Arabian Afternoons

It's too early for
  This shit.
    Muffled bottles cracking
Show the Afternoon
    For what it's worth;
or
    What it could be.
Bottle caps protruding
  From the eyelids of
    The forgotten;
Of the wasted, lost
       And rich:
Tell the story of
    This night
      And this night
      In particular.
It's only the Afternoon, but
    What the night
      Has in store;
      What the night
      Waits for-
Is just what it
    Could be.
What with the
      "you've said this
        Before"
And the fizz on the
    Tops of what follows:
I never wanted more
    Than another's voice.
Another's look on
    How this glass empties.
And now I realize this
    Is well within my grasp.
You are with in my grasp.
And what happens between us,
    Is meant for the Gods-
What happens between us,
    Is viewed only by
      Fallen angels, who
Know what it's like
    To be lost.
      Who know not love,
      But the pain of
Children who never knew
    Their fathers,
Of the ghost of reason
    Popping in your head
        As the needle goes in,
And of lovers, who never
    Quite learned to love
      Eachother.

Then again,
    The night's still young.
        The drought not yet
        Drunk and my loves
    Not yet loved.

Minecraft Ending: What the What?

    So, I finally went through the End portal in Minecraft.  For those of you who don't know, it's a portal in a dungeon that sends you to another world.  You are faced with a dragon that you have to kill.  Once you do, however, the game supposedly 'ends' and you are taken to the credits screen.
     This is where it gets weird.  Instead of the usual credits, you are presented with a series of textual voices.  These voices tell you that you have been in a dream.  That the entire world you live in, not only in Minecraft, is the universe talking to you.  That your existence in Minecraft is not only a dream, but the world you live in playing the game is a game.  That the universe is a series of codes, that your body is composed of a 'code' called DNA.  And that you are everything the universe has to offer.  The quote that stands out the most is "You are love."
    What really gets me is the depth of the game that I have always thought to be meaningless.  The only thing standing between you and the void of nothing (which, is impossible to imagine) is a series of code that makes you who you are.  Not only that, but the perceptions of this code (you) is dictated by the vast void of the universe.  That, the only thing you know--reality--is just a series of codes and sequences that just happen to make you who you are.
    My first thought was, "how very Buddhist."  Since, this is one of the core beliefs in Buddhism.  One that I personally believe to be true.  As a Buddhist, this end sequence really spoke to me.  It told me not only what I already know, but what I have been wanting to validate.  I don't know if the creators of Minecraft are Buddhist, but I have a growing suspicion that they are.  The thing that gets me, yet again, is the sense that the things they are saying are true.  It's that feeling you get when you see bits of 'wisdom' from more than one source.  That is how you know this 'wisdom' is true.
    I put 'wisdom' in quotes because there is no real way of knowing if this is wise or not.  The only thing that qualifies it as 'wise' is the belief that it is so.  This, I know for sure.  It's the only thing that I know for sure: that there is nothing for sure.  Even then, the ending of Minecraft was something wholly unexpected.  From a game that has little to no story to come out and slap you in the face with more story than one of the weaker mindset cannot handle in one dose.
    Which, brings to mind that the only reason it was such a large dose of story in one sitting was there really is no story to Minecraft.  The whole point of the game is to make your own story.  Admittedly this is limited, but for me the ending sequence of Minecraft is more than enough story for this simple little game.  One thing is for sure: from now on I will look at Minecraft with a whole new and deeper light than I have before.  Minecraft is now on my list of favourite games of all time.

The Price Payed for Convenience

     As a child of the Internet, it is hard for me to fathom how technology affects the way we connect. On the one hand convenience of instant messages helps us to communicate with people halfway around the globe. On the other hand it hinders the thought put into a message. With the advent of the Internet, people are more apt to connect with people previously thought to be out of reach. My stand on technology is that there is a price to pay for convenience. The convenience we are privileged with is growing exponentially with the evolution of technology. What I have always been taught was there is no such thing as free. No matter what we do or how we do it, there will be consequences.

