Jealousy

"We once went to bed like between the bedsheets was a valley where dinosaurs still breathed."

Here Am I by Anis Mojgani

This man has enough amazing poems that each kid in this class could read a different one, and still come away awestruck. But from the very beginning of Here Am I, it stood out to me above the rest. I daresay that this poem feels even more naturally performed than  Shake the dust.  He breathes out the poem, instead of just reciting it.
Another huge reason I love this poem is because of how much I relate to it.
"Like that same high school kid, licking his thoughts, using his sharpie tip writing 'I was here. I was here, mutha f*cka. And aint none of y'all can write that in the spot that I just wrote it in'."
Those words changed the way I see things, the way I look at people. They made me understand how hard high school is, not just for me, but for everyone. And they aren't even the best lines in the poem.

The best lines, however, and the number one reasons I love this poem, are these: "...Did that beauty make you, did that beauty make me, will it make me something, will i be something, am i something? And the answer comes... already am, always was, and I still have time to be."
These are the closing lines of the poem. As the youtube video that I was watching this on ended, I continued staring at my screen, my eyes becoming unfocused, my mind refusing to restart. Those words shattered my misconceptions. Those words filled me with hope. Those words made me insanely, insanely jealous, because I am not Anis.
That clever sonofabitch.
Those words made me give up on ever being as good at writing as Anis Mojgani, but also made me want to get as close as I damn well could.
Got a long, long way to go.

Awaken, and Wonder.

This is for the kids too tired to learn.
This is for the skinny kids.
This is for the boys whose hands won't stop shaking when they talk to girls, this is for the girls who spend their days taking endless walks through those boys heads.
This is for the divorced couples, for the people too old to drive.

This is for you.  Awaken, and Wonder.
For the world is wider than you know.

This is for a generation struggling to find itself, lost in the legacies of generations past.
This is for those with their eyes swathed in the smoky heat of hatred and misunderstanding. Know that I have tread where you now stand, and know the path of sermons and chapel seats that lead you there.
This is for children, smothered by their parents rusted iron wings.

This is for you. Awaken, and Wonder.
For the world is wider than you were told.


This is for the kids with bottled lightning inside, waiting for a hammer to open it all on up.
This is for the kids with wisps of smoke leaking from their fingertips, hardly containing the urge to make, and make again.
This is for the empty spaces.
This is for those who have been bathed in the broken light of unforgetting.
This is for those who took the Red Pill.
This is for those who Question Everything.

Welcome. Did you all enjoy your naps?
Good. Now.
Make sure that by the time you finish reading this, the ghosts in your veins have all gone.
Because it's not up to me, however often i wish it were.
Make sure that your wounds have folded over, that your blind eyes have been touched by the stark white hands of the blank abyss, you make sure that your sins have not been forgiven.
Because absolution is for those with something to prove.
Scorecards are for puppets, playing games.
And hatred is the tool of an unknowing man, carving crosses into the chins of children.

Awaken, and Wonder.
Because this is for you, well and truly.
For the world is wider than the length and breadth of thought, and deeper than the furthest caves of the our imagining.
Awaken, and wonder.

Up so Late

I keep forgetting why I'm up so late.

Is it for the quiet? The questions it allows me, asked by myself. Every hour after midnight seems to contain some special quality, some magic.

As if the hours themselves are made of minutes

rather than devoured by them. 

I am devoured by the minutes. 

Eaten alive by the second hand, these thoughts are not mine. 

These thoughts have come before, and every moment alone with myself is a moment I spend with a stranger. 

When will I own myself completely? I find every day filled with compromise, and empty vows.

Hollow and sore, like the room that good intentions always seems to lead me to. Because the world around is as broken and twisted as myself, and heroes all hide their faces away, wishing not to be exposed as the demons they truly are.

Or so Fox News would have me believe.

Because every day is not another calendar page crossed off. Every day is a journey, a little bit more life breathed in. Every day is a prayer to living. And I go forth,  past in one hand, future in the other, with self-doubt crumpled into my back pocket like a forgotten receipt, trying to breathe in every day, and distill this breath into ink in my blood for the words that I can say that my one day change someone's view.

