss on? 3,000,000,000,000 is a shit ton. Big boss man could hand each citizen a check for 7,500 instead. I'm not saying that's a good idea, but I'm sure we could all use it. It all starts to make me wonder about the weird conspiracies of New World Orders and the banking takeover of governments. The funny thing is so many of the moves that support these theories are open to the public. Any of us can find on any of the clone news cycles what the G-20 is planning on. Each step these groups take consolidates control one move more. That's anything but good. The crux of the genius of the American system was that it divided power into scraps and made rules for the bastards to fight for them. Somehow, banks have both money and power. If they get God on their side, we're screwed. Or as it was so well put in War of the Worlds, "So much for humanity." I have need to read the book, but I do know the radio play was unbelievably good. I would have shit a brick listening it back in the day. Just like sports, radio tells a story dramatically better than TV. What a ramble as I wait for this final photo to upload. Something about this place hates it. I could rant for awhile but first I need to do a lot more reading of the one-legged papers left in the world. Damn the 24-hour news cycle and incorporation of the news. It has chopped an arm and a leg off of one of the most important tools of liberty and it has been done legally and civilly. No one broke into the press and destroyed the type or jailed the reporters. They fired them in the name of flagging profits. Man may be righteous but men are fools. I must go and make my wife lunch and do things that don't feel so insignificant.

more pictures of some of the same stuff.

2009-03-28T07:50:00.000-07:00

I don't have any new fiction to add. Shame on me. I figured I should add some better pictures of this last table since I am trying to sell it and the others don't show it off too well. It's sitting in the kid-to-be's room. That would be why everything is in technicolor. I can also say that I am starting to see first hand how silly the schools are. I've been tutoring and it is wrong to see what some kids don't know. How could you graduate from high school and not know how to add two negative numbers or read a simple(albeit boring) twenty line story? It is an obvious commentary on schools and straight ridiculous. I have believed for a long time that undervaluing a demanding education is like shooting yourself in the foot. I don't get it. Hire more cops, lay off teachers. This must be a diabolical plan or the great deciders are f'n inept. People aren't stupid but they are fools and we're all getting played. I guess that's why we talk all day about basketball and suck down some cheap beer or pop pills or whatever it is we do to avoid the deception. They're all busy worrying about the wheels falling off on the great society while the motor is blown. "A nice candy coat will fix her right up." They say as a rat makes another nest under the hood. Most of us know this but what can we do? Bills are piling up and life demands attention. I have some faith in the mission of hope. I really do but it is tough to keep when banks are given money and schools are crumbling and we are still in a war. I forgot about that. We are in a two front war and the front page of the paper is about the sweet sixteen. The same paper that fired some of its best writers while sending three reporters to Kansas for sports. The media makes the news and it has decided sports is more important because it is easily profitable. This is leading me down a path of anger. Idiots leading a house of fools. That's the title of my American play. Enjoy the sun and have an awesome day.

it's another table.

2009-02-24T07:05:00.000-08:00

The first two pictures are of a coffee table. Jasmine really likes it but she isn't a material girl so it is available. I might make another similar to it for the hell of it. I won't be able to recreate that scroll without some big ass equipment. Maybe it's just the end of an era.
The next picture is from a bad ass corvette. Doesn't that make you want to get some whiskey and haul ass. The final one is me attempting to be artistic.

darnit.

2009-02-23T22:50:00.000-08:00

The internet is my new devil and facebook is crack for the fearful. On another note, I started another story and it might take over. It makes more sense and is seemingly falling into place. There is a long way to go and I'm not sure but I think I am supposed to finish one before I jump to the next. The odd adventure is moving along pretty well but I'm kinda hooked on this new one. Here's the opening bit that I did so far today. If anyone is chummy with a publisher or agent, I'm all kinds of ears.

memoir of the untold. a ghost story.
I was never one for writing. It's a tough thing. Saying what you mean and not just doing what you need. Not much of a talker, either. I guess I'm a pretty boring person and I still am. This story isn't about me. It's someone else's but they aren't around to tell it and I have been forced by circumstance to be the one. I guess it won't make sense if you don't know my part. What I read on writing a book said to start at the beginning. Problem is, I don't know where the beginning would be but I figure I'll just start where I started.
A year and a week ago, I moved into the North Street Lofts. I was in the tailslide of a bad breakup. I couldn't afford the apartment I was living in without the two-faced whore's part or me taking a second job. I hated having some punk tell me what to do too much to have a second jackass tell me what to do so I could make the rent. Besides, I needed to move out of the place with it's nasty history. The halls reminded me of her and every few minutes I would think about the misery she created, using my heart as a tool of its own destruction. So I packed what shit I had left and found a new place downtown. I liked that, feeling like I was in a real city and not just the wannabe version the rest of this foul river town feels like.
The North Street Lofts are old projects or public housing or whatever you want to call them that had been gutted and redone in the contemperory style. I'm confused by that name. How long can that mean what it means before it's wrong. Words ain't my game and so I'll just let it be. Number 108, that's the one I got. It's a two bedroom. Some clothes, a stereo, my bike, and my paints. I'm not an artist. I just make copies of other stuff. The last one I did was a Lady looking in a mirror by Picassso. I give them away. I haven't bought a Christmas or birthday present in ten years. It took Patrick, my best friend, and me one afternoon to get it done. I don't have a car. I ride my bike everywhere. People think a thirty-seven year old man must have a car. They also think a lot of other stupid things.
I work at a Circle K. Maybe I am a loser, like the bitch said, but I don't hate myself.
The apartment has an old tub, cement floors and brick walls. Everything else is new and shiny with no buttons or knobs. Clean, that's the way it is supposed to feel. That feeling didn't last for long. They built the building in the fifties and fucked up things happen in this town and even more fucked up things happen in the projects.
I put my dishes where they go and all the other civil details of normal living. I was at work for the next week. I would ride around for an hour or so on my way home and make myself tired. I didn't want to resort to drinking my way through the breakup and I couldn't go to bed and wake up on the other side. After getting home and taking a shower, I spent another hour cleaning. I like order. Some call me anal but I find it better than being a slob. People are so dirty and they leave traces of their nastiness everywhere, like slugs. I hate slugs. Have you ever stepped on one barefoot? It's as enjoyable as you may imagine.
I don't know when it started happening but I do know when I noticed it. It was on March 21st. I came home from my aunt's funeral. Her various cancers finally caught up to her. I came in and took my clothes off and put them over the back of my painting chair. I went to the hall closet to find a change from the black church clothes. I went for jeans and a t-shirt. It was a nice spring morning and I thought I might go to the park and stare at the sun through the back of my eyelids. After changing, I went back to hang my nice clothes up. Most of it was where I left it but my tie was hanging over the door knob. It was not where I left it and I knew that. I could think of no real reason and so I decided I might have a ghost in my apartment.
I treated ghosts a lot like god. I've never had a reason to believe them. The world is nonsensible enough as is. But I found it silly to discredit them. Why would some try so hard to say they are imaginary? What do they benefit? They are the ones who want to tell kids that Santa is a dime store creation. I think they just like to feel like everyone else is wrong. The point is that I figured I had a ghost and found it odd but not fucked. What better way to learn about them than to live with one, right?
When I don't know nothing about something, I go find someone who does. If they don't know then it's just the way it is and we aren't supposed to know. I got on my bike and rode to the psychic place on Madison. One thing about riding everywhere is that you know where all the hidden places are. Cars move too fast and take the real out the neighborhood. They are only good at getting you where you're going and keeping you dry. I don't mind getting wet. It's a cleanse that the shower can't do. She wasn't open yet so I went down the street and read the paper. The news is supposed to be new but it sure never seems to change around here. Someone got shot, some fat cat stole something, a bloated guy hit a ball real far, and some place got blown up. After half a pot of coffee and flipping through the paper, I figured the lady was there and I went back over. It was like I figured with beads and the gypsy cloths and bells. It smelled like Morocco, or what I thought Morocco smelled like. She wants to do the crystal ball or the cards and I just want to learn about ghosts.
“Honey, you have to know about yourself so you can find out who this spirit was. No person is more desperate for attention than a ghost but that's because you have to be able to know the boundaries of yourself so well that you can sense the nearness of the spirit's.
"Some people say to learn the history of the space and you may find some of the clues. It makes sense. Once you can, you start to learn the ghost's story and it if you do, you might be the one to release him. He may be stuck here forever but I doubt that. Does that help, can I read your palm?”
I didn't feel like the rest of the stuff so I gave her twenty dollars for the information and left. My next step was to the library. Public records might have who stayed there. If something really screwed happened than it should be in the paper at some point.
Research made people smarter twenty years ago. Now you just type in the question and the answer appears. I recall searching through stacks of books to find what I needed. It was a treasure hunt and the incidental effect was that I would read about all the other weird things in the New Organic Journal of 1967 or whatever it was that I was nose deep in. This is not to say I did a whole lot of reading. Most of my school years were spent skipping class and doing nothing with my friends. We talked about doing all manner of things but we really didn't do much but waste a whole shitpot of perfect time. I know the teachers knew we were cutting because we were bored. They should do something about that. Give kids like us something to do. We all know we shouldn't be left to our own devices, teenage boys just want to tear it up. It turned out, none of us lost an eye, but my friend Oliver did blow off a piece of a finger.
“I know who I am.” I told myself as I left. It didn't take me two blocks to question that answer so fully as to realize that I did not know myself. I decided to become far more disciplined. It seemed like the best way was to shut the world out and live within tight rules. I don't mind rules, I merely hate exceptions to the rule.(that is my favorite line of anything I have ever written.)

more to the story

2009-02-15T10:25:00.000-08:00

I'm lazy and so this part ain't edited all prim and proper. Also, the story keeps changing as I write it. I hope to reach the end of the typed draft some day and then be able to make it all fit together. Thanks for the feedback.
I took a too-long break from the action but have started trudging through the slushy gravel pit a novel can be. Who knew it was so f'ing hard?

chapter v.

“What the fuck? Why are you here? How?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not. Can you get me a beer?”

“What do I look like, you stinking drunk.”

“You look like a woman about to get me a drink and a drunk is better than a heartless bitch.

She eyed him with a hungry stare. He could not tell whether she wanted to screw or kill.

“Hurry up. Plans changed and we have to go now.”

“It's not my emergency.” Benjamin got up and walked to the refrigerator. He could not believe how strong he felt as he opened a beer. “But that is some strong medicine they gave me, I feel like I've been on vacation.”

“Good. Time to get back to work,” she said.

“Calm down, will you.” He sneered and went to the bathroom. The wound had healed and he appeared fresh in the mirror. As he pulled on clean pants he sensed that rather being alright, all was on the precipice of wrong. “Maybe I'm it's sleep fog.” He recalled Jeb's words but he let them slide into the apathy.

When he came out of the bathroom Tobacco Brown was zipping up a dufflebag.

“I was wondering what the hell we're waiting for. Let's go get this done.” He said.

And so Benjamin Patton looked around his place unsure if he would ever come back and decided he needed nothing more than he had and walked out with the siren killer following.

“Take us to Mr. Fujeta's.”

“Have you been there?”

“No.”

“Stay cool. It is a bad place to lose your head.”

They had reached his truck in the second basement. He popped the hood and threw the duffel-bag inside. His backpack stayed with him.

“Why is this..I didn't clean my truck.” He asked as he opened the door.

“Oh. Mayor Winterfeld sent his man to check it out and clean it. Your full on fuel and in ready to ride clean.”

He did not have his normal capacity for anger or he would already be in the Mayor's office for messing with his tools. “I hope nothing was fucked with.”

“Relax, I was here the whole time, how else do you think he got into it.”

“He did do a nice job. Feels good in here.” He brought up the command screen. “Fujeta's fantasyland.”

“Destination set. Default route.” A computer's voice spoke through the speakers and the machine used all of its trajectory feedback information to navigate the serpentine garage and through the exit tunnel. After five miles, the tube rose up and broke onto open ground.

They were in the heart of compound country. Menacing fences lined the road on both sides and a slew of Open Country rigs roared by. The drug czars built their spreads behind kaleidoscopic walls guarded by strands of proton wire. Fights once raged between the czars but Tobacco Brown made her name when she was sent into squelch the fires. Tentative peace was made. Every few years, some clown would get too full of jack and try to take over another compound and he would find his small empire destroyed. The battle lines were in distant lands, not the Mayor's backyard. The fences were built mostly to keep the roughneck pirate outfits from straight robbery. They lived in groups that cared for nothing but survival and to crack a man's head with a hammer. Razor wire and broken glass kept the timid at bay from their lands. Pine saplings grew like an emaciated army along some sections of road, behind which more evolved groups of people worked together for a more honest life.

They continued down this road for twenty miles and then turned north on a dirt road running along a gurgling river. Overdrawn skies smoothed colors to a dull shade that reflected well with Benjamin. They bounced along the road a ways until he stopped the truck before a vining archway of surreal green.

“Certain annihilation to those who enter without permission.” A hand painted sign on the arch read. Benjamin got out to palm a box hidden beneath the broad leaves. Thousands of small buds were starting to open and reveal a crimson flash. He liked the color though he knew it was a disguise for he could see glints of fiber-optic line twisting in the vines.

“Access granted.” A chirpy voice blurted and the buds closed.

Benjamin got back in the truck, “This place is like taking a handful of synthacid and going to a freak show in a cathedral. Mr. Fujeta made his first billion on psychedelics. I don't know if I can deal with this circus. Hell, I can't give two shits about much but I guess it's better than most of my other options.”

“What options?”

“Exactly. Can you pass me the bottle under your seat?”

“You've got a problem,” she replied while pulled a hammer, pliers, metal box, and gin out. “What's in the box?”

“Odds and ends.” He opened and drank. “I've got to tell my body that my soul is dead. It's self-medication rather than your standard drunkenness.”

“In that case, bottoms up.”

“How else am I supposed to go along on this madman journey of the Mayor's?”

“I use anger.”

Benjamin had the wheel and they kept track by the river through an established grove of pecan trees. An old wooden waterwheel spun with the river, turning a candy-caned drive shaft that flipped, rotated, and undulated a series of abstract forms.

“Everything has eyes.” Benjamin said with another swallow.

That is when Tobacco Brown noticed the unsettling and real eyes set into the art and trees.

“They look real.”

“They are. He's been working on fusing living organs to cyber-controls for some time. A hawk's eye, a dog's nose, they are superior to anything man could create. That's why he is so keen on neuro-processors.”

A granite boulder the size of the truck forced the road away from the river. A pair of cat eyes stared from the middle of the rock and Tobacco Brown reached for her proton cannon. “I don't like this place.”

“It takes some getting used to. Mr. Fujeta ain't evil but he has a thing for the fear. He's got his pretty spots once you get past the defenses.”

“I really don't like this place.”

“Don't flip out. I ain't positive what will happen but I'm sure it would be fucked up and so you just sit tight and catch a breath. You start firing that thing and he'd probably remove your soul and leave the corpse standing as a trophy.”

After another hundred yards, th weird woods opened and a bevy of earth-berm buildings formed a semi-circle around a large fountain. A copper dragon sat in the fountain, scrubbing it's back with a dragon-sized brush.

“I like that.”

A thick layer of grass carpeted the buildings and all but the driveway. Tobacco watched the colors shift from green to red to blue to gold as they came around the fountain.

“Heya visitors” Mr. Fujeta bounced out of the center earthen house. “It's good to see you, Benjamin, now that we are away from that quack under the river. Too much time underground is bad for you. Have you ever seen the cave monsters? The most grotesque formations of life I have had the chance to observe. How you feeling, Mr. Ben?”

“I'm on my way to a stupid doom and I just had a doctor cut at me for three hours after coming back from a shit storm in a swamp and you shoved something in my spine that has me all fucked up.”

“I can't do anything about all that. It was the past, you know. You look healed and you sound like poo so I note the shot as a success. That's excellent. And lovely Lady Brown the Hunter, it is a pleasure to have your company on this special day. What is the nature of your visit?”

“Business, you know that.”

“Yes, business. It's all people think about. Silly people. Salvation through work, death in business is what they don't realize. How do you like my new lawn?

“Not sure.”

“Stick around long enough and it will play with you, telling a thousand stories, some only you may know.”

“That's weird shit Mr. Fujeta.”

“You know me, Mr. Ben, purveyor of the weird.”

“Can we get moving? I've got to see Mr. Patton to the wall. The Mayor is an anxious man.”

“A nervous wreck is what he is and remember that patience is the least valued commodity in America's obscure history. Everyone's so damned worried about getting something done. My success only came through diligence to detail and tortoise steps.”

“You lying old man,” Benjamin chuckled, “you told me you were tweaked out, running seven days, twenty-three hours a day, not stopping until you made it happen.”

“Damn your memory and I might have been exaggerating when I said that.” Mr. Fujeta laughed as he led them through the round glass door he had come through.

A playful and nervous symphony of druggist sights and sounds greeted them. Bubbling, blipping, whirring and steaming vials trembled on a table that wrapped around the inside. A lithe woman in a simple, green dress and long rubber gloves sang fluorescent melodies as she used a mortar and pestal. A stove stood in the center of the large room. Pipes sprang from the top like Medusa's hair and a fire blazed inside.

“Let's have a seat.” Mr. Fujeta gestured toward a violet sofa wrapped around the firebox. A pair of greyhounds was asleep on either end of the couch.

Benjamin stared at the flame as he sat. The furnace was made of clear brick reflecting and dancing from the reactions within. He watched the flame twindle around a basin of water and steam drifting into the narrowest pipe. Everything had its own color and the vapor was clear blue as it skated through the pipe migrating all around the domed ceiling. He wished he could join the steam and settle into the distance of things. In the swirling, directional dance of gas he saw himself carried away from his definitive location and from that small place maybe he could look back at himself and know who he was.

“Water invigorated the greats.” Mr. Fujeta was searching through a bookshelf formed the base of the table. After some agitated searching he handed am ancient manuscript to Tobacco Brown. “This is the Codex Leicaster, Leonardo Da Vinci's splendid study of the mechanics of the fluid.”

Benjamin recognized the slim book since he was the one who had procured it for the Mayor's Science Advisory when re-eingineering the Generator. Mr. Fujeta made an immaculate copy of the original and Benjamin was able to make the change with no one noticing.

“You see, Leonardo studied the fluid from the artist's eye. He may have felt that he was being scientific in his research and he was but he thought as a painter and that is how one should try to understand these texts. It's like talking to a barber about law or a fisherman about God or a pastor about fishing. Amazing stuff if you know how to seek the right questions.”

“Yes, astounding but what does that have to do with Ben and me?” Tobacco Brown handed the book back to Mr. Fujeta. He got up to put the text away and then started clanging away in some cabinets. After a half dozen tries and a hiss of murmurs, he returned with what appeared to be the perfect skipping stone.

“This hand-held has the complete briefs for everything you need. I could explain it to you but that would be a waste of my time since everything I know of the Mayor's plan is on here. It's coded to be used by Benjamin and no one else.” He handed the black stone to Ben, who put it in his pocket without breaking his fire-born daze.

“Is he okay?” Tobacco Brown wondered aloud.

“Oh, he'll be fine. Ben is a strong fellow but I think he has pushed himself to the edge and he's starting to see where he stands. His spirit, chi, soul, self, whatever you want to call it, has been tapped for the Mayor's rush. I tried to tell him that Benjamin needed more time to heal but that was not allowed and so I had to use a special process to get him to strength quickly. The problem is that people are not machines and you can't just fix them. People are of the class of beings that can only alter themselves. We can't rebuild his flesh; we can only aid his body to heal. It is designed to operate with careful steps which is odd because the mind runs like a wild boar. People are a mockery of themselves, a paradox, an anomaly of contradiction. I have devoted my life to studying them and I wonder if it's pointless.”

“Heavens no. We would be fucked without Femrol and you know that.”

“Would we? It's not as if we would be extinct. All it did was save enough lives to preserve the status quo.”

“That's bunk. Our Environmental Resuscitator is one big example why. We don't treat energy like it's free and we don't send strong youth to war.”

“Battle is reserved for the frail and the imprisoned and that is perhaps for the best but it does not seem like a great change when people are still sent to destroy unknown enemies. I am glad to hear enthusiasm in your response. It's a summer's breeze.”

Benjamin was listening enough to see himself in the discussion. “I wish I had been a teacher or farmer. My time has been spent taking and I'm getting old from it. I guess it's the old refrain that you become what you do and what have I done but be a low down punk.”

