Oh Shit

My brother is going to Iraq.

I Still Have Nothing

This one was simply titled, "Dream." I think it was for a writing practice in my creative writing class or something...

He was in the house again. He was alone, but he was not really alone. It was there too, somewhere, hiding in a womb of shadow. Everything in the house seemed old and reeked of mildew. Each step he took chased the inch thick dust to take flight from the floor. In the darkness something skittered across the floor. Claws clicked against the ancient wooden boards of the floor.
“It always begins this way,” He thought to himself sadly as he stared at the bare walls of the room. “A gentle noise, then I go look behind the old torn up couch.”
From somewhere a couch came into being in the center of the room. Like everything else in the house it radiated an aura of age. A slight figure was lying on the ground on the other side of the cracked green vinyl, only a dark-skinned back showed from behind the sofa.
Something in the back of his mind told him, “I am for looking at,” as though it was a museum curator labeling a piece of art.
Events were going as they always did in his dream, but something seemed different. Everything seemed more real, as though someone had gone through the house and filled in the empty spaces with matter. He could feel the wood clicking underneath his heels and his nose burned from the dust filling the air. A heavy musk permeated the air. It was the creature’s strange perfume. The stench peaked as he rounded the corner. He didn’t want to, but the siren’s call of the beast pulled him on. His feet marched to a slow, pulsing rhythm of the monster’s death-call.
Every part of him knew this was in fact a dream, yet every piece of his being screamed in terror of the thing. His stomach clenched painfully and he was nearly crying as he rounded the final part of the green wall that shielded him from the thing. He murmured a final plea for help and for an end to the echoing walls of the house, but there was no one there to hear it.
Behind the couch the beast sat, doglike. It seemed to be made of congealed shadows, an ectoplasmic horror of darkness and sin. It gibbered and bubbled a lunatic giggle as it slowly grew fangs and a pair of shining ochre eyes for which to stair at him. Bits of its inky skin fell off in quivering lumps as it grew spines from its hide. He knew he knew he should be running now, before it could chase him, but his dream held him in place.
The tarry black mastiff stood up and stared at him, but again the dream had changed. It did not lunge towards him and begin their nightly chase; instead it merely glared at him and smirked with gelatinous jowls.
Its heavy black lips curled back and began to speak. Its horrible mouth moved without the consent of the rest of its face, twisting and curling upon the thing like a pile of worms. It stated, “Tonight this ends. Come to me childe.”
The hidden hand of the dream unclenched from his legs as he stood back from it. He stared for a moment, struck. It does not speak. It never speaks. He glanced at the door he had run to many times before. He wanted to scream as he charged at the old oak door. He flung it wide and ran to the next door he saw. The handle refused to move as he frantically clawed at the door. This was the part he hated the most. He hated the helplessness of nowhere to run and no one to help him. All he could do was run down an infinite hallway of unopening doors. Each door was the portal to salvation, and every door refused him. Every knob that refused to turn was another step the thing gained on him. He could feel its slick breath run down his neck.
He shouted at the doors to let him pass. He begged for someone to open them to him. No one would save him. He looked behind him as he ran down the endless corridor, ignoring the hateful doors. The creature was slowly prowling behind him. It seemed to effortlessly trot behind him, always gaining and in no rush to catch him. It panted sticky foam from its face as it began to rush after him, it was scared now.
The old wood of the house creaked as a door folded out in front of him. Light blazed from behind it. Somewhere far off he was sure he could hear the slow voice of a woman singing. He lunged at the door, barely catching silver form of a lily etched upon it in his peripheral vision. The creature leapt through the door in pursuit.
They were in a room of light. Cool white marble had replaced the old wood of the house, and the monsters oily feet skittered on the smooth floor. The bright light emanated from a sword resting in the middle of the room. It was not just any sword, it was the sword, and it was every sword. It was Excalibur, it was Durandal, Naegling, Kusanagi, and Balmung. He ran to the blade and lifted it, and the beast stopped.
Somewhere he could hear the soft hush of running water as he hefted the axiomatic sword. Now he could see the fear in its eyes, and he felt a rush of hate within himself. He screeched and lunged at the thing. Every muscle tensed with the pain and rage of the continual fear the thing had trapped him in with their nightly ritual as he brought the weapon down into its filthy body. The creature vomited black blood-pulp of its innards from its abomination mouth and the man’s lips grew into a smile of spite.
“I win you bastard.” He grunted as he brought the sword down upon its body over and over. Each stroke came faster and harder as the thing’s bile stained deep into the immaculate marble of the room. Then it was done, and he felt dizzy from the exertion.
He looked down as the creature melted away. Its pitchy skin slid away to reveal a human figure underneath. It was a naked man, covered with deep wounds. He realized that the man on the floor was himself.
The man on the floor looked up and told him, “I am a portent.” Then he faded to dust.
Again, he was alone. He looked around the bright room, and now it seemed to have a layer of unclean matter beneath it. It was lurking underneath the suddenly dingy marble. He dropped the sword, and its luminescent blade bit deep into the rock. Somewhere the woman’s voice still sang and the thin stream still murmured. But there were no doors to this room, and he wondered how he would get out.
The alarm screeched at him and he awoke confused and drenched with sweat. Far away the woman still sang in his head, slowly growing dimmer as the dream faded away from his consciousness.
“Today is not gonna be a good day.” Hazen said to himself as he put on his faded jeans.