     Social media and electronic messaging defines the generation I am (somewhat) proud to call myself a part of. What we lack in quality we make up for in quantity. The sheer size of people we are “friends” with is astonishing by older standards. Take Facebook, most people on the social media site have between a hundred to thousands of friends. This was totally unheard of before the advent of the Internet because there was no way to keep up with all of those people. Although the advent of these social media sites have—for the most part—destroyed this generation’s memory and attention span. It was and still is perfectly possible to keep up with hundreds of friends without social media. Though even now I can say I don’t keep in touch with every friend I have on Facebook. This presents a question: how many people can we keep in touch with without social media? Taking the ones we see every day aside, I am left with one thing to do: ask my parents.

     I have heard from my parents—who grew up without the Internet or cell phones—that in their time they were forced to remember certain things such as phone numbers and addresses. That the only way to communicate with people outside of the regular crowd you hung around with was either phone or snail mail. And the only way to make those things worth your time was to put everything you had to say into one phone call or letter. This sounds to me like increased depth as opposed to the one-word-texts I so hate receiving. Today, however, no one has the need for those things, our cell phones and computers do it for us. Even the U.S. Post Office is suffering at the hands of technology.

     With the invention of the cell phone, what we used to have a pen and multiple notebooks for is kept in the small, preferably touch-screen device sitting snugly in our pockets. What's the price we pay for such a convenience, you might ask. From what I have seen and heard, when people have such a fancy device as an Iphone or Android, they tend to pay much less attention to what is going on in the real world. They are so focused on their phones, that they forget that there is an entire world around them!

     All in all, technology isn't all bad. In my book it just evens out to neutral. As I have said above, what technology lacks in quality it makes up for in quantity. That isn't saying that it is impossible to have deep, meaningful relationships over this ever expanding series of tubes. In fact, the convenience of technology multiplies the amount of depth in a conversation, with the right people. Those people are harder and harder to come by, it seems. I can't speak for the previous generations, but it seems to me that there are an increasing number of people who have no idea what a deep conversation is, let alone a relationship.

     The overall price of technology, social media, cell phones, and the Internet seems to be a decreasing number of deep relationships. The price payed for quantity is quality. That seems to be the overall rule in more than just human relationships. In the end, however, it all boils down to the choice of the user. If one chooses not to pay the price of depth for convenience, then it is his or her right to do so. Technology is nice, but the beauty of it is the ability to turn off the computer or phone and go outside to talk to people face to face.

Linux! I am here!

    I recently changed my OS to Linux Ubuntu.  And good god, I am loving it.  It's just so pretty!  And very user friendly, not only that but my computer runs SO much faster on it.  It was hard to change at first, and I had to go through a different version of Linux before deciding on Ubuntu, but I am glad that I did. 
   Alas, in my excitement I failed to back up all of my music.  Some number of gigs of music (including some of my own mixes) were lost into the void of cyberspace.  No big loss, really.  Except, it kind of is.  But it's fixable.  So, my question to you is: what are some good artists to download?  I would love anything electronic (dubstep, drum 'n bass, electro, house, etc.) also anything folk-y or indie.  I'm probably not going to sleep anytime soon.  Blasting Pandora until I can reclaim my lost files.  Not to mention I have SO much to explore in this OS!  So much fun.

Don't know what to do. (rant and reflection)