And yes. Today may be the last time I breathe. But by any God you care to see, it will not be the last time any of you see the light. By the bones of the writers and poets who came before, and the epitaphs and allegories they etched with their breath, by the burning paths they lit in our minds and our shuddering hearts, this is only the beginning.

I keep forgetting that this is only a beginning. 

My Journey

Ordinary World
Arlakt is a hermit. He lives in a beat-down shack in the center of a crater on the edge of the Great Waste. No one from any of the neighboring settlements knows much about him. They know that he is old, predating the Great Ascension, and the preceding War of Culling. They also know that, in the twenty years  since the Ascension, no breathing thing that even smelled like a bandit set foot within the confines of that crater without getting some rather large holes in some uncomfortable areas. Arlakt lives alone, and despite his missing arm, still survives quite well on his own.

Call to Adventure
Arlakt's lonely solitude is broken by the arrival of Jarlah- a fifteen year old girl from one of the settlements, whose older brother was kidnapped by a bandit clan and taken across the Wastes. Jarlah is distraught, and seeking Arlakt's help- no one from her village will help her, and rumor has it that Arlakt is the only person to cross bandit territory and return to this side of the Wastes. Jarlah needs the old man to strap on his armor once more, and help her free her brother.

Refusal of the Call
At first Arlakt refuses her outright, shoving her out of his crater, saying that the Wastes are no place for a little girl, and that her brother is already dead. Bandits never take prisoners, he says.  

Meeting the Mentor
Jarlah responds by pulling out her twelve gauge sawed-off, which she has nicknamed 'Obi-Wan', and telling Arlakt that 'No' is an answer she's not prepared to take. She also says that the only reason the bandits didn't kill both her and her brother was the strange birthmark, in the shape of a perfect triangle, that they share on the palms of their left hands.

Crossing the Threshold
Arlakt grudgingly agrees to help Jarlah, and so they set out, making their way across the barren wastes. Arlakt hasn't entered bandit territory in years. He is very twitchy,  paranoid, and constantly checking over his shoulder.

Tests, Allies, Enemies
After Arlakt and Jarlah enter the Wasteland, they quickly find that it is far more dangerous than either of them were expecting, and bandits are the least of their worries. Aside from the roving packs of Woltherun, which are like mutant wolves, they also encounter mysterious robots, remnants of technology from before the Ascension.

Approach to the Inmost Cave
After many months of travel, Arlakt and Jarlah finally near the other side of the wastes. They also find signs that the bandit clan who kidnapped her brother is near. The duo prepares for their greatest challenge yet: taking on an entire bandit clan at once.

The Ordeal
In the dead of night, Arlakt and Jarlah approach the bandit clan's camp. Jarlah comes into her own, stealthily taking down a tentful of her brother's captors before one of them cries out, awakening the rest of the group. Arlakt then demonstrates his years of experience in battle, methodically hacking and shooting his way through dozens of bandits, until those still alive flee the battle.

Reward
After the battle, Jarlah is finally reunited with her brother.

Film Analysis

Raising Arizona (1987)

