Wind: Are you lonely?
S: Yes.
Wind: Why?
S: I am not whole.
Wind: What do you wish to be?
S: You, the trees, the sunset, ghost in the haunted house; all that I percieve as beautiful.
Wind: Ah...but you are merely a man.
S: And that is why I can be all of you. Because I am a man.

A very short ghost story...

I approached the house in the cool evening breeze. The branches above my head swayed softly, as I pushed through the chest-deep grass. Reaching the old house I crawled under the overgrown lilac bushes to the gaping front door, and slipped inside. It was dim and empty except for the springs from an ancient mattress and the arm of a rocking chair. Musty air hung about the walls and the remains of wallpaper lay slack and tattered against the wall. The crickets which had been loudly chirping in the twilight air suddenly ceased their song. Standing stiffly I thought I heard a creak from the room behind the stairs. I wished now that I had not come here alone; for I was not alone now. There was a step on the floor and a shadow fell across the opposite wall. It stood just behind the edge of sight in the doorway. I had no breath, I looked wildly for an escape; seeing the window behind me I dashed toward it spasmodically. Crashing through the empty frame and into the haggard bushes below I caught a glimpse of the figure in the kitchen. Time for an instant was frozen, me tumbling through space, heart throbbing with fear, staring into the hollow eyes of a girl in a black dress bleeding from a large knife stuck deep in her breast. I thrashed through the half-dead lilacs and waving grass and never stopped running until I was over the third hill. Her face did not leave me even after nightmares stopped, and to this day I wonder if she was dying then or if she had died long ago.

At home finally I ponder the oddness. All vehicles broken, out of money, every plan trimmed and adjusted to fit the unstoppable events. It's so weird. One minute you have a handle on life, and the next you wonder who you even are. And what is sleep anyways?

I wish to write something beautiful, so here goes:

Of all the stars
Above my eyes
One is ours
The means of sighs

For friendship rare
vision clear
Another's care
Cancels fear

And now I lay
Under my cover
No price to pay
To keep my lover

Missing the minds
The flowers and walls
But peace it finds
In human halls

How to make a crashboxing

Ingredients: 1 part mercy 1 part courage 3 parts joy

Method: Stir together in a glass tumbler with a salted rim. Add a little cocktail umbrella and a dash of caring

Username:

Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com

This is uncannily accurate...

Poetry means
A hill of beans

I love books and stories that create a mood. Affecting emotions is one thing, and depending on the author's purpose it can be a difficult task; but to create a whole mood, complete with it's own set of emotions...that is much harder. I'm not sure if this one I ran across fits the bill, but it is interesting anyway.

