Haiku S1:E1

In the bog they march

Churning compost as they go

Nervous of gunfire

Pin drop

I want to go back to a time
when I could skip forward in line
hop up on that platform
tell the operator I may be short
but in the end who cares, I'm fine

I'm holding on tight as it climbs
quads clenched
chest tight
my breath I just can't seem to find

the pin drops
I stick my arms out
let go of it all
skip forward in time
yeah, now I'm flyin

Evaporatively condense

Evaporatively condense;
an oxymoron
who lives on the highway side
along my property line
bordered by intricate trees
swirled into the fabric of an
expansive aluminum fence

Blow Dart Meat Slap

“Honey, I just woke from the darkest dream.”

“I believe it. You were snorting.”

“No.”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“We were on our honeymoon-”

“That's your subconscious telling you how much of a catch I am,” she interjected with a smile.

“You'll probably want to wait and hear what else it thinks about you. Also, it was like you had that ready to fire at me at any moment.”

“Maybe. Did you know you mumble in your sleep sometimes? I find it enduring when you mumble. It's like the words in your head are held captive during the day and are forced to strategize an escape plan while the guard is asleep. You know, because you're such a quiet person when awake. It doesn't bother me you're so quiet. It's just what I know about you.”

“Okay. So, honeymoon on beach chairs and lounging under umbrellas on an exotic beach somewhere tropical. It was cliché. I was shielding my eyes from the reflection of the sun on the bleach-white sand. I complained about it to you and asked if Clorox sponsored this stretch of beach. You looked up from your book and then went back to reading.”

“Sounds like something you'd say.”

“So next thing I know we are walking out towards the shoreline. An unspoken connection rings in my head to the beach scene I imagined while reading the first chapter of Jurassic Park. The scene that didn't make it to the movie. Anyways, the water is still and I watch a few sandpipers dig with their beaks. I get really abstract in my thoughts and see the world from underneath the sand looking upwards as their tiny beaks penetrate into this now inverted world. I think it was my subconscious telling me that you are fertile.”

“Nope,” she says firmly.

“I snap out of the bird thought with the beach having transformed and resembling that beach we went to out on the coast in Oregon. I can't see more than 20 feet out on the ocean through the darkness of low clouds. The wind is soft and moist. To our backs, clouds are rolling in across a barren landscape and we spatially lose track of where the chairs are. It's hard to determine if the sun is out or not. I can hardly make out a figure walking towards us in the mist but I can see that his clothes look like a bad Hollywood film on aboriginals. Tattered wash rags and crap. He gets closer and the clouds instantly disappear as he opens a velcro pouch from his board shorts and takes out a syringe of heroin. The bright sunshine is back.”

“Wait. How'd you know it was heroin?”

“It said heroin down the side like he had taken one of those label guns to it. So he asks if we want to buy any. I tell him no and he walks off.”

“Cool story.”

“So the guy comes back after some time. I'll try and hurry this up if you have somewhere better to be.”

“Sorry. Voldemort is trying to kill Harry and I'm way too into this book,” she explains.

“This aboriginal dude is back with another syringe of heroin and this time he doesn't take my answer of no very well. He produces a blow dart tube thing from behind him like he was anticipating me saying no. He loads the gun with a dart of heroin and brings it up to his mouth. He takes aim at you and I'm frozen. I feel his breath as he takes in air. I contemplate the amount of pain I would suffer if somehow I ended up blocking his dart with my hand. I'm watching his eyes on you as he follows your movements like a hunter following his target; factoring in all courses you might take in escape. His cheeks puff and the sound of the dart impacting your bicep is disturbing. It sounded like when I prep the chicken for grilling. Meat slap. I freak out as I see the plunger push all the heroin into your body. In an instant you collapse and I'm stuck with the dilemma. Do I chase and beat the life out of this crazed local or do I watch as you overdose? Like what the hell could I possibly do? I can't suck it out.”