Ordinary World
H.I. Mcdunnough is a criminal. His specialty? Holding up gas stations. H.I. isn't' a very good criminal, and thus spends a lot of time in and out of jail. Each time, he is processed by the beautiful Edwina, a cop whom he falls for. H.I. proposes to Edwina upon exiting prison (for the third or fourth time) and they begin their life together as a married couple.
Call to Adventure
Edwina desperately wants for she and H.I. to have a baby. But, after months of trying, she finally discovers that she is barren, and unable to have children. Shattered, and unable to adopt because of H.I.'s criminal past, she and H.I. all but give up hope on their dream of having a family of their own. Until, that is, they hear of the Arizona Five, the recently-born quintuplets of wealthy furniture store owner Nathan Arizona, and his wife Florence. Hearing on tv that the wealthy couple have 'more than they can handle', Edwina tells H.I. he needs to steal one of the babies from them, to raise as their own.
Refusal of the Call
At first H.I. is reluctant to do as his wife says. He fears he might be caught, and worries that the Arizona couple might miss their baby.
Meeting with the Mentor
H.I. finds a mentor in his wife, whose continued threats and exclamations finally convince him to steal a baby from the wealthy couple.
Crossing the Threshold
H.I. finally crosses the threshold when he sneaks into the Arizona's house, almost getting caught in the process, and, after mixing up the babies by mistake, steals the one he dubs to be 'Nathan Jr.', after the boys father. It takes a huge amount of personal courage and goading from his wife to get him to this point.
Tests, Allies, Enemies
Once the Mcdunnoughs finally get their new baby home, they are beset by obstacles and trials, taking many forms. One form is that of H.I.'s old prison buddies, who, having just escaped from jail, show up at the Mcdunnoughs house asking for shelter. While there they attempt to convince H.I. to come back to a life of crime. They also discover the identity of the Mcdunnoughs new baby, and attempt to steal him from them, to turn him in for the reward money. During this period H.I. faces many internal struggles, questioning everything from his criminal nature to his worth as a husband and a father. He also has a dream, which turns out to be a vision, of a bounty hunter who rides a motorcycle, looking like a beast from hell, who approaches on a trail of fire to destroy H.I. and cash in on the reward for Nathan Jr.
Approach
During this period, H.I. must reconcile with both himself and his wife, as well as rescue Nathan Jr. from his own prison buddies, who have stolen him and are taking him with them on their series of bank robberies.
Ordeal
H.I. faces his nightmare, the hellish bounty hunter, in a battle not only for possession of Nathan Jr., but also for his life, and the life of his wife. H.I. eventually prevails, destroying the monstrous man with one of his own grenades.
The Road Back
H.I. and Edwina journey begin the journey back to their house, but realize slowly that, maybe, their decision to take the child might not have been a good one.
Resurrection/Return with Elixer
The Mcdunnoughs decide to return the child to it's father, and in doing so, find themselves face to face with the man from whom they stole the child in the first place. They expect harsh retribution, but instead find understand and forgiveness. Taken aback, they leave the child in its fathers hands, their faith and love for each other restored.

Dani California- Red Hot Chili Peppers

 Reginald Hunter is in way over his head. He's fallen in love with Dani, whose badass, devil-may-care attitude completely clashes with his timid, introverted self. When Reginald becomes mixed up in a bank robbery Dani commits, he is forced to follow her on a run from the cops, along the way participating in one of the longest crime sprees in the history of the united states. But Reginald sees only bad endings and shallow graves in Dani's future. Can he convince her to turn her life around before it's too late?

Dashboard- Modest Mouse

 Alex Freeman is in one hell of a fix. In order to pay off his massive gambling debts, he borrowed from the notorious Kenny "Two Shot" Reed, the scummiest loan shark in the Las Vegas area. But Alex was unable to pay Kenny back in time, so now he's got to book it out of town as fast as his the highways will take him, and pray to god his beat up Mustang doesn't break down on him.  One thing he knows: the dashboard may melt, but hell, he's still got the radio. 

Like a Stone- Audioslave

 He barely remembers how long he's been in this dump. This beat down, dead end, backwater town. She told him to wait for her here, that she'd be back in a month. 

That was a year ago. Now, mostly, he waits in his shack of a house, under a highway, patiently awaiting her return. 

 

Found Poetry

The ideas, the thoughts.
To him, they are more real than everything else.
To write is to embrace them
To send what we intended out into exile
And collect the letters written, into something true.
And whatever comes out of the basement of our minds
From that collection of random thoughts
Will lead us to something else entirely
And out of that family of letters
He writes his own story

Extra Five: an excerpt from a story I wrote.

The beast shuffled forward. leaning down to sniff the body of the fallen beast. Suddenly, his head jerked upward, and he let out a sharp hiss. Then he suddenly jolted forward, faster than anything the beasts had done before. Crow sidestepped, barely avoiding an outreaching claw, then swung his sword, lopping off an arm before swiftly spinning around to decapitate the thing. It’s body fell, and there was silence from the group. 

