Bad Instructions

People like telling you what to do.

it's true.

they like to give excellent advice to you,

so excellent that they won't follow it themselves. 

and we like hearing advice!

well, to a point.

no one likes to be left on their own in a world that doesn't make sense

at least, not without some instructions.

so we drink them in.

we're so thirsty for them...

we're so thirsty that we don't even test these directions,

we don't take a moment to look where they're directing us,

we just head off in hopes that once we get where we go

we wont want to keep on going.

when i was told my mother had cancer

i was very young.

old enough where i knew it was bad,

but young enough where that was the best negative descriptive word i knew.

i can't remember the advice i was given,

but i remember being given a lot of it.

"let out your feelings, 

let us know what you want."

stuff like that.

these were bad instructions.

i didn't know what i wanted, 

and now i know that most people don't in the first place.

i wanted her to wake me up in the morning when i went to school

to come say good night to me when i went to bed,

and to make the best god damn sheppards pie in the world

every once in a while..

i was eight,

i didn't know you could want for someone to get better,

to beat cancer,

i didn't know you could want that. 

i wanted her there, and she was, cancer could suck it,

i didn't know it could be so violent.

it was just a word in the dictionary.

nothing in life really prepares a family for that,

and equally nothing really prepares a family for what happens next,

when she beats it.

it's as if Gandhi just beat Muhammad Ali in a boxing match,

everyone goes crazy in wild celebration afterwards,

and there are more noises and sounds than one can exclaim,

and it's wonderful

but it settles down

something can only hold the limelight of people's exciting lives for so long.

GANDHI JUST BEAT MOTHER FUCKING MUHAMMAD ALI.

there's no time appropriate for settling down,

there's no time appropriate for self conscious composure,

it's time for dancing,

time for singing,

time to forget everything you do in life 

everything that's meant to keep you or someone else happy,

alive.

it should be put on the back burner in favour of celebration.

because this is what everything you do in life is for,

this is what your savings is for, so SPEND IT.

this is why you were racking up those vacation days, so USE THEM.

but i was still pretty young.

and all i was told was "you should be happy"

happy?

this was a very bad instruction.

i should have been happy i got tucked in at night,

that when i forgot to make my lunch that one would get to me at school,

i should have been happy like having been given a new book.

and i was.

but happy doesn't cut it,

i should have been fucking ecstatic. 

ecstatic in that it was my mom tucking me in,

that those lunches always had the taste of extra care

i should have been ecstatic like being given the world's library 

and should never have put a book down.

but i was happy.

because someone told me to be.

...god damn directions...

when i was a bit older my father was told he had cancer,

then we were told.

"spend as much time with him as you can"

was something i heard more times than i care to remember.

this may have been pretty good advice

i'm not sure why i didn't listen to it, 

but i'm certain it was because his life was what was cancerous.

to me at least.

so i stayed away from that as much as i could

because i was old enough to realize cancer's not something you want. 

i didn't want it.

he didn't want it.

but hearing "spend as much time with him as you can"

from family and friends

is much different from hearing

"you only have this much time to spend with him"

from his doctor.

that rattled me. 

but it should have picked me up and shook me

like an ice cream hungry 8 year old and their piggy bank,

shaking loose every bone in my body 

and breaking the ties i had to anything else that would take up my time.

his time.

he faded.

physically.

but i had never been more proud of him 

as when he showed how bright and open he had become.

i couldn't spend enough time with him then.

he was more my father then,

weak, frail, sleepless and vulnerable,

because he was being strong,

he was being brave,

and he wasn't scared.

the last time i saw him he couldn't speak

he couldn't open his eyes

but they said he could hear.

i know he could hear me.

but i'll be damned if i remember

the exact words that were my last to him.

i didn't hug him.

i don't know why.

instead i grabbed his hand,

grabbed his hand like i was grabbing for my life.

i was grabbing for a large part of it afterall.

a part that was about to leave forever.

but then he grabbed mine.

and it wasn't a hand shake

even though we were both holding on so tight that that's what it turned into.

there were no words to go with this.

i couldn't speak either.

there was a pathway between rows of roses

right outside his door, that he liked to walk.

this only started near the end.

but it made him happy, even then.

the last piece of advice he gave me

he gave to everyone.

and while he couldn't speak,

during that last handshake i could hear his voice 

from time and time before,

saying "stop and smell the roses."

it seems easy enough to understand but until then it never stood out to me.

then i got it.

Stop.

and smell the roses.

and right then, the last time i ever saw him, 

the last time i ever held his hand

a few hours before he would take his last breath with his parents beside him

he did something no one else had done to me

and something no one has done since.

I had

finally

been given a good instruction.

The March

i will walk until i feed the soil with my bones

and i will not stop for food or water

as i do not need these things for where i aim to go.

i will not look back at who i leave behind,

at who will age and crumble where they stand

as these statues do not line the halls of where i aim to rest.

the years will pass beneath my feet like dreams within my sleep,

and names will fade from faces and those faces to the distance.

of all the places they will haunt not one will be my thoughts. 

my soul will ware with each dessert crossed

leaving pieces of myself at every corner turned

until i walk on bruised and bloody heels leaving crimson prints behind.

the heat will bake my skin, the rain will wash the dust,

and this coat of skin hanging on these bones will fall;

i will be then just my core, only bones outside an empty husk

bones are brittle and will break, marrow staining resting rocks.

this last effigy will fail, falling forward with momentum

pointing in direction one last time at where i aim to go.

i will then be free.