This is my brother. He is a soldier in the Army. He fights to keep us safe from the Union.


This is Samuel, he is my great to the nth power grandfather who actually did fight to keep people safe from the union. Before my brother got some meat on his face the resemblance was stronger.

Content

I'm having trouble thinking up content for the site. (Actually, I'm just having trouble thinking, period.) So I'm just going to start dredging up old files and stuff the likes of which you people have never seen before!

To start, here is a file titled "Ork not-quickie." Enjoy!

A young boy stood before me, his thick lower lip quivered, pouting, with his long canines pressed hard against his upper lip. His forehead was smeared with blue paint made from crushed berries and the smooth grey mud from the bottom of the river. It would stain his green skin an odd dark teal for a week at the very least. His father, Phumbaabaa, stood behind me and glowered with disappointment. The child looked as though he might cry, which would only worsen his situation, but he stood firm.
I decided to tell him a story.
“A young orc was in the woods, he was alone, but not scared. He was always a brave child…” I began.

“The orc boy beat his way through the forest, not at peace with it. You see, he was not really at peace with anything at that time. He felt that he lived for the fight and he had no higher aspirations that to be the strongest warrior in all the land, much like you Brahgaabaa. He stood firm with his weapon at hand as he beat his way through the brush. You see, a fire had not swept out the valley in many seasons, and the lesser plants had begun to take over. This was a much easier year. Anyway, he fought the scrubby green plants as he made his way through the woods, making sure to keep his weapon clean of any leaf litter that might cling to it. The boy was unaware that he was being hunted by someone.
There were signs, of course, the occational snapping of twigs, the shuffling noise of feet in the dead leaves. Even the birds in the trees tried to warn the boy that he was being stalked by an unknown enemy with their twittering and tweeting. They knew to avoid the hunter in the trees. Of course, the boy did not hear the signs over the sound of himself fighting the forest, so it was an easy matter for the hunter to chase the boy until the boy fell into his trap.
The boy was lost in the wash of green. Trees loomed over him like drunken giants, swaying in the slight breeze that washed over the valley. They seemed to attack him too, but like I said, he was not at peace with the forest yet. He was surrounded by their tall, thick bodies and their creaking, groaning sighs.
I do not know why, I assume the boy was becoming frightened by the forest, or maybe he knew, with some untapped second sight, that there was something was following him. Maybe he stopped making such a wretched racket in the bushes that he could hear something other than himself— I don’t know and it isn’t really the point. He began to sing the warrior’s song his mother had taught him.

I am flesh,
My will is stone,
Hungry worms won’t take me home.
You are weak,
And I am strong,
Our new battle won’t take long!

He had most of the words wrong, actually, but he managed to make it rhyme, and he had a good singing voice. It was strong, like the words of the song he half-invented said. They say that Shelragk the wanderer helps those who sing in the forest, that he would give a blessing to those who sing songs that he likes. Maybe if the boy sang something more fun, dirtier, Shelragk would have heard him that day. But he didn’t, instead he sang his half-song and only his hunter listened. If the boy did not sing so loud maybe he would have heard the hunter laugh at him in the trees, but he did not.”