A Science Fiction Story

Brant stepped gingerly out of the remains of the rusty merchant SAAS-tug. Gazing dazedly around, he slowly became aware of an incredible throbbing in his left arm. The tug behind him was cold now, and the twisted frame creaked slightly in the light gusts of wind that chased each other across the empty plains where it now lay. The bridge glass was completely knocked out, and the contents of the fuel cell were making rainbow patterns in the sand. Looking out toward the horizon Brant squinted against the blowing sand and tried to make out his surroundings. As far as he could tell in the semi dark that was illuminated only by the light from the huge glowing moon that hung halfway up the sky the land was utterly flat and there was no growing or living thing.
Brant was intrigued by his own apathy to the situation. There had been an accident, that much was clear. He was alive. What should he do? He was no space explorer: he was a rather lazy student at a film school that his father was paying for, and he had stowed away on a cargo ship hauling high-tech running shoes partly for the sake adventure, partly to make the hop to Westfalliph to see an old home-school buddy. (They were both part of that weird but sometimes interesting group of humans that tried to stay old-fashioned in the face of Direct Infusion, Edu-sleep, and The Gloot.) Not surprisingly he and Druff had had a semi-cool, semi-outsider experience growing up. Druff was one of the few people Brant felt at all close to. Now, with an aching appendage and blood seeping from multiple mysterious wounds Brant was irritatedly contemplating the meaning of his life. The circumstances that had brought him here now seemed somehow quite ridiculous. As yet he had not given much brain power to the rather dangerous condition he was presently in.
Brant weaved his way back to the tug and crawled painfully through the sprung exit hatch. Fumbling for his backpack in the near darkness his fingers brushed a rough canvas strap and grasping it he tugged violently until it popped loose. He rummaged inside and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Thank goodness for small comforts…
It was many hours later that Brant opened his eyes, looked dazedly at the dry bottle and realized that not only had he drunk himself to sleep, but in the process he must have started wandering (though he did not remember any of it). The shadows were long and harsh and light from the giant moon seemed pale and almost sickly. He tried to stand up, but the loss of blood and too much drink left him dizzy and weak. Clumsily he stumbled against a rock and collapsed in a heap. The gusts of wind had died away and Brant sat in total stillness. His spirits, already at a low level now began to plummet southward. He knew that the chances of rescue were now quite non-existent since anyone looking for the wreak would not know he had been on it, and he had very handily gotten himself lost. He felt as if now was the time to start shedding tears and start fiercely proclaiming his will to survive— but somehow he felt nothing but a dull annoyed anguish, something like frustrated despair mixed with tired resignation. Why fight? ‘Is my life really in that much of a shambles?’ he asked himself. ‘No, you have a good life,’ he replied, ‘you just don’t really care about anything. You should, but you don’t, and you really even care about not caring.’ He let his head fall back and closed sore eyes. Moments drifted by. He twitched awake painfully and was vaguely aware that he was still bleeding. With tremendous effort he pried open his eyes. Far away on the horizon something glinted slightly. ‘The tug!’ he thought suddenly with a little flutter of hope, and thrusting himself to his feet he started toward it. Within a few feet he stopped, wheezing, and tried to shift his arm to more comfortable position. It was only just now that it occurred to him that there had been a pilot and a navigator in the ship. Had they been killed? He had not even thought to check. He felt terrible. ‘So selfish!’ he said savagely. Slower this time he started toward the shiny blot on the horizon, fed by the hope that it was the merchant ship and that perhaps there would be a rescue; but he didn’t really trust.
The light hadn’t changed much. All around was still that garish pale glow that only partially illuminated the desolate landscape. Brant cautiously approached the broken, twisted hulk of the SAAS-tug, and peered in at the shattered windshield. There was nothing. The long walk back had revived him a little, and fearful and curious, he climbed inside and began looking for the missing crew; but his search availed nothing. They were not to be found. He looked at his footsteps stretching away across the sand from where he had wandered, and struck by a thought circled the craft. On the other side he discovered what he had fearfully expected to find. Two sets of prints led strait away from the ship, side by side. Brant started after them, but his heart was thudding. He soon found the marks where the rescue ship had touched down about a quarter mile further on; it must have happened while he had been off wandering and intoxicated. Sitting down, he knew that it was over. Self-pity and dejection washed over him like a sickly bittersweet wave that left him stupidly sniffling and thinking about personal loss. He began to be fretful and a little angry. Things had always gone pretty well for him in general; sure he was sometimes a little unmotivated, and people didn’t always like him, but he was happy. Nothing he had done warranted this. Not this; not death. Filled with these thoughts and overcome with fatigue, he fell asleep.
Brant squeezed harder the hand in his and tried not to wake up. He was secure here; here there was warmth and comfort and he was not going to die. No, he must not wake up, for then the gentle hand might be withdrawn, and he might be on a desert moon with no chance of rescue…no, that was not a chance he could take. Drifting almost imperceptibly back into a light sleep he tried to have good dreams, but there was trickle of shadow that tainted all the good things, and he felt a certain dissatisfied guiltiness. Again he came almost to the surface and turned back to the depths. Not yet, not yet. But the realization that he was cheating, that he was avoiding the inevitable, weighed on his sleepy brain and he knew this deception would not last for long.
He snapped awake. He was lying in the sand on his back and there was a small hand in his own. In the still moon air a human being sat next to him, hand in his, staring at him with blue kaleidoscope eyes. Groggy and taken aback, Brant lay there stupidly, not fully grasping what this meant. The girl stared back, but it was difficult to tell what she was seeing with her colorful broken fragment eyes.
‘The time for comfort is over,’ she said very softly. ‘Come.’ She stood up and took a few steps, stopping not far away.
He climbed slowly to his feet rubbed his eyes, still trying to take in the vision. She was tall and slender, and it was very hard to discern her age though she looked very young—almost like a little girl. That she was human was clear, but she was strange and terrifying. He was taken aback by her beauty: she had long black hair that shown in the dim light; her skin was light and clear and she wore a very old-fashioned white nightgown. Her eyes were the only thing that was particularly odd about her, and something about them made Brant feel chilly and uncomfortable.
With the brief tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth the stranger put her feet daintily together and gathering her nightgown in her hands she sailed lightly away like a dandelion fluff in a summer breeze.
Dumfounded, he stood for a moment, then began to run after her. She was not moving quickly, but he stumbled to keep up. He was still half asleep, and weak from loss of blood and too much drink.