Rapunzel

i went to visit a friend of mine the other day, i haven't known her my whole life but she was just someone who fit. you know, like really just works with who you are and who you need in your life. someone worth keeping around. we met while we were still kids, not while we were super young, but while we were letting ourselves be kids for a moment, caught up in trying to feel the same way we used to when we truly were children. i was going for a walk, pretending i was walking the same woods i would walk at home, to school, from school, to friend's houses, from friend's houses, to work, from work. i don't know which was the last reason i ever walked those trails, but i was pretending there wasn't a last. 

walking, it was a beautiful day, not that i remember the sky, the heat, the wind, or was it rain? it was beautiful, it must have been. when i first saw her she was a brilliant streak of blonde hair in the middle of the wet green and shady brown of the trees. 

there was a fort in the trees along the path that i had chosen, and there was a woman also pretending being a kid again inside of it. she was leaning over the only half built railing, peering, with one hand keeping the sun from her eyes placed over her brow, looking as if one of those sirens from those old stories had actually found itself captain of a ship. i don't think we ever would have met if this moment in time was only a few moments off, and i don't think that if we met any other way that we would ever have thought twice about saying hello. 

when she saw me she didn't even skip a beat, calling out to me as a captain, asking who goes where i was standing and asking for a full report on sailing conditions. i played along, i was a fisherman, tired and weary from a long day's work and the disappointing bounty it gave. sailing conditions were fair but i had fished these waters with my father, and him with his father before him, and so on for many ages. the waters may be fair now but i could tell there would be a storm tonight, i told her i feared if i would make it home. 

"oh!" she said, "well come on up then!" or something equally as out of character and full of energy. i climbed up, having nothing else to do was the last reason i did. i was busy being a kid, and apparently she was too. when i got up and poked my head through the floor i was surprised- she had glass pop bottles, blankets, blankets and peanut butter and jam sandwiches. and hair. so much hair! it fell from her head to the floor and curled around a bit with the extra length.

i asked her what she was doing even though i had a vague idea anyways, and she told me she was looking for something, "just a place" she said. "you know, where i'll end up." i remember thinking that she may have meant a little more than she let on but didn't question it. i mean we're all doing the same. even when we're walking we're looking towards our destination. 

she asked me what i was doing and think i sort of stumbled over my words not knowing what to say, the long and short of it is that i told her i was being a kid, and she didn't even probe, she just understood. 

i didn't know it then but i had climbed up into the ship of someone who would change my life forever, as she explained to me that wherever we are and wherever we go is all determined by who you bump into along the way to wherever you're going. neither of us spoke about anything that was outside the world of two kids in a sailing ship up in the treetops for the rest of the time. there were metaphors and definitely things to be read between the lines, sure, but we kept it as it would have been were we younger. as the storm came she yelled orders and i'd hoist the flag, tie and untie ropes, man the canon and search for where we were going. for a while we weren't sure our ship would make it through, but it did. she credited it to her commanding skills. i couldn't disagree.

it got dark soon after and we looked to the northern star, hoping it would help guide us. she told me stories about constellations that i hadn't heard before, it turned out she was pretty into that kind of stuff. she knew everything about anything that you would never need to know, and i had never heard most of it before. 

we ate, settled down and without a care in the world about morning obligations we slept. close to keep warm, wrapped up in the blankets she had. in the last few words we said to each other she told me her name was Rapunzel. i didn't believe her at first, i thought she was still just playing along but i didn't want to ruin the adventure by pressing further. 

when i woke up she was gone. she left the blankets and had apparently climbed down very quietly. 

i don't know why she left so suddenly in the morning, i never found out. but maybe it was better that way? i did find her again, after all, even if there was a few years between the two meetings. 

That random meet had been on my mind a lot, so i set out to find this person who had so left her mark on me. it took up most of my free time for a while, but it was winter and it's not like there's much to do in the cold anyways, nor is there much to do more rewarding than finding someone so incredible. 

i got next to nowhere doing what i was doing, what tipped me off at first was a friends kid, i overheard her telling her mom that the new teacher isn't nearly as nice as Rapunzel, that she missed her and hopes she gets better. 

i felt kind of weird but i asked around, asking questions about someone i didn't even know. i did find her though; there was a picture in the newspaper of her standing next to her class of kindergartners, they had raised a bunch of money for the school's new playground, and some company was recognizing them for it. 

there she was, stunning even in black and white, her hair still just as long, only braided and rebraided over and over again. i guess that would kind of get in the way of any kind of work. i asked the staff at the school about her, saying i was an old friend who wanted to reconnect or at least say hi. i didn't even know what i would say. anything would sound strange. who was i kidding? i was being strange. i was a stranger. 

she was away on sick leave, apparently it was pretty serious as they were making no assumptions on when she would be back, or if she even can come back afterwards. 

i called the hospital and explained that i would like to set up a visit with her. the receptionist wasn't sure she could do that as i was not immediate family and she wasn't in the best condition, so i asked to speak with who was taking care of her to see if i could tell my story and maybe figure something out. that was acceptable. 