“This boy is not clever. I feel I should make that clear to you,” I said to the boy, winking with my yellow eye. I knew he would not understand the irony of the statement, and his father was too embarrassed to be angry with me now. I continued.

“Eventually the boy made it into a clearing, and was very grateful that he was freed from the prison of the trees. So focused on the grassy, open place he did not notice the bent ash that was not but a few feet to his side. He stepped out of the trees and with a twang and a snap he found himself upside down, dangling from a tree by a piece of rough rope. He dropped his weapon and wailed in surprise.
His hunter walked out of the trees and smacked him across the face with a wet, muddy bladder on a stick, like the one in your hand there.”

“You are probably wondering why I told you this story, like you do with most of the stories I tell you when I ramble on like an old man like this,” I said to him. He nodded and I felt like cuffing him upside his head. The children now do not have enough respect to lie to their elders. Anyway, I said to him, “I told you this story because the boy was your father, Phumbaabaa, and I was his hunter.”
The child’s eyes lit up when I said this, and I nodded, trying to look sagely. I could feel Phumbaabaa shrinking behind me. I said, “You see, there is more to fighting that simply being stronger than your enemy. You must also be tricksy. You must fight with your mind before you even begin to fight with your hands. Now, who beat you? Was it Thrashk, Grashk’s son? He seems like the kind.”
The child nodded. I nodded. Phumbaabaa rolled his eyes a bit behind me. I can tell. The child asked, “If you were more clever than father, why is he chief and not you?”
I chuckled at this, and at the angry growl Phumbaabaa released at it. I replied, “Because he learned, just as you will, with time…”
I would have continued, but Phumbaabaa interrupted me. I was actually surprised he had not said anything earlier. He said, “Who says that Krage is not the chief? I am chief only in title. Krage has become worse than your mother, he has. He nags me unbearably until I do what he has told me to do. Krage is the one who runs the tribe, he only lets me act as chief because I have not killed him yet.”
I decided that day to tell better stories about Phumbaabaa for a many nights after that.

On This Episode of University of Minnesota- M

Bill Hunt must go Super Corduroy to defeat the evil King Kouch!

Now that the world is safe I can return to my life of obscurity!

Today

Got new license plates. They aren't impressive. The important part is that getting new plates meant I could shoot at the old ones. :-)

Yay.

So we bound them together with duct tape and blasted them. It was pretty neat to see how the bullet deformation increased with each plate, so the hole got bigger each time until the backmost plate was in a pretty bad way.

Also have some targets that look like squirrels (my natural enemy in the wild) but they only have about a 2" target zone on each of the three squirrels on the sheet. They were very dead by the time I was done, just very few actual target hits. I have an odd tendancy to shoot them in the ass. I've gotten some great clusters... just on the ass.

Dunno.

Otherwise my life has been pretty boring. Now I have to get the smell of solvent and oil off of my hands.

Old File I Found

Failure

To the deep mountain forest I have come,
And to the glorious muse I pray,
That my words might dance to Pan’s pipes and drum.

I sit upon the highest rock.
The hazy blue sky encircles me,
And to me the mountain spirits flock.

Is this where dryads live?
Is it here that the faerie-kin play?
Is this where the nymphs of the trees...
What’s that squirrel doing?
Never mind… Where was I?

I listen to the eternal song of sweet Persephone.
Her enchanting melody elevates me through the forest,
And allows me to touch the souls of every tree.

In my trance I stare away into the depth of the wood,
And I feel the spirits of the animals that reside within,
The fox, the deer, the bear, the wolf, the hawk, the owl …a squirrel…
Go away!

It is from my enlightened seat,
That I view the many wonders of this ancient grove.
Anxiously, the secrets of the forest I greet.

What perfect thought does the pine’s whisper convey?
It sings a hymn against the cruel encroachment of the city,
Their concrete tombs block even the light of day.

For it is in these earthen depths in which the Old Gods hide,
The King in Yellow, the Man of the Silver Mountain,
And the venerable Lord Oberon here reside.