“What did you do,” she asks.

“No idea. I woke up.”

Explosions in the night

It happened again last night. Around 2am I woke and walked into the bathroom and the creepy tangles of my subconscious tickled the arches of my feet. I'm about to admit something to the Internet in the hopes that I am not entirely alone in this.

So here goes. In my sleepy mind I fear that an earth-ending explosion is imminent. I brace for it in a collected manner similar to someone extremely high on mushrooms forcing themselves to believe that the hallucinations are just that, hallucinations. Flushing the toilet triggers this feeling of impending chaos and it makes zero rational sense to my awake brain when I remember it later, but it happens nonetheless.

Imagine how you would feel in a haunted house as you approach a closed door. Come on! You know the scream is gathering force in your throat as you go to turn the knob. Now inject that spike of adrenaline into your veins and try to go back to sleep. The craziest part about all of this is that I am perfectly fine walking through my house in pitch black at any other point. Wake me up and ask me to go pee in the middle of the night though and I just might become hyper alert to the nothingness outside and think a nuclear bomb is set to go off in the col da sac. 

I've also had a slightly different version happen to me where I fear the collapse of everything around me. Stuff like the walls beginning to hum and out of the darkness comes an ear-piercing wail of a spirit from some realm unknown to mankind. I'm weird I know. I blame it on being told to be creative. Letting go and thinking about the irrational is fun sometimes though. 

Jesus figure in the sand

While climbing along on some wind-swept refuse on my lunch break, I had an odd encounter that might be worth sharing. I make it a habit to walk the ten minutes down to a small beach front on days when the sun is out. Strong winds from the night before lined the shoreline in smooth timber and junk. A rough looking man was digging about, separating and unwinding the sun-baked and awful smelling clumps of sea grass.

Distance has always been difficult for me to judge and this vantage point, nestled comfortably underneath the tendrils of a tree hardened by the salinity of the salt, I sit and look out on the islands. Western Washington University's campus slumbers peacefully to the east like a Goliath tucked and comfortable on the hill with its brick toes jutting out from low-hanging fog. To the west I often lose myself in the scale of color gradient that is Lummi Island, but now we are getting off topic.

So this man, he comes to me. His beard is a mixture of white and gray hair that is maintained at a short length. A center ring of of dark coffee-colored whiskers perfectly matching the outline of his lips provides juxtaposition. He is kempt but also holding a majority of his life in a trash bag.

Anyways, he is excited at his find of a Jesus figure in the mess. Look look what I found man! Looks like someone carved this from a solid piece of wood. I say to him that I find it odd that the arms are missing. He laughs and asks if the owner would mind if he kept it. I tell him probably not. This man, being the talkative type, begins to tell me about the bowling ball he once found on this very same stretch of beach. A bowling ball I asking him incredulously. He says yeah man. People on the islands are known for shooting bowling balls from cannons out into the bay. I am laughing now but not at him. I like what he has to say and how excited he is about it. He quickly ends his sentence about the islanders blasting these balls and hurries in the next sentence about how this bowling ball was probably from some rich fucker who missed a strike on his yacht out in the bay and threw the ball overboard in rage. He tells me this like he had been waiting to share this story with someone for years. It flows off his tongue like he had been rehearsing it. He hit me with the setup and then spiked the ball over the net all without me knowing what happened. Thinking back on it, no wonder he was so excited—he finally got to tell someone that little thing that made him laugh when he first thought of it.

Bruxism

Bruxism (Noun): the habit of unconsciously gritting or grinding the teeth especially in situations of stress or during sleep

I notice it immediately. A person who wishes to label everything with textbook definitions would call it "bruxism." The masseter muscle quaking at the back of the jaw; thoughts hard at work. It's not unattractive when I catch someone unknowingly doing it. I just wonder how pitted their teeth must be.