it turns out that her doctor was a friend of hers, and when i told her how we had met and that i would like to say hello she didn't hesitate to say it was okay. she looked like she had just been holding her breath for something and could now breath. i guessed the girl didn't get many visitors. her doctor let me know i was right, and told me i must be an angel or something, as Rapunzel had just told her about the boy she met in the woods one time the other day. 

i set up an appointment for the next day. the doctor said sooner would be better, i wasn't about to question that. 

when i got to her door i stopped. it was room 137. the door was a faded blue. it was on the right side of the hallway and the metal guard on the bottom had scuffs on it from stretcher wheels and the no-slip soles of doctor's shoes. there was a small window in the door, with some sort of mesh in the glass. i looked through it, as if to check this was really the right room. i wanted to be sure. i didn't want to disturb anyone else who was in the terminal ward. 

there she was. sitting on the edge of her bed, her feet bare, hanging just off the floor. it looked cold. her knees were together, she looked cold. her head was tilted forward, with eyes cast down and lips pursed, she looked defeated. cold. her hands were in her lap, on top of the baby blue hospital apron. they were clutching a yellow mass, it was wrapped around her fingers and fell beside her, behind her. it was her hair.

i almost turned around. i had no idea if she would even recognize me. retelling the story might be nice but having the person show up out of nowhere after years of no communication? that sounds like a bad time.

i opened the door before i could really think about it too much. when she looked up at me, she didn't look. she couldn't. there were eyes, but there was nothing in them. they were still as green as the leaves i first spied her through, but the looked towards me, not at me. i had never actually asked her doctor why she was here, i was too concerned that i wouldn't be let in to ask. 

i didn't know what to say, my voice kind of cracked but i managed a hello. a quick smile flashed across her face and she said "well, hello to you too." 

"do you know who i am?" i asked. "i heard i was lucky enough to have a visitor, that you sound like a nice enough man, and that i knew you from years ago." she let out a little laugh, a quick laugh. one that when you hear it you know it's only there to make an impossibly sad situation a little lighter. "i bet i look a little different now, don't i?" she sort of played with her hands and the hair that was it in before she realized she was still holding it. she quickly put the wig back on, a little crooked and she looked embarrassed. "no," i said, "you're just as pretty... the blue aprons are making a come-back i hear." that made her laugh a bit, a genuine laugh. she said they had told her it was green, that that was her favourite colour, but that it didn't matter much anyhow since she can't see it. she didn't know it, but her eyes were green enough for all the aprons. i told her. she smiled. 

"so why are you here? it's not very fun visiting someone in the hospital. if it was you wouldn't be my only visitor."

"well, i wanted to ask you something actually."

"okay" she said, "what's that?"

"well..." i paused, not really sure what to say, i'd been talking without any real direction so far. it almost seemed unreal, but i continued.

"how are the sailing conditions ahead?" 

there was a laugh, a quick laugh, but her face sunk and the laugh turned into a light tearless sob. the question was meant to give myself away and bring her back to when we met. i had asked how she was doing. 

i was so stupid.  

she was about to cry and i could hear it in her voice.

"well cap'n, there's a storm a'brewin."

SUPPORT THE TROOPS.

"if you don't support our troops then you don't deserve freedom", "if you don't vote then you're insulting the troops that died fighting for your freedom", and other similar ridiculous phrases i hear from time to time...

what bullshit is this? there are so many things wrong with thinking this way. so many it's almost impossible to explain them, how is it not more self evident? first of all- voting is a right, yes, but it's not a freedom to choose one of multiple bad scenarios. the freedom lays in having a say, and not all the time but sometimes having a say means not voting if your voice isn't represented in the options available. if everyone keeps voting in parties that everyone wishes were better then no one can blame them because they voted them in... it's like being at a dinner party and there's a group of people all talking about what everyone will eat. so far it's been decided that there are 3 options, because discussing over each person's wants would be impractical, there's only one kitchen. when someone brings up a new idea they're told to either get with the program or leave the conversation. meanwhile roughly half of the party are in the next room waiting to see what happens since most of them would prefer something different than any of the three options or are just too lazy to put in their say. turns out we get a nice fish dish with a thai peanut sauce. mmm. too bad a few people are allergic to nuts, jim is a vegetarian and a few others are lactose intolerant to the cream in the sauce. great work guys.

 we're like the god damned frog in the pot of water on the stove. oh, only half the country voted? that's okay, we'll still call it a majority win. where will the line be drawn? "hmm... only 22% of our citizens voted... well i'm sure that's still a fair and equal sample of everyone else in the country!" freedom? we consider ourselves free based on our not only our perception of ourselves but of the skewed idea of what freedom is that something has somehow given us. free? i can't shoot heroin without breaking the law, yet i can find government approved safe injection sites. i can't grow certain plants even without intent to dry and smoke or sell without fear of being caught and either greatly fined or thrown in jail, but if i have bad enough luck to be in a gross amount of pain or have some other malady that the government deems worthy of the benefits of said plants then i'm allowed to lend them a profit because of it? i'm realizing more and more how free people aren't, and it's annoying me more and more that i feel people don't see this. 

your money is not your own. first of all, very rarely do banks make you money, they provide you a service and as for every service you have to pay for it. the service is keeping it "safe" even if that means that anyone and their mother who the government or bank deems deserves some of your money can dip into it without your consent or knowledge, also while locking you out of your own money. carry cash? that's a pretty safe step, but even then your currency is only supported by your countries currency's value. get a job? if you don't want anyone taking a piece of your pie without asking you'll have to work illegally, and that'll likely be a shit job since employers are scared to hire illegal workers. 