They call to me to join their court,
To declare me their Knight Errant,
And to make the lives of their squirrel
- damn it- enemies short,

They bid me to save the gods’ great grove.
To protect their hallowed halls from the engines of man,
For to them it is nothing but a banal treasure trove.

Then in the bushes below something moves,
Is it bold Satyrane come to hold palaver with me?
No, it is that stupid squirrel again.

The spell is broken,
I realize my ass has gone numb.
I am cold and hungry.
All I have to show for my trouble is some pretty words and no truth.
I’m going home.

Damn squirrel…



---

This was just an expression of my distain for certain forms of poetry that I made for my creative writing class. Figgered I might as well post it. I've been deleting files and I stumbled across it.

Quick

So, I'm sitting around at my computer at 3 in the morning looking up pictures for backgrounds on my desktop when a thought popped into my head:

Dolly Parton seems like a really nice lady.

Just though you needed to know that.

The Adventure of Panzerfaust

Sunday. The day of rest. Families go to Church. Football fans go to couch. Travel slows and businesses close. Sunday is a day of rest for everyone, but not Panzerfaust. That's because this Sunday was the day that they would come for him.

Panzerfaust sat in his tube, his world colored orange by the walls of his prison. He inhaled from the butt of a Camel. It took him two months to get the drag he wanted. Two months of escaping, stealing, and concealing, to get the cigarette and match he would need for one last puff before the real work began.

"Smooth..." He murmured to himself. Anyone who was listening heard, "Squeaksqueaksqueak."But he wasn't talking for them. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear any voice but his own. It kept him sane.

He finished the shoddy remains of tobacco just before a pair of thick fingers picked him up by the scruff of his neck.

"Here we go." He stated, grim and determined that they would go down before he did.

"MR. SQUEAKERS! MR. SQUEAKERS! MR. SQUEAKERS!" The shrill, booming voice of the children exploded in his ears. They would die, painfully, but not now. He needed them to put him down, and he knew they would. They revelled in watching him run frantically away from their clumbsy feet.

Panzerfaust hated them. In the old country, they lowered him on a rope from the streets to drop molotov cocktails on Nazi tanks. He was a hero. Here, he was a pet to some yuppies shitty children.

God, I hate them all. He thought to himself. If a psychic was nearby, they would have tuned into "squeak squeak squeak" but there wasn't. He was as alone as he always was, and always had been.

Just before they put him down, and he could make a break for it into the tunnels he had etched out over the years of his incarceration, they dropped a woman on the ground in front of him. She was a Dutch Longhair, pure white, a rare breed after the Nazi rats flushed out their people. She had the prettiest eyes Panzerfaust had ever seen. Of course, he hadn't seen anyone in years. The children put him down in front of her.

This left Panzerfaust with many options. "I could run and ignore her, I could wait and find a way for both of us to get out together, or..." Panzerfaust realized what he would do. He rushed her and bit out her throat as fast as he could, then bolted to his escape. He had realized that she would just slow him down, and he couldn't let them have a new captive.

I think I'll go to Prauge. He thought to himself as he relished the cries of anguish erupting from his tormentors. Someone there owes me big-big.

Panzerfaust, the Anti-Tank Hamster!

(Because JMJ made it look cool.)





Soon I'll start smoking or something because of him...

I've Got a Baby!

Right now he is about 3 pounds three ounces... I'm so happy... I oiled him today after playing with him for a little while.

Shot off 50 rounds. I managed to do about a 6" cluster once I got my shit together (which was quite a bit of shooting to get there). My dad did a 3" cluster on his first (and only) try. So, for you people out there who thought that the Ruger Redhawk was innaccurate. Fuck you. Admittedly, 6" is shit, but I'm not a very good shot. The gun is fine. I need to buy a couple of hundred more rounds.

Anyway, he doesn't kick much doing single fire. And he is so pretty...

Now I just need to think of a name.

Home Again...

Hey, I'm back home, staring at the x-mas tree.

Drive was long, and boring. Of course, it has been long and boring ever since I defeated the vicious, car eating plains worms and desroyed their ancient city.

Going to sleep soon.

Also, just to warn you, don't play Mario Kart alot. Because when you get a little tired from driving for a long time you hallucinate that the car in front of you just dropped a huge bannana in the road...

Sigh....