Behind him, Crow could still hear the sounds of the battle between the steel man and the people-beasts. Then, the crowd of beasts all rushed forward, hissing and clawing and mashing their teeth. 

For a split second, Crow hesitated. He couldn’t back up further, or he would get dangerously close to the group behind him. The only thing to do was push forward. So forward he pushed, furiously beginning to hack at the beasts around him. 

He faltered at first, quailing at so much bloodshed. But then something inside him took over. The same thing that had told him his name, or the name of his sword. He moved with deftness and grace, hacking away at the crowd of slavering monsters before him, trying to cut himself a path through and escape. He could feel the power of whatever lay inside him, letting him guide his blade strokes easily through the sea of bleeding, writhing limbs, sometimes cutting off the heads of multiple beasts at a time. 

But, whatever power he held was unrefined, for he soon began to take injuries. First a slash on his arm, which he ignored, then a stab in the shoulder, which made him falter. He slashed off the tail of one beast, then planted a foot on it’s back and shoved it forward, making a path through the crowd. He sprinted through, taking more cuts and slashing at everything that moved. With one final shove, he burst forth from the mass, only to stumble on the twitching corpse of a beast he had just downed. He landed heavily, then turned over, slashing with his blade to fend the writhing creatures off. 

Desperation filled him, as one of them slashed his left leg, and he cried out, knowing now that escape was unlikely. Just as he was about to give up, just as he realized that this was the end, he heard another sound. A sound that cut through the air, that pierced the hissing and screeching of the creatures. A voice. A human voice.

It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. 

...Anyways.

I find it hard to think today. My feet are too large, and my socks not enough. The headphones, usually so efficient in piping in raw inspiration, are clasped too tightly to my ears.

But anyways. 

My fingers continue to tap uselessly at the keyboard, attempting in their dull scratching to carve away the useless, pulpy excess of thought that surrounds me.

My thoughts are like gelatin, they fill up the space I float through.

And I slowly, slowly drown.

Lungs choking on excess aether, I crawl onward.

Like some small, withered creature in some deep, lightless undersea cave, whose very breath is the only form of propulsion he has. He has never known color, never known sound. The only light he knows is the luminescence of the predators hell-bent on swallowing him whole.

But anyways.

I was told to choose one word for this assignment. Choose one word, just one. 

"Well, then what?" says I.

"Well, then you write about it", says Nelson.

Writing? About words? Seriously. 

Look at it this way. Ask an artist, a painter, to paint about a color, and see how quickly he turns his chosen instrument of self expression upon you in a dazzling display of violence.

Ahem.

But anyways.

Perhaps I'm over thinking this. Words are simply words, after all. No one has ever done anything especially important or empowering with them.  No one has ever changed lives with words. They're nothing special. In fact, the simple actuality that the only possible way I could communicate the idea that words are nothing special to you is through words is proof that they are inconsequential. 

Oh wait. 

No, that pretty much makes them a big fucking deal. 

But, anyways. Nelson, this is impossible. How could I possibly take a single word, and the soul, the sole meaning behind a word, and incorporate it into an overarching theme of a single body of text of any varying length? Gods above, it's just not a task humans are able to accomplish.

But anyways.

Rock Out

You have just been given a direct order.
You know the drill.

Rock out like like your limbs are failing.. Like you got your friends, four controllers, and eighteen levels of nothin' but headshots.

 Like the colors you see are all that you want and need

Rock out like your mind has just been blown, and you have neither the time nor the patience to pick all the pieces off the wall behind you, so you fill that gaping void with as much soul as you can muster.

Rock out like you're in the middle of nowhere, and you've got enough decibel-powered ordnance to signal the coming apocalypse, but you don't care because God made the universe just so you could get through this next solo.
Rock out like Odin himself just came down from Valhalla, handed you a shield and a sword and told you to go kill some mutha ****in' frost giants.

Rock out like everyone else said rock was dead, but you know that legends never die, so rock out like Rock is just really, really hung over from last night's gig.
Rock out like you invented it, like Death himself is standing next you, tapping his watch. Rock out  like you're Jimmy, both Page and Hendrix, and you can't breathe unless you got a guitar in your twitching fingers.