“You do what I ask in the Capitol and you will be anything but.”

“How? I'm just putting up with this shit because I like my blood inside of me and I ain't got nothing better to do. That's about as selfish and stupid as it gets, if you ask me.”

“Selfless people only exist in the books written by the most selfish of people.”

“That doesn't really change my position. If you were sending me to kidnap Jesus, would that make me a son of Satan? I'm getting tired of getting screwed by the lot of y'all and me letting it happen.”

“You surly bastard. You need to stop meditating on your existence and get into the action. Trust your instinct and come visit me when you get back. I will be most anxious to hear about the adventure. You will be the technician of my greatest experiment and that is very exciting.” Mr. Fujeta had gotten up helping Benjamin to his feet. After staring Ben in the eyes to see if he had registered he turned to Tobacco, “Lady Brown, I am aware that the Mayor has things for you to do but I am asking of you to stay with Benjamin to the end. Too much is at stake for one man and I believe you have personal matters to attend to in the Capitol.”

The dynamic woman looked at Mr. Fujeta as if he had read her diary. “I'll consider it.”

“That won't slice my apples, I need to know you are committed beyond considering or I will not allow this fool's errand to leave my grounds. I have too much at stake and Mr. Patton is too valuable a man to treat like this. Don't be ashamed about what I know, I don't believe in vengeance but you are not wrong in your motives and the ends do justify the means. If you can give me a good reason to not demand this of you then I may consider my request.”

“There is none.”

“It is settled then.”

Tobacco Brown had no chance to disagree and she was not convinced that she should and so she did not.

Mr. Fujeta led his two guests to the door, he did not want to see them leave but he knew that all great causes required sacrifice. He let Ms. Brown out and made a small bow, “When you return, we shall have the luxury of time and you will have a chance to see the wonders that abound in this place.”

“I look forward to it but don't write anything down because I'm not betting on coming back. It isn't just my creed but I believe it more than I usually do.” She shook the old man's hand and walked toward the truck. On her way she noticed the lawn shifting and forms of color coming to be and they told the story of Hank the angry Crustacean and Wendy the Otter visiting Neptune to answer the riddle of the sea. It was a tale her father told her when the nightmares and pounding chaos outside their bunker kept her awake. She had forgotten over the years and wanted to be lost in the warm embrace of the the story unfolding in the twinkling blades of grass.

“Benjamin, you take care and take lots of pictures.” Mr. Fujeta shouted at the apathetic hero as he started the truck. Benjamin laughed and felt almost like he was worth a damn.

“I guess your coming with me,” Benjamin stated as they back through the pecan groves and past the dancing sculptures and to the highway, “ and so I figure I should learn to put up with you. What was that about your motives?”

“It's a long story and I don't feel like telling. You might find out but let's just agree that I'm along to help you in exchange for a ride for now.”

“Fair enough.”

“What do you know about the Centaurians?”

“I know that they are the last group I want to fuck with and I sure as hell don't need to be going to the Nest, or whatever it is they call it.”

“Do you have any useful information since that is exactly where we are headed.”

“I've just heard stories and only one first hand account. That was in a bar in Krakow, this cat in there worked for some European engineers and they wanted to know what the hell was going on over here. The thing is the Centaurians use collective thought so well it verges on telepathy. This is why they are so hard to fight, it's like a damn hydra. They are very aggressive in sucking folks straggling through their lands into the herd. It doesn't matter if they blow your arms off since they are just going to build a machine around your corpse. All they need is a heart, brain, and spinal column that was recently working to turn you into one of them.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do?”

“I'm not sure. That guy, Finnegan, I think it was, was sent to gather information and so he could move fast which we will be doing but we've got to stop and get our shit while we're there.” Benjamin had pulled up the on screen maps and set the course to the Smoky mountains. After the computer took control he took his new hand held from his pocket. “The rat bastard forgot to tell me how to work this thing.” Benjamin examined the equipment but it appeared to be nothing but a stone and he began to wonder if Mr. Fujeta was setting him up for something.

“Can you call him?”

“Mr. Fujeta only speaks in person. This thing here is the closest he gets to telecommunicating. I better get it figured out or we're screwed.” He tried vocal commands. “Power on. On. Wake up. Work you useless piece of shit.” None of them worked. It was too frustrating for him and so he decided to rest his eyes and deal with the details of the trip later. The smooth device was in his hand as he let his inner monologue ramble. At some point through a journey of half ideas and unseen fears, the voice seperated by the first fronds of sleep asked the stone a question on the New Captiol. Voices jolted Benjamin awake and he searched to find the source.

“You hear that?” He asked Tobacco Brown, who was busy with her laptop.

“Hear what? It sounds like someone is reading an encyclopedia entry or something.”

“No. Are you one something?”

“Not sure.” Benjamin listened until he realized he was hearing the reading voice in his head. He was also seeing images of people and places he had never seen. He focused on the voice until he decided to ask it a new question. “Who are you?”

“The computer in your hand. I was deigned by Mr. Fujeta and made to provide all the information you may need.”

Benjamin looked down at the stone set to asking it about the Centaurians, the Capitol, the processors, the Mayor and all points between but he mostly stuck his findings to the Centaurians.

Some of the hill people had made heavy bunkers for the attacks many believed would never come. They had buried their future in the Appalachians and as soon as first of H-bomb incinerated Washington, they went into hiding. The Army took control of the east and set to making it an automated armory. Robots could survive the fallout and the new Capitol was under construction on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The official U.S. count was “total annihilation five hundred miles from Washington D.C., New York City, and Boston” but small clans of hill people survived the blasts and the sickened atmosphere. They were overlooked as the convict work crews erected the capacitor fields that would power the armories. The Environmental Rectifier caused an unending stream of electrical storms trying to purge the earth. Lightening rods placed on every mountain top sent the captured flashes down an array of transmission lines to large slow-release capacitors on the eastern slope. The method worked to power the unending lands of robot plants and refineries but it brought insidious change to the Appalachians. Ancient lands became malicious with the imbalance of positive and negative energy, the men an women who lived deep in these mountains changed with them. They first came from their caves to steal from the scrap trains returning from the western battle zone. The trains were heaped with arms, legs, canons, wiring, power cells and anything else salvaged from the fighting fields. By then, the mountain families had fallen so deep within the mean spirited mountains that they had learned some of the primordial arts while developing them through cult rituals.

He paused the lecture and summarized it for his passenger.

“So they are crazy, mean, and one with the land. I hate fighting the spiritual warriors, it takes a small army to take one down. They still bleed but that is only part of what keeps them alive. What you have told me doesn't help, it just makes it more troubling. We need information that is useful for strategy.”

“Working on it.” Benjamin resumed his studies as Tobacco Brown put her computer away and watched the rolling lands come toward her and disappear. They had left the communes and private forts in the past and moved into the agricultural lands divided into strips that stretched as far south as she could see. Elevated rails bounded the segments of mixed crop fields and long beams spanned the rails. A gaggle of cords twisting in and around the beams crawling methodically along the tracks brought power, water, light, and nutrients with them across the beam so that it could be dispersed on the crops without the slightest step of a man. A cleansing light glowed beneath the beam and the plants beneath were green and strong. The structures gave the farmers access to till, plant, cultivate, and harvest. It was a newer take on old methods developed by a small circle of farmers.

The genetic seed producers had tried to engineer plants that would not be affected by the foul clouds of war and oil. It was the way of the future until a series of ugly plagues killed a third of the remaining population. A few small growers developed clean crops with mixed fields and pure seeds that were progeny of a past that clung to by a few. This small group quickly accrued control of most of the arable land. They built the rail and bridge system to have superior control of the land without having to employ anybody but mechanics. Their knowledge was priceless and they guarded it like a guild secret of old Europe. Every nation had bombs but few produced food with such success and that was the real source of the United States'. The Unified Federal Authority offered the Sustainable Agricultural Coalition 15% control of the UFA in exchange for the Coalition's land and governance. United States leaders worried many sleepless nights as the Coalition considered the offer and declared a holiday when the farmers released their statement.

“We are bit simple people of the land committed to tending to it so that it may forever bring us nourishment. As such, we do not identify with any ruling body but of God and Earth so we find it impossible to remain true to what has brought us strength and coalesce ourselves with the Federal Authority,” or as Buster Toarmino insisted in the meetings, partial ownership of shit is shit.

The Federal Authority and a number of other ruling bodies sent spies to try to steal information from the Agricultural Coalition but they did not have knowledge so information they managed to secure was useless. After the Coalition discovered some of the spies, it hired biker outfits to protect its property. The Darkside Rebels roamed the plains region for a few years before it disbanded. It was easy and lucrative work. The group leader would be informed of the breach and the gang would ride to the location, find the spy and leave him on the roadside with shattered knees and no hope. Benjamin swore off killing after watching a Siberian man beg of his lord as vultures came to peck at his spilled entrails. Some of the Rebels would get hard at the thought of pulling the trigger but Benjamin saw it as theft of the higher will. He followed no particular god but he choices of death belonged to the divine. The promise was broken on a few occasions when he had to choose between his life or that of the person firing at him.

“Centaurians propagate the race through natural methods as well as immersion of outsiders. Immersion occurs when they draw people in with telepathic calls from the Governor that grow in strength as the prey partially succumbs to the negative balance of the territory. The prey loses strength and the constant calls from the tribe convince him or her to surrender where he will be carried to a transformation. Limbs are removed and replaced with soldier-bot parts stolen from the scrap trains. Because the prey is not born into the Herd, a neuro-processing unit is injected into the skull that trains him in the cult arts of the Herd and joins him to the Governor.

When the Herd is engaged in immersion of an prey, it focuses on the task until completion of the Rites that recognize the prey as one of the Herd. The single mindedness of the Herd is the source of its strength but can be used for diversion.” Benjamin stopped the session.

“I think I found our way in.” He said as he pulled on the maps of the Centaurian territories on the screen.

“Pray tell.”

“How much of a ruckus can you make?”

“I could blow these crazy fools off the map.”

“That would be easier. What we need is for you to keep them busy while I try to find a processor and the Mind.”

“Okay.”

“They won't want to kill you but they will be in your head, trying to get you to surrender to them.”

“What's so difficult about that? Remember, I'm a stubborn bitch.”

“You're gonna have to be more than that. They will be trying to brainwash you.” He was finding the topographic maps of the region and they were of little help. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I've got a basic layout of the area where they live but nothing detailed enough to be of use. This is looking pointless and straight suicidal. We've got to have a better plan.”

Benjamin turned looked past the computer and to the slow rise of mountains in the distance. In the rear view, he spotted a brief glimpse of the smoldering sun as it dipped below the cloud layer and behind the horizon. The lands behind them glowed faintly in the rose light. He had tried, once, to chase the setting sun to be in that same moment for eternity but night caught up with him and he was angry with the cruel world for denying him something so simple.

Bars of light moved all around as the machinery of the fields tirelessly worked and the road before them turned up and into black skies sliced with a thousand bolts of lightening. The first groans of thunder reached the truck and the two lost souls drove headlong into the madness.

“There is no way. I guess we'll just do what we can and then be turned into psychotic-hillbilly cult killers. Maybe it ain't all that bad. I mean, not having to decide for myself would be nice. A lot less worry, for sure. Fuck the Mayor and his dumb dreams. They aren't my hopes. Why should I worry about people in the New Capitol? For all I know, they're perfectly content. That's what Dalana said. That's what all the artists and singers leaving the the Federal Authority say. 'It's perfectly fine if you redefine freedom' is what Dalana said.” He paused the internal questioning to admire his passenger.... “What's she doing here? Mr. Fujeta said something about personal reasons..”

“What was Mr. Fujeta talking about before we left?”

Tobacco Brown had been half dreaming when the question stuck through. She knew that Benjamin was no fool and would ask her at some time but she did not want to tell him. It was not that she disliked the man, it was just that explaining to Ben would bring the secluded past to her immediate state and force her to feel what she had long suppressed.

“It was nothing.”

“I call bullshit.”

“We both have our reasons and I'm not asking about yours.”

“Mine is the chance to live. It's not a good one but it's better than my alternatives. Besides, maybe listening to you will clear my head enough to make a sensible plan appear from the void.”

“Ok. I want to hear your story in return.”

“Mine ain't nothing you ain't heard already.”

“I doubt that.” She smiled and his normal self would have stopped the truck and ravished her beauty.

“I was married.”

“Kids?”

“No,” her voice turned soft and distant, “I was pregnant. My son would be eighteen this month. My husband was a Captain in the Special Forces. We lived on the Gulf Coast in a two bedroom cottage on the Naval Base.”

“Did he have a name, what did he look like?”

“John T. Sullivan was the most handsome man I ever saw. He was strong and gentle, angry yet compassionate. A woman like me needs a man like him and they are damn hard to find. I was young and so grateful to have John and before long, I was carrying his son. It was so exciting and so frightening. The Conflict Region Treaty was to be signed and I was hoping for a future without the constant hellfire. I would be a small part with my family trying to rebuild a good place in the ruins of the old.

“I should have known, should have suspected. We lived too well for a Captain's salary but I never asked. You see, John was a point man for the Latin Revolutionary Front. He was part of the group who kidnapped the Mexican President. After that success, the Front asked John to assist them in removing the Federal Authority Director and help Marco Aurello gain the seat. They offered him a lot of power and money. John, my husband, turned them down. The Interior Defense Council caught wind of the plan and John's involvement.

“I knew none of this and lot of people would still be living if I did. My first explanation came as our doors were kicked in one night. John told me to run and I tried. I made it out the window and dropped down to the side yard. I was going as fast as I could when two Defense officers tackled me. One took out my legs and the other hit me from behind. I was a helpless and pregnant woman in a nightgown and nothing else but they came for me. I could feel my baby recoil inside and die as I heard them dragging my husband out while beating him to no end. They threw him in a air-car and I never knew what happened. I prayed that he died in the car but of prayers only help those with hope.

“They locked me up for six months and after a hundred serrum treatments and general torture, they concluded that I was ignorant and could be released. Locked in my white room, I made a blood oath to kill everyone responsible. Now, they wish they had killed me since I left the prison and went home to find John's hidden gunsafe and one of his old computers. My search of men and information caught the attention of Mayor Winterfeld. He said he could help me in return for my services and now I'm here.”

“Have you honored your oath?”

“There is one more.”

“And I'm guessing it's someone in the Capitol.”

“It's none other that the Chairwoman of the Inner Defense Council.”

Benjamin watched the witch's brew of night storms and retold the tale to himself.

“You know, that is the worst story I have heard in a long time.”

“How do you think I feel? I spent a lot of time trying to forget. My job with the Mayor helps. I like seeing tough guys beg for mercy, they cry out to god but he has forgotten us on this wretched planet and so I can show no mercy.”

“I'm not sure I'll argue with you. I must stretch my legs.” Benjamin grabbed the wheel and pulled the truck to the side of the road. A light rain fell and it was cold and a stiff breeze sang in the trusses. Benjamin could see the rain in a strip of clear light emaniting from the bridge creaking his way. To the east, the thick sky lit up in dancing spasms. As he paced and sucked in the hard air, letting the rain brace wake him up, heavy light threw everything in a wash. In a gush of sight and sound, an convoy of armored cargo trucks roared by. The drivers stared through their windows at the lone figure. “What was he doing?” The hollow faces asked. “Does he know where he is?”

Benjamin watched the convoy charge into the distance of his direction and decided it was time to go.

“Can you wait? I need to pee.” Tobacco asked Ben as he sat down.

“Sure.”

The woman got out and went behind the truck. Now is the time. It would be so easy. I could just drive off. To where? Maybe a Canadian Peace Colony. I could grow fat and die without the hassle of being gunned down. He reached for the shifter and wrapped his hand around it. The decision froze him. His normal self would be halfway gone by now but he stopped. He had a mission, a goal and it gave him direction and now, as he thought of Tobacco Brown, his goal had purpose. The journey was becoming his and aso he sat and waited for his passenger.

“It's fucking cold out there.”

“That it is.”

They continued in silence. Tobacco Brown was letting the old fires of hate stir up. What would she say to the Chairwoman when she saw her and how much pain would she inflict before snapping the spine of the woman who had destroyed her happiness? Benjamin found a small piece of his strength at admitting to his part in the plan. Purpose was never an issue with him. It was not a question worth asking because it had no answer. He was not a learned man but he understand some of the plight of the philosopher and preacher.

“You asked me about my story.” He broke the silence.

“It's up to you.”

He told her what he could recall of his mother and the conducter and the ballcap with gold lettering. “I left the Darkside Rebels when I was sixteen and bounced around doing what I could for awhile. I ended up in the city and got a job at the Yards. After a few weeks of that hell I went up to the foreman and told him I wasn't going to make it loading ships. He asked me “what can you do?” “I can drive,” is what I say to him and he looked at me and saw the Rebels brand on my arm and said ,”Boy, you're too young to drive the big trucks but I've might have something for you.” He handed me a small bag and sent me to Mr. Fujeta's house. It wasn't as crazy then but I'm sure the foreman figured I would flip out but I didn't. Over the next few years, I continued being a delivery boy until a few of the people I was dropping off to wanted to further my involvement. I left my job at the Yards. The foreman knew what was going on and he just said to watch my back. I was working mostly for the art dealers and Mr. Fujeta. Well, I end up needing to steal a painting for the Museum. It was the first time I snuck into the airport, I was freaked out, you couldn't have fit a cunt hair between my asscheeks they were so tight. I got it and after I delivered it to the back gate I decided to see what the hell happened there.

I was walking through a sculpture room and there was this gorgeous wild-haired woman running her hands over a stone figure. She was pretty, not stunning, but she had it and she was like a nerve-ending of god and she created. She made a room feel better when she walked in and her place was full of books and paints and flowers and things she had made. She tried to make something beautiful in a world gone ugly.”

“What happened?”

“I had to make my first long run to the Latin border. That's when I lost my hand. It tool me two months to get back and by then I was ready to turn it in and find local work. She had changed, she said it was my fault for being gone so long and she grew upset with a place that took her one bright light and it made her weak. She had become a firnd and there was nothing I could do. I tried for a few weeks to break the habit but you know how it is.

“You make me sad.”

“Yeah, I was upset for awhile and threw myself into whiskey and work. I've seen a few women since but she was the only one that I longed for and this bullshit place wouldn't let it happen. That's why I took on the longest and dumbest trips because it got me away. I hate Memphis but it ain't any better anywhere else. It's all shit and we're the asshole.”

They had come up the plateau and the into the outer bands of the rage. The fields had dissipated into gouged lands laced with transmission lines. Hard and gnarled trees walled the road. A fierce wind swirled through and shot down the road, shaking the truck with each mean gust and the rain was loud. The road climbed in long runs up, down, and around the ancient mountains. Water swifted under bridges barely high enough and the lightening shattered relentlessly. Benjamin throttled the truck down and had the onscreen overlay a radar over the maps and waited. After thirty miles, he saw the first signs. It was a cross made from motorcycle parts and transmission wire. A skull sat atop. He looked at his map and there was no way of telling where to go and no way to know what to do.

“At least we're near.”

They were coming around and down. A cliff shot up on side and the other dropped to a valley. At the base of it, they saw the first encampment. A garage leaned near the road with piles of robotics inside. A power line spliced from a transmission tube fed the bright lights of the ramshack building. A small pen was attached to the side held a family of goats with empty eyes and an old woman with mechanical arms fused to her body stood out front. She stared as they drove by and then turned to go inside with a jerking gait.

Tobacco Brown had the photon cannon in one hand and an EMP grenade in the other. They kept climbing and diving, twisting and turning. They passed more cobbled shacks and more signs but mostly passed through woods that tried to push into the road. Trees had reached across the top in an attempt to trap the travelers.

“How are we ever going to find our way, much less a little processor in this. No one but they know where it is.”

“You're a damned genius.”

“How's that?”

“We're gonna let them take us in.”

“That's fucked.”

“Got a better plan.”

“No.”

“Please, feel free if you do.”

“Forgetting about it and driving off.”

“We're in too deep for that.”

Benjamin was starting to feel the sinister call of the land. It was angry and felt of the scorn lover's heart eaten by revenge, ready to strike at anyone or anything. The eroded giants had taken care of men for eternity and all that was given was destroyed in flash. Now the men had cast the land in darkness and it would use its powers to shake them. Humanity was a rash and it needed scrubbed off. Kill them, kill them all. Taste the flesh and smell the blood as the cries of the savage race died at the hands of its giver. The human experiment had failed. That was the call and it drizzled in like February rain.

