Xenith Forums: Xenith Forums -> anti-thology

There's as stillness in the bathroom, a true emptiness as if even the air had been removed. Inside, it feels more like a photograph than a room, and though everything is within reach it seems untouchable, sealed behind the gloss and gelatin. I'm frozen over the sink, eyes transfixed on the mirror, searching its surface for something not seen. There are tiny opaque spots of minerals dried on the glass, speckled chaotically throughout the pane. Through the spotted white stars in reflected midnight, I search myself for a crack. A hole. An entrance to the down below, to the deep within that contains the very essence of...

...me.

But there's more locked away. Behind this shield and mask lives a legion of others, the dark and vile personalities that occupy my inner being. The great evil, those that exist within my body and mind but are not me. Those fiends, I try to hide them from everyone. In the mirror, I'm looking for a weakness on this prison of a body. I'm searching for an exit, a way out. I find none, but this does not comfort me. Those shadows within me take to my image, and we are all cut from the same cloth. The fiends are resourceful and cunning, and it becomes more difficult to hold them back. It becomes more difficult to continue this act, this deception, this screenplay written for the outer world. Sometimes the fiends like to rewrite the script. They scribble my new lines on the inside of my eyes and watch as I fall prey to their tricks. They laugh when I self-destruct at the end of the act.

Here in the bathroom, the fiends watch me through my eyes. They can see everything I see. They're searching for a weakness too. A trap door to the world outside. Here in the bathroom, I'm asking myself:

Do they see something I don't?

yesterday, i woke up early and finished my packing. by the time i was done, my backpack and messanger bag were stuffed, bulging out with clothes and books. when you're going to be a nomad for 10 days, you need to back light. there was no place for my skateboard, so i tied it to my backpack with shoelaces i found in the apartment. i got a ride in the morning to the airport from justin, and when i gave him a hug goodbye i was sad he wasn't coming along. i waited for my flight, remaining spatial about my flight. excited, but not overly. slightly nervous, but mostly remaining ignorant to the fact that i was going very far away from home, all alone, with no one to rely on but myself. and even when i wasn't ignorant of that fact, i was still calm. i wanted this challenge for myself.

i boarded the plane and prepared for take off. the people around me were nervous, but i was excited. i love flying, especially feeling the plane take off underneath me. while others were scared of turbulence, i smiled widely and enjoyed the ride. a quick flight to oakland, and another to seattle. i was on my way to temporary freedom. in seattle, the airport is a ways away from downtown, where my bus was leaving from in a few hours. i hopped on the metro and bounced along the #174 route, taking me into the heart of the city. as i watched it grow larger through the windshield, my hart began pounding. cities always look bigger when you see them in person.

i got off the bus and wandered around a bit. i hadn't eaten anything but airplane peanuts all day, so when i found a small basement pizza place with cheap slices, i set my heavy load down and feasted. the pizza lady was nice to me, especially when i joked with her about a rude lady that had come by while i was there. when i went back for a second slice, she gave it to me for $1 and continued ranting about mean people. i never got her name, but when someone else asked, she replied "i'm the pizza lady". i bid the pizza lady farewell and continued on to the bus station, where i stood in line and chatted with other young travellers (the city is full of them).

when the bus driver arrived and attempted to organize us, i got in the line he designated as "CANADA BOUND". from there i piled in among the others and took a seat behind two young people. they were talking about 70s rock and drugs, and after a few minutes i had to jumped in and join their discussions. for the next two and a half hours, we talked about music, god, work, love, life and more drugs. they were both from vancouver, so they told me about all the places i should go (most importantly, where to buy weed).

we stopped just before the border, at a store called "DUTY FREE". inside was a mix of food, alcohol and perfume goods, all discounted prices, all with no tax. i bought some snacks and a bottle of rum, planning to celebrate my arrival once i reached vancouver. if only i was so lucky.