we have such a bloated sense of self worth it's disgusting. if you ask yourself how much a human life is worth it's a hard question to answer. priceless, right? that's the answer most people would give. but this is impossible and it's a serious question, i don't care how much you don't want to think about it or want to be romantic, how much is a human life worth? is a country going bankrupt worth saving the life of one person? shit no. a province? no. a city? no. and so on and so on it goes, getting scaled down more and more until you come to an answer. everyone has a price. to make this easy Time did a thing on this a little while ago in 2008 and the highest value they got was 488,000.00$. (a little note here, the pay a family receives for a US soldier that falls in battle is only 12,000 more than that.) does that sound enough to you? or too much? okay, well maybe some lives are worth more than others then? well health insurance sure sees it that way, but that's besides the point. so a person has a value, and things that have value can be traded for other things that have value, that's where currency comes from. so if this could actually happen in a legal way and there was no squabbling about how much who is worth, then you would be able to buy someone's life for 488,000$. you would own them entirely, and you would be able to kill them without penalty as they are your property and you have just bought every right they own. that's a neat idea, but it's not like too many people would be able to do that anyways. right? wait, how much is the US military budget? in 2007 it was approximately 530,000,000,000. with signs of rising each year after that. so each year the US government is spending roughly the amount of 1,086,065 lives on whatever the military does. this should be tragic. this should be as tragic as that many soldiers dying for the same cause (save for it may be said that those on million+ soldiers were drafted as they didn't really have a say as to where they were spent.) why should this be so tragic? because you do not own your life. you are a currency, and you belong to your country. your country is currently about 1,100,000,000,000.00$ in debt? congrats, you need just under 1/3rd of the world's population in their previously decided monetary worth to pay off your debt; 2,254,098 and 36/100ths of someone as well. i don't see how it makes sense to while owing 2.5 billion lives be spending 1 million each year on military spending. the Iran war is hypocritical in the first place, while the US has >3000 nuclear warheads stockpiled in various locations as of 2006 it is intervening under the excuse of preventing the research of nuclear arms by Iran? that's a battle you can never hope to win as long as the will is there. as education progresses and information becomes more and more readily available, as well as the existence of black markets it is only a matter of time before they do gain access to nuclear arms. all that aside, nuclear research does not specifically mean nuclear arms, and as the president of Iran said they don't intend on using the research for that purpose as it would not be for their best interest and also against their religion. so, it's not the US's war, they don't claim to be researching nuclear power for the production of nuclear arms, and Israel is already at war with them. "oh noooooo, of course they're going to use it for arms, what else is it good for!?" well, let's see.. it's benefits include things from better smoke detectors, wine production, insect control, bone imaging, bone sterilization, to making sure the seals in pipelines don't burst, testing the pressure capacity of blast furnaces, testing the density of material one would be drilling through for mining purposes, and, oh i don't know, NUCLEAR ENERGY. you know, that cleaner more efficient energy that everyone's been raving about? it's a shame about the cool down time but the pros outweigh the cons. outweigh so much so that it accounted for 20% of the US's electrical output in 2010, also being 30% of the world's entire output of nuclear electrical energy. so as for the war being a good and grand idea, it's bullshit. the military is shitting on another country- a developing country within the UN's Development Programme (UNDP). 

still feel all "Ra ra! support the troops!"? don't. feel sorry for them that they're in a shitty situation, hope that they get home, but giving someone a bigger gun in a fight is the worst way of supporting them. encouraging someone to join the army? remember that number we talked about earlier, the 488,000.00 one? every time the military deploys a missile around that cost, which as i understand i likely most (if not they cost more but it is REALLY hard to find some trustworthy sources on that matter...) missiles, then they are spending the match amount of that soldier's life. i do not believe that if it were presently possible for a robot to be made with all the pros and cons of a human soldier, that cost 2 million dollars to produce, that the military would use such a thing. because it wouldn't be cost effective. soldiers are a weapon, and they're worth roughly half a million dollars. every time a missile is shot, break that cost down into soldiers lives. then keep an eye on how many "lives" are really lost each day. do not encourage people to join the army, do not support the war effort. 

here are some new ones to try on- "if you support our troops you support the purchasing of human lives as tools for someone else's trade.", "if you vote you support a system that disguises itself as freedom which while still in place hides from you what freedom really is for the sake of its own survival"

Time life cost - http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1808049,00.html

2007 military budget and signs of rising- http://www.gpo.gov/fdsys/pkg/BUDGET-2009-BUD/pdf/BUDGET-20

US national deficit - http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/13/business/federal-deficit-for-2012-fiscal-year-falls-to-1-1-trillion.html

US stobkpile - http://nuclearweaponarchive.org/Usa/Weapons/Wpngall.html

Iran president claiming research not meant for arms - http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/4613644.stm

benefits of nuclear research - http://www.ansto.gov.au/nuclear_information/benefits_of_nuclear_science

pros outweighing cons of nuclear energy - http://energyinformative.org/nuclear-energy-pros-and-cons/

nuclear power output by US in 2010 - http://www.world-nuclear.org/info/inf41.html

The Giant's Address

After the failure of the Apollo 11 mission, we learned a hard lesson that we would never forget. The technology that got us there would not be the same that would get those brave souls back, no matter how much we believed it would be. It was a dark day when we heard that transmission from the crew of Apollo 11, a day made darker in contrast to how gloriously bright it was made by the initial success of those heroic men. 