Cairn

Cairn (noun): a pile of stones that mark a place (such as the place where someone is buried or a battle took place) or that shows the direction of a trail

After having been on the trail for three weeks, she was excited to review the photos she had captured of her solo trek across the Peloncillo Mountains. She relived the highlights, smiling as she clicked from frame to frame. This photo, she thought to herself, is one I don't recall taking. Her skin became flush with heat. In the foreground, a small cairn of rocks with her white underwear like a snow-capped mountain sat waiting for this moment. An eerie touch to an already creepy photo of her sitting at a campfire. She was unaware a stranger had lifted her camera, taken this photo, and returned it to her pack. She sat staring at the screen as waves of unsettling fear came over her. She had not seen another person the whole trip.

Bivouac

Bivouac: Noun - A temporary shelter or camp

In the black of night he illuminates the altimeter strapped to his wrist. It reads 7,000 feet. This reconnaissance mission hinges on stealth. As he counts down the seconds before pulling the cord, he gathers his bearings. Hostile forces are bivouacked on naked bluffs overlooking a serpentine canyon 40 degrees north. In the cold winter air, light pollution from their camp glows through a haze of campfire smoke in the sky below him like crimson bioluminescence in the late summer ocean. 

Firmament

Firmament (noun)- the vault or arch of the sky : heavens

It's early in the morning. He sits in a shallow clearing of tall grass some distance away from the back porch. Everyone is inside but he sits in the dew and takes clumps of wet grass to his face, roots and dirt and all. The shrooms he ingested are fully awake in his gut. He is supine and looking up at the flat firmament filled with green neon gas bubbling as if a cauldron of toxic waste is lodged between this world and one beyond, wondering how it would feel to drown.

If you're interested in writing a few sentences around this word feel free to post it.

Tailorwise

I thought it would be fun to find a random word and use it in a paragraph. This way my vocabulary expands AND I have a reason to write. Not that I don't have plenty of content to write about, it's just that I am reeling back on the personal stuff.

So the word here is "tailorwise" and yes I use it immediately. Fight me about it I don't care.


The lone figure sits tailorwise; his right leg interlocked and woven tightly with the left. The crew demands blood and throw garbage at him. Call me what you want, but blind to liers I am not. With his back towards them, he is comfortable waiting out the riot. You're doing a terrible job at walking the plank, one of his shipmates yells. I ainght apologizing nor going swimming with the sharks so hoot and holler all ye want but I'm sitting right here, he replies.

Morgan Freeman teaches you how to make a fireplace fire

I was looking around on Youtube for some tips on how to make a great fireplace fire and stumbled upon this video, which is mildly amusing. I'm not going to try and fool you into thinking it's gold or anything. Morgan Freeman has his hands in just about every part of existence. Tis all I have to say about that.

In the dark my eyes become irritable and sensitive to light

In the night I wake sometimes with sensitive eyes.
Please excuse the following flop of words as I attempt to explain what I mean by "sensitive" eyes.
The room is always dark.
The time of night fluctuates.
I wake from a dream and am aware of how badly my eyes are sensitive to light (in the same way as coming out into a sunny day from inside a building).
My eyes are still closed at this point but are acting as if I am staring directly into the sun.
I must open my eyes to settle my mind.
The darkness helps.
I close my eyes and return to the blinding uncomfortable feeling.
Flashes of light fill my closed eyes as if lightning is striking just on the other side.
I open my eyes and close them numerous times to clear the flares.
This can go on for up to an hour.
I fall asleep and forget to write it down.

This is not a new occurrence.
I have a vivid memory of a younger me (less than 10 years old) in the bed at my grandmother's house. I am there and so is my aunt and cousin.
I have one of these light shows happen and take it as a sign from God.
I freak out.
As I am screaming and running to the bathroom to get away from the reach of whatever ethereal presence just wanted my attention, my aunt looks at me with a "what on earth is going on" look.
I should explain that my grandmother was an extremely religious individual.
It was not uncommon to get up to use the restroom late in the night and find her reading the bible at her kitchen table.
My less-than-developed brain thought God himself had reached down through my eyelids in a blinding display of power and that her house was a beacon for all things unexplainable and downright freaky.
I now know it's not God doing this to me.
My running theory is that I actually sleep with my eyes open and that after many hours they become so dry that closing them is painful.