    I find myself sitting alone in my chair, not knowing what to do.  I'm listening to doom jazz, but all I can think is "fuck man, get it together, write something!"  But every time I try I can only squeeze out a few lines at a time.  I don't know whether I'm writing the right story right now, or whether I need to write at all.  Shit, I definitely need to get my shit together.  I've been sober a week now, though that feels like a sham.  I don't know what it is but every time I say, "wow, you've made it a week," I just have to go and fuck things up.  Goddammit.  The only thing I feel like doing right now is smoking.  Though I have the sorest throat anyone could imagine.  I believe I am sick.  I want to believe otherwise, but alas, I am sick.  I also got my girlfriend sick.  That I really regret.  I never want anyone to feel bad because of me.  No matter what.  Though I do have a holiday tomorrow, and am looking forward to some alone time.  It seems recently that I have had no time to myself.  As opposed to entire summers spent by myself.  Honestly I miss that.  Just spending a summer by myself, only hanging out with people when I felt the fancy.  I feel like I've changed so much over the past year alone.  I see things with different eyes now.  It's a strange feeling.  One that I have no words to describe it with.  One part of me loves the fact that I have changed, the other misses what I left behind.  And that doesn't mean I miss the drugs, I hate them now more than ever.  What I miss is the sense of irresponsibility that I had back then.  The sense that nothing mattered, no matter what I did.  And that I would face any consequence that came my way.  Well, the consequences are here, and I don't know what to do with myself anymore.  And again, part of me regrets doing what I did.  The other part doesn't because it made me who I am right now.  And to be honest I like who I am right now.  Addict or not, I like the Richard that I have become.  I've changed a lot, but most of the changes were for the better.  Actually, all of the changes were for the better.  You see, I've always been the kind of person to only avoid something if I know it is bad.  And I really believe now that all the things I have done in the past--drug related at least--were bad for me.  Only now do I realize that I have been a fool.  I have always been a fool.  But that's okay, because I am now trying to make myself a better person.  One step at a time.  I know now that I have to be responsible for the actions I make, good and bad.  I know now that any kind of drug is bad for me.  And I really regret doing anything that had me in an intoxicated haze.  But at the same time I don't.  Because that made me who I am today.  I would like to say I am wiser for what I have done.  Though I feel like now it's only a roadblock to my future.  And at the same time I feel like all of that was inevitable.  I am just happy that it happened when it did, when I had a safety net to catch me.  That I am eternally grateful for.  I can only hope that the rest of my life follows what makes me happy in the long run, not just in the moment.

Death Valley 01

Death Valley 01

     The desert sun blazed onto the desolate landscape.  Swanny wandered in and out of what lacked any word to describe it.  He tripped and staggered through the golden sand, left footprints in what he saw as carpet.  Swanny looks to the sun, saw every color in the rainbow, and it left him reeling.  His mouth was dry, he had been breathing through his mouth for the past few hours.  He mumbled to himself, as the colors danced in front of his eyes.  He needed water.  Only now was Swanny sure of the importance of that liquid.

     “This is one hell of a trip,” Swanny mumbled to himself.  “I need to go to that reservation more often.”  He was on a spiritual journey.  Swanny was a Native White American, he left much to be desired in the looks department.  Sun burnt eyes a crazy grey color that spoke volumes in a language that no one understood.  Average in height, with black hair, mangled and tangled under the desert sun.

     Swanny (his real name wasn’t really Swanny, but everyone called him that) crested a dune, and the whole of the Mojave opened up in front of him.  He needed water.  But he was too excited and high to have any forethought about this trip.  He wandered into the desert after drinking a foul tasting hallucinogenic liquid.  The desert sun beat down upon him like a scornful lover. 

     Thirsty, Swanny thought, over and over in his head until the only thing that they sky reminded him of was the ocean.  He fell down the side of the dune, tumbling through the sand.  Particles of sand filtered the sunlight gold and blue.  Swanny hit the bottom of the dune with a heavy squish.  He opened his eyes and found he was ankle deep in a pool of dark black-blue sludge.

     “Water!” he screamed with joy, and started shoveling the stuff into his mouth.  After a few shovelfuls of this sludge, Swanny felt more disoriented than his original state.  The lightheadedness caused him to fall face down in the muck.  The bubbles around his head slowly died.

     The sun was low on the horizon in the town of Dusty Shades, “The biggest small town in the Mojave!”  The shop keeper, Gary, had just closed up his general store/gas station/bookstore.  He looked toward the sunset, and saw a black dot shamble toward town.  He squinted to see it better, but couldn’t see what it was.  He shrugged his shoulders and went about his business.

     Later that night Gary was awakened by a bloodcurdling scream.  He leaped out of his single bed, grabbed his revolver and headed toward the epicenter of the noise.  When Gary reached the road, he was shocked.  Mrs. Wordswoth was spread-eagled on the road.  Her neck bitten out and blood still erupted all around her like a geyser.  Gary looked around and saw the figure of a man, who was shambling farther into town.  The figure became illuminated by the lights of houses turned on to investigate the scream.  It was a man, but this man was covered in what appeared to be lint with his mouth gone, replaced by a huge black bulbous boil.  Gary ran closer, but kept his distance, this man was dangerous, he could tell.  He killed Mrs. Wordsworth, he didn’t know how, but he was the only culprit. 