Legends speak of giants as great titans which could touch the sky, beings who made the earth tremble with each step, which no man could defeat, and which would only be put to rest when they laid down to become mountains. Even now these giants exist, though seem so rare in this new and advancing world. These men were as giants were spoken of in legends, these men could not be barred by the restrictions of human nature, these men shook the earth as they broke the sky, these men had gone where titans could only dream of going- these men were among gods of older legends... Not mere flesh and bone, but of dark and light, life and death, of creation. And there is where they rest, laying as mountains upon our moon. They will be there forever, as who are we to disturb giants? 

But as every man's last words deserve to be heard, it was our duty as fellow humans to investigate their log books upon our eventual return to the Apollo 11 site just 4 months ago. It was a very emotional time for all of us: the crew, the officers, every staff member involved in getting that ship in the air, and more importantly- getting it back down again, and all our listeners out there all over mother Earth. 

I cannot tell you how it must have been for the crew of Hermes 1, laying eyes upon the men from years before them, suited up and still as rock, gazing at their visor and seeing only their reflection. But there was one man who could, and before he was released from this life not 2 weeks ago after a gruelling and heroic three and a half month battle with foreign infection, he did. He told me, ''Sir, I don't know why I tried to look into that helmet. I knew very well the gold layering on it doesn't much let someone see inside it, but it was just habit.'' He said, ''I was taught to look people in the eyes, and after finally meeting my hero I wasn't about to insult him like that and forget. I did look to meet his gaze, no matter how dead it may have been, but when I did all I saw was a mirror...'' And after a pause he added, ''It was a mirror, and inside that mirror I saw my own helmet, another mirror, and inside that was his, and in his was mine, and it just went on forever. I could have looked down into those mirrors for as far as I can look out into the night sky right now, and neither would end. When I looked into that mirror I saw myself in it, and I saw it in myself. And in that moment I felt two things very strongly... Sir, I felt that I had already done this before, and that I was already dead.''I will not cheapen nor attempt to interpret what Col. Lorr had to say, I will leave them be in your ears as they were meant to be, as I firmly believe Lorr knew exactly what he was saying.

Another action which I would normally never entertain the thought of doing is disclosing information written in a personal log book such as the ones we recovered from the Apollo 11 site to the public, but as current circumstances have it, the family members of one such astronaut felt it appropriate that everyone listening be privy to one entry in particular and took it upon themselves to request that I include and recite a requested entry from one of these logs during this address. I have agreed end this address with the entry as I do not believe I am able to summon the words worthy of following someone who was in such a unique and lonely place. So, if you love your heroes...

Log entry 297

''Home seems so far away from me now. It seems so far away but every other time I look up at the earth I can see it. I can almost reach out and grab it. I can jump and scream and shout but no one will ever hear me. No one will ever see me, even if I can see all of them. 

The only response I get from anything is the shimmer and twinkle of stars, so impossibly far away. So impossibly large, each one an inferno larger than any hell that can be imagined. Just burning and burning, as soon as they were born they all have been burning out. The more violently they burn the brighter they are, and to me it's just a twinkle. It's hard to believe that something so intense and self destructive, something so cosmic and beautiful can just be a twinkle to me... When i look out into the stars I wonder how many are already dead, how many I have just seen die, and how far away they are.

It reminds me that I shouldn't live for others, that sometimes, no matter what I do, or how brilliant and bright I shine, I will just be a twinkle to someone. Or perhaps everyone. I don't regret my life, I've done what I've always dreamed of doing, but now it looks as though I won't have a chance to do it again. I know I'll die here. I know it's ridiculous to still be writing logs... But I haven't ever met a man who died on the moon who told me that it was easy having no one to talk to.

Maybe if people lived just for themselves then the world may be a little nicer. But I guess this would only work if people weren't selfish, and enjoyed being selfless, rather than selfishly living for other people. Oh, I don't know. Life would be much easier up here on the moon though. With all these reminders that we're all just twinkles, I don't think anyone could get carried away with caring too much or getting angry or sad. Because those are just twinkles of twinkles. And that the only thing anyone has is their own enjoyment of their own twinkle.

I mean, I'm about to die on the moon but I'm not that sad about it anymore. Some things I miss, like home. My wife. I hope she can learn to see that this is just a twinkle too. That because she is alive is all the reason she needs to be excited and happy. No, I don't mind dying on the moon anymore, there are many other less interesting places to die.

I do wish i ate more Cracker Jacks though... There are so many little prizes at the bottom of those boxes that i'll never get to know...''