When you hear a siren, say nothing

If this is you when hearing a police/medic siren: "I have to run, they're coming for me"  or even worse, "You better run, the cops are after you" there are some things I want you to know.

You're not creative. It's not funny. KNOCK IT OFF!

Those around you only acknowledge the words for the same reason trophies are given to young children in sports—so they feel better about themselves for putting on a uniform and being "on a team." Many Americans are too polite to tell you to shut that mouth of yours in person. Me included. So I will do it here. Shhhhhhh. Just don't say it. Let the sirens go by without a word and maybe I'll buy you pizza afterwards.

The only team you're on is the team I wish we could strap megaphones too so that you're stupid voice blasts in your own ear for a year straight. Say it one more time and it will be two years.

LOL. That is all

Did you lose a GoPro?

A few weeks back I mentioned finding a GoPro. I've just now found the time to post an ad on Craigslist about it. I will post the emails on this page when they come in. Hopefully someone responds...or someones respond.

Here is what the ad looks like.

I recently found a GoPro and would like to return it to its owner. The only fact that I will reveal to the weird world of Craigslist is that the GoPro was lost two years ago (according to the files on the memory stick). Okay, maybe I will also say that it is a Hero2 and the case has a loop of course twine for a handle (which clearly did not suite you well).

What I would like for you to do, if you think I have found your beloved GoPro, is to send me an email with what you were doing that fateful day. Be specific with information on: where you were, what actions were taking place, and whatever else you think might help me decide if this is indeed your GoPro.

Maybe you're a friend of the GoPro owner. Show this posting to him/her and have them email me.


In the mountains I wind
frigid and serpentine.
Peer under and take a closer look,
you'll see the rocks never stop.
Tempt me with an offering
of less than a sober mind,
I will swallow them whole
as I am not one to decline.

How long can you hold your breath?

Two nights ago I was in bed like people do when they're tired. Random is as random does and so I held my breath for as long as possible.

After the first attempt, which I thought went on for a respectable amount of time, I decided to time the next go on a stopwatch. In my younger years I swam at the pool quite a bit so holding my breath underwater the length of the pool and back was something I would practice. Anyways, to make a drawn out story shorter, I held my breath for two minutes.

I was elated that I held my breath for that long. I searched for the length of time the average person can hold their breath and was a little shocked to see that it was roughly 30 seconds. I've held my breath before and ended up falling somewhere around 45 seconds. What was different this time around? I incorporated a technique I overheard many years ago, which is to almost hyperventilate before attempting to hold your breath. The principle is similar to what cost Lance Armstrong his titles. The blood becomes super rich in oxygen, therefore allowing a longer period of time to lapse between needing to inhale. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_doping

So I researched ways to increase lung capacity and breathing exercises. One article I found said that you should expect to pass out during the exercises and to have people around you. It went on to comment that the average person might not see breath holding as a competitive sport. Maybe you've heard of free diving records (the deepest world record attempt in 2013 by Nicholas Mevoli was 236 feet. He died as a result...not from drowning, but from surfacing and losing consciousness).

This is an usual topic, don't you agree? So of course I dug a little deeper. Do you remember when David Blaine did his record attempt? He lasted 17 some odd minutes. Thinking about my midnight go at it and reaching the two minute mark with my lungs burning, I wondered how the record is set at 22 minutes? Turns out that you're allowed to hyperventilate on pure oxygen before attempting a world record.

And so concludes the topic of breath holding.