     The man moaned, loudly at the lights being turned on in the night.  Gary, who was always a cautious man, slowly cocked his pistol.  A crowd formed around the edges of the road.  Murmurs circulated about this figure that had killed Mrs. Wordsworth.  Gary carefully took aim at the figure.  But a split second before he took the shot, Gary heard a faint “look out!” coming from the crowd.  He turned around.  Mrs. Wordsworth was at most a foot away from his face.  She looked different.  Her eyes were dead, her face was blank, and her mouth was open.  A black-blue boil was beginning to protrude from her jaw.  She uttered a moan as her arms encircled Gary.  Her jaw closed around his jugular, he tried to scream but his gun fired and it drowned out any other sound.  The bullet flew into an onlooker in the crowd.  They all screamed, and dispersed into the night.  Utter chaos erupted in the biggest small town in the Mojave. 

     There was only one survivor.

     This man, who went by the name of Brennon, fought off the creatures with any weapon he could find.  In only two hours, the entire town was infected.  Brennon fought off what he could, and burned the rest.  When dawn broke, he climbed into his car and drove west, toward Los Angeles.  Brennon had to tell the world what happened in Dusty Shades.  It was his home town, and his family had all died in whatever the hell that was.  This was early in the November of 1999.

    

     It was now the 12^th of December in the same year. 

     In that same desert, in the middle of godforsaken nowhere.  Dr. Mathis was sent to investigate what had happened in Dusty Shades by the CDC.  He was a forensic pathologist, very overqualified for the job.  The morning sun painted the sky purple to his back.  Dr. Mathis drove his Ford F-150 into the burnt remains of the town.  He got out of the car in the center of the main road.  Burnt and decayed bodies littered the street, some with heads, and some without.  Mathis bent down to investigate one of the bodies.  It was thin, almost as if it had been starved and slightly singed.  He reached his gloved hand toward the body, and turned it over.  What he saw made him jump back.  The mouth was open, and the jaw was hanging by a thread of flesh.  In its place, a growth like a boil protruded from the jaw line. 

     “What the,” Mathis pondered under his breath.  He reached into his kitbag and pulled out a Petri dish to collect a sample from the growth.  When he touched it with his scalpel, however, it collapsed in on itself, releasing a cloud of dust.  Mathis jumped back off his haunches and onto the ground.  He narrowly escaped the dark blue-black dust.  He put on his mask for good measure, and after it settled he attempted to collect another sample.  But the bodies seemed to disintegrate on touch. 

     Frustrated, he looked for more bodies.  The entire town was of this same disintegrating matter, he looked farther out of town for more bodies.  He followed the main road, through ash and blood and dust.  He kept his head down and his mask on.  When the burnt sand ended, Mathis saw that a trail of black-blue footprints started.  He followed them, farther into the Mojave. 

     The sun was high in the sky.  Mathis kept with the footprints until he came to a pool, with the footprints leading out of it.  This dark blue-black sludge bubbled in anticipation of him.

     “I have to get a sample of this,” he said to himself, and bent down to collect a sample.  The pool released puffs of blue-black dust with each bubble.

     “Freeze!” a muffled voice yelled behind him.  He heard the cocking of a firearm.

     Dr. Mathis whirled around, and saw the man who yelled at him.  It was someone in desert camouflage, who wore a full-faced gasmask.  The man was pointing an AK-47 at him.  Dr. Mathis froze.

     “What are you doing?  This is a quarantined area,” the man waved his gun at him, but it returned to the spot between the doctor’s eyes.

     “I—I’m with the CDC.  My name is Dr. William Mathis,” his hands raised slowly, a gesture of peace.

     “Another doctor, eh?  Keep your hands up and come with me,” the soldier’s gun lowered, but he still had his finger on the trigger.  The grunt slowly turned around and his footsteps tore lightly into the sand, he left a trail of black-blue footprints.