“I've got too much to deal with to listen to this shit,” he told himself. “This one track mind is already running through an obstacle course and whatever it is trying to tell me otherwise is just gonna have to take a number.” The argument worked because it was true. He grew fiercly irritable but did not fall into the trap. Tobacco Brown, meanwhile was dreaming of the kill and readying to have a glorious end for the cursed mountains.

“You feel that.”

“Yeah.”

They came around a high ledge and in the electrial eruptions, she could make out a row of the capacitors in the visible distance, white dots far away. Down they went once more and whispers sifted around her.

“Come with us. We will take care of you. Be one and the mountain will love you. It's warm here. Warm and safe and quiet. Come. Forget the past. The trees will embrace you. The rains will cleanse you. All will be absolved. All will be done.” They grew more as they dove down. They angered Benjamin. He hated the lightening and the rain and the thousand voices. It was another disguise and he was tired of masks and lies. They could have it all. Fuck the Mayor, if he wanted something so bad, he should get it his own damn self.

Through the shadows beneath the sparkling skies, he saw four of them come from the woods and stop in the middle of the road. He took the wheel and stepped on the gas. The big motor roared and he could feel the machine spring to life. A hundred yards turned to fifty to five. They were visible now. Bodies of men fused to motorbikes. They had hooks, claws, cannons, and saws for arms and wore heavy helmets with hoses running from the mouth into the bowels of the robotic skeleton. He braced for the squeal and screech of impact but there was none. The four Centaurians were in the rear view as he watched a hook fired at the back of his truck and hit just above the camera. They hook was attached to a cable that they attached to a thick ring which was secured to twisted Osage/ or some other. Benjamin had no choice but to slam the breaks. The tires broke lose and he was sliding. Tree trunks thrashed the sides and he was skidding toward the edge. The truck jolted and stopped moving forward but momentum carried it to the edge and Benjamin saw a swollen river fifty yards below. “Thud” The truck was stopped headlong down the embankment by a hefty oak.

“Come on woman. Take care of those punks while I get us unstuck.” H looked over and the seat was empty and the door was open. The calls were screaming at him and rain blew in through the door.

“Fuck.” She had left the EMP grenade behind. Benjamin picked it up, grabbed his plasma rifle from behind the seat and ducked out the door. He was soaked immediately as he ran through the woods with the road at eye level, following the taut cable. Tobacco Brown was walking in the middle of the road. To call her would have brought attention to himself and so he just kept a few steps behind and in the darkness of the woods. She had reached the four and they were waiting. Their motors sang through the rains as they secured her to the back of the track-mounted one. Benjamin watched them turn and head through a clearing in the woods he had not seen in the first pass and he raced back to the truck, sliding and tripping along the way. The third plasma blast melted the cable and he was in the cab, hoping he could pull out of the spot. Tires spun but grabbed nothing but mud and soaked leaves. He got out and began fumbling with the winch. Cold hands were failing him and urgency pushed him to the point of frantic. It was one lever he needed to push to release the cable drum but he was pulling too soon and the winch wanted to jam. On his last try, he managed to free the spool and ran with the cable to wrap it around a tree on the other side of the road. The motor shuttered and grumbled but it reeled in the line, pulling the truck onto the road. Benjamin unhooked the line and let it wind up the rest of the way, he could see himself hauling ass through unknown roads with the hook dangling free only to catch a transmission line and fry the whole truck with him inside. The opening was were he remembered and he turned into it onto a path just wide enough for him to scrap both sides of the vehicle. A mile through dense woods he bumped and bounced until the path split.

“Son of a...what's next?” He spat as he got out with the rifle and the grenade.

“Come with us.” A grinding call said to him. Nothing was in sight but it kept tearing into his head.

“Leave it behind. Give in to the call. The pain will be your friend.”

“Where are you!” Benjamin yelled as the heavens bombarded him. “Come out here and fight, you low down punk!”

The next cracks of light revealed a monstrosity before him. A woman's body was sitting on six legs. She was two feet taller than Benjamin and her right arm was a long blade. His first shot blasted one of the legs off and sent her charging straight at him. A thousand cries filled the air and he was firing away as more ensemble hellions came up the same path she was on.

He ran down the other one while letting the plasma rifle tear the world apart. The bug lady was on three legs and screaming wildly. He stopped and watched her head incinerate with a well placed shot. The rifle was hot and it felt good in his stiff hands. He sprinted down the free path until he heard the banshee cries coming toward him and he decided it was time to cut to the other side. Straight into the thick belly of the forest he fought and pushed for. Sirens were wailing somewhere ahead and the air hummed with electricity. Something was following his trail into the trees slapping and scraping him bare. The thrashing behind him was gaining and he was slowing. Lungs and legs were fire in the rain would not stop. Lights beyond the next line of trees and movement everywhere. He dropped to crawl to where he could see what was out there. He was on the high ground and he could see the path come down from his right into a large with two quonset hut beside each other and a pigpen nearest him. The siren hollered from the top of the round buildings as a legion of Centaurians streamed out of one. Their cries pierced the already foul air. Tobacco Brown was nowhere to be seen. He figured she was in one of the long huts but did not know and he had only one grenade. Everything depended on it. The pulse from the blue can in his hand would scatter the circuitry of everything in the clearing but more would come and she had to be down there. Screams, cries, pleas, and calls pushed his thoughts out and his followers were almost on top of him.

“Fuck it.” He murmured and crawled free from his hiding space. “Hey. Y'all. I'm up here!” He fired the rifle on auto for the bastards to really know. The swarming mass turned and perceived as the figure of a man hurled something toward them and then turned to send a glowing round into a member of the Herd's chest.

Everything went white and then black. Benjamin was fighting to see through flash burned eyes. Cries were faint as half machines flailed and failed. His legs went to running and he was hellfire with a plasma rifle. Past the pigpen, past the first building he was dodging the crippled Centaurians and the voices spit gibberish and faded. Instinct sent him to the second building and he ran in. The lights were out but the place was half alive with movement.

“You in here!” He shouted.

“I think,” she moaned. He ran to the voice and damned himself for forgetting a flashlight as he tripped over nest of cables on the floor. As he tried to get up, something grabbed his arm and clamped with machine force, making him to drop the rifle.

“Aarghdieshitnut,” came out as one word as swung at the unseen with his own metal hand. He struck and the clamp tightened. More sounds of steel scraping around and something was biting into his ankle.

“Now you die,” was the dry rattle in the air and Benjamin closed his eyes. He waited and set to making peace with himself, knowing that he had done the best he could and all went white.

The vise released on his wrist and the space was quiet.

“Benjamin.”

“Yea.” On his feet he saw a light before him and Tobacco Brown was holding it.

“Let's get the hell out of here.”

“What about the Mind?”

“What about us?”

“Look, I ain't enjoying this place but we're here so we might as well and see if we can get our shit and go.” He walked toward her in the beam and surveyed the area. Bodies spasmed in a circle on the dirt floor. A cross stood in the middle and Tobacco Brown was standing in front of it. The cords he had tripped on ran to the metal cross. She was following them with the light. They traced across the floor to a pedestal. A green robed Centaurian was curled on the floor next to the pedestal with meat saw as one hand and a syringe in the other. Benjamin ran and picked up the needle and inspected the pedestal. A carved urn sat atop. It did not appear to be attached to anything but he could feel all things vibrate and shift as he neared it.

“I'm guessing this is it.”

“Just grab and it let's go.”

It was in his hands and he could see the realm of the Mind. It knocked him back and he lurched like a punch drunk boxer. He tucked the urn under his left arm and flailed with his other. Tobacco Brown grabbed the free hand and pulled him along. She let go to hurl another grenade out the door and then they were outside. Benjamin did not feel the cold or the rain. Gusting squalls were silence to him. He watched as Tobacco Brown danced and dodged and raged hellfire from her photon cannon at anything and everything. He knew he was supposed to be doing something but he the Mind was showing him what the Herd felt, anguish and rage. Terrified cries to release the urn. It was trapped and in the clutches of a member of the race of destroyers. He wanted to smash the smooth wood, set it on fire and release himself from the burden.

Tobacco Brown was shouting at him, waving, asking him something.

“Where's the truck?” The storm had strengthened and the lightening blazed in all corners. Trees cracked and fell around them and Benjamin was standing with the rootball under one arm lost in the folds of its primordial power. The hills were screaming with the desperate calls of Centaurians and she could sense them coming from all points. She had one grenade and could never fight them all off. She fired at three coming from the other building, three times a helmeted skull shattered. They still moved but with no control and two had tangled with each other. They would be surrounded soon, thousands of hell-born men coming for their totem to immortality.

“Of course.” She said to herself as she hurried to grab Benjamin. Grabbing his free hand in her left, she pulled a --- grenade from her belt and held the plunger down. She held it high over her head and walked down the middle of the path toward the road. Voices grew scared.

“No. You would never. The spirit will save us.” They could sense the danger and stopped at the edge of the clearing when they saw the devil woman with the device held high. Attacking would not do. Tobacco Brown smiled when she saw the Centaurians stop in the near sight of rain choked night. They were close enough to hear the ventilators and gyroscopes click and whir. She continued with careful steps for a slip in mud would bring instant closure. Gradually, they walked up the path and she could make out the truck. She would need to move quickly when they reached it and she desperately needed her driver. He was a lone soul walking through an fog of frightened spirits. The faces appeared and he could see past the helmets and to the gaunt expressions pleading for what was theirs. They were weak with sadness and confused by fear. What would they do without their legacy? He wanted to give them the bundle like a scrap to the cold and homeless. A door opened, he was pushed onto a seat. He knew the place but not so well as the faces staring through the glass at him. Something grabbed at the urn. He wouldn't let go.

“Damnit, Benjamin. Let go and drive.” He just sat and looked at the Centaurian on the other side of his door. “Sorry.” She jabbed a stungun into his neck and he released the urn as he spasmed and his head fell forward. She lifted up the sensous wooden vessel and it hated her. It burned and she carried the agony long enough to throw it in the back seat.

“What the hell?” Benjamin was opening his eyes and he was surrounded by Centaurians. “I think we might be fucked.”

“Just drive and let me do the talking.” Tobacco Brown was opening and closing her scalded hands and chambering the EMP grenade into the launcher on her cannon.

“You might have to explain it to me.”

“We've got the Mind and they think I'm about to blow it up with us.”

“Oh.” He was remembering the recent past and the pieces began to fall into place. “Hold on.” He turned the truck on and around. Not that it was easy. He was starting to feel like the stories of dead white men entering new lands—Cortez?---. They were ready to bow down to him. The grinding, oil smeared arms, wheels, legs following his every move ready to kill or kneel. If only they had killed, would it all be different. What does it matter questioning the past, it is not as if I could redo it or anything is ever gonna be the exact same again.

Tobacco Brown had ever idea of every intention of hers. The robed bastard had succeeded in raping her and was on course to take the last ounce of her mind. They would feel her wraith and it would the fury of savage moons.()

“Get us the sweet fuck out of here.” She yelled and then got out and into the back. Between water cans, tools, and motors she kneeled with the grenade in and shouted for Benjamin.

“Go. You bastard. Drive.”

Okay. He started off on a Sunday jog and the circle opened and fell into the rest of the flock behind him. She held her fire. The driving was fun. The rain and wind played a symphony on trees and truck and he enjoyed it. It felt new to smile, one breath shy of alive. He stepped on the gas.

“Hold on, baby, it's gonna get bumpy.” They bounced and shot up the hill and down to the road they tumbled. The rain felt like needles in her back but she was focused on the breaking line following. The dense forest opened and she was thrown to one side and looked up to see pavement sliding away. Centaurians were starting to pour onto the road. She shot off the EMP grenade. Blue white burst and a Centaurians were skidding on useless bodies, piling up and stopping up the road. She loaded the anti-gravity grenade and placed a shot just past the middle of the scrum. Truck windows shattered and hell squal thunder shattered the earth. Benjamin didn't know what to do but drive and now he wanted to get away. He had enough fuel to do a hard run to get past the capacitor farms. The few Centaurian that might keep up would not go so deep into new country. He had hoped that it wouldn't come to this but that's the way it was. His ears were bleeding from the shock wave and glass from the side window pricking him all over. The windshield was still intact or he would be in trouble.

a tree and a funny story

2009-02-05T12:26:00.001-08:00

Where the words go, I don't know. Each one of these has some form of story to go with it. I don't know how many of y'all know what "bag limit" is about but it's the best sign ever. The not as well shot picture is a necklace tree that I made. It is a funky ole thing, made from drift wood, a miscut monument that I busted up, a piece of scrap iron, string, and some cleverness. I hear that the owner is most pleased and that's all that matters.

lack of tv and need to procrastinate.

2009-02-02T22:58:00.000-08:00

I think these guys have amphetamines where most of us have blood. It makes for a kick ass show.

Now this next bit is from Johnny Lowebow. I used to live next to him and all through the night I would hear the craziest wailing and strumming. He makes the Lowebow and owns, with his wife, my favorite bookstore. I think I just traded half my library for some credit with him.

me playing around until i get a useful phone call.

2009-01-31T09:52:00.000-08:00

things i have made and the formating is being a pain

2009-01-07T11:15:00.000-08:00

That's a coatrack. The sections spin around and it comes apart with no tools. It is also the last steel thing I will make in the shiny finish unless someone really wants it.

Behold a coffee table. I'm still holding it for a friend who ordered it but he has a boy on the way and needs to save his winnings so it is available-ish. I can make another for him another time. The wood has been stained since this picture. I'm not sure what finish I like better but I can always refinish it. It's 1" thick oak. Strong stuff.

Another table. I found the piece of marble in Petey Wheatstraw's backyard. If you ever decide to sand marble, wear a mask. After about an hour trying to smooth the edges the night before my one opening, I was seeing triple and not feeling to well. It's on a friend's porch and has rusted to a nice orange.

So I had an opening at my place for the Broad Walk. I live on Broad and once to twice a year all the artists on the street open house and show off their wares. I learned of it two weeks before and scrambled like a madman to finish all these and a few other pieces for the show. This is the sign I made and Ana Gratziela Gal painted. She had some really cool photos and we set it up in this interior alleyway that runs between my building and my landlord's. The wood from the sign is a piece of driftwood I've been holding on to for awhile and trying to figure out what to do with it. My mom was telling me I had to have a sign and so we managed to drag it out as the show started and the paint was drying.

I made this table a couple of years ago. It's at Pete's place now and stacked to the moon with Budweiser cans, computer parts, and empty boxes of Parliament Ultralights. I would have to find another piece of wood like that to replicate the thing but I do recall getting my zen on sanding that top for thirty hours. Each time I went to a higher grit, it felt like I saw a new universe in the grains.

today's an awesomest day.

2008-12-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

It's been a family type of christmas and that is the way it should be. And on noon today, the 26, Jasmine and I were married at her aunt's church near Graceland. I'm a bit few on the words. I have always felt blessed by the people in my world and I am eternally thankful that I have found someone to complete me. Yee-haw, it's time for those that can to get down and cheers to y'all and your loved ones.

a start to something maybe worth it

2008-12-01T14:43:00.001-08:00

it ain't all there and it's got it's problems but this is the start to the novel i have been working on. i'm open to comment and hope some of y'all would want to read the rest. it's cold and it's the holidays. enjoy it.

new dawn of an old dream.

chapter i

“Please don't run out on me.” Benjamin begged of his truck and the sun. He had switched it over to gasoline and had a tight limit to catch up to the Latin Baja five miles ahead. He was gambling with gas and daylight and was trusting luck or a good guess. He didn't know what was on the little red buggy speeding across firm land but Mr. Fujeta payed him 50,000 down and would give him 150,000 on delivery. It was a new type of neuro-processor but that was all he knew. He was going about 100 across the rough country, any faster would be disastrous and he was already barely escaping bouncing into the marsh land all around. Neither vehicle would make it far in the hideous mud soaking the evil of man's waste in an area inhospitable to all but the most gruesome of life.

It was an American truck from the start of the millennium with added compartments, new circuitry, and a fuel cell but the bored out V10 was unbeatable for power and torque. It rumbled like a muscle car and could navigate the hardest of terrain. He watched the daylight change and the on screen monitor of the Baja. It was a fast little thing but he was gaining.

The old roads though the open country led under once blue skies but they were no longer roads and the air was rarely clear. Many had forgotten what they had looked like. Benjamin had seen grown men cry at the sight of clean skies. The life-breathing color would never last a full day and the astonished men would stand and watch the air above until a new drift of smog and decayed building pushed back the blue with the familiar gray smear. They looked younger and alive until the shackles of reality would bind them to the present once more. The few who had a chance to witness the day-blue shift into the long and deep reds of dusk were entranced by the intrinsic beauty of the world and would invariably start screaming hatred at the populations so bent on destruction.

Benjamin recalled trundling down a gravel road with the Rebels. He had only half-slept, riding on the back of a bike for a week straight. The men were running hard and fast. He never knew why but it was one of the greatest capers of the gang and the one that would lead to its dissolution. He remembered opening his eyes at the first dart of daylight and saw the purest morning of his time. It was one of those sights that struck him as something to remember though he was too young to know how precious it was. He painted a wall of his memory with the living mural and carried it with him until he was chasing down a Latin Baja.

He had gained four miles and could see the red buggy beyond a trail of dust. The sun was starting to set which left him with just enough light, if all went right and it never did. Of course, he was not entirely sure how he was going to get the damn thing to stop without flipping it over, killing the driver and possibly shattering the processors. His best bet was with the hook. He just hopped the Latin driver wasn't too jacked up on speed or heavily armed. Benjamin hated gunfights.

“They're fucking riduclous. Ain't got nothing to do with a fight. No style, no grace, and no balls. They just do what you can't do yourself,” he told Mitch Muggins at a bar in northern Louisiana. A sign outside read “Check your firearms at the door” and every jackass roughneck walking in had something to hand over.

“Either you're gonna whoop my ass or I'm gonna whoop yours. That's the way men fight and I ain't fucking with no punk motherfuckers no more. They don't know what they want and they sure as hell don't know how to get the respect they crave. Ain't nothing but bullshit to me.”

Of course, now was a time when Benjamin might need a proton cannon or an atomic stabilizer because he saw the little head turn back and recognize. They continued the chase another minute before the Baja veered to the right and cut across the marsh fields.

“Dumb son of a bitch.” Benjamin slowed down to the point and watched the buggy race across the dead plane of mud. It had rained for a month and the land was a vat of glue. The Baja had gone a couple of hundred yards before it began to slow down in a gushy depression. The wheels were flailing with a six-inch layer of mud gelling to them as the driver realized his mistake and tried to turn back toward firm land.

Benjamin got out of his truck, lit a cigarette, and changed into a pair of thigh high boots. He sprayed a solvent on the natural rubber to make them too slick for the mud and repel the Vileworms. He then strapped on the wide and spiked mud shoes.Throwing his bag of tricks on his back, the broad shouldered man of 35 set across dead-land to his goal. He could hear the motor whine and squeel through the fetid air as the Baja labored and sank in the mud. A lanky man hopped out with a metal case and tried to run but got no further than twenty feet before falling down. The once-rich soil began to swallow him. Making sure of each step, Benjamin reached the open-framed car in an hour.

“No. No. No.” Benjamin heard the trapped man plead, a quiet prayer in spanish followed the cries.

“Poomph.” The drenched earth muffled the blast, a hail of gooey earth-shit plastered Benjamin, almost knocking him out.

“Fuck.” Apparently, the Latin had a static-time self destruct attached to himself. If he stopped moving too long before he reached the drop-off site he would blow up, which he did. Benjamin wiped his face off and pulled a piece of the unlucky servant's skull out of his permanently mussy hair. He would need another round of shots when he got back to Memphis. Deranged experiments and the rise of ancient rites led to agonizing renditions of bacteria that could transform a healthy adult into a bubbling monstrosity in six-months. For now, he just needed to find the damn case. He trudged over to the crater. Vileworms had crawled up at the hot flash and a few had already set in on the half-carcass clad in mud, jeans, and entrails. The buzzards would come soon and now time was pressing for the night scavengers would leave nothing for Benjamin Patton to be remembered by. He pulled a tungsten flare out and struck it. The area would be lit in brilliant white for an hour but the case could be anywhere. Failure was never an option and recovery must happen soon. He slapped his neck and killed half a dozen mosquitoes. They swarmed and sang in his ears. Sweat stuck to the air and nothing was nice.