we got to customs and piled out, grabbing all our luggage and taking it to the agents at the check point. i answered their questions honestly, questions like "why are you coming?" "who do you work for?" "where are you staying?". my answers seemed to worry them, but none more than when i informed them that i had very little money on me. they pulled me aside and unloaded everything i had on the table. the guy in charge asked me the same questions over again, and again i answered honestly. after disappearing for a few minutes, i was approached by a new guy incharge. this guy was mean faced when he asked me the questions for a third time. "youre staying with random people you dont know? for 10 days? with this much money?" yes, i told him. i was here to learn, to see and experience. i was not here to shop or be a tourist. i was staying with these people to save money. i planned on living like i do at home: minimally. he shook his head when he told me: "you're going back to the US". i asked my and was told that i didnt have enough money to visit canada. i watched the bus leave without me. i never got to say goodbye to my new friends.

you see, in canada the government pays for health insurance, and if something happened to me while i was there, the canadian taxpayers would foot my bill. i argued that i was well adapted to living poor, living safely and that id be fine, but it was no use. he sent me packing back to the US customs building. there, i had to answer the same questions, this time to the american border patrol. the agent there sympathized with me, and he made remarks about the liberalism of canada. he must have voted for bush. he typed my information in while i stood there, against the counter, getting very depressed about the destruction of my vacation. next to me, a family from canada was talking to the agents, trying to explain away why the dad didn't have a picture ID.

the canadian official had told me that i could use my bus ticket to get back to seattle for free. he didn't care when i told him i had no place to go. when i got over to US customs, things only got worse. the next buses for seattle wouldn't come through until the morning. i was stranded in blaine washington, a dump of a town that was probably only there because of the border check point. i asked the US agent if i could sleep there, and he told me no. so much for taking care of our own. he refered me to a motel and sent me packing, and i made the long walk down the sidewalkless highway leading to the border. everyone in the line of cars watched me as i walked by. i wasn't too far down when a van drove by. once it was past me it slowed down, then reversed to where i was. it was the canadian family that was next to me at customs, and they offered me a ride to the motel.

i hopped in and told them what happened. they told me that sounded like something the americans would do, and i agreed. i thought canadians were a bit more friendly than that. we arrived at the motel, and i thanked them for the ride. inside, i found out there was only one room, a double for $60+. i explained my situation, and the guy let me have it for $40. i had no choice but to stay. there, i proceeded to drink rum and watch movies, growing ever depressed. i knew that the next day, id have to rent a room somewhere, id have to call the airlines and change my flight, id have to go home.

in the morning i woke up, checked out, and began the long walk back up to the border. i arrived just in time to catch a greyhound going to seattle (but only after being interviewed by two more border patrol agents). this bus ride went by quicker, due mostly to the fact that i watched a movie and a half on the laptop. there, bumping up and down on the highway, looking out at the evergreen forests of washington state, i formulated a new plan. once in seattle, i grabbed some food and checked myself into a hostel. from there, i went down to pike's place market and walked along the shops. the air was full of enticing scents: fish, fresh fruit, sweets from the bakeries, flowers, perfumes. i went into bookstores and smelled the sweet smell of old paper, and felt comforted.

now, im here, sitting in the community room of the hostel, and my new plan is coming along nicely. on the bus today i decided i would not let my vacation be ruined. i called home and told my mom about what happened and to ask for money. within 30 minutes, she had rounded up over $800 for me. my plan now is this: stay in seattle for the weekend and enjoy myself, then buy a new bus ticket into canada. this time, id have more money, and my stay would be longer. my sister also called canadian customs, and the guy on the phone told her that there is no minimum amount of money that i need, that the border patrol agents shouldn't even be concerned with that. ill try again in a few days, hopefully with more success. i will get to vancouver! for now, seattle will do. i'll wander around more tomorrow and see more of it.

i asked for some adventure, and i cant say ive been disappointed. hopefully ill be getting some more positive adventuring. until next time...