Rock out like you see that girl. Then you see her boyfriend next to her. Like they're arguing. Like you see him lose his dumbass temper, and shove her to the ground. And, in that single, incandescent moment, as all the devils in your hands rub their newly awakened eyes, and every Rage Against the Machine song you've ever heard starts playing in your head, you lash out in glorious, blinding fury, and the avenging angel whistles in admiration.

Rock out like that ink under your skin means something.
Like you got a girl, a car,  a thousand dollars, and the weight of the world to push off your shoulders.
Like you don't have a girl, or a car, but dammit you still got the thousand, and twenty four hours to find either, or both.

Rock out like the love of your life has an hour, twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds to live, and nothing you do in your life after that time will mean as much.

Rock out like Heaven's dead, so you're gonna stand on it's grave and dance to it's favorite song.

Rock out like you are a steam powered, ironclad machine, constructed from the broken pieces of every dream you ever had, and you've got only open skies and falling ash to fly through.

Rock out like everyone you know is with you, and everyone else is dead set against.
But YOU DON'T CARE.

Because you've got headphones, pounding with the voices of those who came before, and you've got a heart, pouring out hope for those who will come after.
You know you're not a god.
But rock out like you are.

Life, and/or death.

Death is an ending.

Whether you believe in an afterlife or not, there's no getting past it. You die. Your life ends. All of the things that you accomplish in your life will cease to  matter to you. You decompose, rot away, and eventually, as your subsequent generations also eventually die out, the tenuous influence you still held on the universe will crumble and fade away. No matter how famous you eventually became, the human race will eventually move on, and forget entirely about you.

So. If this is the case, why does anything matter?

It's a tough question to ask. The truth is, in a cosmic sense, nothing matters. Everything will end, all sentient thought will eventually cease. All signs that any of us were ever here will disappear. And humans, as a species, when we inevitably kill ourselves off, will not be missed. Not by the planet we abused and overused, not by the species' we hunted to the brink of extinction. Not by anyone.

Like I said. It's a tough question to ask. It's an even harder answer to hear.

So, what's the point of living, if we will eventually die? 

Well, the key to understanding this is to not worry about the cosmic sense of things. 

That's it.  Simply not care. Yes, you will die. Yes, it will probably hurt. No, no one will miss you. So.

Now that that's out of the way, go live your life. You are free, completely and totally. Free in the knowledge that, no matter what you do while you live, you will be eventually freed of the burdens of care, of memory, of guilt and hate. Now, that being said, don't live solely for today. People who live only for today  always end up quickly shortening the amount of 'todays' that they will have. 

Rather, live for your life. Live to have the memories, to have the experiences. Live to live, fully and completely, with no fear of what people think. Live enough that, should you be lucky enough to have time to contemplate on your life before you die, that you feel full. You think to yourself "It was a good life. Not the fullest. Not the most important or complete, by any means. But it was my life. And that's enough."

My dreams, they turn against me.

I walk alone. In constant fear. The dust from the road bites into my eyes, and i cast a nervous glance over my shoulder. Still nothing. Just like the last ten miles. I continue walking, clutching tighter to my heavy, rusted .45 pistol. Dilapidated buildings line this broken, wasted road. Skyscrapers, from every city in the world I wanted to live in and never did. Once, their broken, twisted faces may have haunted me. But I have lived in this hell for far too long. Now, I simply see their hollow, staring eyes as threats, places my dreams might pick for an ambush.

There is no night, no day here. I reach into one of my pockets for the rusty watch I have been using to keep time, and the ruined suit I'm wearing pulls against the wound on my shoulder, causing me to hiss out loud. I quickly clap a hand over my mouth. My involuntary noise of pain broke the still wasteland air, and someone or something may have heard it. 

Quickly, I rush to the side of the road, taking cover behind a collapsed cement pillar. I listen and wait, not breathing, not moving. I hear something, faintly, in the distance. It sounds like... an engine? In this place?