He began at the source and set out in a tight spiral. Urgency can lead to impatience which causes mistakes. More worms oozed beneath his feet and tried to gnaw into the thick soled boots. At some point, after a thousand tries, they would make it and life would be agonizing and short. Everything was the same black shade of brown and he knew the case would be buried in the stale reek of mud. His options were running low as time passed and he waded in wider circles of muck and mire and so he traced a line back to the crater and pulled a shiny sphere from his bag. The fusion magnet was his last resort but that is the corner he was pushed into. Benjamin plugged a cable into the grapefruit-sized ball and dropped the magnet in the mud and then sank-step as far away as the cord would allow. He counted to ten and at five shoved the cord into the palm of his right hand.

A few years prior, Mr. Fujeta had sent Benjamin to pick up a transient scientist for his labs. In a fight for the psychic researcher, the Hightower Mob cut off Benjamin's right hand. He had an implant put in after making it back to Memphis. It had its advantages.

The Latin's buckles slapped against the side of the sphere. Benjamin could feel the field growing and his hand began to ache. The pain grew as loose items from the buggy began migrating with increasing acceleration to the ball

Organs vibrated in an ancient pulse as he focused on planting his feet and ignoring the hand trying to rip from his body. He tried to think of pillows, lovers, and distant memories but it was of little help. He heard his wrist crack under the stress. Eyes glanced down, skin was tearing, a glint of metal and then a crumpling at his knees as something smashed him from behind. He ripped the cord free and the drone died.

He stayed on his knees, head bowed, hands sunk in the mud. The flare was starting to flash in its spastic close to brilliant brevity. Benjamin tried regain himself. He stared at the darkness behind closed eyes and trusted in its peace and tried to see the air coming into his lungs with long and even pulls, hear his heart slow to steady lub-dub. It wouldn't calm much, just enough to let him feel the worms biting his wrist.

He opened his eyes, pulled the thumb-shaped red maggots off, each one taking a souvenir of its visit, reached behind his legs and felt the case. The hard metal gave him strength to stand up and move gingerly toward the magnet which he packed up and then made his way out of the muddy ruins. Rain had come once again and he was glad to be washed clean, albeit with the scarred waters of his time.

Benjamin made it to the truck. His hand still worked but the thought of moving it hurt almost as much as not. He could let the computer navigate him back and take some morphine for the short term. First, he had to break the case open. It had a tracker in it and he did not need to be followed. He set the case on the on the tailgate. It was the size of a standard briefcase made of hardened steel. He pulled a chrome tube from his pocket and a laser-blade jetted out of the end about three inches. After a few minute, he had sliced one side off. Rain drops disappeared in a sharp hiss of steam on the cut edge. A thick, organic acrylic envelope slid out when he dumped the box. He put the envelope in a container in the cab and flipped the switch on top. It scanned the frequencies of the envelope and jammed the tracking device.

Pain still hurt and he wanted to collapse. He could no longer use his mechanical hand so resorted to teeth and his woman made hand to pour peroxide in the wound and wrap it. Beer tasted good and water cold.

“A bath would be nice.” he bitched at the black steaming black night. He threw his grip into the truck and climbed in. Climate control had become an art of neccessity and so he grew a step less miserable.

“Send message to Mr. Fujeta. Package received. Arrival in ten hours. Open driving controls. Raise Map 47g,” he commanded as he found the morphine shot in the glove box. A topographic map of his design appeared on the windscreen to which he recited a list of nav points that should take him safely home. It was a long route northwest through the rippled planes and then east and down to home but it should lead over good roads and away from the shitstorm while he slept.

chapter ii

It went the way most figured. Full scale war conflagerated over Oil as disease and famine gnawed. No city was safe from missiles and hellfire. The United States and Canada formed into the North American Federation. In 2066, the Chinese Army landed on the West Coast as the European Union demolished the infrastructure. The North American Federation met the attack with a new draft on all people over thirty. Parents readily agreed to die for their children who were being moved to safer lands. The Rockies made the border for the central battleground. The United Countries of South America leveled the region in a legion of bombs. The draft age was lowered to sixteen and the youth were further secured within the Defense Umbrella covering the Great Lakes. Those between sixteen and twenty were sent to be the human component of the robot plants. Soldiers died off and the automated infantry took the field to face robot forces from the other six. The Seven Powers saw that the Wars could not be won and so they agreed to a new peace. War was good for control and so the Citizens were raised to believe that their country was in a constant battle for survival. The fight did remain but it was a game of metal and lasers in agreed to boundaries. Resources were plenty for the billion survivors and Kings need followers.

The area beyond the Defense Umbrella was the Growth Region. Crops were maintained and if land around the Central Cities became scarce, they could expand. The Federation was not eager for such growth and worked diligently to restrict it. Researches had decided that the Earth could safely support a billion people and no Citizen should want for anything.

Many bunkered down in the Growth Region during the attacks. Most ran out of supplies, went crazy, and ate themselves but some managed and they built communes on top of the earthbound shelters. They were the freeborns.

Not all Citizens were perfect. The least harmful were sterilized and sent to work in the outposts. The largest of which is approximately where Memphis was before the earthquake. In 2070, the New Madrid fault shifted and toppled the cities along the Mississippi River. It also moved the mouth of the river northwest. The oceans raised further and Memphis was now a hundred and twenty miles from the Gulf Straits. It was safely behind the hundred mile security perimeter, an easy boat, train, or air ship trip to the Central Cities and firmly within the growing region. The expelled Citizens were Newbloods and were a good mark for the cons and dealers.

Memphis was rebuilt around the Port by a population of crooks, vagrants, and survivors. It grew large enough to have real government. The North American Federation did not much care for its growth but it could not start killing its own in a time of peace and prosperity. Not that those in the Growth Region were either peaceful or wealthy. One found whatever way possible to survive. The Port was the best place to go for all things came through there. Such a place is the playground of mobs, smugglers, and drug lords.

chapter iii.

“You look like hell.”

I feel like it, Manny. Benjamin handed the cart vendor the cash and left with a tall beer. He cracked it open as he stepped onto the elevator to his floor. It stopped on the third floor as he finished a long drink and felt a step relaxed. Manic danger was past. A tall black woman with red dreadlocks stepped on.

“Going up.”

“Yes. Just moved in.”

A painter's dream or a living nightmare, he couldn't decide, she wore knee high shit kickers and a simple white dress that accented her long and strong legs, her luxurious aspects, and her intoxicating movements with each step and smile. He looked at her face and it was delicate with long features and full lips and brown eyes that stared to the back of his skull. Too tired to act, Benjamin leaned against the polished wall and drank his beer. A second look led him to blurt something.

“This place is as awkward as it gets. So close to strangers and all anyone wants to do is get home.”

“What do you have to be ashamed of?” She eyed him and liked what she saw, a faint glint came to her smile.” Her voice was strong but imbued with female rhythm.

“What don't we all have to be ashamed of around here. It ain't nothing but a land of rotguts and sinners.”

The light chimed 18.

“Pleased to meet you...”

“Tobacco Brown.”

“Honored.” They shook hands. “I'm Benjamin Patton. Hopefully, we shall meet again.” He smiled, she smiled, and he started out the door.

“Don't move another step.” He heard a Resonator Canon chamber a round and he froze as the door tried to shut on him. The little tube pointed at his back would fire a little shell. That little shell would stick to his skin and generate a frequency to match that of his own and cause his body to dissolve in a sloppy pop. Mitch Muggins was killed by one. The scream still struck Benjamin's nightmares and came back at that moment. It was an evil way to kill a man and only the most cruel and cold could use one.

“You have a meeting with the Mayor.”

“Can I take a shower first. Maybe a nap and go see the Doctor.”

“The shower I can grant you but that's it. You don't want to be late.”

“I just want to get this shit off of me. It's been a pretty fucked up day.”

“Better get used to it.”

“Can you put that damn thing down. I ain't gonna run. You, Tobacco Brown, smell like the wrong cunt to fuck with.”

“How poetic. Maybe I'll put that on my next card. Why are you standing like an idiot, no time for nothing.”

Benjamin limped down the hall, turned, unlocked door 1808 and went inside with the bounty hunter following. It was an open studio with a small bathroom and large closet, the same layout as all of the new construct block apartments built since the quake. Books and tools were in a disarray of his own doing.

“Make yourself at home. There's vodka in the freezer.”

“Thanks. I'll just be waiting on you.”

The man in the mirror was covered in blood and mud. A two week beard tried to hide his strong jaw. He peeled his clothes off but left the wrap on his wrist. It had swollen and was burning with infection from the worm bites but the bleeding had long since stopped. He took his time enjoying the hot water cascading all around and the few minutes peace.

“Should I wear a suit?” He yelled through the door as he dried off.

“That won't be necessary. Just hurry up, your place bores me.”

“If I had known, I would have a bread and circus act for you.”

“Ha.”

Benjamin pulled on clean jeans and shirt and checked himself in the mirror once more. His blue eyes squinted back through a row of sags and his hair was in every direction of too long but he still looked like better than he did.

He went to the freezer and took a big swig from the bottle, put on a red jacket and headed toward the door, “Let's get this done.”

“Don't forget your bag. You have something for the Mayor in there.”

chapter iv.

“I didn't need to hear that.”

“I could kill you, if you rather.”

“I'll keep that in mind Ms. Brown.”

The elevator clanked and hurched its way down. Benjamin damned the smallness of the space. He grew up in open country chasing and running and both instincts were suffocated in the scrap-part box.

“Long time, Mr. Benjamin,” an older fellow with a rough beard and a Hawaiian shirt chirped from his seat in the lobby.

“It has been. How's Kook?”

“Busy being a clown. She found a better corner. The one that the Holograph Man used but he overdosed.”

“Good for her. He was an ass and probably deserved it. I don't know when I'll be back so wish her the best for me.”

“Will do. Be careful, son.” The half-drunk gentleman tipped his hat.

The two continued out the steel doors and onto the street. Endless construction clattered through the air that was thick with drunk piss and the calls of conmen.

“Hey. You smoke. Got what you need? No. Look like a man who needs to kill the pain. Got them pills if you know what I mean. Hey. Spare a cigarette, how about coin. Hoping for a sandwich but would settle for a beer. Know a guy at the Yards, he brought this shit in yesterday and ain't got but this left. You want it. Was two hundred but I'll take a bit off the top and seeing as it's hard to get and such let's call it two-fifty. Hey tall, I know you want a taste of my sweets. A deeper flash of skin. You don't want that trash when I got this. Yellow and crimson splashes on a rotted canvas. But the wares do have their call and many a good young man has been lost in the house of the rising sun. And that is around the back in half-built ruins.

He followed the assassin west, past the fire people gulping flame and spinning among burning whip, past Kook the Clown trying to find a secret door she was sure she left somewhere, then down to the river and onto a replica of an a Civil War iron clad gunship. They went down a ship's ladder into the galley. Tobacco Brown palmed a black box on the wall and a heavy metal door next to it opened. The two stepped through and the door hissed shut behind them. Benjamin looked around the small space and was lost. It was round with a mirror polish and no buttons, handles. Down they went.

“Good thing I'm not on weird drugs.”

“Or maybe a bad thing. What happens if you tell anyone about what you see?”

“I'm hoping you'll just shoot me in the back of the head.”

“I would rather keep yours for a trophy. It's a handsome one and you may put up a fight that would be worth it. Did you ever hear the samurai mantra, 'Make sure your head and face looks its best for the enemy may take it back today.'”

“I always went by the 'watch your neck' line of thinking.”

“Of course you have.”

Benjamin felt castrated.

The shiny can stopped after a ten story descent and the opened to reveal a long hall that looked to the inside of a tree trunk. The tubular hall was as smooth as glass with the drawings of eternity in the red grain.

“Damn. It must have been something incredible. A whole forest of these, how big was this tree? What a fantastic world we have destroyed. ”

“It was out of stupidity. It will get better is we can kill ourselves off.”

“Where's the button?”He wanted to stay and let his dreams awaken in the wood circling about him but Tobacco's boots kept clacking. “If you come back...you might get a longer look.” She said as she continued walking away.

The hall reached its end. To the left, another long hall lined in onyx and marble strained and to the right was a heavy oak door with great iron hinges and a large bronze gargoyle sitting over the top. Tobacco Brown pushed the door open and they stepped into a wide and spectacularly high space. The far wall was a giant window. Past the window, Benjamin could see the depths of the Mississippi flow by and the geometric mechanical motions of the Generator.

Mayor Winterfeld sat a table made from a mangrove? stump and smoked a cigarette with his brandy. Mr. Fujeta sat facing away, drinking from a crystal glass as well. His rampant gray hair chased in all directions.

“Tobacco, darling, whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” The Mayor asked with a knowing smile.

“Sir, this is Benjamin Patton.”

chapter v.

Benjamin Patton lived his first five years in Maryland. His father had already been shipped to Europe when his mother was called for duty. Something was severely wrong with it all and she decided to send him off before she got on the boat with her State Issue. All of her savings and her female favors bought her son a trip with a conductor of a food train heading out.

Sonja Patton helped her only child a backpack with food, cash, and a few family treasures. She pulled a black ball cap that was embroidered “Please Help” in gold and kissed him goodbye while holding back the sorrow long enough to see him wave from the conductor's window. The conductor kicked the boy out in Iowa where he was picked up by the Darkside Rebel motorcycle gang. They were rough and cruel but human and so they raised him to survive in the dismantled half ruins of the open country. The Darkside Rebels fell to a terrible feud when he was sixteen so he hopped on his bike and rode off to be his own man. He ended up in Memphis and a job at the docks led him to the smuggler's trade that he had grown into.

“I see.” The Mayor stood up and extended his right hand. Mr. Fujeta stood as well but had an uncomfotable shiftiness of smile rather than the exuberant glow Benjamin was accustomed to. Benjamin walked up and shook the Mayor's hand.

“Please, sit down. Let us get aquainted before we get to business. What's your flavor?”

“Gasoline.”

“Dear stuff, afraid it would be a waste to drink.”

Benjamin tried to look at the Mayor but the man was pale and a touch gruesome and the transparent wall was intoxicating. Prehistoric fish nudged by as the water danced across.

“You like the view. Come, let's move to a better vantage and carry on.”

“It's fantastic, thanks.”

An android with a playboy's face wearing a red tuxedo handed Benjamin a tall whiskey. It smelled true and tasted better.

“That's hundred year old Tennessee whiskey. I hope you enjoy it because I don't know where to get any more. Something about the crude methods of the past made for more refined products.”

“It was about the craftsman.”

“How right you are.”

They had moved a row of plush armchairs facing the window. Mr. Fujeta and Benjamin sat on either side of the Mayor. Benjamin watched the harmonic generator dance up and down in the ever-changing river. A turtle the size of a small bicycle nudged its way up the glass.

“Hate to be rude, but what the hell am I doing here?”

“Crude but not rude. You are a man of action and that is why I sent for you. That and you have something of mine that I believe you just recovered for me.”

Benjamin reached into his bag and pulled out the acryillic envelope and handed it to the Mayor who passed it to Mr.Fujeta.

Mr.Fujeta procured a small chrome tube from his waistcoat pocket. Hot light shot a few inches from it that he used to open the package. It was an arduous task that required several breaks and most of a whiskey. When it was open, the android came over with a small tray. Mr. Fujeta upended the package and out danced half a dozen crystals with red cracks twisting and turning in a pattern somehow orchestrated. The wild eyed fellow touched the frame of his glasses and the lenses blazed. From his view, he could see the genetic coding int the crystals and define what the processors were for. The first three were his standard mood and psyche altering devices, the fourth was the useless tracking device, the fifth crystal captured his focus and held it for some time as he turned the small rock in his fingers.

“This is the work of a deranged master. The others are damaged. It looks like they were passed through a powerful magnetic field. They should be serviceable but this one is immaculate.”

The Mayor smiled and clapped like a schoolboy. “You think it will work?”

“If it doesn't, nothing would. I have never seen such fine work.”

“I wonder if the Mayor sucks cock?” Benjamin asked himself as he watched the android bring a small pouch for the crystal. It was an attractive machine, verging on pretty. “I figured he would have big-tittied hoochie robots running around but whatever floats his roses.” The pretty-boy circuitry handed the pouch to Benjamin.

“Well Mr. Patton,” the Mayor stated, “I have secured you for the most difficult role of a revolutionary play.”

He kept talking as Benjamin watched the weird and powerful river creatures drifting and darting by. Any creation that could stand the human turmoil of the past hundred years was something to behold.

“There is a fantastic ability of life to endure. See that sturgeon. It outlived the dinosaurs and most everything else since then.”

Five-feet of armor and teeth swam easily. An eel was spungeling along near the big fish. Teeth flashed and the eel was gone in one move.

“Run fast, eat or be eaten.” Benjamin muttered.

“Incredible, is it not? Long ago, I had a dream for what you see. I wanted it to be something for the whole city to enjoy and prosper through knowledge and vision but life changed plans on us. You are one of a select few to have seen this. Many know about the Generator but the rest exists by no more than imagination. I hate it. It should be a classroom, museum, wedding hall but it can not. I believed in the American Experiment and this bastard society must end and we must embrace true liberty to succeed. The War is hoakum, a tool of the arm's makers and societal suppressionists dressed as civil servants. Who cares about the Chinese Army when the Federation is already here. You must know this in your travels.”

“It's not my business to worry about and I can't do a damn thing about it.”

“But if you could?”

“Is it gonna stop the fiends from dieing or you bug dicks from owning everything? Will I make everyone happy, good, and free?”

“No one can solve the human condition.”

“So why should I give two shits when I have to struggle to sit on my own crapper?”

“Because I know that you believe in the possibility of a better tomorrow.”

“I thought I believed in nothing but what I got.”

“But now you hold the napalm of revolution and you get to fire it up.”

“And you?”

“I planned the event and it is a beautiful plan but I decided that I should find someone else to push the button, so to speak. I could be wrong and I want a man of exceeding judgement to make the decision.”

“And you think that I, a don't give a fuck no-good son of a bitch is that man? You're nuts.”

“What if the whole course of the Wars was a lie?”

“Doesn't really change anything, most of the world is still dead.”

“If a handful of Executives and Presidents designed the unholy killing spree and they now have control over everything, including us?”

“So.”

“And you take over the Seven and we will wake to a new dawn.”

“Can I just be content being me?”

“Perhaps, but you will always wonder what happened if you agreed to see the Liberation through.”

“But I will be alive.”

“If you succeed, you will have everything you have ever wanted. You will be free and wealthy, what better can society do for a man?”

Benjamin thought of himself free like the catfish shuffling through the mud. Away from the stupid madness of greed and strife. He was tired and ready for a month of nothing. Maybe two. He could retire from the business after Mr. Fujeta squared up with him. But what does the Mayor want me to do? The edge is where I breathe. If I wanted to be a nothing I would have been strung out long ago. It will be a fool's errand but let me at least hear of it.

“Enough of the hibber jabber, what do you want me to do?”

“There is to be a meeting of the Seven on November 21st. Few know of this and I only do because that's what I do. You are to take over the Capitol, with the help of Mr. Fujeta, and inject the Seven with this mind control receptor. In that way, you will start a bloodless and painless coup.”

“How does this get dumber and why are the Seven meeting?”

“The only hitch is with the control receptor because they are worthless unless you can get that control.”

“How praytell would I do that?”

“Have you heard of the Centaurians?”

“Yes.”

“They have the controler. It's a relic, really, a piece of the Appalachians from a distant past that has grown in power in the hands of the Centaurians.”

“And how do you plan on getting it?”

“You will steal it.”

“No one comes back from the hills. Never. You might as well shoot me and make it easier.”

“I'm counting on you to be different. You have proved yourself many times and if you fail, we'll just continue as above.”

“And what comes of this, if you succeed? You control the world? If that's the case what ever you were saying about America and freedom is a bunch of hoo-haa to get you the pie.”

“The problem with past revolutions is that people tried to take over and create a new system and always failed because people are people. What I aim to do is leave everything intact except for the motives of the leaders. They will be empathetic with our plight while working to free the Citizens from the trap that the Seven have created. Memphis stands to gain a great deal and rise with the tide but control will not be in my hands.”

“Who then?”