     Dr. Mathis was stunned and puzzled.  He didn’t think that there was anything left living in the desert.  The town itself was tribute to that.  He followed the soldier, half with curiosity and half out of fear.  He avoided stepping in the black-blue lint that the soldier left behind.  After ten minutes of walking, they arrived at a small shed.  Mathis hadn’t seen this shed.  It was painted with the same desert camouflage that the soldier was wearing.  This had bad idea written all over it.  I wish I had been transferred to Atlanta.  At least there they don’t have crazy people waving guns at me.  The doctor thought as he stepped through the door, into the darkness of the shed.  His eyes took a while to adjust to the light.  There was nothing in the shed except for a large manhole.  The soldier motioned with his gun toward it, and then lifted it.

     “Down the rabbit hole we go,” Mathis said under his breath.  The air that emanated from the hole was rancid.  It was a mixture of spoiled milk, dirt, and fungus.  Yep, this had bad idea written all over it.

     After they descended the ladder into the cave, the soldier and Dr. Mathis stood at the entrance to a dark tunnel.  The soldier turned on his flashlight, and lit the path ahead of them.  He kept his light on the cave ahead, but never let it fall to the ground.  Mathis could barely make out shapes on the floor of the cave.  Part of him didn’t want to know what was there, the other part was deathly curious.

     “What is this place, and what is on the ground?”

     The soldier said nothing, but continued on until they both arrived at a large steel door.  There was a consol in front of the door with a keypad on it.  The soldier typed in a code.  There was an alarm and flashing lights all around them.  Mathis was taken aback by the sounds after the long silence.  Then he heard the sound of the steel door squealing open.  That rancid smell was getting worse.

     “God, man, what is that smell?” Mathis covered his nose.

     The soldier just grunted a laugh, and continued on.  He stepped through the metal door, and flipped a switch.  Dr. Mathis followed hastily.  He snuck a glance back toward the cave.  As the door closed behind him, the light from the door illuminated the figures on the floor of the cave.  Bodies, piles of them, the same black-blue corpses from Dusty Shades littered the floor like discarded tissues.

     A pit formed in the stomach of Dr. Mathis.  He said shakily, “Jesus, what the hell is this place?”

     The grunt moved along silently.  They arrived at another door, the lights turning on and off as they walked, following them with the saving light from an incandescent bulb.  They reached a door at the end of the hallway into a dark room.  The soldier stopped before the door, and motioned for Mathis to go through.  He stayed behind, and the door squeaked shut behind Mathis.

     Mathis couldn’t see, he uttered a shaky, “hello?” and was answered by darkened silence.

     “Ah, who are you?  And what were you doing in my laboratory?” a voice echoed through the dark.  A light flicked on, illuminating a sunken, wrinkled face.  The face was sitting behind a small metal desk, the lamp played games with Mathis’ head.

     “Uh, my name is Dr. William Mathis, I’m with the CDC.  I was sent here to investigate what happened at Dusty Shades.  And a man with a gun forced me to come here.”
     The man hit his hand on the desk.  The hollow metallic scream echoed through the dark room.  Mathis jumped, and put up his hands.

     “My apologies, doctor.  I knew they knew, I just didn’t realize how fast they would respond to that outbreak,” the man looked sad.  His eyes were in shadow, leaning forward on the desk.

     “Outbreak, what do you mean?  And who are you?”

     The man slammed his hand on the desk again, “damn drug nuts running wild!  My funding cut, my men hungry, and no one cares!  What the hell has this world come to?”  He trailed off, and put his head in his hands.  After a minute of silence, he picked back up, “My work is so important.  It’s all I have.  I am Dr. Clarke Kilborne.  And this—this place is going to be the death of me.  The death of everyone!  We have the largest collection of fungi in the world!  And they cut my funding?  All because some damn hippie drinks the waste.”  He trailed off to incomprehensible mumbles.

     “Okay,” Mathis walked closer to the desk.  “So what you’re saying is that outbreak as you call it was your fault?  What did you release?”