I peek my head out from cover. I wait for my eyes to focus through the windblown dust. And then a slow, paralyzing fear spreads through my limbs. It is one of my oldest dreams, finally here to repay my betrayal. Art. The most powerful of my dreams. With me since childhood, a dear friend to me, with whom I could have shaped the world. I sold him out for money, just to get by, to make rent. Look what it's come to.

He is driving toward me in a beat up, broke down '73 Mustang convertible. It might once have been cherry red, but it's color, like everything else here, is faded. All thoughts about the color of the car evaporate when I see Art himself. He is dressed, head to toe, in rusted pieces of scrap metal, fashioned into makeshift armor. He is driving quickly, heedless of the missing door on the driver's side of the car. 

Suddenly he slams on the brakes, and I duck down, wishing that I had not stared so long.

Now he has seen me.

I pull the magazine out of my pistol: four shots left. I curse silently, wishing Music had had more ammunition on him when he and I fought. I cross my fingers in the mad hope that Art won't have found anything more than a rusty pipe or a piece of a stop sign to fight me with. With both that car and the armor he's wearing, I doubt it. 

The unmistakeable CHAK-CHAK of a shotgun confirms my fears.

This is my life now. Trapped in this purgatory, no hope for rescue or escape. My only option is to keep fighting, and keep walking, hoping that someday my dreams will let go of their bitter hurt and forgive me, and we can start anew. 

I am doubtful that this will ever happen. I don't forgive myself, why should they?

The only escape is death. And death is no escape. I've tried that, believe me. I only end up back at the start, to face all my dreams again, to walk down this endless road once more.

Will it ever end?

I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking about you like guitars think about the ghosts of the last notes they played. Like books think about words, and words think about letters, and letters think about postage stamps. I'm thinking about you like narcissists think about themselves, like people with multiple personality disorder think about themselves, and themselves, and themselves. Like boys think about girls, and girls think about shoes.

I'm thinking about you like blind people think about color. 

Like planets think about suns.

I'm thinking about you like doctors think about cancer, and smokers think about anything but.

Like soldiers think about death, and soon-to-be mothers think about life. Like violinists think about strings, and toddlers think about swings, and fiances think about rings. 

Like philosophers think about why we're here, 

Like travelers think about why we're not out there.

For the observant ones:

I changed the blog title. If you know what it's from, well... you don't win anything. I'm broke as a joke, and all I can afford to give you are words. But you're the coolest person I know. 

If you don't know what it's from, google it.

Love is...

• Love is a punch to the throat
• Love is a ninja (it'll sneak up on ya)
• Love is diplomacy
• Love is penicillin (it's discovery is accidental)
• Love is winning a competition you never entered
• Love is thievery
• Love is lighting yourself on fire
• Love is your favorite cartoon
• Love is a blank page, and a fistful of crayons

Intro: Welcome to my brain

People seem to spend a lot of time trying to define what life is. Life is a journey, life is a lesson, life is a test, blah blah blah. It seems like the entirety of the human race is obsessed over this one action, fascinated with dumping all of life into a little jar and sticking a label on the lid. This is why we came up with religion, to find some sort of meaning in all of things that happen to us. In fact, dispute over the 'meaning' of life has, if you get right down to it, been at the basis of every religious war in the history of the earth. First off, I have to say that life is whatever the hell you make of it, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Now, that's not to say I don't respect religions, or the need to have a meaning to all of this. All religions have their own individual beauties, and their own flaws. The only religious person I don't respect is one who doesn't  believe in allowing other people to have, and express openly, their own personal beliefs.

Which, in a nonlinear way, brings me to the point of this first post. What do I want to get out of this creative writing class? The key to this is the anonymity that having a personal blog provides. The freedom to express, and through expression, to grow. I'm excited to have the chance to truly learn, for one of very few times in my educational career. And, through the wonderful tool for freedom of expression that is anonymity, I'll be able to voice my true opinions while doing it. Because, let's face it, I live in Utah Valley. In terms of personal belief, the conversation can be very one-sided at times. And my purpose here is not to step on anyone's beliefs, or anything like that, but rather to voice my own.

I know I've started off here on a rather heavy tone, but I don't want to pull any punches. This is my blog, and my voice. I'm looking forward to using it, and learning as I go.