“Self government requires citizens to be individual leaders. This nation has a splendid history of thinkers of the subject and they are the cars to follow. When is the last time you read the original Constitution or Adams, Hamilton, Payne, King Jr., or Lincoln.”

“I read to forget.”

“Men write to remember. They and the combined knowledge of history will lead. Dead men and women who left a legacy that can be fulfilled. I once believed in them but this shit hole suffocated my childish ideas.”

“Okay. I got the basics of it. What if I think it's dumb and refuse?”

“I will release you at the front of the Generator for knowing too much.”

“I feel like a two-bit whore at an inmate party.”

“Be proud and be honored and know that you will be in the volume of greats when you succeed. Mr. Fujeta is an old acquaintance and a superior judge of men. He says that you are the best and so it must be.”

The ice had melted with the whiskey. Benjamin took several good sips. “So...why do I have this rock and what am I supposed to do with it?” He drank to the bottom and the android refilled the glass.

“Mr. Fujeta will fill you in on all of the details. How great it is to be on the lookout of the ship Liberty and ready with a double round to fire at those...”

And on the Mayor went speaking of a new world of proud and free individuals working for the fulfillment of all. Throbbing, burning, and shooting agony caused Benjamin to tune the pandering out. He groaned.

“I can't leave for a few days. I have got to see the Doctor, this shit hurts and I can't do a damn thing one handed.”

The Mayor looked at Benjamin with small eyes and disgust. “Don't ever interrupt me again or I'll feed your balls to the turtle.”

“Look, I'll listen to everything that concerns me but you ain't getting the services of a robot and I'm sure as hell not gonna let you talk to me like a boy. I wouldn't be here if you didn't send the crazy bitch to jam a gun to my back. Don't take it as disrespect, you've got a dream that's crazy as fuck and I can dig that. I just don't have time for these broad and useless statements. As far as we're concerned, I'm only here about a job and that's all there is to that.”

Mr. Fujeta bowed his head, fearing the end of his friend. He had seen the Mayor kill over less and percieved disrespect infuriates the confused ego of power.

“Bring us a round of Mr. Patton's choice. I must have a proper drink with this man for he is that and that is a rarity.”

The servant brought out three more tumblers filled to the brim.

“As to your concerns, Mr. Patton, we have a few more details to work out and so I will send for you in three days. It was a pleasure but I have a city to run, good day and good luck. The Mayor stood up, shook Benjamin's hand and walked off.

chapter vi.

“Let's get you to the Doctor.” Mr. Fujeta led Benjamin out and up to the street where his car was waiting. It was a short drive that Benjamin used to close his eyes.

“Here we are.” They got out and walked into the Doctor's shop.

“Hey y'all.” An older fellow with a gravely face clattering around on a three-wheeled chair greeted them.

“Greetings to you Doctor Jeb.” Mr. Fujeta responded and then he led the Doctor to the storeroom where he could go over the details with him. Benjamin sat and closed his eyes for another wisp of rest before the torment that would be coming came. The Doctor and Mr. Fujeta ca,e back and the redneck surgeon went to work.

“Damn boy. What the hell you been doing? This gonna suck in the unfun kind of way.” Doctor Jeb was grabbing and pulling at Ben's hand and watching the patient swear and yell at every turn while Mr. Fujeta readied a long needle with viscous green fluid. Jeb made his assessment and then removed the bandage.

“You're a lucky son of a gun. I've seen a lot of cats bleed to death from less.” He set to scrubbing the woods and it felt no better.

“Jesus. Fuck. Can't you get a sweet nurse for that shit.”

“If I want it done right, I only trust one person outside of myself and that's just for the easy shit. I'm gonna get you fixed and it's gonna bet better'n it was but I'll tell you it'll be a first for me to do this. Done shit like it but usually with time in my pocket. Can't by buy months when all you got is hours. It's only given to you by the Fates.” He had stopped scrubbing to take a drink of soda. The caterwaul of angry nerves calmed down within Ben. He could breathe.

As Ben could think of something beyond the loudly lit room Mr. Fujeta sunk the needle between the vertebrae behind his heart and the green goo disappeared. He removed the needle and Ben was paralyzed.

Benjamin Patton was partially slumped forward on the stool. He could see and smell the diabolical place. “Am I in hell? I must be. I probably died back in the swamp and this must be my afterlife. I never thought I was that bad. I only did what I had to survive. Sure, killing ain't right but that was just a few times when it had to be that way. I guess I did help some hell-bound punks but that was just work. Maybe it's like a crime-by-proxy type thing. Is that really fair? Who on Earth would be clean enough to not be thrown into this fire then?”

“I ain't gonna apologize about that Ben but I can't knock you out for this shit and I can't have you flinching. Mr. Fujeta says its gonna work and that's all we need to know, right. Don'y worry man, you ain't dead.” Doctor Jeb said as he brought a skeleton vice over and began arranging Ben's right arm in the armature so that he could set to work. He scooted to his table on his motor chair and put all the tools to start on a tray attached to the cart. “You can leave now, Mr. Fujeta. I'll let you know how it goes.”

“Okay. You take care of him.”

“Like he was my brother.”

Mr. Fujeta left the Doctor and patient alone. Doctor Jeb put his goggles covered in organic circuitry and plugged them into a jack on his chair. The light changed to a dull green and Benjamin tried to let the syrup in his spine diffuse. The pain was severe but he felt like he could take more, now it was the clattering Doctor that drove him mad.

Doctor Jeb came to his patient. “It looks like you still got one small worm in there. I think it's dead from the morphine. They have a real low tolerance to the stuff. Let's just hope you don't have any eggs drifting around your blood stream.” He was reaching for the worm with a long needle.

“I would rather replace this hand but we don't have time to re-splice nerves for the connection. It seems you have work to do soon and that'll cause hell on this wrist so what I aim to do is rebuild the interface with additional reinforcement so the next time you do something so dumb it won't rip apart on you. It's a shame cause you would get a kick out of the new devices.”

Doctor Jeb was brilliant and capable but he muttered and zipped about in such a disarray as to un-inspire confidence. A powerful headache glazed Ben's skull while he tried to close his eyes from the sick room. A mythological smell seared his stomach to his throat.

“This might hurt.” Jeb said as he inserted a thin metal tube into his wrist, at the interface. He pressed a button on the tube and a tiny sonic charge made brought a great flash of anger and left Ben's hand hanging by only the central line and some skin.

“That was the worst part. I hope.”

After three hours of work, both Benjamin and Doctor Jeb were drenched in sweat and the job was done. The skeleton vise was released and the physician admired his work for a minute.

“Let's see if this works.” Jeb clattered around and came up to Ben's back which he touched with two electrodes. His patient convulsed for a few seconds and then slumped forward from the stool and lay on the floor, curled in a ball.

Benjamin opened and closed his hand as he moaned. Movement reinvigorated him and he opened his eyes to see the world at tile-floor level and decided he would be better off in his own bed.

“Sorry bud, but he wanted you to walk home. He said that you must move for the medicine to take effect.”

“Fantastic.” He began to sit up and was tired and sore but glad to be moving. He looked at his mended appendage. On the back of his hand was the circle mark of a Citizen

“What the fuck is this, a Federation Chip?”

“It was ordered. I guess you need it for whatever fool errand they have you running. Grab the vise frame, it'll help you up.”

Benjamin followed the Jeb's advice and was on his feet. The headache was subsiding and he enjoyed the cold water Jeb handed to him.

“Now, you really need longer in the bed but you will heal faster than ever with the shot Mr. Fujeta gave you.”

“What is it? I can feel it trying to jam through my spine.”

“I ain't sure what it is but he did say that it uses spirit energy to heal the body. It don't sound real fun and I have a feeling you're gonna feel fucked up for awhile. I mean, your flesh and bone should be in top-shape in a few days but weird shit happens when you screw with that other part of you. Anyway, get your ass home, get to bed, and know that it's just the medicine making you see the world all cockeyed.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

chapter vii.

Benjamin walked the five blocks through the Center City. Few cars used the streets but a number of trucks came through, on their way to and from the Yards. A couple capsule cars sat idling and another of the two person transport eggs was gliding along. The Mayor had hoped to put in a complete network of them, all powered from the river but he ran out of money and too few used them to make the project worth completing. They were clever things, used throughout the Federation where populations and energy budgets required them. One could go wherever the track went by hopping into a capsule on standby and telling it a destination.

People of had grown accustomed to walking after the quake. Some cities had tunnels for foot and bike traffic that would help keep people's exposure to bad air to a minimum but the Mayor's Science Council gave him the belief that it was best to keep the people topside and exposed so that they could develop immunities. As a result, the city had a high rate of cancer but it also had the highest percentage of immune freeborns.

The first half of his walk took Ben past the two Dome-iciles. Odd structures of clever design, the base was a thirty story dome. Layers of gardens were cantilevered from it. Neither earthquake nor conventional arsenal could bring them down. Terraces were braced in a spiral climbing the dome. Flower gardens grew in many of them and fuel crops filled the rest not dead. It was a special calm to go one of the open levels on the top and be in arranged nature.

The interior was not nearly so aesthetic since they were designed to accommodate as many people as possible and they performed admirably. In the event of an attack or disaster, each building could shelter 5000 people for as long as the city's food store lasted. The first two levels were full of commerce and agencies, offices were on the third, residential space roamed always the way to the top four floors, which housed churches and schools. Original plans called for twenty of them but it was a silly dream. The reality is that two was enough.

Refuse of the past and scraps of the present combined in all ways to form the rest of the city. Benjamin lived in one of the nicer ones, a reinforced steel tower decorated with remnants of the glorious twentieth century, when America was the most powerful nation in history. An outfit in the city dealt entirely in artifacts from that era commissioned Benjamin several times to find and recover some tangible piece of the old country's hope, power, and style. Beaker Brothers prized musical pieces with particular zeal and so it was more than willing to pay Benjamin to hunt down a Hendrix guitar drifting around Canada. Tom Beaker was almost in tears when he had to hand the guitar to Tobacco Brown as taxes to the mayor.

History was inconsequential to Benjamin, he only wanted to put the present on pause. He made it home and fell asleep face first and fully dressed. Sleep came fast and hard, calm was slow and insidious.

He was laying in bed, Dalana Sanders was kissing his stomach while he studied the mural she had painted on her ceiling.

“Someone should write a book about you.” She said.

“Do people read anymore?”

“I do.”

“But you know my story, the good parts at least.”

“But I'm just one person. Maybe, in a hundred or a thousand years, someone will find your book and he will be thankful to have a record of a real man of his time.”

“I ain't nobody.”

“It's the nobodies that make shit happen, paint the ceiling, and play the songs. The somebodies are mostly lies that they like to tell.”

His eyes danced in the spiraling and twisting floral motif. Her touch was gentle and his frame was clear.

“Who writes anymore?”

“Lots of people must. They think, don't they?”

“What does that mean?”

“Words are the language of thought. They are the best at what they do despite their intrepid failures.”

The dream continued as a short film of his love's downfall. It was more like a new rendition of the past but the details were there. Her small home built by her nimble hands and artist's eye. The colors were bright and her kitchen was warm with baking. A row of cakes sat on the counter, ready to be decorated and delivered. Then he was gone, on the road and she was falling when he came back.

“I can't deal with this dead world anymore.” She said as she rested next to the toilet. “I tried but it is no place for humanity.”

“And a while bunch of Funk will make it all better, right?”

“If you didn't run off, I would be getting high.”

“It's my job. I can take a while off and we can get you off this horse 'cause it will fuck you up.”

“That's what I want it to do. I need to not give a fuck and stop feeling the pain.”

The next time he saw her, she was drooling on the sidewalk with a blank stare. She was wearing plastic chaps and a whore's stench.

He was playing on the beach in Maryland. His mother was sitting on a towel, watching her only son run into the waves. The sky was diamond clear and his nappy hair jostled with the breeze. He dove into a the tallest wave and came up. A ship was sailing by. The spinnaker was full and the skipper barked. Endless blue stretched beyond the boat and Benjamin could see the tail of his dreams. He ran back to show his mother, turning and pointing at the bright red sailboat with a brighter blue and yellow sun sail pulling it forward. As she smiled and he waved and the skipper waved the sea erupted in man's hellfire and the sky swirled with the thick smoke.

Benjamin screamed as the boat burst and sank, the men scrambling to douse their fire in the water angry with a new rage. He turned to grab his mother but she was gone. Her cries carried in the foul smoke but he only found ghosts as he followed them. He ran and chased and he ran until his legs could carry him no more, he ran past that with fear at the wheelhouse. Out of Maryland and beyond all that he had ever known he ran until he reached an endless field and collapsed. He could see smoke and hear the chaos in the distance and he could faintly hear his mother. “Benjamin.”
“Benjamin.”

“Wake up!” A kick in the arm shook Benjamin to. Tobacco Brown was standing above him.

cud for your brain.

2008-07-29T22:31:00.000-07:00

Been an interesting week or so in this land going nuts with soggy heat. I could tell some sort of story about it but I blew out the candles on the pity party and my arm is getting better from a brown recluse bite so I ain't got a whole lot to be fucked up about.
I wrote this story at work last week on a notepad while the machine ran. It's mean but I like it until I hate it in about a week. The next story will be happier.

A parable of confused portions.

Redmond Wallace

A little ways back, the same year he got his first new truck, a ¾ ton Dodge, Jeremiah Stallings ran into an old friend, Tysun Slapweld. The two grew up in the same block of shanties on the edge of Clarksdale, running through the Crossroads with nothing but ignorance and youthful enthusiasm.

They went they went to grade school, had crushes on the same girls, learned to fix cars, fish, and fight. By whatever fortunes, Jeremiah ventured into High School and graduated while Tysun stayed behind to fish and drink. He got strung up with a plump and decent woman from Coldwater whom he had three girls with.

Jeremiah got a scholarship to Hattiesburgh and graduated with a degree in business. He took a job in advertising in Memphis but discovered that he couldn't stand a boss so he left after a couple of years and started a local gardening company.

He installed and maintained vegetable gardens for the suits and scrubs that were t0o busy to have one. Mrs. Stallings had always had a garden and figured that,“If you ain't using the rich earth, you are just letting the good Lord down.”

Her son had been working in the inferno of August tirelessly. He had the rough skin of summer and dirt permanetly streaked with sweat swirling around his face and hands, organic tattooes of the working man. After harvesting the remainder of one client's Caspian Pink tomatoes, Jeremiah decided to buy himself a beer.

“Hey man.” Jeremiah was startled by runny molasses accent as he opened the door to the bar. He could feel a push of cold air that made the dim pub all the more inviting.

“Don't waste your money in there. I got a cooler in the truck.” The urban farmer turned to see his childhood buddy, Tysun, leaning out of a battered red truck, sucking down a sweat-cold beer.

“I'll be. How you doing, you old redneck?”

“I ain't old, yet... and you're just as red as me, don't matter how dark you are. Hop in. I've got some shit to do around town. Came up to drop a load of copper off. Got a wad of cash and an old friend so it must be time to get drunk.”

“Yeah buddy.” Jeremiah climbed into the pickup and with a roar, they headed west.

“How's your momma?”

“Pretty good. Her feet are getting real bad but she still gets around.” Tysun handed Jeremiah a beer. “I see your mother in her garden. You come by it honest... Scrapyard gave me two-bucks a pound. Now I got to get to the River for a bit. Found a fellow over in Helena who pays some good money for driftwood. I figured since it got so high and just came back down I'll find a bunch of stuff for him.

“What's he do with it?”

“He makes all kinds of crazy furniture and shit. Jeannie Biminy said that she saw some magazine saying he was the man to have your stuff made if you needed to be hip. He makes some cheese cause I could get 700 bucks for the good load we find today.

Tysun reached below the seat and pulled out a bottle of blue-top vodka. Jeremiah let the breeze blow away his past and heard the sights of his city and saw his friend droll on about everything going on in Clarksdale.

“Where are we going?” Jeremiah asked as they turned north after hitting the river.

“We got a better score in the bluffs above the city, folks pick over shit down here like flies on ribs.”

The flat land picked up some hills and the buildings turned to forests. A few houses lined the road with signs for work and Jesus. They made a left and the new road wound through dripping woods that guarded the truck from the pulsing sun, a blurry circle past thick skies.

They turned again onto a rutted gravel drive. Tysun stopped the truck in front of a plywood cabin, shut it off, chugged on the bottle and handed it to Jeremiah, “Let's go say hey to my pops.”

“You go ahead, I'll stay here.”

“Hell, he ain't leaving his chair. Just stop in and say howdy and we'll get our shit done and finish the rest of our beer."

Jeremiah walked in behind Tysun as he opened the screen door. The room of smelled cigarettes and pus. A box fan tried to bring something of calm to the place as a TV flashed stupidity from a milk crate.

“Hello, Mr. Slapweld,” Jeremiah feigned pleasure and delight.

“I see you still got your nigger friends, boy.”

Jeremiah tried to watch the other side of the fan blades.

Tysun walked up to his decaying older resemblance on a blue-plaid sofa.

“You remember the way you done me and momma?”

“Thwack”

Jermiah turned to see the old man rocked back with a broken jaw and Tyrus cocked back for another swing. He sucked on the bottle to silence his brain.

“Let's go get that wood.” Tysun walked by and let the door spring shut with a cheap clap.

they called him psycho in the penal farm

2008-07-12T13:30:00.000-07:00

I was playing with my camera while Adam gave us a ride to our respective places. That's Reggie riding shotgun and mumbling away. Larry is one of the most entertaining figures I have ever met. The next time I wander down to his house and get talking drunk with him I should have more bits to add on. Hell, it's better than the video I didn't take.
Now y'all know why I mumble the way I do.

i hated that last post and want to delete it

2008-07-12T12:54:00.000-07:00

they working the shit out of us so the best I can do is throw up this picture I took of me welding and then woke up in the middle of the night heat drunk and agitated so I wasted a bunch of time fucking with Gimp. it's free. money is better blown on non-free shit.

i lied like always

2008-07-07T17:43:00.000-07:00

Say hello to wheatstraw, a real deal true blooded memphian pimp tight geek style. That's the picture, now on with the note.

You have to work at all smalls so this won’t sound off the cuff though it is. I’ve been doing more productive writing as of late but I figured I would throw these notes up cause its free and I like to. I’m gonna check my sobriety levels and go watch Fear and Loathing. Fuck you, I deserve it for putting up with everyone’s shit. I must look like a shrink since everyone sees me as a bitching post.

It was an interesting night or two of learning about new people as well as myself. The fact is that I already knew I need to move past my dumb insufficiencies and man-up to my quasi-potential.

That and the two most stylish hats I have are nothing but bad news which is a damn shame. Oh well, I’ll just be me in the face of a place that antagonizes me with it. Metal, writing, friends, family, taking care of business all along the way. I have been a part of the stupid party of our age for long enough. It’s easy to not give a fuck when there is way too much to worry about and I have been jacking around with this bit of time for way too long. The other thing is that she is right in that I must do things I say that I am going to do. It’s not that big of a deal if I am not a superhuman because I am far from it. No, I just need to continue being me and that is the natural fact. Not really making sense here but it is a lot better when I spend the time to write about it than not. We gonna get this shit done. Pissing away time is no way to live.

Too much going on not to talk about it.

On Saturday, I spent the afternoon hanging out with my new lady, Jasmine. We had both put in long fucking weeks and spent the afternoon napping and dreaming of our wakeful selves. Around midnight, my dad called me after an afternoon of drinking rum and cokes in his funky valley home.

“Been drinking and thinking. You know, you have a half brother.”

He must of debated it for awhile because he never comes out shooting that straight. Fortunately, my horoscope said that I would get a surprise that shocked me to no end, so I was not shocked. I guess cause he sired the lad that it was a bigger deal to me. Maybe the dude’s fucking loaded and bored or a publisher or the coolest motherfucker I know. Probably not my luck but I am destined for weirdness.

The following day was spent roasting in the Memphis sun repairing my mom’s deck with an array of tools that didn’t work. I probably should have noticed the troublesome winds because no matter what I tried, nothing worked. The pressure washer seized. After spending hours in this pile of things, I found enough tools to try to fix it but it stayed fucked and then I pulled the handle of the cord. Used a rickety saw to cut some big ass boards and all other lovely things to replace four steps. I did manage to get that done which was most important before the wood rotted anymore and my crazy mother fell in a state of Miller Lite imbued balance.