Please excuse my ignorance

I really don't understand the need for complex passwords online. I'm thinking about a specific website that makes me update my password every so often and it cannot be similar to a previous code and needs to contain two numbers and one symbol from the approved list and that symbol must come after the fourth letter but not following or proceeding a number. Okay so I made some of that up but I cannot be the only person frustrated with all the different password requirements.

If the point of a password is to protect me from people guessing my account, what's the deal with requiring such a specific password that I myself cannot remember unless I write it down? Am I crazy or isn't it all USELESS if you are the target of a keylogger (who will find out your password no matter how complex or simple you make it by tricking you into secretly downloading a program that allows them to see everything you type).

I may not fully understand how easy it is for someone to guess my password, but if I'm to protect my accounts from a random person using the computer after me, or even in my immediate area and close enough to spy on my fingers whilst I type in abc123Ihatepasswords...how are they capable of guessing my secret code? The possibilities are endless.

What I am getting at is that you aren't safe no matter how complex the password is. So if someone wants to "hack" your Facebook account, they're probably smart enough to do it and there isn't shit you can really do about it. So why do websites make you go through all these hoops (that ultimately drive me insane) to make me feel "secure" in the complexity of a password?

Just let me choose something I can remember and if I choose to involve numbers and symbols, let that be my choice and not a demand!

I also want to point out that the original designer of the password strength indicator that sometimes follows the input of a password to tell you how shitty your password is, is a DICK. I get the point. It's there to show you how little you tried. You can do better! But what if I don't want to? I guess I can always ignore it. But I live in America and god damn if I don't get offended at the brutal honesty of a single word like "weak".

I'm inviting you to educate me.

Why the American Bald Eagle is an asshole

So you know that bird that's the representation of all things America? I forget its name. Hold on, let me turn on Fox TV. No wrong channel. Just a bunch of meerkats eating beetles on that channel. Ah here we go. The Discovery channel. The "is running out of ideas channel" has a program they've been running for far too long now called the Deadliest Catch. Quick side question. How do you think fame has affected some of the egos on those guys? I can imagine that some are still humble but some are giant Macy's Day Parade floats with heads as distorted and bulbous as Goofy...or worse—Pikachu! That thing is almost pure round. HA

So my father knows some of the guys from that Deadliest Catch as he is in the marine electronics field up in Dutch Harbor. I bring him up in context of that show only for the geographical reference (okay secretly I like to snicker when he says Sig is a nice guy).

Here is what Alaska is like

I called him on the phone today and in between the lag that happens when two cell phones communicate from that distance he told me a story that made my eyes water with laughter.

RETURN OF THE BALD EAGLE! So he tells me that yesterday he was walking from building to building in town and had his hat and glasses ripped from his head. The way he described it is what made me laugh. Let me take a quick detour and explain my father. He is simple and humble. Okay so he tells me this bird smacks him in the back of the head and he thinks to himself what the heck. Given that this is not his first year up in Dutch Harbor he quickly assesses that the thump was the result of talons from an eagle grasping at his hat. The bird flies off but not too far. It perches itself on a light post and my father proceeds to wait. In his wisdom he just waits. He knows the bird will eventually release his hat and glasses from his clutches. Plus he really likes that hat (which to add further depth to his character, you need to know was free...maybe 10 years ago).

I laugh at this part as I imagine this bird (do you fully grasp just how large bald eagles actually are? Try an 8 foot wing span) looking down at my father and almost taunting him. He takes the hat and glasses into one foot (what do you call bird feet? When I think of feet I certainly don't think of several inch-long razor-sharp talons) and dangles it. I got yo bitch ass hat Todd, what you gon' do 'bout it?

The bird eventually drops the items and they both go on with their day.

He then tells me about a person who was attacked (let's face it, probably the same stupid bird) and badly. This time the eagle used those talons to dig into the scalp of this poor person and did some work. Anyhow, the person goes to the hospital and gets stitches. On the way back to their house the bird strikes AGAIN. I laugh but also cringe at the thought of a 15+ pound bird dropping down onto my head a fierce battle cry and hot serrated blades.

