Let’s just call this an adventure of the third person. Mostly.
You know his exterior. It’s a simple charm most find pleasant. You know his
character, his style, his nice eyes and smile. Oh, what a nice guy.
You don’t know his interior. It’s a complicated web most would find foul. You don’t
know his dark tangled core, a mess of emotions he can’t control anymore. Oh, what a
troubled soul.
The story you’ve heard is of Jekyll and Hyde, but that story is fiction, where this
is true life. You meet him, you know him. You see how he lives. What a life, what a
world, what you wouldn’t give.
In real life real people do real with their lives. He imagines great intentions but it
rarely survives. The black ghost, the black cloud, the black mist, the black shroud,
the black news, the black night the black howl the black spite. It defeats the real, the
good, the light. It’s a dark hidden secret he’s trying to fight.
A ‘how do you do’ while his thoughts of a knife plunge through salutations and take
a life…I’ve felt your blood before meeting you. I’ve seen your fear before eating you.
I’ve seen you dead while greeting you. I’ll tell you all this while I’m treating you…to a
nice dinner at my home. So lovely isn’t it? I’ve got paintings on the wall, records and
candles and knick-knacks and all. You’d trust me…even open your heart…Here, let
me help, I’ll break your sternum and ribs to start.
I like to date, but I’m not into long-term relations. I’d take you, for sure, on a long-
term vacation. Let’s have a drink, a date, a screw. I’m a good guy…when I have my
good eye on you.
C’mon I’m a sweetheart! Allow me to show! I just have a dark side…but, who doesn’t,
you know?
-Seven-Butter
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
A Letter to Lucious
To my dear, dear, dear Lucious,
(I hope. Your mother and I have yet to settle on a name)
The day you were born was the day I died.
Sorry for the density of that statement but I find in difficult situations it is best to avoid the roundabout. Your mother will tell you that levity was never my strong suit. I would tell you that reticence was never hers. They will both be yours.
The reason for this letter is quite simple; it’s the symbolic changing of guards, the circle that is life, la note finale. It’s your compass in a world that can often be dark. Look to this letter for answers in those tough times that strike us all.
I want to tell you that your life had nothing to do with my death, to really reassure you of this so it never plagues you like I think it may if you’re anything like me. But how do I know for sure? Can anyone that doesn’t know the reason for life be sure of the reason for death? Be consoled in this though, it reveals the uncertainty that is life and guarantees there is no algorithm.
As for my cessation, should you ever feel guilt, take comfort in the fact that if there is a higher power, and we are made in his image, perhaps he was distracted. Do not blame though, to be distracted is the nature of man. Is it possible HE looked away for a second and there was a momentary rift in order? Like a typo in a report you hand in to the head of your company, maybe it was merely overlooked. One letter discounted in a document of words. To the higher power, one life’s tragic demise is that error you omit in a sea of pages expressing a larger thought. Will anybody really miss the letter “A” that should have been in the 11th sentence of the third paragraph on the 13th page?
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with a psychologist would be beneficial.”
Vs.
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with psychologist would be beneficial.”
I am sorry to bore you with the example, though it is an example taken from a report of your dearest departed’s, and I use it to prove to you that to err is human. True, it is hard to notice the difference, and as humans we tend to overlook these fine details. Maybe it’s the same for him, just a slip up on a canvas already containing too much color? Yaweh himself could have been watching over us as your mother went into labor, but struck with the curiosity only a creator could have for a “createe,” he got sidetracked. Perhaps two other men on a street in a city far below got into an altercation and used their steel-toed boots to launch their feet into each other’s reproductive organs. “That’s not what they’re for!” He’d surely want to shout. But that is what humanity sometimes is about son- we take for granted the gifts we were given and often feel like we got a raw deal or a kick in the genitals. Heed this warning and learn from it: there are no raw deals only raw men who don’t know how to deal.