Finished that. I was supposed to go see Jasmine for an evening of less sleeping but she was with friends and family before she started school today. By the time I caught up with her we were both exhausted and fell asleep to wake up at 3-something and have a one-sided argument that had me pack my grip and go. You should know way more about her before this introduction for she is one of, if not, the coolest people I have met. Despite the fact that we met at a bar at 7am, we felt we found someone that broke all the molds and expectations.

I honestly can say that I will get a lifetime of real friendship and adventures with her but both of us has been burned too hard to get past ourselves for the time. Who knows? I ain’t got a plan and shit may change any second.

That drama led me to oversleeping enough to finally going through with the pain in the ass that it is to sell an engagement ring. Try hocking some shit and you get the distaste for money-changers and the tribe. Ain’t no hate here but some lines of business lead to sordid understandings. I gather it wasn’t so tough to sell shit a few years ago but everyone’s broke and inventories are full. In the end, I should have thrown the ring in the river and gone to work but I tend toward the wrong decisions.

In the meantime, Mary Allison packed her little red car and drove west to her new life. Maybe your day was weirder and if it was I gots to hear about it because I despise the stale.

this place is a mess.

2008-06-14T14:34:00.000-07:00

I've got to try and finish a book so I'm going to focus my spastic methods on one thing. If I man up and get my shit done for once, I'll get this astoundingly disordered heap organized and prettied and all kinds of other magical things that will just warm the nuts of your soul right up.

One Crazy Night in West Memphis

2008-06-09T00:19:00.000-07:00

This is one of the starts. I'm sick of looking at it and know errors abound but if I keep fucking with the past I won't get shit done.

I spent this last Christmas dinner in a truck stop with my Dad, brother, and Allison. It was a special time for we were together with smiles.

This is not supposed to be pitiful journalizing of the present, it is supposed to start at the Metal Museum, in Memphis, Tennessee. Some time in the 1970s, a group of people decided that blacksmithing was a dying craft in America. They worked in steel all of their lives and could not stand to see such a wonderful craft, trade, and art get lost in the mechanized future. For all of their utilization of machines, those shop owners knew that nothing could replace a man with a hammer in his hand. They, as a part of NOMMA, started a museum devoted to the preservation and promotion of ornamental metalwork.

By circumstance, they found the prettiest place in the Delta to put their museum. The site was 3 acres on the high bluffs of Memphis, overlooking the Mississippi and the Arkansas flood plain. The view is probably what has saved the Museum from dying more than anything else. I will come back to it many a times for it is has been a source of stability and beauty when I felt like the world would disintegrate in its irrational stupidity.

For whatever reasons, probably fate, they asked James A. Wallace to be the founding director. He convinced my mother that she should move with my two young brothers from Murfeesboro, Illinois so he could take the job. The reasoning was that they would come to Memphis, make a bunch of money, and then run off to Montana to live in the land of happy hippies. I don’t know how anyone could have believed he could get rich starting a museum during the Fuel Emargo. If you asked me, I would guess that my dad thought he could make a social change, do good, and avoid evil by running a museum. Like I said, the details are inconsequential when the Fates are spinning the tale.
Regardless, Dad sold his Dodge Power Wagon and bought a little, red Datsun pickup. To this day, when he sees a Power Wagon sitting in a scrap yard, he gets the distant look of lost love. Mom was to remain in Illinois with Jedidiah and Peter. Before long, she went ahead and made the move down to Memphis. When she arrived, the house had no heat and no kitchen. Dad found a furnace insert for the fireplace and an old friend from Carbondale donated a stove to the kitchen area. The rest of the home details would have to wait because the Museum was to be opened by the spring.
To go any further without properly discussing the site would be an injustice to the story and the reader. In 1798, John Adams signed the Marine Hospital Service to provide care to seamen. A hospital was built in Napoleon, Arkansas. The river made a dramatic change of course in the 1870s and took the town with it. The disappearance of the Hospital left no where for Memphis rivermen to go for treatment of their ails. They carried the bricks across the stream and built the new Marine Hospital, opened in 1881. The Federal government divided the property in 1970, keeping the eastern half for itself and giving the western half to the City of Memphis which left it to age.

it's crazy ken

2008-06-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

The next wise fellow that tries to explain to me that the world has "two types of people" and follows with some lame attempt to simplify humans into a arbitrary dichotomy needs a punch to the throat.

That's a picture of the man who taught me most everything I know about steel work. And that is the preface to a new part of my adventure here.

That's not my dad who didn't teach me a lot about metal work. Despite the fact that he ran the Metal Museum for 30 years, he gave me about two hours worth of teaching in the steel shop. It was my fault, he says. "You could have gone out to the shop at anytime and played." He has a point. The smithy is in what was my backyard until a few weeks ago. I tried to heat and beat the iron but it was rarely fun unless one of the guys in the shop helped me on a actual project.

James Ara Wallace is revered in most circles he has encountered. He was born in South Dakota to Colonel(ret.) Josiah and Vicki Wallace on an army base in the Black Hills. He has forgotten more than I'll ever know. He worked for Korczak Ziolkowski blowing the armpit hole on the Crazy Horse monument. He was a hard rock miner in Colorado, a forest fire fighter, semi-pro surfer, mountain climber. He's got stories to tell and will do so with a little bourbon and a blazing fire most anytime you can catch him.

I like this picture of my dad. A few weeks prior, he buried his wife and left the place that he defined and made him for a 300 square foot cabin in the White River valley of Norfork, Arkansas. Then the rains came. He spent the previous night moving his stuff to high ground and helping others in the valley as the river rose about 30 feet in 20 hours. He slept for about fifteen minutes until we went to watch the water rise up to his doorstep but leave his only home dry in the storm of past transgressions raining upon us.
I looked about as perky as this but was behind the camera and so I'll just tell part of the story because that's what I do.
The day before, Allison and I left Arkansas after spending a few days visiting my dad and getting some clean air. We left before the rains were too bad and had been able to move his books and tools up. From that point, Allison drove and an argument proceeded to develop in the car. One of the single most disadvantaged places to argue is the passenger seat of a vehicle. You lack all control and are stuck unless you throw yourself out of a moving vehicle. We get home and unpack. Somewhere, things go from bad to worse and I try to sleep in my truck. Surprisingly, I slept well. Though I'm trying to sell my ragged truck it is more than versatile. Wake up. Go to work. Phone rings. "It don't look good. They cut off the power and are evacuating the valley." My dad sounded half dead on the other line and there was no way in hell I could be at work with so much to worry about. I tried to borrow Will Keeler's (he's the man) Tahoe but he left the key at his house and so I put my destiny in fate's hands and took my truck across the bridge.
I couldn't take it above 55 or it would choke and the brakes aren't great and it was raining like hell. I spent what little money I had on a carton of cigarettes, gas, truck-stop speed, and a quart of water. The driving was okay until I got to Black Rock, where the lower half of the town was flooded and no one could go through Hardy because the bridge there was under water. So I took the alternate route through Cave City. I love the town names in that state. I finally made it to be with my dad. We couldn't do anything but watch. It was around this time "High thoughts in low times" was started. I had quit drinking and was touched by the hillbillies watching their ramshackle homes fill up...

There shall be more to come. I just need some rest.

Rejoice

2008-06-06T17:13:00.000-07:00

I'm an uncle. It's a first for me and the phone call from my brother Peter announcing the arrival of Catherine Breese Wallace was like jumping in Farm Pond after a day of bucking hay in the high summer and the cool water pulls every prick and jabbing needle of hardened grass out of you and makes you feel so good you forgot what it was that was bothering you. Cheers to that.

Of course, that was way earlier in the day and walking a couple of miles in the June sun will do it to ya. I can tell you that kindness and humanity need to make a comeback. We got a recession on and this war is dragging us down. At the same time, I don't know if there has ever been a more me-centric culture than contemporary America. I love this place but I despise what pop stardom has made us become. Everyone heard the story of the old man hit by a car in Conneticut where people drove by after the poor bastard was crumpled up on the ground. There was an even more fucked up story in the local paper about some ass who hit and killed a 5 year old boy and proceeded to drive off. Stop and help. Who cares about jail when this person needs nothing more than somebody by them. Our inane lives have become more important than life and that doesn't bode well. Shit's gonna smash right through the fan if we keep this up and splatter all over us while we fight our brothers for a piece of bread. It won't be the solid crap of a wheat and oats. It'll be the loud mess that comes after you drink a half a case of PBR, shoot a pint of Jack, eat a mess of hot wings at 3 AM, smoke two packs, wake up, eat an egg sandwich topped with half a pound of bacon cooked by some woman who hates the world, get to work, drink a quart of coffee, and feel your soul rot into the toilet below. That's gonna suck. I say we start with some decency toward the people we see in line at the supermarket or across the dinner table. What do I know?

if you don't dig this

2008-06-05T21:27:00.000-07:00

then you got to go back to god and get you some more cool.

stability in the flux

2008-05-19T20:41:00.000-07:00

The days have been ablaze with a passion for a new night but with no conviction for a direction... and the grownups are drunk kids again as the chorus of yesteryear rolls by as the cheap DJs dream becomes a reality for one more song... Dan finally got his own computer. He threw his ancient college contraption that had a power unit hanging out the top and groaned like an old car into the green monster.

-I had a tough time getting rid of the case. Four years worth of solid sticker collection rested on it. It had to be done. A crazy friend in my freshman dorm ordered the parts for it and we put it together on a Friday night. I was dying my hair cherry red while the geeks descended on the new machine like flies on shit. They aped around but failed to make it work. In a haze of decaying alcohol fumes, I pushed enough buttons to make it go when I fell out bed the following morning. No idea what I did but I did it anyway. Goodbye old friend...--

It cost me more credit debt but ain't that America. Break up with your girlfriend, get depressed, buy new shit. We have to go our seperate ways but as I slump down my path I have lost something she provided. It's troublesome because I don't see the stories as I once did and that fucks with what I was coming to like of myself. Oh well, just gotta tighten up my belt and make my fiction happen since no one else will.

gotta get a lil done

2008-04-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

What a night of doing not a damn thing. I guess I walked halfway across town to have another uncomfortable dinner with my mom. I wish I had a place to do steelwork in my backyard. Low and behold, I feel more comfortable in a loud cave of grit and fire than just about anywhere. I could lose myself in doing the work I enjoy. Why I have not admitted to this reality of self, I don't know and won't bother trying to figure out. As I was telling a friend, I am me and fuck you world. I don't give a damn about politics, so I'll avoid that useless self discussion. I'm pretty fed up with most everything I know these days and am ready to just move forward in my life. I feel like a number of people my age have been thinking of their life in the future and living in the present. I've about given up on the future since I will never know anything about it.

look how happy he is

2008-04-26T06:08:00.001-07:00

That is the car that hit the car that hit my brother's car. The driver's bullshit insurance won't pay the claim on three totaled vehicles because he was delivering food without their knowledge. People are now telling my brother he's got to get an attorney to get the money to fix his car. I thought the whole point of insurance is so we didn't have to get lawyers involved every time their was an accident of typical living. Insurance companies are to me as advertisers were to Bill Hicks. I am not, will never, comparing myself to that genius. I am only comparing the distaste. On to the story.
My brother was hit as he was driving to pick me up so we could go visit with our mother. I walked down to see what he needed and brought along a camera in case I saw a pistol packing tow truck driver's son steer a car in jubilant joy. The momma of the family was there, as well.
It was a touching scene.

It was night and I get uncomfortable taking pictures of people I don't know.

it's all about the energy, man.

2008-04-22T18:03:00.000-07:00

o
One thing that is mildly vexing about this modern day of devised efficiency, why do nations starve, why do so many have so little when we should all have plenty/enough. Maybe we evolved realms of the new society take waaay more than our fair share, or we are a grossly dumdass being if we have to work more and have less, or greedy rich-bitch tard sleazefuck-balls are pimping the system for themselves, or some combination of the above.

The past few days have had the weird in them. I would almost describe my life as a psychedelic experience, not in that it has more pretty colors and sounds but people are strange and events are unsettling. We have had floods, earthquakes, the ATM gave me an extra 20 then I run into a person from a diversive past. I guess god is reminding me that it runs my world. Such uncanny energy makes for more tenuous times. That leads me to commenting the obvious in that life is getting expensive. It seems that energy prices have fucked everything else up. I'm glad we've got our prioties straight in Iraq. We sure as hell wouldn't be there if we were answering to god. We should all boycott our cars for a week. Screw the man and his oil.

this is from way back.

2008-04-18T04:59:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to read this english up to down but that is the was this goofy stuff works. This is the finale of something mistaken for a novel-in-progress from earlier times. I actually have much of the front end of a big story written but I 'm a lazy puke pile of rancid chicken shit and can't seem to get past myself and find some kind of other motivation to finish it besides just myself struggling to complete one thing in my life. jesus, I am tired of reading my own words. I see it and how much needs changed and become overwhelmed by the mind-fuck(I tried to think of a different modifier but could not, none replicate the force of that word) it can be to choose ideas and images and all that other crap I want one day to end up in a piece of writing that I do.

Epilogue

Calvin sat on the Arkansas bank of the river and looked at the Memphis skyline a half mile across. The pyramid, a few miles north started the jagged line of steel, concrete, and glass that ran down to the trio of bridges a half mile south of Calvin. The thick brown water swirled and gurgled in front of him and he thought of diving in and being dragged under by the legendary Mississippi undertow. Every year someone would get sucked under the river and maybe show up miles downstream.

Calvin jerked the pole back and he could feel the triple hook sink into the fishes jaw. The rod bent over and the drag whined as the fish swam for its life. Calvin knew it was going straight to the bottom where thousands of years of humanity was stuck into the mud. Boats, people, cars, trash, DDT, shells, boots, cans, bottles, planes, bales of cotton, cannons, heroes, cowards, and everything else that made history was being preserved by the deep water. The fish was trying to find some kind of cover to get away from the triple barbs in its mouth among all the refuse of mankind.

As soon as reel slowed down its backwards spin Calvin started to pull and wind the fish in. HE pulled and worked the fish for about half an hour when he could see the water swirl around its sleek brown skin. Then he saw a paddle move the water around and the hook sticking through it. He realized he caught a spoon-bill, a rare breed of catfish. Calvin couldn’t see the rest of the fish but he could tell that it was huge, upwards of sixty pounds. Then he saw the tail pushing water as hard as it could and almost yelled at a the sight of a five foot catfish. Calvin reached for his net when “Snap!” He watched the front foot of his pole fly into the water and swore not at his loss but in sheer amazement of it all. The big fish went down to the bottom of the river, dragging the stick of graphite behind it. Two hooks went through his bill and would take a while to get out. The fish rested in the mud for awhile and then continued its never-ending journey for food. A Volkswagen Beetle sat sunk in the mud to the windows. The fish swam through it and the rod caught the roof, after a brief struggle he had snapped the line that had tangled around the rod and swam only with the two hooks sticking through his mouth and the third hanging below them catching nothing but water, sticks, and a boot. The fish had the boot stuck to its head for almost a week when it got wedged between a rock and the drive shaft of a paddle-wheeler. He struggled to break free but the two hooks in his mouth made the fight almost impossible. With one last shake and flare of his head he ripped his mouth from the steel barbed bait hooks and left the boot for some poor fisherman to catch.

my nonsense existence

2008-04-17T22:13:00.000-07:00

That's a whole lot of something I forgot where I was going and that is one bad sign. Writing on the computer is so much more difficult than on paper. It's less transcendent in a modern sense and more in the tactile element of putting letters together to form a concept and not just flashes of one's sentient-animal being.

I must say, every day I have tried to write anything I find it more not good. I have in an odd way grown in my ability to speak and that development of language is reflecting itself in my writing as I try to feel comfortable in this skin.

I have a story partially written that starts with these lines, I like them

“The room smelled like puss, stale piss, and bandages. The only light was an old T.V. flickering on a milk crate (something about tampons and out of business rug stores). A shaky box fan brought sanity into there but it only muffled death’s footsteps a little.”
The rest is written on a scrathpad somewhere in the world. It's not a very happy story. I use to get tired of all the depressed tales I read. I remember challenging a friend to write positive poetry. For some reason, I forgot to listen to mine own advice of yore.

playa, why you hatin

2008-04-16T19:46:00.000-07:00

I made this funky shit at work the other day. I thought of making a set of over sized jacks in this style. Allison thought it should be a boot-jack. Someone else said it's a coat rack or a mailbox topper. It's just fucking art.

hey shorty

2008-04-15T19:59:00.000-07:00

Jitter Rollins went-a- wandering last Saturday. He had no plan but to get away from his head. Unfortunately, it was with him but it didn't act out too much. He had been having the usual maelstrom of critical living and was clinging to his last hope of sanity by taking himself away from the outside world and into the outside.

I was born this way.

2008-04-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

I know my typing is pretty shitty but it's better than my writing. That's some type of preface to whatever I was trying to put down tonight. I've become offput by this feeling that we are so separate from ourselves as people that we have grown to feel that the plastic hallways we are free to roam are the extent of who we are. We have to be told why sleep is good and food is bad. We subsist on little pills of "sanity" and incredibly screwed up images of ourselves. We are living on this planet because that's what we do.
This is a circuitous way of explaining that we live in the world of people and not that of this living planet. I don't trust this society we have built for ourselves. I guess I should because we are an incredibly adaptable species but something ain't right about the time spent in little tubes and boxes, escaping in chemicals, and killing ourselves.
Why, for the love of god, where we given this ability to ask but no one to answer. This sucks. I wish I was a member of some religicult so my answers would be in one book and some wise dude with a cool costume would tell me about it.
Before this stupid idea of separating church and state, we didn't have that problem. I should dig up Martin Luther and straighten his zombie corpse out. Of course, I would probably be hanging in a cage over some sea for my misguided thoughts but at least I would have answers.

I'm tired of all the bullshit subarbanites writing to the paper to explain why America kicks ass and Freedom is the shit and it smells like steak. The concept of freedom is about as difficult as love or Jesus. At one time I believed the entire evolution of the organic form was the efforts of the life force trying to free itself in the placement of every branch, leaf, or cell. That is tied somehow to my offbeat idea that all physical forms are energy bonded in time. Woo hoo. If it barely makes sense to me and I can't get the words out in a cohesive manner then it is a flawed idea, right.
That mud puddle drains into a mental sewage of questions. Is this freedom like when your parents give you a hundred dollars and send you to the mall. You can go in any store and buy a few shiny things but you can only go to the lame stores in the building and the funky smelling food court. And this is the mall we're blowing up Iraqis for. I get the sense that the American experiment has gone astray and we don't know how to fix it. You have to go to your job and pay taxes and buy gas and talk about sports. The man will come after you if you don't. He'll incarcerate you and call it rehabilitation. This is wrong. How do we live right?

small time art

2008-04-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

The first two pieces are ones I made in the past week or so at work. The last one, with my wonderful dog behind it, is from some time ago. I've been thinking of selling stuff like this. I've done some larger work and will post pictures of it soon but I don't have the time to get many coffee tables built. Anyway, if you want something similar to what you see, shout. I don't do anything the same way twice so you are guaranteed to get a one of a kind piece of Danart.

Did you know I never considered myself a creative individual? I'm just realising I might be.

This is your brain on Dan

2008-04-11T16:25:00.000-07:00

I've had a hell of a time writing lately. I'm not sure but I think it's my medicine causing me problems. That confusion led me to fucking with some of my photos. Let me know what you think of my entirely uneducated handy work. I'm gonna have to find a pirated version of a real photo editor or maybe just some more freeware ones.

stories are important

2008-04-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

I've been working on this and have almost given up on the idea of making it any less bad. I hope you enjoy your time with my tale and let me know what you would change. I put this shit up for you to read and the main way for me to get any better is for someone, anyone to help me out. A writer is no one without a reader.

High thoughts in low times.

by Redmond Wallace

My bedroom’s getting wet, the young woman said.

Fraid that won’t be all, her father replied. He walked back to the truck to get his binoculars, dragging his left leg behind him. A bullet shattered his hip in Kuwait and the operation shortened his left leg an inch.

He looked at the far side of the bloated river. It had rained for a week and the sun was finally coming through.

Looks like Fowley lost his dock,

His daughter watched the water creep up the side of her house. She had tried to get everything but her mind had not been working right since she had left Memphis. She bemoaned the quilt her great-grandmother had given her. I was probably worrying about the damn T.V.

It ain’t easy not knowing. That’s the whole fucking problem with life. You know what you should have done after you didn’t. It’s just dumb luck or the good Lord when you get anything right in this forsaken place.