Unavailable

When i look around the room i see that everything inside

is meant for someone else.

the pictures on the wall

the extra chair meant for a guest

the ashtray sitting there so silently 

now just an ugly paperweight

i never got to earn them

i could have but didn't see

now i sit here suffering

their availability

two cups to share the joe

a dresser meant for her clothes

an extra chair that wont stop screaming

it's the only thing i hear

everything here is meant for someone else

for a couple or a family but not for me

well i think it's time i changed that

it's my responsibility

i've got to stop this suffering

this availability

the coffee calms my nerves

a torn up sheet to make the rope

a dresser to write this letter on

the ashtray can hold the ring

the pictures on the wall

make for an okay final scene

this extra chair will stop it's screaming

when i kick it to the floor

oh yeah

whoa yeah

nothing in this room is meant for anybody now

not the letter, the story,

or the golden ring

and definitely not the body on the floor

oh yeah

whoa yeah

nothing in this room is meant for anybody else

not

any more.

I believe in ghosts.

I believe in ghosts. 

This seems like an absurd thing to say, but maybe that's because of the normal understanding of the word- ghost. What is it that I believe in? Spirits of past relatives haunting old houses, slamming shutters, and making floorboards creak as they walk their otherworldly bodies down lonely halls? No. I believe in ghosts less complicated than that, ghosts which are not tied to the event of death, ones which do not inherently defy the finality of crossing over to... where? Maybe your ghosts can tell you, but not mine. My ghosts are shadows, they are wakes, they are lingering scents, footprints, ripples, and bruises. They are as real as anything, so real that most may not consider them ghosts at all, but their nature is, in fact, quite paranormal in that normal is much less so than it may seem.

Look up at the moon, look beyond it to the stars, see the faint stain of the milky way in the sky. They are all ghosts. Some are already dead, imploded, supernova'd, smote, gone. We still see them today, and likely will for years to come, their ghosts haunting our campfire stories and moonlit bike rides. Others still hang where you see them, burning, smoldering, consuming, dying. They may be there in that moment, but we see them then, ago, before now, their previous days. We are watched by ghosts of both the dead and the living. We map constellations, guide ships, and predict cosmic events with the help of these ghosts.

My ghosts are not all celestial though, my ghosts are much closer to home and to you than may be comfortable. While the footprint may be a ghost of the woman who walked there hours or days before, it could also have been from only seconds ago. The ripple could be the ghost of a single drop of rain. These ghosts are easy to see, we know them as effects and so know they must have come from an act, the act of which would be the projector of the ghost. There are more immediate acts though, ones we do not see as effects, and so do not perceive as ghostly at all.

Though your eyes may be open, movements noticed by them have already happened, or have begun to happen. There is a distance between all things, and distance of any measure takes time to travel at any speed. By the time light reflected from someone's eyes into your shows them to blink, by the time it is noticed they have already begun. They will also have ended before it is perceived.  These are my ghosts. A moment before someone holds your hand, they are already holding you. A moment before they let go, they already have. Everyone has a ghost, these ghosts are our physical bodies, not the ethereal transparent floating dead people we learn them to be. We are directors, writing and directing our ghosts through our entire lives. When we say "speak" a moment later our ghost will speak, and a moment later we will hear the words spoken.

Big Brown Box

Distractions like cracks in the sidewalk. One after the other, nonstop, like spaces between the ivories, black keys to mark the footsteps of a broken heart.

Broken into pieces that fall between the cracks, swallowed up by the mud and carried off into the veins of the city. Its sewage pumping with the rag time jazz of car horns and bar fights, a light show of neon and lighter flicks. Alley cats tracing your path as you stumble back home on a rainy night. I always thought cats didn't like the rain, why are they following me? I’m convinced of their menacing but they look at me with eyes that want me to take them home. Yellow in the midnight shadows, like stars against the sky. Blinking. Maybe next time. Maybe next time they're gone. Different eyes, human eyes. Robber?Thin man. Thin man in a long coat. Thin man in a long coat with a dirty hat and thin wrists, not saying a word. It’s still raining. It’s always raining. Streetlights fill pot holes with life. Pools of yellow, of faux sunlight. It’s not warm, it doesn't keep you dry, but it’s comfort. Like a lie you keep telling yourself over and over. There is sunlight, it's warm, it's dry, I’m okay,she'll come back.  She’ll see me here bathed in this yellow fog and she’ll come back. Only… lies are only lies if they never become fact, else they be prophecies and I’ve never had reason to call myself a prophet by any means. I am just a liar. And I can never bring myself to talk of double negatives.  More rain. Waves down the streets. Small life boats of litter drift passed my sodden shoes. A cigarette box, a box of matches, more cigarette boxes, more matches...that's all anyone does here, just smoke. If you don't smoke, why are you standing out in the rain with wet feet and bad company, lying to yourself about faces you see in magazines and poster ads? She’s not coming back. That was last week. That was too many buses ago, she's gone. Now that ugly real-estate lady has taken her place on the back of the 110 east to Shitville.  She was the only thing good about watching a pack of defeated parents and abandoned children crammed into one of those crates and being shipped back to their cages, or to where they stand in the rain and look in at empty cages that they could sleep in for the hefty piece of their experience. It all happens in a very noisy quietness. A downcast face and a turn on a heel. No one will give up their experience for that. Shitville is shit until it's about to be taken away. The rain on your face stings until you can push a button to make it stop forever. Then you linger. With that bony finger just above that button, waiting... for what? For that last rain drop? For that last extra smelly breeze? For the sound of an injured dog so perfect you need it to be the last one you hear again? I don't know. Maybe it's just leaving home that's tough. Even getting better feels uncomfortable at first. Peeling off those wet socks is the worst part of my day the second worst is when they get wet in the first place. They've become my second skin, I feel through them,my senses expand with them. And maybe that's the same with the sounds, the smells,the sights and tastes of Shitville... maybe that's someone's second skin as well.When the water's a little higher than normal, when the air a little more sour,the mist a more bit tart, and the sounds a bit quiet... what would someone from there do in paradise? They would listen for the dogs, feel for the current,wait for the wind direction and wonder why all their senses have gone a sort of snowblind. They would be lost in paradise. We can grumble all we like I guess,but I doubt any of us would know what to do with ourselves if we had nothing to grumble about.