This Just In:

Door Frames 1, me 0.

Because Noe did it.

You are a Social Liberal (60% permissive) and an... Economic Conservative (60% permissive) You are best described as a: Centrist Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

So close to being a Libertarian... must make extra.... few.... steps... NOOOO! damnit.

Yea... I see you...

And I bet you see me.












No?





I'm around here somewhere....











Over there. On your frosty ass porch!







































Took you long enough... Hi. I'm a grumpy ass bird. Heck, I'm THE grumpy ass bird. I'm the one who chirps at 4 in the morning when you are trying to sleep. I'm the one who holds it until you wash your car. I'm the one who shoots for your forehead when you look up. To be short, I'm your worst God damned nightmare, punk.

Wanna fight about it?

Of course you don't. Your scared. Scared of all this. Maybe you watched too many Hitchcock films as a kid, I don't know, all I know is that you are over there making your shoes into a birdbath while I sit here, watching you do it. I bet you even crapped youself a bit. Your daughter is going to laugh at you and you will realize at that moment what a pathetic waste your life has been. The classes you've taken at the Y, your diploma at some cow college, your "loving" family, they are all meaningless wastes of time on a pathetic lump like you.

Oh, and so you know, my scrubby little bird dick is still bigger than yours is.

Bitch.

Just thought I'd drop by and let you know.

Say "Pudgy Bunny" to your wife for me, she'll know what you are talkin' about. I'll see you around... real soon.

Masks

It has been a long while since I last posted, but I had a deep thought of sorts...


Sometimes it takes a person a long time to fully realize how much they hate themselves.

Type One-- For some people it is easy, their environment has taught them that they are without worth. In fact, a lot of the time for those people they are taught to hate themselves for reasons that they really should not hate themselves for which only compounds the problem.

Type Two-- Others do realize they hate themselves at an early age, often for the same reasons above. They deny it, however, and continue to live their lives with only a slight hollow feeling that nags them when they go to sleep and have nothing else to think about.

Type Three-- Then there are the ones that don't realize that they hate themselves until far into their life, usually after their personality has caused some catastrophic event. (Say, they realize they are self destructive after subconsciously orchestrating a break up with a lover.)

Cases one and three aren't the most interesting to discuss. The first having been beaten to death by after school specials, and the third being fairly epiphanic (a word I made up derived from "epiphany") but caused mainly by retarded puppy syndrome (that is, they are devoid of instrospection to an extreme and cannot be or have not been spoken to about it either).

So, that leaves us with the second case-- the denial of self hate. Those who are of the second class generally have some set of personality traits they associate with unhappiness or simply "badness" or maybe "wrongness" that they either naturally want to suppress or have been taught to suppress via upbringing.

The classic example of this is the "heart of sin" where a puritanical sort desires to commit a sin (often lust), but cannot due to his morals. Or something. I'm really better at analogies then examples. Maybe take the Disney "Hunchback of Notre Dame" with the cardinal guy wanting the gypsy, but that fucking with him and making him creepy.

Where was I?

These people tend to wear masks, a "public face" that they don't hate. Some of this stems from a person's need to be accepted. Because they hate themselves they assume that everyone else will hate it too. This is a fairly mild form of self hate, and often is overcome when they are with a comfort group who they do not feel will judge them on the basis of their having that trait.

An example might be the attractive girl who acts stupid because the other pretty girls who act stupid are their friends and would face ostracism otherwise. See type 1.

Others have a more deeply embedded form of the mask. They simply enjoy being the other creature more than their real self. In a way the mask becomes reality. They've come to associate pleasure with the mask and pain with reality. They come to the point where to be happy they need the other reality.

Over time this mask becomes like reality to the point where the person forgets who he or she use to be, except maybe at night when there is nothing else to think about, or maybe (more commonly?) it becomes second nature to the point where they don't recognize the shift anymore. They are themselves one moment, then a person comes by and they immediately become the masked version. They accept the mask as a natural, even better part of their personality until one day they realize one day, in the rare moment of introspection, that they are putting on a mask. See type 3.

