Thursday, October 13, 2011


Had a wonderful meeting with my dear friend today, who handed me back a story I had completely forgotten about writing. This was my last assignment for my Creative Writing class and I was at a point of frustration. Now looking back on it, I have to say it is one of my favorite things I've ever written. I hope you enjoy it!


This piece of paper will change the way you look at life, the universe and everything.

I long for chaos yet it eludes me. I tried to catch it in a cup but the teapot was empty and the skies were dry.

In the beginning god created the heavens and the earth. And the earth. And the earth.

He made the sun, the planets, and other suns that we call stars. But he threw those so far away that man would never reach them, but close enough to us that in our arrogance we believe we can.

The world is spinning. It attempts to fling the human vermin from it's surface but is unsuccessful. This gravity that pins us to its surface is as thick and harsh as syrup dripping over a succulent bagel.

People don't talk anymore. We text, type and sext. Our messages are becoming confused. Our words shorter. Our messages. LOL. Pointless.

The first silent movie was released in 1903. 100 years later the Matrix became a trilogy that was just as quickly forgotten. Progress?

Perhaps the world has always been about keeping things down. No relationship is complete without a thumb on the forehead of the submissive. A man brutally tied to the bedposts by gravities unseen hand and left on the tracks as the train of progress chugs continually forwards.

The only three words that have no rhyme in the English language are silver, purple and orange. Surprisingly, lots of things rhyme with colourblind. Rind. Kind. One of a kind. A humourless kind.

I'm a cereal killer. I kill them with milk. Crunch. The ballad of a peppercorn pirate.

There are no accidents in creation. Man in all his wisdom looks into randomness and is challenged to find patterns out of happy accidents. Reality is just a bunch of dots that we struggle to connect. Out of our fear of the dark we impose light where there is none so we can look into the black and feel enlightened.

Dark is what keeps the light away. We wear dark clothes to look like something we are not. Dark is slimming. Dark is form fitting. Dark is an illusion we fear and don't understand. Dark is deadly. Dark is fun. Dark is death personified in fashion.

Universal connections are impossible because of all the space between them. We do not form lines that unite the cosmos. We create dots amid a sea of black. A mark. A scar. An imperfect blotch on the clean, clear space of the blank canvas of the universe.

Eventually all things must fail. Birds must fall to fly. Babies must fall before they walk. Even kamikazes must fail.

Echidnas live in New Zealand. They do not have knuckles. Sega lied.

Lies are only as true as the people who say them. Belief is cheap and dangerous.

I stabbed my friend Maude in the chest with a stake and she dropped her vase. Post Maude urn.

I lied when I said the truth.

Time is out of synch. Rules crumble. Jericho rises from the ashes like Dark Phoenix as she battles Galactus for intergalactic supremacy. He wears pink pants and a stupid looking helmet.Even he knows that chaos will come and devour us all.

From the pits of Tartarus the serpents will hunt. They spear the Valkyries before Vagner hits the first note. Odin weeps into Neptune's lap. Raven, Loki and Coyote suffer identity disorder.

Life grows simple over time. Thoughts stream across the page but get thicker with meaning and soon all are full of references that even they do not understand. The fight for meaning grows heavy as the weak grow fat from the justice of the first world countries.

There are millions of billions of trillions of planets out there. But only one supports life. Dot.

I fly between the rings of Saturn and search for a Starbucks. There's one around Io but that's too far right now. The long random arm of corporations grab at the promise of the nations.

The lord is my shepherd I shall not wait for anyone to do anything and blame everything that goes wrong on him. Because I am entitled to it all. I am in dominion over everything. Thus it was written, “Thou shall not perish, but donate all your money to corporations and completely forget all your principals and give to a worthier cause.”

Dot. Dot. Dot. All must be connected. Everything is ordered. Nothing is random. All must follow logic. None must step out of line.

Follow the curves of the page. Right off the page.

Follow logical thought.

Think for yourself.

Hang yourself on indifference and struggle with the consequence of a loose neck.

Violence exists all around us. Everyday I wake up and fight my shadow in hopes that one of us will trip up and I'll emerge victorious. I struggle with myself everyday. I don't want to hear

Yellow rhymes with fellow. Blue rhymes with you. Red rhymes with dead. Lots rhymes with gold and bronze. Nothing rhymes with silver. Being second just makes you the first loser.

Look at a page of random letters and you'll discover words. A happy accident that you thrill at. The rebellion of the letters is useless against your desire for order.

Sex is cheap and nasty. My heart breaks for the prostitute who goes without mouthwash.

Poetry falls out of me like chemistry. Cyanide is cheap and effective.

Lust is a sin for all but the phallic. Skinny curve-less people with big feet.

The thoughts are inescapable. The thought that no matter what I do, order will come. My mind races to the edges of my sanity but is dragged back to conformity. Kicking and screaming as the noises grow dangerously loud and complex. My sanity is a curse. The structures are prisons to the thousands of sheeple that come before me.

Suicide is easy. The theme from MASH. M*A*S*H. I never watched that show. Too many stories.

The more you see, the less you know. The more places you visit, the less you see. Find a four leaf clover in your backyard, and you'll miss the mushroom cloud of progress.

My time is thick. Like my neck. The tie is choking.

Dot. Dot. Dot. You try to piece together the pieces once again and find patterns. Graphs. Order. Then find comfort in the thought that the random has been conquered. Like the wildness of the wildness of the wildness.

A man was stranded on a desert island. He'd never traveled before but one day, he found himself alone. Sand and ocean as far as the eye could see. He walked for hours and came across a chair. He never left it. It was his one piece of familiarity amid an ocean of chaos. He lived the last of his life there unaware that his desire for order killed him. A mile down the road a resort ran 24/7 serving fat tourists and spoiled brats.