Hmm... yep, still raining. Maybe I should stay inside... I don't have much. Just a cardboard box. I remember when I was little I always wondered what it would be like to be homeless, and to live like I live now. But I thought it would be different. I don't know how I thought it would be different, but just... not the same. I stay dry for the most part, as long as I don't need to go to the washroom. It’s always raining. So the good part is that I’ve found an ally that's sloped so the current doesn't reach me. That also means I don't need to go far to take a piss. And I really do count my blessings as it were, that I found this place with an old air conditioner hanging out of one of the low level room above me, so that provides a small amount of relief from the rain, as long as the wind isn't blowing. How else am I staying dry? Well scraps of old tarps. All different colours, and some crayons. Yep, crayons and candle wax, all over my box, layer after layer after layer. It works fairly well, I even did the inside too, and I drew pictures all over it to make it seem a little more homey. I’ve got a fireplace, a mantle, even a window that I can see trees out of with little animals and birds that run around in them before I go to sleep. I don't have much money, so buying things for pleasure isn't much of an option I have, most of my treasures are found items. I have an old green army man who's missing an arm, a small toy car, a few pieces of Lego,most of a card deck and a half stuffed Yosemite Sam doll. He’s actually a better friend than I expected him to be. When there are really tough nights I sometimes ask him what it must have been like to be stuck out in the wilderness when it rained or when it was really cold out, and his stories keep me up for hours. The army man and toy car are really just reminders of how much fun those toys were when I was a kid. If they could help me out then, I don't see why it would be bad to keep them around now. And besides, if I poke small holes in the wall of my box I can put them on my mantle, and then it really looks like I have things to show off! I’m pretty lucky still, I have folded up boxes that I sleep on, and when they're layered like I have them they form a pretty good mattress. They also work as emergency patch kits for my home. I don't have to deal with any expensive renovations this way! I kind of feel like I’m cheating when do that though, it feels good to finally get one over on those building guys. I guess some of them are nice though. They have to be. I’m wearing a garbage bag over top of everything because it's waterproof. I know, I’m wearing an old rain coat underneath though, right? But that has holes, and I remember my parents always telling me that it's better to be safe than it is to be sorry, so I have a little extra protection this way. They always said I was a smart one. Under that I’ve got an old fleece, it's one of my favorites, I think it used to be yellow but now it's kind of a bunch of spots of different shades of brown. I like it. I don't think there's another one like it anywhere else. Under that I don't really know what I’m wearing, a couple shirts to be sure. It’scold, and when the wind picks up it doesn't matter what you do to stay warm, it still bites. My shoes are pretty neat, I call them Jesus shoes, because they're so hole-y!.. Get it? Hah! I always was funny in school! So that's why I wear plastic bags over my socks, but inside my shoes. They aren't waterproof in the first place, so they're going to get wet no matter what, so I just have a bunch of socks on at a time and try to keep those dry, while my shoes only keep my feet off of the pavement, and glass and needles and dead rats and birds. That’s something that's been getting worse, I don't like it. There are more dead animals around lately. I don't think they're being killed, they're just dying. Sometimes I’ll watch one die, age or disease just taking its toll. I think it's very pretty actually, to see something so great as death stop by and give attention to something so small and ugly, most people just walk by rats, or yell at them or run them off, but death stops and waits and then takes them with him. I think that's very nice. Others just appear there overnight, I don't know where those come from. I guess some must be from the same reasons, but I don't think they all can be. Some look really injured, like they were in a big fight or something. Others look twisted and broken. I don't like seeing those ones. I think there are kids who do these things. I hope they don't, but I sometimes hear them when I’m in my home. They talk with different words than I use, it's the same language, but it's as if it's all in code. I sure didn't learn those words in school, and I don't remember ever hearing anyone else use them before I moved into my box. Sometimes I’ll be pretending to be asleep, hoping they go away and they're just shouting. Maybe 5 or 6 of them, their voices all high and low like they can't make up their mind, shouting and sounding angry and laughing,and then bang! My box will shake and my army man and race car decorations are knocked out of my wall, and once, when I peeked through the holes that were left I saw them running off. They have short legs. And they don't wear so many shirts like I do. I wonder how they keep warm. Every time after that happens and they're gone I poke my mantle decorations back up and go to sleep listening to Yosemite’s stories or watching the trees from my window. In the mornings though I always find a dead thing outside where something hit my box. It’s dead and it's twisted and it's dead and it's ugly and I don't like it. For these ones I hope death was busy and didn't have time to sit and wait, but was quick and took them away fast. I wonder what they talk about after they're gone. Sometimes I think all day about where they must be going. A while ago, I can't remember when, but it was also raining then, I wasn't feeling well. I was sick. And I didn't leave my box for at least two or three days! That was a different box though, I needed a new one after that but I don't want to tell you why. But while I was laying there I wasn't very happy, and things didn't seem very good,and I often wondered what death was doing then and if he wasn't too busy to come visit. And I wondered if he was already there, just waiting, or maybe he wouldn't even notice when I die. Maybe that's what happens to people who live in boxes, maybe no one notices them so much that not even death knows they're there?That’s a scary thought. When I die I want someone who knows what I’m supposed to do to help me get to where I belong. I don't want to have to figure it out on my own. What would I do? Where would I go? What am I supposed to eat? And would it matter where I go to the bathroom? Maybe I’ll be able to sneak into all the rich people houses and use their washrooms! That would be fun. And I could pretend to eat rich people food, and sit where rich people sit and sleep where rich people sleep. Yes, I think when I finally die it won't be too bad. And if death wants to help me out that would be really nice too, but now that I think of all the things I can do on my own if he doesn't, I think I’ll be happy either way. But until that happens, I’m going to stay in my big brown box.