How you doing Mr. Sykes, Mumps Black asked. He lived in Old Joe and was dry.

I’ve been better.

You’re here and many people ain’t.

I guess I can be thankful I get a chance to rebuild all that shit.

You always hated that house.

They watched the water come up through his daughter’s car.

How’s she doing? That’s a whole lot of living for anyone to bear.

They say its better than dying but we could be wrong. Maybe that’s why ain’t nobody come back from there.

Please don’t be true. They heard Typhus’s daughter cry out.

Pappa, I think.. I can’t remember…I left my photo album on the table. I was grabbing it to make sure it got in your truck and then I forgot cause I was thinking about something or other and I don’t care since those pictures is from when Jalen was a baby. Them were the pictures I look at when I want to… She looked at Mumps. They all knew she left Memphis to get away from drugs and the men who carried them but she could not talk about it with such a decent fellow around. You know what I’m saying Daddy.

The water ain’t that high on your place yet and the rain stopped. We may have something to be thankful for. Besides, you might have put them pictures some place safe. It could have been one of those subconscious things.

Typhus was not much for consoling words. He had stopped drinking whiskey and his insanity of yore had died down but he could never understand his daughter.

Y’all want to come up and stay at my place tonight. We can stay in the garage and June Lynn can sleep inside. I’m sure my wife would welcome the company. You ain’t gonna get nothing done here but watching until that river comes back down. We just went to the store so I got plenty of beer drink and I got some backstraps left from a deer Victoria shot in the fall.

What if some of those fools from town come and try to take folks’ stuff down here like they did down in New Orleans. I aim to shoot them if they do. I ain’t got much left and I’d prefer not to lose it too.

Mumps looked at the boats and tractors scattered around the high ground. The sun burned comfortably in the distance and the washed blue sky made the river sound less angry. Small streams rilled down the stone hills in the gullies worn by the torrents of earlier.

You’ve gotta get out of here and not worry for a few hours. I know you need to get off that bum leg of yours.

It sounds nice.

I’ll go ask Coby and Fran if they’ll keep an eye out. June walked up the road to where a small house overlooked the flooded valley. She was scared of going to town because she knew that all she wanted was clear the pain. The dope dealer would give it to her in the name of kindness when they both knew it was a trick. There were so few people in town and they all knew each other’s story, or at least, thought they did. Going with Mumps would be bad but she could not stop herself

Hi June Lynn.

Hey Mr. Coby. Mumps was trying to stay in town with him but daddy’s all bothered that some dumb kids are gonna come down here and take the only things we got out of that damn house. I was wondering if y’all can make sure nothing foolish happens.

Mr. Coby stepped through his screen door with a cigarette in his mouth, wearing a pair of cut off slacks, holding a revolver. I ain’t letting nobody touch nothing down here that don’t belong to them.

You ain’t going to shoot nobody are you?

That’s up to them.

Well, don’t go hurting someone on account of what I got piled up. Typhus might tell you different but he’s a damned fool.

You go get you some rest and we’ll clean this mess up in a day or so. They say he river’s gonna drop faster than an elephant shit when it comes around to it.

Thank y’all. Thanks Mrs. Fran.

June climbed into the passenger’s side of her dad’s truck without seeing how much further the river had come. There ain’t a drat thing I could do but be more upset, she told herself.

They rode to town, stopping at the store for cigarettes and a book for June Lynn to read. She never read before but since she came back from Memphis and left Jalen in Jonesboro with his aunt and uncle she found she could forget about getting high while she was caught in words. The store had a library that was two bookcases of dusty paperbacks and an Encyclopedia Britannica from the 70s. Most of the pictures were missing from when kids used them for school projects but it housed the greater body of knowledge for Galatia for some time.

After finding a haggard copy of Little Women, they drove down the gray asphalt to a place in a bowl below the top of one of the eroded Ozarks, once mighty now a land of mythical hillbillies and forest dwellers.

Behind the endless nights of rain, an early spring day gusted in. Colors dormant through the long and evil season reappeared. The first down tendrils of green were shooting from the soiled covered rock. June Lynn checked herself in a compact prior to hopping out of the truck to see Mrs.Victoria Black.

I’m sorry to hear about y’all’s place. It always seems like bad luck follows folks that is already trying to get back up.

You look lovely Mrs. Black.

I like your shoes.

I had to change into something besides those muddy boots I was wearing earlier. Everything is all junked up down there.

Three sat in the garage while Mumps busied himself with the grill.

Mrs. Black smoked a long cigarette. Typhus opened another can of beer.

You were right, Mumps, I needed to get out of that place and sit in this nice garage of yours.

It ain’t done yet. I’m hoping to get most of the junk upstairs and move my shop into here. Damn fuel is getting outrageous and it’d be a lot better if I didn’t have to drive 30 miles every time I wanted to get something done. I tell you what, some son of a bitch is making a lot of money while them boys are dying. It ain’t right.

I don’t know if nothing’s right about politics. I stopped voting after I got back from Kuwait. It don’t make a damn what we think. Folks is gonna run as ragged and we can’t do a damn thing about it. I know I’m supposed to stand up for myself but I got a screwed up hip from doing that and I’m tired. It’s enough to worry about how I’m gonna live another day, much less all these rich people problems they got us fighting for.

I’m gonna go for a walk. All this talk of fighting and whatnot ain’t causing me to forget about water in my bedroom.

June Lynn picked up her book and stepped through the door closest to the old house. She had taken to finding a quiet spot in the valley to read her books. The fresh breeze lifting off of the talking river would pass past her as she would sit on a sand pile among a stand of cane. Away from the grim sounds of the city and the cat calling dealers and the glittering stench, she could wrap herself in the comfort of another story and the sounds of a world without people.

She walked up the driveway and turned left, away from town. She knew the road well for the McKenzies lived down the way and Carlton went to school with her. His mobile home appeared through the naked trees and she could tell that Carlton was no different from when she last saw him. The same cars were in the same state of disembowelment.

Get in here you dumb shit. Momma Mckenzie yelled at an old pit-bull mix that yelped when smacked it with the backside of her hand.

June could smell the sick and alluring smell of cyrstal cooking in the shed.

You think June’s gonna be all right out there. That damn MckNezie boy ain’t up to no good and she looks awful wore down.

I don’t know Mumps. She’s got her mother’s strength but I ain’t sure if the drugs is stronger’n that or not. I won’t lie. I’m worried but she’s a grown woman and she’s got to face this on her own. I’ve got, or did, a place for her to stay but that’s about all I can do.

June Lynn stepped behind a thick trunked Chestnut and eyed the comings of goings of the house she knew well. Carlton was in a fit, darting from the shed, searching through heaps of alternators, wheels, bolts, grills, bikes, junk and more junk for whatever it was to attack his newest problem.

He had always been a tinkerer but when he was hopped, jacked, and twisted he hell bent on diabolique invention of useless proportion. He made match-fired boats, smoke proof pipes, magnificently efficient can holders. He would someday make the machine that would save humanity, he swore.

Muttering and scowling, he pulled bits of wire out of the part pile.

She had little sense that this was going on. A hung-over smog of chemical need was pressing in upon her world. All she wanted was to feel right.

She turned and sat down. The ground was soft of moss and mud. A car roared in the distance and birds twittled around. She sat and thought how much she wanted to flick a lighter and feel herself evaporate.

And the world proceeded with its boring talk of tequila and basketball. The news of lives under duress was not anything worth a damn to the people avoiding a world falling apart. What should they care in a time with doomsday devices and explosive plagues? They lost themselves in a digitized space with stories of happiness and fictional depravity.

A family on vacation from Kansas City drove to the original house of Gallatia on its open purchase well above the river bounding through the trailers. The son pulled out his new camera, feeling something for the hillbillies’ homes but mostly he was a spectator in the dramatics of Nature.

You could get a boat for real cheap of you wanted to go swimming.

I bet you could just wait down river and catch one.

We have a boat, Carl, what would we do with someone else’s. Besides, they look like they use theirs more than we ever do.

The tired man sat with the husband and wife, chewing his food.

That’s a damn fine piece if meat. I wish you hadn’t wasted it on me.

The Lord has blessed us through the kindness of others and I only hope to return the favor.

Well, I appreciate it and I’m sure June will be thrilled at her plate whenever she gets back. I hope it ain’t too long from now. I’m tired.

I don’t imagine you slept much last night.

I tried to lay down for a minute but that rain kept banging away on the roof, reminding me it was coming for me. I just went ahead and made a pot of coffee and did the best I could. I think June slept okay but she’s been doing a lot of that since she got back.

You’re supposed to rest when your sick and she had a spiritual ailment. I’m worried. Should we go look for her?

She’s a grown woman and I told her that I think me and her momma did a pretty good job raising her. She should know how to make a few good choices now and again. If she don’t… then maybe I wasn’t the father I should have been.

She could taste the glass, feel the smoke, hear the burn as she watched the blue sky drain to red. Flickering shadows swung over the street, bats dancing in the darkness. The tree frogs set to clamoring and she watched a possum scample down the embankment on the near side of the asphalt that turned blue in the light of a new night.

How sad and funny you are.

Her voice startled her. With so much going on in her head, she forgot that she lived in the world with the possum, the Mckenzies, and her father. The possum stopped at her voice, looked up, and scooted a few yards until it found a chicken bone. It sniffed and picked at the decaying animal, hoping that it was still edible.

June admired the efficiency of the animal and its rich coat as it cracked the bone in bits. Her stomach ached at the sound of food.

I wonder if they ate all the deer. She asked the marsupial.

June stood up, frightening the animal to run down the road with half the bone between its teeth, brushed the dirt from her jeans, and walked back to find her father snoring and a wrapped plate in the refrigerator.

What the fuck does snarky mean?

2008-04-09T17:50:00.000-07:00

I think it has to do with glasses that make jackasses think they're smart. I don't know. From here I shall rant on things that piss me off. Why do the midget reporters after a game always hold the mike so they can talk to it and the really tall person we give some weird shit about has to bend down and stare at the floor? Why do they have so many ads with annoying people talking. You dumb fucks, its TV. All you are trying to do is image your brand; put flashing colors and music and I'll watch your stupid ad. I would someday like to see a news story that lasts more than five seconds. My brain is exhausted from absorbing all the shit media throws at it all day and I would prefer it moved one step at a time. Why do they keep making shows about kiddie rape and gang killing. That's a moot point now that I have Netflix but is valid for someone.
Hey people running for President, you suck. If you dumb fucks had been doing the job I bust my ass for you to do I would actually give a shit about you. As it stands, I can't see how you are lobbying for a dynamic future yet you insist on a static present. We're broke, there's a war out there, there's a crack-war in here. I suggest y'all nut up to your job and quit trying to tell us why you could do it and do it.
I'm going to go and watch the entirety of Planet Earth in one sitting.

I skipped work to get something done.

2008-04-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

and it turned into what I needed. I've been in the middle of family dramatics for months. I don't know how people operate near their kin. I can barely hold onto sanity without the nine inch nail in my psyche that they become. You love them only to kjeep yourself from ripping their tongues out.
That was a few days ago and they have left me in my circus of clattering clutter. In case y'all didn't know, the beloved Tigers of Memphis fell in a roundball game to the Jayhawks of Kansas. Unless you are from this town, you wouldn't understand....Maybe some folks in Boston in 1986 knew the feeling but they had champions. This rotgut, insane asylum has nothing a couple of guys who can jump real high and we love them for it.
Some goofy doctor put me on Wellbutrin and I feel like my head's on speakerphone and cigarettes taste like ass. Why the fuck would I pay for this? We are some weird animals. I could go on in this vein but I suggest you check out Doug Stanhope on the matter. He's funnier than I am.
I'm trying to make this page more interesting because stories take a last 2:20 of a national championship game to write. That sounds dumber than usual. This whole thing feels like my inner monolgue is chasing butterflies or something. Usually, when I write it is a fairly direct reflection of the words wrecking in my head. That leads to my reasoning to believe one should never try to think his way through any metaphysical problem. You think you got the grand conclusion and then you start writing it down and the idea comes out a leering, jeering drunk version of a beautiful solution. If you don't try to spit it out, it will keep dying and coming back a rottier corpse of itself. Then your fucked. That's what I learned by reading Plato.

Someone who writes like I think but a lot better.

2008-03-24T20:36:00.000-07:00

In my casual search through my favorite paper I stumbled on this opinion. I have always been a student of the Founding Fathers and find their discourse to be something our world should aspire to. Hamilton and Jefferson were just two of a segment of time that embodied a level reason that has been suppressed by the men they were most concerned with. We are no longer a self governed society and we have lost our sense of responsibility and obligation. We have been led to believe that we are responsible for the entire world when the American system was built on attention to community. I have no clue if this makes sense because it's what my brain farted out in the midst of a story. I recall why all the real writers I know seem out of it when I get around to the practice myself. My head is turning to jello but I should get back to work on something more interesting for y'all to read. Beware, I have just finished reading No Country for Old Men so my next story will look like a McCarthy knock off. If you have not read that book it will definitely answer your decision what to do for the next night or so.
Have fun in your happy camp and go Memphis.

It's an old story but it's new to you.

2008-02-15T08:47:00.001-08:00

A Hare’s Tale.

Redmond Wallace

I know of the men but I know nothing of the hare’s tale so I am forced to deduce it from the men involved and the circumstances of the situation I know of from personal life. Honesty and moral fiber force leave me no other choice than to tell that this story is from a past I have only present knowledge of. I have taken considerable efforts to verify all necessary details but I am only a man and not capable of God’s perfection. I merely wished to tell this tale in the real.

The hare ended his life under the paint shed at Steel America, Inc. The shed was on the backside of a building originally erected by United Warehouse, but long since abandoned. When land was worth something around here, they built tall warehouses of brick and windows. Thousands of squares of glass walled whole floors, letting in an abstract light of antiquated difference. Jerry Hallowell leased out the first floor in 1982 and started up Steel America. Originally, he was the company’s only employee and boss, working 80-hour weeks to make a name in a trade of masters. He could not afford his first help but he could less afford to not have it. Slowly, the shop grew in all ways, filling out a space far too vast for a one-pony show. When the hare came along, the 11 men worked in the shop and a one masterful woman handled all the office affairs.

Steel America and several other shops shared the lazy blocks with shotgun houses and churches along Ohio Street. Some blocks were grown over fields while others were chained off parking lots to long closed manufacturing houses and stores. A candy plant covered the cheaper scents of piss and alcohol with the chemical sweet smell of bubble gum. In the right light, one could see the natural order of entropy breaking down the geometric forms into organic piles of rubbish. The leaning churches appeared to have grown from the soil; the empty lots were small meadows in that light. Under the suffocating noon sun, one could see them for the wrangle of weeds they were. That magic light was forgotten, as the skies had been mean and gray for the past two weeks. An endless cloud spat rain just long enough to make concrete sweat oil.

The hare lived in a stack of railroad parts. He had more twists and turns than even he knew what to do. The long rain had soaked his hole and he could find no way to be comfortable in spite of his handsome pelt. Steel America was about two hundred yards from his hole, which was an awful distance to be going. If the dogs found him that far out, it would be a nightmare but his curiosities got the best of him. He moved in short hops so he could keep track of the world around. His dapple brown coat did not look like much but when he stood stock still in the shade he was almost invisible. In this tortoise fashion, the hare made his way under the shed of Steel America, Inc.

The hare had been around the two-legged animals to know a few things. They jumped about and hollered, flapping as they shouted all manner of weird things to each other. And the dark-skinned one under the shed was still drunk. The hare could relax some for the teetering man was as harmless as a two-legged dog, for once, he could explore the world beyond his world.

He hopped onto the gravel and smelled his way around the perimeter, one eye on the man at all times. Half of a peach rewarded him for the first part of his adventure so he continued his path along the back wall. There was no easy escape from this place so he would have to be sneakier. The journey along the corrugated metal wall yielded nothing but a small patch of clover that tasted of nothing he had ever tried and of such foul proportions that he almost developed a concept of evil from it. Of course, he knew nothing of paints, thinners, cleaners, primers, pre-primers, or any of the other concoctions spilled, sprayed, or otherwise disarrayed all over the shed.

The search was becoming uncomfortable, no longer could he suppress escapist instinct with curiosity. And so he began the sneaky march back to the known world. Just past a set of sawhorses holding up a swirling nouveau handrail, he found most of a salad. The pieces looked so delectable on the ground, no hare could resist. Sugar crunchy emerald leaves of lettuce made a lovely bed for pieces of light crimson tomato and the medley of vegetables and nuts that make a salad more than an appetizer.

He never had a chance to wonder what might have happened, there was no pulse racing escape. In fact, the only thought he had was for a piece of lettuce followed by nothingness.

A rock was lodged in his skull and the drunk was running toward his him as the red came swirling down before his eyes. Something grabbed him by his ears but he was too close to death to know.

“Ha!” Ernest Clark shouted as he picked up his prize, admiring the rock lodged in the rabbit’s skull. The excitement washed away his hungover drunkenness and now he was dancing about the yard whooping and hollering in quite a state of triumph tempered by insanity.

“What in the hell is all this commotion about?

Duwayne Smith, the shop foreman, came out of the shop glaring at the raving lunatic. Having worked with the man for five years he was accustomed to such antics but they had work to be doing and he could ill afford his painter wasting time. Duwayne was a real steel cat to whom the clock was the divine interlocutor in the church of work. Growing up in Crawfordsville, he learned to drink whiskey and chase women from his father. He chased one of them to town where he soon found himself a high school dropout father. “I needed the paycheck so I went to work unloading barges. I found the harder and more I worked, the less folks bothered me. Ain’t nothing like solitude and sweat.” For the past eleven years, he had worked his way up Steel America until he was running the floor. With a voice like a grinder, he started to tear into his painter whose back was turned to the world in his celebration of his triumph over the mighty rabbit.

“Ernest, I’m sick of this. I don’t know what I’m gonna do about you dancing and lollygagging when these handrails gotta be out today.”

“I was just having a little fun,” Ernest exclaimed as he turned around to Duwayne with the hare in his hand.

“What in the?” I can’t believe you finally got the bastard, told you it would go after that salad.”

“Sorry boss, but I got to get this thing on a fire.” He was not one to care what his boss thought. To tell of Ernest’s past would only serve to reiterate the truth of his present. He was a man of the world but these few lines will be perhaps his only remnant. Ernest Clark was born in the delta but he managed to break from his family and the alluvial fields and paint Oldsmobiles in Lansing. He still drives his ’73 convertible. 56, lean and mean, head shaved bald, he wears a closely managed gray beard. Was a pimp, always a hustler. He did time for lots of things but most of it was for robbing a liquor store after his partner forgot to fill up the gas tank before the stick-up. Lives with his old lady…sometimes. Drinks nothing but blue top vodka. He always loved making things look good and that is what painters do.

Ernest had pulled out a small folding knife and cut a small hole in the rabbit’s stomach. With that hole, he could grab the skin and tear it around the body. Grabbing the fur on both sides where he separated it, he pulled until he unpeeled the tail like a lab glove. Next, he set the animal on a piece of cardboard and cut the head off. He wielded the knife with great skill but it was still difficult as the animal’s head was far bigger than the dollar store blade. At last, the blade cracked the neck and he was able to work the two sides apart. With a quick slice, he opened up the rabbit’s stomach and chest. Entrails spilled out and he set to the task of removing everything he could get. The eerie smell of blood and feces mixed with the paint fumes to create an unholy bouquet. After he threw the rabbit guts into the trash he found a hose and cleaned the remaining headless form. The muscle tone of game is always perfect and Ernest admired the iridescent striation radiating along and through each piece of muscle wrapped around the small skeleton. He was not a churchgoer, never finished the Bible, and distrusted preachers with a passion but he found God in the places that mattered.

“You better hurry cause I got food but I ain’t got time for you to be dicking around.” Duwayne hollered from the shop.

“Man, can’t you tell I’m about done. Why don’t you go do some paper work or whatever it is you do,” Ernest snapped back as he walked into the shop. Inside was the usual array of equipment for tearing and mashing steel into useful shapes. It was a cramped room and Ernest had to twist and dodge his way through the pieces of iron scattered between the men and their welders.

Beyond the hulking masses of dirty equipment, Ernest found a small alcove that housed a few chairs and a refrigerator. Back here is where most of the shop took breaks and where Ernest stored the necessities if such an occasion would rise. Once the animal was prepared and wrapped in foil, he made his way to the steel table closest to him. There, he found Calvin Williamson bent over a welding machine, trying to untangle a ferociously twisted mess of wire from the machine.