Alternatively, maybe the MAN stumbled across a documentary about the human discovery of his only sons bones, and his mind reeled off on a philosophical tangent wondering just whose bones they really found. Am I missing a bone? He’d wonder later, a thought that’d stick with him for days, as he’d rub his ribs. But ultimately he would realize he didn’t have a son and he wasn’t made of bones (spoiler alert). One small glance away from the tiny burdens of love below and the grand scheme turns into anarchic mis-happenings.
You should know I would never blame you or anyone for my demise. And if others read this letter and for some reason these golden truths and theories are misunderstood, I want to be clear. I don’t mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the old me. Something like- a soon to be father says farewell to his partying, capricious, selfish ways and hello to the joys and responsibility of fatherhood. No I don’t mean this metaphorical paternal rebirth. I mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the only me; the end of physical life. A “swift, cold death” is what the doctors inform me I shall endure. Apparently the hospital where you were born, and where I will die, is not fond of levity either. Never be a doctor, Lucious.
I guess what I want to say is please try not to feel culpable. If there was only room for either you or me in this world then I’m glad for this glorious happening. And in times when you are down and your mother, or your grandparents, or your cousins, or my bowling partner from church tell you stories of me and shed tears that make you regret not knowing me, I want you to really think. If I am gone, and you are here, and there was only room for one of us in this world then surely no mistake was made. Get to know these people. Ted will show you how to throw a hook ball down the lane, and will inevitably admit you bowl like your old man….that is to say not well. You’re grandparents will tell you of my first encounter at the zoo, where I nearly lost my three year old finger up an enraged llama’s viscous nostril. And your mother will surely recount my last words over and over again to you hoping they weigh upon you both as the thought of soon saying them weighs upon me. Laugh with these cherished few; they will love you unconditionally and protect you always.
Forgive the long-winded nature of this letter, it’s the only time we have. Forgive the stains of tears that litter it with punctuation that will surely fade to yellow as this letter sets and waits for you to get on in years and interpret and analyze these last thoughts. The running trails of ink let you know I was a man of flesh and blood that felt for you and took the time to give you a piece of me. As I lay here in a hospital bed staring into your tiny squinty eyes, I notice they are a beautiful sea foam green just like my own. Your face tells me you were ready to be born, and your smile reveals a world of happiness and miracles are waiting. But my heart hurts, it hurts for you and it hurts for the physical ailment that will surely end me. As your breathing gets stronger mine gets shallower, as if we are synced in unison. “Stop writing,” the doctors say, “Get on with your final goodbyes.” Again, how crude, how daft, how frigid and uncaring; never be a doctor dear Lucious.
There is more to recount and more to relay, but time is short as is life. I hope these anecdotes, thoughts, and feelings give you a sense of me. I have already seen your future and it is a splendid one. All the clichés in the world could not express my love. On my way out as you’re on your way in, embrace it all.
A life of Love,
Daddy
Poppa
Dad
Pops
Emmet Whitmore
9/24/89
-655321
(I hope. Your mother and I have yet to settle on a name)
The day you were born was the day I died.
Sorry for the density of that statement but I find in difficult situations it is best to avoid the roundabout. Your mother will tell you that levity was never my strong suit. I would tell you that reticence was never hers. They will both be yours.
The reason for this letter is quite simple; it’s the symbolic changing of guards, the circle that is life, la note finale. It’s your compass in a world that can often be dark. Look to this letter for answers in those tough times that strike us all.
I want to tell you that your life had nothing to do with my death, to really reassure you of this so it never plagues you like I think it may if you’re anything like me. But how do I know for sure? Can anyone that doesn’t know the reason for life be sure of the reason for death? Be consoled in this though, it reveals the uncertainty that is life and guarantees there is no algorithm.
As for my cessation, should you ever feel guilt, take comfort in the fact that if there is a higher power, and we are made in his image, perhaps he was distracted. Do not blame though, to be distracted is the nature of man. Is it possible HE looked away for a second and there was a momentary rift in order? Like a typo in a report you hand in to the head of your company, maybe it was merely overlooked. One letter discounted in a document of words. To the higher power, one life’s tragic demise is that error you omit in a sea of pages expressing a larger thought. Will anybody really miss the letter “A” that should have been in the 11th sentence of the third paragraph on the 13th page?