     “My fault?  My fault!  No, that drug nut that fell in the waste pool.  It’s his damn fault!”  Kilborne slammed his fist on the desk, harder than the previous strikes.  The lamp on his desk toppled over the desk.  It fell on the floor, and illuminated the wall behind him.  The entire wall was covered in a cluster of blue-black bulbs.  They pulsated as if the light woke them up.

     “What the fuck is that?  For God’s sake, what is that?”  Dr. Mathis stepped back, his heart full of fear.  The pit in his stomach became a void, endless and black, his mind raced with the monsters no one dared to imagine.

     “That?” Dr. Kilborne said with a maniacal chuckle.  “Those.  Those are my children.  Those are the newest of my creations.  Those are the final version.  Those are the ticket to the freedom of the human race!  No more will we be stricken with hunger, with sickness or death.  This is evolution!”

     Mathis’ head began to swim.  He took in extra air, but his throat was invaded by something.  He coughed and wheezed.  He fell onto his knees, but still couldn’t get any air.  It was as if something was attempting to climb out of his lungs.

     The madman laughed even louder, “having fun, doctor?  Like I said, soon the human race will evolve.  In exactly one week’s time, we as a race will reach a whole new tier of perfection!  Alas, you doctor will not have the good fortune of seeing human perfection.  You have already been infected with my failed prototype.  You will die.  But my children will spread, on December the 19^th; my children will invade the atmosphere infecting everyone on earth!”

     Mathis knew this man was mad.  But he couldn’t voice it, the thing trying to escape his lungs burst out of his mouth, dislocating his jaw.  Mathis’ air was blocked by a black-blue boil.  The same kind he found on the bodies in Dusty Shades.  His eyes closed, he slipped into death.

     Dr. Kilborne un-holstered his gun, and put a bullet through the head of Dr. Mathis.  “After the spores are released,” he turned around to admire his work.  “We shall truly live.”

     The mad doctor stood quietly there for a while.  He felt something grab his ankle.  He whipped around, to find the undead corpse of Dr. Mathis reaching out toward him, with one hand already around the bare skin of his ankle.  Dr. Kilborne screamed.  He knew that just one touch could spread the infection.  This was his creation.  Why was it trying to kill him?  This wasn’t right!  The doctor fired randomly at the creature. 

     He knew he would turn very soon.  He put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.  Click. 

     “Shit!”  The doctor screamed.  He broke free of Mathis, and ran to his computer.  He frantically slammed the keys, attempting to start the bunker’s self-destruction protocol.  The bunker’s alarm system blared, “ten seconds to self-destruction.”

The corpse of Dr. Mathis pulled Kilborne off of his chair and onto the floor, the doctor screamed until he couldn’t anymore.  The undead corpse of Mathis tore Kilborne’s jaw off of his skull and shoved his fungus covered hand down his throat.  Dr. Kilborne died with a scream bubbling through his throat.

Kilborne’s men attempted to run from the bunker.  The squad of seven men scrambled to the ladder in the cave.  They stumbled over body after body.  But the ladder had collapsed.  The men tore off their gasmasks and fell to their knees.

The cleansing fire ripped through the air, igniting what was left of the soldiers, Dr. Mathis, and Dr. Kilborne.  All that was left was the silent black-blue pool of waste.  Bubbles jumped excitedly at the fire erupting from the desert shack just yards away.  The sun shone through the black-blue smoke, the sun set on the flames in the desert.

The black-blue pool still waits silently bubbling in the Mojave.

Alice

The words I lack

Are the words you possess.

    I always thought life was wrong,

Yet when things go badly,

    You are there.

        Exactly where you are.

Being beautiful.

Time and distance,

   Fill empty spaces,

Fill closet doors to open

        New worlds miles away

  From my own.

Miles away,

    My mind wanders.

      And miles away,

        My heart rests with you.

I'm but a simple man of

    Letters, enslaved by

  The absurd world created by

      Our fathers, led by

        DREAMS dreamt by

          Dreamers long dreamed.

Who long ago, lost the

  Memory, of that perfect dream.

    That perfect picture,

      Of you and I,

        In time's arms.

Timeless to the word,

          And love, to the letter.

Love used in perfect terms,

          In perfect tense

  To a life worth living,

A soul worth saving.

        And a love worth having.