“Look here, I got a proposition. You let me hook up that heater of yours you can have a piece of this rabbit.”

“It’s too hot to be setting any more fires in here. Besides, what if I don’t like your shop style cooking of something I’ve never had. I think you’re trying to pull one on me.”

“You ain’t ever had rabbit? Well you don’t know what eating is until you had a good piece of cottontail. I’m sure it’ll be better than peanut butter and jelly of yours. You got to be getting some groceries in you to do this type of shit. But you’re young and don’t give a damn. When I was your age I’d drink all night put three or four women to bed and still get fifteen hours in. Can’t do that now, now I’m lucky to finish a pint and real lucky to keep it up long enough for any type of fun.”

“I guess you can use the heater, Graybeard.”

The idiot scholar was none other than Calvin Williamson, a living refrain for the chore that life is. He knew he wasn’t doing the right thing but didn’t understand what that was. 28. 5’10. Short dark hair. Coffee eyes. He painted oil derricks in Oklahoma and silos in Nebraska. Bike messenger in Chicago and a bartender in Baltimore. He had an earring ripped out in a bar on the Pine Ridge, and a woman took his sanity at the Mandarin Oriental in New York. Climbed any mountain worth a damn in Glacier. He hates USA Today and the New York Times as they only published pop crap. Avid sports fan but prefers to read about it in the local daily rather than watch it on TV. Owns no CDs but listens to radio incessantly. Wants nothing more than to spend his life hiking the Appalachian Trail. Fell into steel while he was waiting to get a job for a towboat outfit. It was out of season and they wouldn’t call back. He needed cash and Steel America Inc. would pay him on Friday.

The two rooted around until a pile of dirt smeared objects until they found an open face propane heater. Ernest hooked it up to a tank that had been there since the final cold days in March. A prior worker had attached a small grate to the top so he could warm his gloves and once the he got the thing lit, Ernest set the metal wrapped meat onto it, explaining, “You don’t need to watch it real close but it’s got to be turned every thirty minutes or so. If it starts flaming up, make sure it don’t blow nothing up. Got it?”

“Hey Elmer, if you spent more time painting and less time hunting wabbits I wouldn’t be yelling at you for my damn handrails.” Duwayne shouted from the office door.

Ernest pretended not to notice while he made his may back to the paint shed.

When Calvin first turned the rabbit, precisely one half hour after it touched the fire, he could just start to smell the sweet flavor of roasted game. An hour and a half later, he was ravenous and could barely stand to not look. Work was getting ever more difficult while hearing the fat sizzle as it dripped into the flame. For Calvin, it was almost less the thought of how good the meat would taste and more the idea that it came from the Earth. He felt a sense of liberation swell up that he had searched the continent for. His greatest hope was to break from the twisted vice of society and he saw an opportunity in this moment. His overeager thought process leapt at the chance, “We think we’re rats in the cage only because we let ourselves be. How do they do that? How does the system coddle us and make us feel safe walking into their shop, doing their work, making them rich? The individual is the one with the strength. I can become master of my world through the right work. If we all do such, if we all grow our own food, write our own stories, sing our own songs, build our own houses we will tear the meat from the system and leave nothing but a stack of bones for the wolves to fight over...”

His beeping watch awoke him from his insanity, reminding him to attend to his culinary duties. When he got back to his paying job, he lost track of his rant and found himself thinking about the most mundane of things. The nothingness had reminded him of a pimple he popped back in high school. His greasy teenage skin had created an extra feature on the side of his face. When he squeezed the infected lump, it looked like a bowl of custard exploded in the bathroom. Calvin chastised himself for wasting his memory on such things but could not shake himself of his lesser qualities. He would never be the great man he dreamed himself to be; great men don’t waste their time on zits. They’ve got things they gotta be doing. Where are they? What happened to the T.E. Lawrence’s of the world? It’s tough being a renaissance man when you’ve got to have three years experience or an advanced degree to do anything beyond the mindless.

“Hey, you ready to eat some of that rabbit. I been thinking about that all morning. Man, that rock hit it clean as you please.”

And so Calvin dropped his monologue to save the world and decided it was time to try some of this delicious smelling concoction of God’s abundance. Ernest opened up the foil Calvin’s layout table, letting the steam pour out and drawing half the shop over to see.

“Try some. That’s way you do this up. Good meat, real game, you don’t need all them spices.”

“Really?” Tony, one of the other fitters, asked.

Mr. Hallowell had come out from the office to witness and answered for Ernest who was busy demeating the bones and handing out choicest morsels to all who stuck their hand out, “You didn’t know, the meat we get at the store, they feed those animals all kinds of mean and awful things so you’ve got to cover it up.”

“Damn, that’s good.”

“Man, I can’t believe you got that with a rock.”

“You a regular Annie Oakley.”

“What? She used a pistol. Don’t you know nothing.”

“Of course I know she did but I’m just saying he can hit what he aims at.”

“Not when he’s painting.”

“Hell naw, then he hits everything he ain’t shooting at. Park your car over in West Memphis and he still gonna get that shit on there.”

Ernest handed Calvin one of the rear legs, “Tell me what you think, baby boy.” It was too hot to eat but he could not wait after standing next to it all morning. The meat was a little tougher than he expected. It wasn’t tough as leather, but it was no veal. Of course, this was a real animal, not some monster created by our freakish whims of intelligence. The trash talk kept going as he enjoyed the authentic meal.

“It’s good, ain’t it?”

“Best meal I had since breakfast.” Another wave of laughter rolled around the table as they all held cruel reality at bay for a just a little longer.

why

2008-02-15T07:05:00.000-08:00

If I read about another campus shooting I will probably just run for the hills. What the fuck is so wrong with us that we have to go blast other people away? There must be a reason these idiots keep strapping themselves up and blowing away a bunch of kids and professors. Have we reached a point of discontent and depressed frustration where massive violent gestures are all we have to express ourselves? If that's the case then we should get the fuck out of Iraq, ignore the economy, piss on Roger Clemens attend to our sick nation. It's what we should do but we won't because we have grown to believe that things like this just happen. The fact is that they don't "just happen."
One of the greatest thing we can do in this country is shout as loud as we want. It would surely be more successful than shooting a bunch of people. Fuck your problems now, you piece of cowardly trash. Maybe if you manned up and said something people might listen but now it doesn't matter because you comitted the deeds that can't be fixed.
I'm getting myself worked into a rage which would be fine but I'm still about to walk out into teh rain of bullshit without a raincoat. I guess that is whay we have to deal with tragedies like this one because we are all helpless ants. Joy will wait for my next entry.

How's this for a plan

2008-02-13T09:46:00.000-08:00

I have developed a growing faith in the self-serving interests of both politicians and the networks that talk about them all damn day. I am also more than frustrated with the belief that a new round of office holders will save the world. Everyone seems to be waiting for President Jesus and he just won't show up.
If that's the case, how the hell do we get any of these figureheads of ineptitude to do get some part of their job done. I have two plans and they will work wonderfully, as long as I get the rest of the country behind me on them. The first is to have a voting turnout of zero. I started a story about that but it has yet to make it past the first or second page. The entire political system would be beside itself and we would have made some kind of a point. I know it is "wrong" to not vote, that our friends and family have died for the privilege but is not the present group clowns in blue blazers another mockery of what those loved ones believed they were fighting for? On another note, why must all the candidates were the same boring blazer and tie. Some flair would be nice but I imagine Fox and MSNBC would spend a week talking about the implications of someone wearing pinstripes or a good hat. On to more important matters. Like none of us voting. It won't happen but it would be fun to see.
The other plan is for everyone to go on strike until the government does something about the War. Protests don't work because they have figured out how to let them happen and publicize them so that the only faces anyone sees are of dirty trustafarian gutter-punk hippies, which is not a segment of the population that generates much respect for its opinion. If we all refuse stop driving and going to work, shit will change quick. Besides, that would be the first step in implementing a month long international holiday. I don't anyone who couldn't use it and there is no real reason to not take a decent break. I wouldn't be surprised if wars would end other bits of goodness.

i want

2008-02-11T10:01:00.001-08:00

This would make my year. I must get one.
Though it is funny that this stuff comes from a place about not buying stuff.

USA Today makes my ass raw.

2008-02-11T09:31:00.000-08:00

Those of us who read any newspapers know that they have been in a decline the past few years. The major problem, as pointed out by the smaller papers, is that the bulk of journalism has come down to the wire, USA Today, and the NY Times. That leaves the reader with fewer opportunities to develop a learned opinion and a loss of the accountability that the news sources brought to government. This article is from the St. Petersburg Times, one of a few major non-profit papers. Of course, there is another article at the CS Monitor that shows the new wave of small papers trying to fill in the gaps. The problem is that good reporters cost a lot of money and we desperately need their services in a time of tabloid uselessness.
All other news services use the efforts of the papers to "report". Read your local paper and then listen and watch everything else throughout the day. It's the same news but stripped down from the useful article to a diarrhetic trickle of what one would want to know to feel current.

lost in the fun of it all

2008-02-08T07:58:00.000-08:00

The cybernetic wasteland has become flooded with stupid rants and malinformed opinions of people who know little and say all. Much about the internet is worthwhile but my stupid statements have been a classic example of contemporary classlessness. That being said, there are a few things I hope to accomplish on this electronic page.

My original goal was to have a place to put my stories. I wrote them to be read. I’d love for them to be in the New Yorker or on your bookshelf but that dream is still only a reality in my imagination.

Most of the early posts are the stories that I feel might be worth a damn. The short story is an obvious challenge as well as being a unique pleasure to write. I started spitting them out back in my school days but now they have become my most sincere response to what I see in the world. The artist in me would rather have one person be more human for having read them than a million clicking around to read inane comments of extraordinarily ordinary substance.

That being said, the nature of the game is a steady flow of “content” because people are animals and like the flashy, flashy. In my selfish dream of making words my livelihood; I must add new crap all the time. I can’t write that many stories and I’m not sure anyone would want to read them. I would like to be able to find worthwhile news and put it in this central location but I might as well just tell you to go to the only 2 or 3 papers that are worth a damn anymore.

A more interesting challenge is to start a forum for what people can do in this time of dreary misinformation. What can we do about poverty, crackheads, the environment, ourselves? Most of us only have a few dollars to give and that is not a satisfying or right method to doing what we can to help the world evolve into what it could be rather than what the bastards want it to be. Activism is only a way to get an opinion out but the problem is that speech is so open in our society as to drown itself out. The major steps are taken when individuals go about their lives in a way that promotes conscious change. Walking over driving, going to the museum, talking to someone at a soup kitchen. I believe these to be the type of actions that take one down the path of social change and they are without fail also the ways to a more fulfilled existence. What is as upsetting as the standard American life. It is something that I have been stuck in too long and I refuse to keep myself caged in by working at a job that only turns the cycle and leaves me with neither time nor energy to realize my potential as a human being.

It’s a long winded and chaotic way to explain myself but I hope it starts some type of dialogue. What is to be done and how do we do it?

Shut up ye idiots.

2008-02-06T08:36:00.000-08:00

I have a growing interest for public transportation. I think it comes from the fact that I like beer and I hate cars. They stink and we are all a bunch of fools running around in these big steel bubbles that can kill. Unfortunately, Memphis has only a very bad bus system. I could probably walk somewhere faster than wait on the bus and the chances of getting shot are pretty equal. In my desire to do something toward a plausibly better future I've been checking out different transport advocacy groups. The APTA seems to be fairly decent and with an impressive core of logic for some D.C. nutjobs. The list of links on the site led me to the Alliance for a Paving Moratorium. A quick glance of what they wish to say and it makes me believe God was spiting us when he made Californians. It would be lovely to drive my Fuel Cell up the 101 and bitch about how the government is choking Iran and the environment. Oh wait, then I would have to make a fortune of the backs of people who have to work for a living. I would need some whip cracking Chinaman to make sure my little chitlin minions get their tiny fingers to working painting my pretty little wine labels.
Jackasses. They spend a bunch of money to be heard and then the sensible folks who want to burn less oil have to work to not sound like these love childs of Jane Fonda and Tim Robbins.
Fuck it. Lets just go get drunk and watch the apocalypse come.

Buy American damnit.

2008-02-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

My brother reminded me of this old maxim and I am finding myself following that advice as much as I can. It's better for the environment and economy. While it is not the chic thing to do, American businesses are as Fair Trade and all that hippie mumbo-jumbo as any Chilean made coffee house garb.
We can't keep exporting our manufacturing and have everyone work at Starbucks. Making things is important and it's high time we get back to work doing the best work we can.

Plants are green and tasty, unlike money.

2008-02-03T12:16:00.000-08:00

The first meetings of the year have happened for our ultra-local gardening adventure. It will be a nice thing when I can walk out the back door and pick a salad from the bountiful delta earth. You can see what's going on in our little plot and perhaps find out something new at the Urban Carrot.
Why the Victory Garden isn't back in fashion is obscene. The American economy is not driven by blowing money on pointless plastic bits of wasted Chinese labor. The whole belief of self sufficiency has been lost and that is bad for this dream of a nation. So, turn some soil and grow your food. Buy American cotton and get your car on biodiesal.
The problems in the system aren't that hard to fix if we just turn off the T.V. and remember to think.

The joys of voting

2008-02-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

I lost all interest in when John Edwards dropped out but I suppose some people might still care. Unfortunately, they are all politicians and speak in empty lines and work toward an agenda that does not include a smarter and better tomorrow. I am also revolted by how bad most coverage of the candidates is. I checked out CNN.com and succeeded in finding out how much money each sucker had raised and nothing more. Yet again, I went to the Monitor to find something of depth and found this rather interesting series.
Presidential candidates tend to be intriguing people with good stories or at least adept at telling them. You are voting for a person so you might as well to learn what you can about them.

Another reason to get upset.

2008-02-03T09:32:00.000-08:00

I saw this in the Christian Science Monitor, which happens to be one of the best papers in the world. Not all coal mining is bad as I learned when I visited one of my uncles out in Wyoming, but the Appalachian method is pretty hideous. My biggest concern on reading this type of article is what can we do? If your area supports alternate energy, buy into it. Beyond that, are we just pawns of our own system?

news of the new

2008-02-03T09:21:00.000-08:00

I have been working on a newsletter for the Metal Museum and have realizedhow much I enjoy figuring out what people should or want to read. Media these days is pretty fucked for its search for the instant money story of killings and puppies. The problem is that we have no other way to know about world and local events without the media. Journalists are the eyes and ears of society. Why should anyone want to look at only filth or celebrity nonsense? To shorten a long rant that will end nowhere, I have decided to devote much of this site to news I find worthy. My dream would for it to be the one place you need to go but that won't happen. It's in its formative steps so bear with me. Enjoy.

Scant Rant

2007-11-26T06:29:00.001-08:00

Just feel like getting something down before I run off to school. Don't ask me why I'm in school. Actually, I know why I'm there. It's my stupid job that's holding me down. Why work for a place that fosters zero personal or social progression? Most of us do and most of us are discontented. We should be able to do the types of work that need to be done. Society should be built around this idea for it to move past its squalid place.
These words are coming out all jumbled but the idea is in there somewhere. I'll get back to it after I learn nothing about fluids.
D

Story Next

2007-11-25T16:36:00.001-08:00

I wrote that last bit after a student was killed a few months back at school. It really bothered me to be so close to the idiotic violence and ignorance at a University. I could go on. I will get to my ranting at some point. Anyway, the story was an hard one to write and I am really unsure of it. Feel free to let me know what you think. Does it strike you? What do you read from it? I don't know. Thanks and have fun.
D.

2007-11-25T16:32:00.000-08:00

Clear Nights of Fire

Redmond Wallace

Jay Miller sat on his front steps and pondered the early fall evening and the sounds of the empty street. He could sit in his space and relish the lack of sights and sounds assaulting his weary senses. A soft breeze shook the first leaves of the dying season and loose trembles of paper skittered down the asphalt.

He held his hands over his closed eyes and thought of the black behind them in an attempt to regain control of himself, if only for a minute. The blistering array running through his head began to drift into the darkness and be carried off by the breeze, flitting down the street, another overused bit of paper.

“Pop! Pop! Pop!” The shots were close enough to shake him to immediate considerations.

“We’ve got shots fired on the north side of campus.” Francis Strundle stated over the radio to the rest of the University Security. Francis pulled the Aggravated Assault and Injury Guidelines from the top drawer of her gray, metal desk and set them before her. She called the Med to get an ambulance on the scene. Her next call was to the police and then protocol reactions to the situation.

“Shots fired.” The words were stuck in her skull. In her fifteen years at the University, she refused to think of them. School was a place that worked to erase the ignorance of violence. She herself had spent five years getting a degree in Anthropolgy.

“What did you do with that?” Her high school son asked her when he told he wanted to drop out to be a pro skater.

“It doesn’t matter what I did with it. School is important. It is one of those things that you’ll find out. If you don’t go, you’ll regret it every day.”

“And if I do go, what is so damn special?”

“No matter what you do, you will grow into a man. What type of man do you want to be?”

She could not convey what it was to learn reason and decency, that they were the great traits of the evolved society. In her years since academia she had forgotten how to make epic statements of Truth but she lived by them.

“Officer Strundle, can you make a call to the President. Let her know that we have deceased student and it looks like a homicide.” The man’s voice sounded like steel about to tear.

“Dear Lord. Yes, I’ll get to her immediately and the police should be there now.”

She dialed the number to Dr. Jennings, the University President, and failed at hiding her emotions.

Marcus Steward was not scared shitless. He was lost in the immediate past; high on power, he pedaled through a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs and roundabouts. He could not remember if he set out to kill the guy but he could still see the man’s body snap at the third shot and turn to get away and collapse around the lead in its chest.

He showed the dead man that he was no bitch. “I ain’t taking shit from no one. If they want to get into my game I’ll blow a hole in their head.” He said to himself as he pedaled through the well-manicured neighborhood. “This shit should be mine. These white folks don’t understand.” He figured his dad might be proud of him for the first time. He looked at the burn on his arm, staring at him with its agonized smile. His dad had put his forearm over the gas burner and made him hold it there until he could smell his own flesh cooking. “You’ve got to be strong to be man. You can’t let no one ever think you’re their bitch. If you do, then you are.” He handed the last of his quart of whiskey to his son who was trying to fight back the tears of pain.

Marcus’s mom ran the bastard off after that. Marcus, in his youth, figured that was just the way the world operated. He saw the kids at school play house or cops and robbers but could never play with them since they seemed wrong and boring. People did not take care of each other, they only worried about themselves. And that is all he was trying to do when he offered the college student four CDs for twenty dollars. The swolled up bastard looked offended at Marcus, “Damn, little man, shouldn’t you be at home studying or playing ball.”

“Are you trying to tell me what to do?” Marcus fired back.

It's too late out for a young buck, like you. I don't like it out here and I eat weights.”

“Man, I ain’t taking shit from you. I’m a grown motherfucker and I’ll show you why.”

It was the look on the man’s face that Marcus really got off on. The eyes were wide and the body was frozen in fearful confusion. He could see that look on anyone now. He knew the way to power and he was a man for it.

In his wandering, he found himself onto the streets he knew and began pedaling toward his refuge. No one would expect anything of him. No one on his block cared. His bike creaked under his steady movement forward.

Jay heard someone riding a bike down the street. Its moans were rhythmic and uncared for. He looked up from his perch on the steps to see a boy riding by. He wanted to tell the kid he should get home, that it wasn’t safe out for an adult, much less a child. He could see something in the kid’s face that kept him from speaking. The youthful body had the face of tormented ghost and it scared the breath out of Jay Miller.

Ha.

2007-11-21T18:42:00.000-08:00

I'm just busy doopsing around with this here blog shit. They got all kinds of neatery on it. Too bad I'm too much of a jacktard to get my shit right. I should probably not post this humdrum nonsense. I sometimes get too excited about the world of ideas than the one of possibility. The latter is something akin to reality but that is a word that keeps philosophers their jobs. Always got to get my jab in what I am destined to be. How come most of the revolutionary thinkers did so little right in their lives. There are plenty that are superflous to reason. Hegel is looked at as the shit. I heard he died an old virgin. Someone's lying, an idiot, or both.
On that happiness, it's vacation time and I'm going make it go down.