This is my father. Bald Eagle for scale.

Because shit is funny

Did you miss me?

I'm back from a writing hiatus. Insert a terribly trite metaphor of explosions and flames to welcome me back, only slightly modified and supercharged with a gurggle of lasting unburnt fuel in the exhaust system of a new Corvette Stingray (because DEAR HIGHER POWER that car is excellent looking). 

I have new ideas and several directions to test out. If you know anything about me though, you might know that my commitment level to creative idea is about as lasting as seasonal allergies. I sneeze out ideas and keep sneezing until there is a waste bin (thank you brother) containing all the wonderful words that came to me. Then I let them sit and stew. The warm runoff bleeding through the fibers of individual pieces and adhering to one another, through the bonds only clear snot can achieve, like layers of an abstract art piece I think about making but don't. This process is important to me because it's during this stage that I romanticize my crusty tissues, only to abandon them once the season of headaches and itchy nose has passed. Ahhhh....Summer!

So over the past two months I have traveled. 

I pulled off many memorable Hemmingways (my newest favorite way to drink wine and nap in the sun). 

I visited San Diego and saw some fish and managed to calculate out some dance moves at my childhood best friend's wedding. 

I've thought about what I want to be and how I want to live.

I failed at coming to any conclusion(s) on the above mentioned topics.

I watched a very good friend of mine graduate from a Nursing program, which my girlfriend will be starting in the Fall, and began composing a speech for her day of graduation (that she is very excited to read).

Lucas and I went on a few hikes and runs.

I thought of the perfect way to commit suicide. Don't worry, it was just my scumbag mind toying with me. I know I'm not the only one that this happens to.

I watched all of Wilfred and enjoyed nearly every second of it (minus that awkward bit when the dog and Ryan make out).

I've been inspired by the people in my life.

I came to the conclusion that I hate writing for others but must do so to earn money.

I fell more in love with my girlfriend by exposing both of our weaknesses and putting in work.

To welcome me back I've hired Eminem to do up a song of his. 

Cloudy Bellingham

This past week I capitalized on some free time and went for a bike ride on the Raleigh. Ski to Sea is coming up in less than a month now and my legs haven't peddled a bike very much in the past year, so I swapped the clipless pedals from the Cannondale and put them on the commuter for a work out. Riding is a relaxing time for me but doesn't get to happen all that often anymore. I have become a "fair weather rider" which means I am lazy. A few years ago when I was riding religiously, I would BLOW past someone I thought looked like a fair weather rider as fast as I could to prove a point: I ride more than you. When I was in shape it made me feel good to spot someone in the distance and make it a goal to pass them in a certain time (there isn't much to really entertain a person when you're on a bike for 3-4 hours) and then actually pass them. I am getting too far off topic though.

So the other day the sun was out and I was on the bike. Happy. When I ride, and this has always been true, I look around. The experience of riding along a country road outside Bellingham, with cows munching the greenest grass in a field that undulates in no particular set rhythm, Mt. Baker in the distance as a scale for size, one isolated tree for shade in the middle of nowhere, and the pulse of a hot road giving off heat in waves. It's splendid isolation.

When the clouds are out, which is nearly every day, I look at those too. This brings me to the reason for this post. I was on the bike and close to home when I spotted a cloud formation I had not ever seen before. The kickstand went down and I parked the bike on the side of the street, grabbed my phone out of my pocket and turned down the music. The wind quickly ruined the formation, and by the time I got home it was gone altogether.

Clouds are magnificent. Bellingham has an endless supply of variety and after seeing this formation I want to study and know the different types of clouds. It sounds a little odd and possibly really dorky to know the different cloud types, but that's okay. Some people know the stats of a football player (who am I kidding...these people probably know the stats for nearly ever person in the league!) so why can't I know what causes our atmosphere to produce an array of different clouds. Yeah...still dorky. HA