-a

today, i sat on my patio in the warm california shade. i drank wine and read hemingway and loved life. the sun is gone now, but it's heat remains. its going to be a long, hot summer, one filled with adventures and love in the desert.

i'll be leaving next year, bound for new homes elsewhere in the world. but they are only temporary.

today, i decided i want to die in california, the closest place to heaven i will ever find. the most beautiful land in all the world. i want to live long, love lots and mark my name in the sands of the mojave. i want to be buried in the san andreas fault or spread my ashes on the wild pacific ocean. but not quite yet.

for now, i'm content, working, saving, learning. i'm thinking of a girl who lives a world away, who's very existence makes me want to be a better everything. yea, yea, cheesy shit, i know, but i don't care.

the warm night continues in my little suburb, and out in the living room, robert jordan is calling my name. adios, compadres.

we got a letter today that pretty much sums up what's going on at the casa del jaustin:

"justin, just move out. leave the keys on the counter.
-thank you!"

every since we told out landlord we were moving out, he's been trying to fuck us over. we haven't had trash picked up in two weeks, and we found out tonight that we're losing water tomorrow. basically, i'm moving out tonight with a late night pack session. i'll be sleeping on couches for a couple weeks, and soon we'll be at the new apartment with a legit management company who wont want to rape my white ass.

oh, and we're taking him to court. it's the american thing to do.

Not five minutes ago, I went for a bowl of cereal, much like the one I'm eating now (which shall henceforth be known as "the second bowl"), and not just any cereal either, either! No, I was getting the best: Cap'n Crunch®...with Crunchberries™. Yes, the gods of Stater Bros.© were gracious enough to bestow 2 titanic boxes for only 4 bucks, a most delicious deal. To continue my tale, I grabbed the first box and began to pour a bowl. As the bowl begin to fill, the cereal stopped coming, and instead a pile of yellow specks came pouring out. The end of the box....or was it? The box still felt like it had something in it. My explorer's eye surveyed the landscape.

Inside the box, the cereal dust stretched as far as the eye could see, sprawling like a vast desert of Crunchsand™. Not just Crunchsand™, but a massive ruin of remaining bits of cereal, intact but abandoned, like ancient relics among the dunes. My scavenger's eye could not look away; I had to make the Cap'n™'s lost treasure mine. At once I set off into the desert. I shook what I could from the sands, and excavated the rest with care and ease. When it seemed all that was left was the yellow sugared slopes, I turned to depart the oasis. I would have too, if not for that final glance over my shoulder, when I saw the light reflect off the crumbled crust of the last purple Crunchberry™. That last one, it called to me, it seduced me like a siren and I could not tear my brigand's eye from it. It lay half buried in the sands, that cratered stone, as if the moon itself had come crashing down, and was, you know, purple. I must have it! Despite the fact that I had loaded plenty purple Crunchberries™ into my bowl, I couldn't leave without this one. It was my only desire. It was my gorgon's head that I had been sent to return to the sea. I ventured through the desert one last time and returned with my reward. Once it was loaded into the galleon, I poured the remaining Crunchsand™ away and watched it trickle through my trash. It disappeared behind me as I sailed off on a milky sea.

It was not long before I stowed my treasure away, shoveling every piece of loot down into the trove. I went down delicious. It was with a big smile that gulped down the ocean and let the Cap'n™'s treasure sink in a sunken sea.

I still can still remember the first 30 minutes I spent in this world, alone in the vacant job site within my mother's womb. I sat there, but single cell in a lonely vestibule, insignificant aside from the tiny blueprints resting inside my membrane. My father, both the architect and the engineer, had drafted as much of himself as he could into my design, and I, like Adam from God, would soon grow to his form. God had remained absent from my formation. From that moment, it would take nine long, warm months to construct me. My mother, the builder, worked alone, without God. The materials she used were not with the Lord's bounty, but the resources my father harvested from this Earth. Like a lumberjack in the forest, he toiled to provide the sturdy beams for my frame, the concrete for my foundation and the clay for my tiles. My mother used these resources to form my structure.

Soon, the construction was done, but the job was far from over. My parents laid down their workman's tools in exchange for a teacher's chalk, and on the blackboards of my earlier years they scribed out my life lessons. Rather than running drills in what to think, I was given exercise in how to think. Though neither were scholars, my parents were rich in the wisdom they had gathered from the corners of the world. With this, they planted budding seeds in the soils of my newly formed brain. Thanks to my father, the dirt there was fertile indeed, and I grew green, despite God's lingering absence.