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with a psychologist would be beneficial.”
Vs.
“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with psychologist would be beneficial.”
I am sorry to bore you with the example, though it is an example taken from a report of your dearest departed’s, and I use it to prove to you that to err is human. True, it is hard to notice the difference, and as humans we tend to overlook these fine details. Maybe it’s the same for him, just a slip up on a canvas already containing too much color? Yaweh himself could have been watching over us as your mother went into labor, but struck with the curiosity only a creator could have for a “createe,” he got sidetracked. Perhaps two other men on a street in a city far below got into an altercation and used their steel-toed boots to launch their feet into each other’s reproductive organs. “That’s not what they’re for!” He’d surely want to shout. But that is what humanity sometimes is about son- we take for granted the gifts we were given and often feel like we got a raw deal or a kick in the genitals. Heed this warning and learn from it: there are no raw deals only raw men who don’t know how to deal.
Alternatively, maybe the MAN stumbled across a documentary about the human discovery of his only sons bones, and his mind reeled off on a philosophical tangent wondering just whose bones they really found. Am I missing a bone? He’d wonder later, a thought that’d stick with him for days, as he’d rub his ribs. But ultimately he would realize he didn’t have a son and he wasn’t made of bones (spoiler alert). One small glance away from the tiny burdens of love below and the grand scheme turns into anarchic mis-happenings.
You should know I would never blame you or anyone for my demise. And if others read this letter and for some reason these golden truths and theories are misunderstood, I want to be clear. I don’t mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the old me. Something like- a soon to be father says farewell to his partying, capricious, selfish ways and hello to the joys and responsibility of fatherhood. No I don’t mean this metaphorical paternal rebirth. I mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the only me; the end of physical life. A “swift, cold death” is what the doctors inform me I shall endure. Apparently the hospital where you were born, and where I will die, is not fond of levity either. Never be a doctor, Lucious.
I guess what I want to say is please try not to feel culpable. If there was only room for either you or me in this world then I’m glad for this glorious happening. And in times when you are down and your mother, or your grandparents, or your cousins, or my bowling partner from church tell you stories of me and shed tears that make you regret not knowing me, I want you to really think. If I am gone, and you are here, and there was only room for one of us in this world then surely no mistake was made. Get to know these people. Ted will show you how to throw a hook ball down the lane, and will inevitably admit you bowl like your old man….that is to say not well. You’re grandparents will tell you of my first encounter at the zoo, where I nearly lost my three year old finger up an enraged llama’s viscous nostril. And your mother will surely recount my last words over and over again to you hoping they weigh upon you both as the thought of soon saying them weighs upon me. Laugh with these cherished few; they will love you unconditionally and protect you always.
Forgive the long-winded nature of this letter, it’s the only time we have. Forgive the stains of tears that litter it with punctuation that will surely fade to yellow as this letter sets and waits for you to get on in years and interpret and analyze these last thoughts. The running trails of ink let you know I was a man of flesh and blood that felt for you and took the time to give you a piece of me. As I lay here in a hospital bed staring into your tiny squinty eyes, I notice they are a beautiful sea foam green just like my own. Your face tells me you were ready to be born, and your smile reveals a world of happiness and miracles are waiting. But my heart hurts, it hurts for you and it hurts for the physical ailment that will surely end me. As your breathing gets stronger mine gets shallower, as if we are synced in unison. “Stop writing,” the doctors say, “Get on with your final goodbyes.” Again, how crude, how daft, how frigid and uncaring; never be a doctor dear Lucious.
There is more to recount and more to relay, but time is short as is life. I hope these anecdotes, thoughts, and feelings give you a sense of me. I have already seen your future and it is a splendid one. All the clichés in the world could not express my love. On my way out as you’re on your way in, embrace it all.
A life of Love,
Daddy
Poppa
Dad
Pops
Emmet Whitmore
9/24/89
-655321
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Twins
There was a set of twins once. David and Daniel. David was good and Daniel was bad.
In kindergarten, Daniel and his friends would throw wooden blocks across the room at the other children. When the teacher reprimanded him, David would smirk from the shadows.