Sandwich: I am hungry.
Herz: What is hungry?
Sandwich: No, I am hungry.
Herz: Is that a form of pain?
Sandwich: I haven't thought about that, I just want food.
Herz: But if it is a form of pain then satiating would be a form of pleasure, but the pleasure would end once you were done eating, and then...
Sandwich: *sock**smack**punch*
Sandwich: Can I have my burger now. PLEASE!

If you want people to think you're smart:

Speak crypticly

Squint your eyes a lot

Keep your hands in your pockets and your voice low

Say 'being' and 'clearly' a lot.

Treat everyone with quiet, smiling distain.

Off-handedly refer to 'Aristotle'.

Be as emotional and convaluted as possible.

Throw in a good amount of shocking examples.

Above all, never explain yourself. The mystery is what makes you smart.

Aren't we a strange breed? If a movie is stright-forward everyone thinks it is dumb no matter how accurate it is, but if it is confusing and dirty and shocking it must be brilliant and sublime. Sheesh.

I-NEED-THIS-CAR!!!!! Oh, you are a sexy mama, aren't you? You want me take you home and love you and care for you? Yes you do! Yes you do!!! *gooseflesh*

J: (Playing guitar) Everyone says that all the songs I play are slow and sad.
C: Yeah, most of the songs I know are sad too.
J: I wonder what that says about people like us?
C: Mmmm. Perhaps we look for a sharper, deeper sense of things that is brought out by sad songs. The sad things in life tend to find their way to the soul.
J: But there is something beautiful there too.
C: In sadness, joy; in pain, hope. It's the Resurection.
(The soft picking of the guitar echoes in the melacholy night).

Although I have not been drunk in a very, very long time...


What Kind of Drunk Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

I love being towed. Especially 1100 miles. After almost a week of struggling I finally gave up. I think the Rabbit is lake-bound, and does not mean I'm going camping. Oh well, what can you do? I am dreaming now about buying a nice, new black something: Mercedes, BMW, Porsche; you know, something cool. Ha! I am getting to that point most mechanics reach in thier lives when the idea of working on a car throws them into violent fits and convulsions. But I still love cars. It's sick, I know.

I sit on my hood in the parking lot. The sun is beating down hot and dry; drying out a throat that is already coarse and choked. Slamming the pathetic piece of trendy plastic that people call a phone these days further into my ear, I try to understand the developing conversation. It's funny how sometimes the more a person talks the more unreasonable they become. I am referring to myself. For such a long time now that I am not even sure where it started, I have been haunted by weird unrest and the feeling that my own difficulties separate me from my friends. There is searching, and then there is just inexplicable restlessness. Life does not have to be this serious. Getting up I walk toward the store, but I never get there. Instead I find myself squatting against a shady wall. And old couple pass me by. I am arguing, but I alternately feel right and completely, stupidly wrong. The old couple walks by again. And again. And I am less reasonable than ever. Why is it that the best friend are the most at odds. It seems like the more you care, the more you are at each other's throats. My phone is dying, so I brave the heat and make for the car and the precious charger. Weird pauses. We are both fumbling for apologies and last-minute, defensive jabs. There is hope, but there desperate fear. Losing a friend can feel like the world is coming apart at the seams. The endless silent echo of a sharp 'click'. Alone I am surprised at my selfishness, at the confusion I feel. After all, doesn't life go pretty well generally, and don't people often ask me for advice? O, I feel stable and confident then! But where now is this surety? Where have my convictions gone? Leaving the parking lot I curse. I don't even go into the store to get the shoes I needed. The only thing that matters now is to solve this problem. As I drive, (a little too fast) I am faced with reality. It is a reality I have observed in the past but somehow forgotten. Struggling I pray for strength. (Am I more messed up than most?)It comes to this: It is not about your own opinion or whether you were right or wrong...no. Where is your heart? That is what matters. Do you want to gather up the broken pieces of yourself, glue them carefully back together and build greater fortifications for the next time? Or do you wish to find truth. To be humble. To forgive. To be willing to be wrong. To change...There are clouds now, and the day is not so hot; it is quite beautiful in fact. I drive toward that absurd little farm that home for now I try not to think about all the stresses of the next couple of days. The sky is so pretty. Perhaps friends are more resilient than I thought. Perhaps if I call him back...