My life was rich, free from most restraints. Yes, I grew up knowing happiness and a glimmering beautiful world. And from the beauty I learned the ways of nature, of my true creation and place in the universe. It turned out that there was no grand finale to look forward to, no greater significance. In fact, I soon learned just how insignificant I really was. And when the time would come for my life to pass, my soul will not drift to the hands of God. There will be no heavenly celebration for my arrival, no golden gates, no record of transgressions. No, I will die as insignificantly as I was born. I will die with my body and be reabsorbed into the Earth. I will remain a for a time in memories, but like all things, even memories will die. The house my parents built will be picked to pieces; the components of life salvaged for the world's other construction jobs.

For, you see, not a single atom within me was created for my purpose. Indeed, all have been borrowed, time and time again. Do you know of what we call the carbon cycle? The circle of life. Everything new created from the dead. The new grows old and dies, and from that a newer thing is created. The planet's recycle plan. What was once a lump of coal was then a leaf on a tree. What was once a leaf becomes a feather. Before long, the feather is gone, but its components have passed on. Can you see that tiny speck in my eye? It's there, just within the lower edge of my left iris, you can see it; plain and unnoticed among the green and blue. That speck helped a bird take flight once.

Alexander the Great set out from Macedonia to conquer the world. He once tread on a grain of sand that somehow, millenia later, found its way into my skin. Krakatoa blasted the ash that was to be my hair. Pieces of my skull killed off the dinosaurs. I know you can't see it, but there's iron flowing through the veins in my leg at this very moment. It's the same iron that churned among the molten surface when this planet was born, collected from the dust left over when the sun was done forming. A ring became a sphere, and a sphere became a home. Soon, the home became it's inhabitants. Can you see now? Our bodies are museums, collecting trillions of microscopic relics, ages older than God's earliest memory of creation. There is not an atom within me that has not existed since the beginning of time. Not an atom within me touched by the hand of God. But all were formed in the forges of the universe. All cooled into the crust of the Earth.

Maybe you see it now. You see that it is not to God whom we should respect for our creations. It is this very planet, our home, whom we should respect. But that is not the message of God. We've learned long ago that this is place is a hell, an inconvenient stay on the way to a glorious and eternal heaven. A rest stop for lost souls. We are here to suffer and learn and pray so that one day we could pass on to a place far greater than this rock could ever be. But that place is a fantasy, a dream world. The paradise you seek is the ground beneath your feet. The universe is a cold, empty and unforgiving place. It's a hard truth to swallow, but one that brings light to fact that this Earth IS paradise. Space is a vast ocean of void and our tiny grain of heaven drifts within its current. We are fortunate to have been created from it; to be placed on it. Yet we treat this world like a wasteland. The end is near, so why preserve?

The preachers tell us that God is the father. They are wrong; God can't possibly be our father. God was the answer our earliest ancestors gave themselves when they first asked "Why am I here?" God is prehistoric science before science was truly discovered; a cure for curiosity that continues to be taught despite knowing better. Ancient tribes of Indians use to say that the Earth is our mother, and it may seem as if I had come to this very conclusion, but that is false as well. Our mother's are flesh and blood, like we are, and the Earth is but a resource for our construction. We are surrounded by it, constructed from it, raised by it. The Earth is our past, present and future.

Can you see it now? The Earth is not our mother. The Earth is us.

Why are we destroying ourselves?

do you ever look at your latest writing and think to yourself "well, shit....this isn't bad" only to go read your "heroes" work and be totally blown out of the water by their vast superiority? do you find yourself cursing them in awe of their talents?

of course you do.


damn you, aaron...damn you for being a better lyricist...

Justin has been on a downloading rampage. Recently he aquired (which means I acquired as well) a copy of Richard Dawkins book The God Delusion on a series of CDs. I started listening to it when I had the time, and although I'm not even halfway through it, I've had quite a few reactions to it. I have positively noted on many occasions that certain points he makes coincide with many of the beliefs I've had for years (which, in turn, makes me feel smarter). The section of the book I recently listened to relied very much upon the writings of Darwin, namely the idea of natural selection, all of which has spawned the thought processes in my head. As an atheist, I conform to the belief that we are products of evolution. Evolution, while still filled with holes, provides me with a logical-enough explanation of how we got me, much more convincing that the hum-ho faith in a book filled with contradictions, rewritten numerous times through out history by people with bias and translated in and out of languages. What we end up with is a book that cannot possibly be accurate to the original text. Nonetheless, even with the butchered mess we're left with, we pick and choose which parts of it we want to live by (its funny that the Bible is used so adamantly against gay marriage, but you never see anyone arguing that women shouldn't be allowed to speak or teach (1 Timothy 2:12)).