People say that our brains resort to patterns and finding comfort in familiar objects. Repetition is good. It's something for the mind to latch onto.


And that inside jokes have no weight without former knowledge.

The pieces of plastic on the ends of your shoelaces are called aglets. The holes they go through are eyelets. The more I think about things

Tattoos are black memories that we use to mark where we've been and what we've cared about along the way.

Never have so many people, with so little to say said so much.

The closer we get to chaos in writing, the closer we get to poetry. Repetition is good. It's something for the mind to latch onto.

Time is an illusion. It makes us feel like we're going forward even when we're standing still.

It's not plagiarism if it isn't fun. Work sucks.

I'm hurting. Everyday is a struggle. One email destroyed my world and my heart fell through my body. Now I wear my heart on my sleeve.

Repetition is good. It's something for the mind to latch onto.

I used to count on my toes, but now they let down. When you can only count to ten, you always end up missing a crucial step or two.

The very nature of reality is fracture. Half finished thoughts. Words get caught in throats. I st-st-st- I speak my mind in the hopes I can let my mind wander. It hasn't come back yet.

The essence of nature is destruction. Circle of Life. Circle of death. Circling the drain in between the air pollution, chlorofluorocarbons and allergens that prove that the natural world really is out to get you.

Punctuation is the prison of the English language. It confines the depths and breadths of emotion to the prison of order. It refuses to let chaos reign. We conform to its rules without issue. We follow the thought that a period means stop and a comma means pause and a semi colon can't make up its mind and an apostrophe is just a thought that is so desperately trying to escape. Order is chaos. Punctuation is a stifle to our creativity.

I do not write to make understanding easy. I write because I must. If I stop my fingers will explode and I will have to use my tongue to tell the tales that my brain refuses to hold captive. I will narrate my genius into the corner of creation. I will write because I must and reference those who came before me to prove my genius.

In the midst of chaos we create patterns to establish order. We refuse to recognize the void for what it truly is. A big black inky blackness devoid of life, love and the American dream. Everything feels intentional because we arrange our homes into rooms, and the walls that we create to keep the chaos outside do little to prevent the chaos from existing. Our lives are in peril when the windows break and the deadly breeze rolls in threatening to sweeten our air with the smells of butterflies and bumblebees.

I want to break away from structure. Leave it shattered at my feet. I will leave the period behind and all punctuation shall cease to be

I'm allergic to bee stings. Spider bites make my skin inflate like a balloon. I'm also afraid of balloons. My friend logics it to being afraid of guns. The unsettling thought that at any second a loud bang can eliminate something that had seemed so solid. A balloon defies the laws of gravity that strive so hard to keep the rest of the world nipping at the ankles of giants.

I want to write thick, long lines so dense with meaning that it takes a historian, a philosopher

The dark recesses of my mind house rats that keep the mice at bay. They feast on the garbage in my frontal lobe and defecate down the spiral cord which winds its way around my sanity and allows me to breathe.

Repetition gives your mind something to latch onto. Who cares about synchronicity when chaos is quicker?

I do everything I can to keep people at bay. I write nonsense. I create chaos. I interrupt their sterile, pathetic lives and ramble like a mad man in an attempt to let them know how i feel. My blood is hot. I demand to be alone. I don't need a hug I want space. I want out. I want freedom. I want the sweet embrace of death to kiss me on the cheek. I want life to go away for a while and leave me in the corner with a dunce cap and a cigarette burn.

I humbly pray for patience and scream for sanity.

Some dance with the stars. I dance like a mad man through heaven and hell to find the place where time and space converge in a glorious apex.

The air thins as I thicken. Too many burgers and and fries. I do not see myself as skinny.

In the end the blackness is only temporary. It's always darkest before is goes completely black.

Despite the desperate need for chaos my mind caves into order and sanity.

I am sane and perhaps that is the curse of it all. My mind cannot reach to the end of invention because the desire for structure is too great.

Billions of planets that some argue are all connected.

Carbon is the backbone of the galaxy. Everything in the world is made of this very small, basic element. All life stems from carbon. This can't be proven. Give me a planet of arsenic that I might drink it's salt.

The world is a big, safe, beautiful place. This is false. The world is a place where nothing forgot to exist and something took its place. It's a freak coincidence. An island of life amid a galaxy of black.

We are all connected. This is false. We are billions and trillions and quintillions of light years from the other stars. The other planets want nothing to do with us. We all are alone in the great blackness of space, with no one to rely on but themselves. Some tried to make friends. Some tried to mate but got their hearts broken through emails. This world is all there is. No friendly aliens to come down and rescue us. No loving life form to descend from ET's space ship and fly away home. Instead we are left as the outcast organism that the other biospheres wanted nothing to do with.

We are alone in the galaxy.

We are nihilistic.

We are chaos personified.

Time is irrelevant. Space is indefinite. The only thing left is not.

As a note, there were a lot more breaks and spacing changes I made for the original that couldn't translate into this format so that's unfortunate.

I really enjoyed reading this now as there are a lot of pieces about it I really enjoy. I hope you do as well.

As a note, this could be one of the most difficult things for a writer to write. My goal with this piece initially was to have a work of creation that is so far removed from sanity that it is literally painful to read and difficult to breathe meaning into. During the writing process, I found that inevitably bits and pieces began to match up and that my attempt to write something completely and totally incoherent was in the end a fallacy. Despite my longing for chaos, order inevitably set in and my story ended up being something unexpectedly posessing a coherence that I did not want. When a writer sets out to write something, they inevitably want it all to make perfect sense. Strange how attempting to do the exact opposite is equally as frustrating.

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