Serves him right.
In middle school, Daniel and his friends would sneak into the girls’ locker room and watch them change. When they were caught, David would smirk from the shadows.
Serves him right.
In high school, Daniel would stay out all night with his friends. When his parents would yell at him, David would smirk from the shadows.
Serves him right.
In college, Daniel would get drunk with his buddies. The next day when he suffered from a hangover, David would smirk from the shadows.
Serves him right.
His whole life, whenever he went to the beach, Daniel would refuse to where sunscreen. When he died of skin cancer, David smirked from the shadows.
Serves him right.
Then David was alone. No friends. No Lovers. No Fun. Just cold, pale, and alone.
Serves him right.
-Cornelius
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Printed Blog
Hey there my little chickadees (can I call you that?),
Whats up my Blue Jays (is that one ok)? In a totally uncharacteristic move by yours truly I'm taking a break from story writing, and thus you from story reading to shed the spotlight on something new I'm getting involved in. Quit your chirping and calm down, more drama and obscurity to come after this brief plug.
Recently I have become aware of the printed blog:
It originally started as an online mag and has now evolved into a weekly print publication. Yea, so what? No, no, no, not so what. So what not? This publication voraciously hunts the internet in search of the best blogs and photography on a weekly basis and prints it up for your perusal. Imagine a "best of" mix cd but for the internet. Yea...it's that good and it even leaves out that track 12 Hall and Oates b-side that makes you think of your ex. The Printed Blog scours the internet for it's treasures like a bald eagle swooping in for carrion, (I'm really into birds this morning) and collects them all in one magazine. It's an unexpected and pleasant gift, like your cat bringing an expensive bottle of wine to your doormat rather then a dead mouse. So the real question is what not, what doesn't the printed blog showcase, what doesn't the printed blog expose? The answer: seemingly nothing. Any and all blogs can be featured. Who wouldn't want the best of the internet printed up in neat little packages to read on the train, the waiting room, during your sisters dance recital? Check out the printed blog and get your finger on the pulse: ThePrintedBlog.Com
Sign up for the publication at the site and check them out on twitter and facebook as well. For more info on exactly how "it all works," check out this awesome blog: info, or see your doctor....depending on what "it" is and why it doesn't work. In a totally related matter, I am trying to get my blog featured in the printed blog so keep checking back here and with the printed blog in heated, heated anticipation.
That's it for now,
-655321
oh yea......purple finch
Whats up my Blue Jays (is that one ok)? In a totally uncharacteristic move by yours truly I'm taking a break from story writing, and thus you from story reading to shed the spotlight on something new I'm getting involved in. Quit your chirping and calm down, more drama and obscurity to come after this brief plug.
Recently I have become aware of the printed blog:
It originally started as an online mag and has now evolved into a weekly print publication. Yea, so what? No, no, no, not so what. So what not? This publication voraciously hunts the internet in search of the best blogs and photography on a weekly basis and prints it up for your perusal. Imagine a "best of" mix cd but for the internet. Yea...it's that good and it even leaves out that track 12 Hall and Oates b-side that makes you think of your ex. The Printed Blog scours the internet for it's treasures like a bald eagle swooping in for carrion, (I'm really into birds this morning) and collects them all in one magazine. It's an unexpected and pleasant gift, like your cat bringing an expensive bottle of wine to your doormat rather then a dead mouse. So the real question is what not, what doesn't the printed blog showcase, what doesn't the printed blog expose? The answer: seemingly nothing. Any and all blogs can be featured. Who wouldn't want the best of the internet printed up in neat little packages to read on the train, the waiting room, during your sisters dance recital? Check out the printed blog and get your finger on the pulse: ThePrintedBlog.Com
Sign up for the publication at the site and check them out on twitter and facebook as well. For more info on exactly how "it all works," check out this awesome blog: info, or see your doctor....depending on what "it" is and why it doesn't work. In a totally related matter, I am trying to get my blog featured in the printed blog so keep checking back here and with the printed blog in heated, heated anticipation.
That's it for now,
-655321
oh yea......purple finch
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