This is what I expected to be confirmed, and it was, but I've also been hit with a separate train of thought, one having nothing to do with God vs. Evolution. Instead, this thought battle is one between Natural vs. Unnatural characteristics of the human race. Evolution, as a natural process, has taken humans from our primate ancestors to the magnificent creatures we are now. It is through this natural process that we have been able to advance, as a species, to a point where we now dominate this planet. Slowly we are blanketing this world, replacing nature with what is necessary for us to continue our advancement. We are denaturalizing the earth...or are we? In a time where we survive based on destroying much of the world around us, are we acting unnaturally? Was it not only the natural process of evolution, but this very world that we have evolved to, that has turned us into what we are? These questions, and many like it, have been ramaging through the reasoning section of my brain lately, so much that I'm very confused about where we stand, as the human race, in nature itself. It could be said that the current situation of mankind, the pollution we make, the wars we fight, the resources we consume, are byproducts of a natural process. But can something which is raised in a natural sense become corrupt to a point where it is not natural? If so, are we at that point? And if we, as a species, civilization or culture, are no longer natural, what force made us this way? This boggles my mind. Is it even possible for us to become unnatural, considering that the processes in which we've travelled are natural themselves. Can a natural process making something unnatural?



Questions, questions, and more questions.



Anyways, long story shorter, this second natural vs. unnatural train of thought is what spawned my first poem in a long time (if you don't count lyrics as poems). I'm still working on it, trying to express the answers I've determined for myself while thinking out the many inquires that remain.



Needless to say, this brain vomit will be continued....

You might not know it, but you were showing off when you went out this morning. That run you take, its all for looks. Its all a game. The streets are your hunting ground. Your head bobs up and down with each gait, your eyes scout the sidewalks for sign of prey. Underneath your seemingly non-chalant exterior is a ferocious predator posed to strike. But for now, you wait.

It seems almost instantanious when shes beside you, but you're ready. You brought more than your running shoes with you this morning, and now that the audience has arrived, its time to begin. Its time to conduct. You tap your baton on the edge of your teeth. This is Charm in E flat.

You take a match out of your pocket and strike a conversation. She accepts, and now the game is on. Your silver tongue flashes in the inside of your mouth; this is you at your best. Swift, precise, your baton dances across the sky. You are the clever fox you always pretend to be, and you've got her. She's hanging on every word you say, and you've got plenty of words. You inch closer to her, but you make sure it's not noticable. You adapt your route to her's, but you can't let her know. You were already heading this way, she's just along for the ride.

And she's hooked. Every step, every stride, you've reel her in. She's closer and closer to being yours, and it was so simple. As a matter of fact, she hasn't given a fight at all.

The second this crosses your mind, you turn a corner, and as quick as you found her next to you in the first place, you find yourself backed into a corner. She holds her face no more than an inch from yours, and its changed. Now, instead of that look of innocence you thought you saw, she has the smirk of a ravishing predator. The scowl of a deadly hunter. And where's your silver tongue now? Sure you're a fox, but she's a wolf, and she's hungry. And all those things you have to keep in mind when you're on the hunt, well, they're broken and scattered on the ground. Your hand shakes, you can feel beads of sweat breaking out from your face. That silver tongue of yours, it feels more like a block of wood in your mouth. It becomes about as sharp as a spoon. And the fear. When you're this close, she can smell it on your breath like bourbon.

She holds you in this stare, your eyes intently locked on yours. You can't move or think. You see her silver tongue flashing in her mouth, and you know that this is it. You are on the edge of losing control. All she need's to do is flip the switch. She's got you cocked and pulled, and now her finger is tickling the trigger. Then it happens.