I think that nearly all self hate comes back in some way to the need to be accepted in some way. People are not confident enough to walk alone so they make up their new selves. In our society there is even a certain level of antagonism put on being strange or even being a loner. There is a myth that all people who are alone really just want someone to come and connect with them, and due to some failure of personality or logistics they simply cannot make that connection on their own power. (Like Beauty and the Beast.)

This is kind of like the Simpsons episode when Homer gets smart. Suddenly the community of lackwits ostracizes him because they are all stupid and complacent, and his smartness is perceived as a threat. Homer develops the want to be stupid because that makes him accepted and happy.

Our culture likes to think of itself as accepting diversity, but it really does not. Even the most devaint groups demand conformity to their own standards. They are often destructive, violent, or at the very least retarding when they pose as liberating and allowing the individual to be themselves.

What is most interesting is the few who do not put on masks to find acceptance. There are some who simply want to be the mask. They had some personality trait that they found, ultimately, to be disatisfying and attempt to change it. They want to be a better person. This is not uncommon, many people change who they are (for better or worse) due to the many trials and tribulations of life. Those who I am talking about don't change in the same way. They still have their normal selves, and even engage that part of themselves at times (like above). They now have multiple personalities, all of which answer to the same stream of conciousness. They crystalize facets of themselves in a way, and are often drastically (purposefully) different from one another. Not only does no element of one facet remain when another is in focus, but it also does things competely opposite what the other facet would do, or does things the other facet would not do.

Taken all of this, after a long time that person looks back at the various episode of their lives and realizes how much they have fucked up their life because of it, how unhappy they are inside because they have not dealt with the root behind the mask or because the mask has made them do things that they regret deeply.

I think this is partly because of the repression of our culture. Or mothers, fathers, peers, and other assorted figures of importance in our life often teach us behaviors that are opposite our nature which causes discord. Maybe they even teach us to fear expression. Others are caused directly by our own social nature. As I've said earlier, school life can just fuck people up. Part of it is definitely that some people are just plain fucked up.

And then part of it is that we aren't taught to actually be ourselves, to make virtue of our eccentricities. People are taught only to be themselves as far as it is to be socially appropriate. You can be yourself only superficially. You can be proud of a heritage, an interest, or that you have a minor but sometimes useful quirk. You can't be an odd fucker. Of course there are plenty of odd fuckers who are in fact dangerous and/or frightening to others. Those who stalk or peep, for example. I'm not talking about them. They can still go fuck themselves, although that is probably caused by some form of repression too.

Anyway, I'm getting off topic.

The basic fact of the matter is that some people just don't realize that they don't like themselves. They are abundant in self esteem only as long as the mask holds, and if something happens that makes them rememember what they mask they can become depressed.

So, for your own sake, spend a day thinking about how you act. When you interact with others wonder "why did I do that" or if you know it is a common behavior for youself "why do I do that" and try to be honest with yourself. Find the causal root to your personality(personalities) and wonder if you have a good reason to be the way you are or if they are caused by something that no longer applies. If it is the latter, and negative, try to change. Just stay concious of the way you act and work against your masks.

Just think about why you don't like yourself, and make it so that you aren't that person. Agree with you to actually change, don't just hide it for fear of discovery.

(This incoherent ramble has been written at 3:33 am, since my thing is set to Vatican time otherwise. Just to give an excuse for poor grammar and spelling as well as the general repetion of points and topics.)

WOW, I'M BORING!

Get Thee Hence!

Not a whole lot goin' on around here.

Mostly been a DotA playin' fool.

Went to Alex, that was fun. Lots of food there. I had muffins.

Dunno...

Started a new blog dedicated to DotA.

Woo.

Um...

Woo...

Fire!

Yet another bonfire. I smell really good... like burned stuff. It went really well. Also, there was lots of bratwurst. Not enough people ate it at the fire itself (they were cooked on four pronged harvester rakes) so we grilled at around three in the morning and ate more brats... mmm... brats...

It was nice to burn stuff again, although the logs mocked me. It turned out later that it was fucking ironwood that we were trying to cut through. It didn't go so hot. JM and I took about an hour to try to chop through one log of it, then we broke the stone we were splitting it on.

I chopped a log and the, log won.

Some Hicks showed up with chainsaws for their own lumber needs and chuckled at our newbishness.

But they didn't have brats.

Next time I'm just buying some fucking wood...