(Another close-your-eyes-and-just-type product from months ago, finally cleaned up.)

Nothing matters.

NOTHING MATTERS.

If you were to build a sand castle, again and again and again, only to have it wash away every time, sometimes before you were even finished, would you still be angry when a tower falls over while you’rebuilding it, or when a dog runs over it, or a child falls on it? It has an extremely short lifespan, and when it’s gone only the memory remains, but when you’ve built thousands of thousands of sandcastles, and they’ve all been washed away, it’s impossible to believe that you would remember them all. So, again,they have extremely short lifespans. Would you still be angry when the construction of it doesn’t so as well as it could?

The overarching answer I expect people to have to this would be “no” because “it doesn’t matter.” And I think that’s correct- the troubles met during the construction of something so temporary are nothing. If it were possible for something to be less than nothing it would be that, since the things those troubles hinder also end up meaning nothing, so the troubles are just smaller nothings to slightly bigger nothings. To worry about or feel angry towards a dog who while chasing a Frisbee has trampled your sandcastle only 1 hour before high tide, leaving you with no time to rebuild it to it’s former glory… is just pointless. The tide will wash away every castle you build, no matter how proud or ashamed of it you are, the water accepts all sand.

The sandcastles don’t matter. Your sandcastle, their sand castles, the tide, the not-so-random random happenings of expected unexpected things… None of them matter but they all keep happening.

…

Maybe reincarnation doesn’t happen like we think, or even at all, but let’s entertain the idea that our life is the castle, and our soul is the builder. When I say “soul” I don’t mean your conscious self, I don’t mean the speaker behind the voice of your internal monologue. What I mean by “soul” is the space your existence occupies. Not the physical space your body claims,but simply the “yes” in the answer to the yes/no question asking “do you exist?” The castles exist, and by their design and form we know that there must be castle builders. We are the castles, we are the evidence of our souls, the builders.

It’s been said that immortality is best sought through your lineage, propagating the idea that you are your ancestors, and that the greatest of your great grandchildren are you. While your conscious self will die, your body lives on in the passing of DNA. This is definitely one type of immortality, but I do not know how to specify it, so I will refer to it as Immortality B, and reserve Immortality A for the more popular immortality,which is your physical body and conscious self living in tandem forever with the passage of time. I would like to propose a third Immortality, Immortality C, which in comparison to the other two is walking backwards, marching in the direction which “immortality” is trying to get away from. Immortality C allows for someone to seek shelter from the ever present anxiety that is existential dread in letting them take solace in knowing that they are the product of something that time cannot touch. They will die but when they do their soul will remain,and having been created once, the person they were could be made again, however unlikely it may be.

A builder who has all of infinity to build castles will have all of infinity to learn from their mistakes, all of infinity to happen upon lucky breaks, and all of infinity to find what works best, to use that technique again, and to strive towards keeping the best aspects each castle in every castle constructed after. A person experiencing existential dread should feel some amount of relief in considering that the best parts of their being could be the best that their soul has ever created. And like the builder, their soul will reuse the template for those best parts in the next.

However, builders will find better techniques to replace old ones which had replaced older ones before, and such is progress. This does not tear down the idea of Immortality, as every Immortality deals with this same problem. Immortality A will have a person live for so long that the universe they inhabit will have changed to such a degree that it is no longer the universe they began in, effectively removing them from existence within the universe they began their immortality in. Immortality B will eventually lead to the death of humanity, which will effectively be the end of your own immortality.Immortality C will eventually lead to the best reused parts of your Being inspiring better parts which will be reused in place of those you left behind as your legacy.

Still, there is one key difference between Immortality C and, A and B. That difference is that with Immortality C you have a say- you are rewarded with as much effort as you contribute. Immortality C says that if you want the best shot at true immortality then you need only be the best that you can be in this life. When faced with obstacles that would defeat others,rise up and overcome. When faced with hard truths, accept them. Take every chance you are presented with which allows you to be the best version of yourself that you can be, even if met with the distaste of others. Their disgust is temporary, their disagreement means nothing, and no one will remember how differently they felt once they’re dead. Your dedication to being the best at what you’re best at will be immortal.

The surest way to fall into non-existence is to sacrifice your potential for the sake of mild success in all facets of a temporary life. The surest way to let that happen is to think that everything matters. The second surest way to let that happen is to believe that nothing matters.