Her eyes leave yours for the briefest moment. There, surrounded by silence, her face so close to yours, she glances down hungrily at your lips, instantly returning to your eyes. That's all you can take. She flips the switch. She pulls the trigger. The only thing you can do is thrust your face into hers and kiss her like they do in movies. Like they do in pornos. In her mouth you can taste the spice of that first kiss. With your hand on her cheeks, your tongues begin to dance that sultry tango. She bites your bottom lip, but you're too traumatized to think about how much you hate when girls do that. All you know is that you are locked together, and in such a turbulent sea, you're not sure if you'll ever drift apart...

It's 7:30am when I open my eyes for the fourth and final time this morning. I turn off the last alarm, grumble wordless complaints to myself and make my way to the bathroom for some "grooming". Fourty-five minutes, a bowl of Frosted Flakes and a few MySpace messages later, I'm inbound to work, where I'll scan blueprints and look up "String theory" and "Cameron Crowe" on Wikipedia. At 5:30pm, I depart for home, where I inevitably spend more time on MySpace with some Halo 2 thrown in the mix. It's 2am before I fall asleep half naked on top of the covers in my swelting hot room. This is my life. This is my adventure.

This sucks.

It's 9:17pm when I sit down on my couch outside and try to write something worthwhile. Fifteen minutes, a cup of water and a half page of unspecific chicken scratch later, I'm resigned to the fact that all my inspiration is gone. It'll stare at the pages of my moleskine notebook, unrealistically hoping for the words to form themselves into something cohesive; something worth reading. It never happens anymore. I return to the computer, or to the XBox. I repeat this step at 9:46pm, 11:07pm, 12:31am and finally 1:24am before I give up for the day.

It was in elementary school when I discovered the joys of writing. I was over-imaginative, and any class assignment that would enable me to use my seemingly endless amount of fiction stored in my head was instantly met with success. By 7th grade, I was writing weekly stories for my language arts homework, and when the time came for people to peer edit, I never had a problem finding someone to read my stuff. Everyone either enjoyed reading what I had written, or knew that I would need minimum critique. My teacher that year told me I had a gift.

In high school, my grade A assignments became C and D essays. The teachers became fanatical about structure: put your thesis here, write two sentences of commentary after every concrete detail. Place two of these bundles in each body paragraph. Put three body paragraphs in between your introduction and your conclusion. Do it exactly like this, or do poorly. I became resigned to the fact that if I was do atleast decent in my high school language arts classes, I would need to not write as well as I could. Gotta love the education system.

My brief stint in college english courses was a breath of fresh air. It was back to the good old days when my professors and peers would comment about my work being a pleasure to read. It was just a shame I couldn't constantly go to class. My professors expressed disappointment when they were forced to drop me from their classes.

I use to be able to sit down at my computer at 4 in the morning and just type, and before I really knew what was going on, I'd have something good. I developed my style in the sleepless nights of my "Insomnia Period". The stuff I wrote was harsh, minimalized and straight forward. I'd write from beginning to end, and when I was finished with draft one, I was finished. No rewriting. No editing. I'd post my rough piece on the writing sites I frequented, and by the next day I'd have positive comments mixed with critiques about spelling and awkward grammar. It was always grammar and spelling with me, never content. I can deal with bad grammar.

Now, I'm in a standstill. The writing drought of 2006...of 2005. When will it end? Where did it go? Maybe I should go back to being an insomniac.

I think my problem, aside from the over-evident lack of willpower coupled with the extremely abundant supply of laziness, is I tend to focus on too many things at once. Over the years, I've been involved in moderately successful bands, as well as developing skill in graphic design. Spliting my time between three creative endeavors means I excelling at none.

I also think I need a change of scenery. I prefer to write from what I know, what is real. Real life. Yet my real life lately has been sitting around my house, playing video games and watching movies. I hardly go out, and when I do, its the same old same old. Thus, I have decided its time for me to move, to get out of Southern California (atleast the OC-ish area), experience life in a place I'm not familiar with. Find new inspiration. Find that thing called life.

I'm visiting Chicago this fall. I'm also visiting San Diego. There might be other destinations, but those are the two of interest as of yet. Hopefully, my theories about inspiration are correct, or else I may be stuck without a thing to write and without a reason why.

Le sigh.