tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68396401523862557692024-03-14T19:05:49.709-07:00Ralph PullinsHere in the Black and WhiteRalph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-50653155942202364822024-02-28T17:18:00.000-08:002024-02-28T17:18:45.329-08:00The Dance of the Sand Hill Crane<p> It is Saturday morning in Feburary and here in Michigan it is clear and cold. The sun has risen a while ago but there are still streaks of red in the sky, lighting up the clouds, high and wispy. I am standing by my car after completing some chore, cleaning something or retrieving something and I am slow breathing, trying to calm my heart. It has been a difficult week. My son has a fight tonight, full contact MMA, his first, and I am full of conflict and anxiety about it. Not because I don't believe he will do well, because I know he is as prepared as anyone can be for such a thing, but because I am a father and I feel like I should be protecting him from the violence of the world. Even though he turns nineteen in a few weeks and is stronger both physically and mentally than I could ever hope to be, he is still my boy, and I am scared for him. My other son is fifteen and this week was embroiled in some stupid conflict at school, a misunderstanding that had led to meetings with the dean and absolutely annoyed parents. He is a great kid, better than I was at that age for sure, and it was nothing he did, he was just a side character in this garbage teenage drama, but it is something that can stick around well past its sell by date and stink up the place. Like sitting in gum on a bus: it's not that big a deal, but what the hell man, I don't need to be dealing with this today. </p><p>So I am standing there slow breathing in the cold air, sharp and crisp in my lungs, counting in one two three four five, release one two three four five, in one two three four five, release one two three four five, and what I am thinking about is not my kid, fighting in a cage tonight, and not that my other kid has some unnecessary trash at school.</p><p>What I am thinking about is my friend Will, who died on Wednesday. </p><p>(and here I sit days later at my desk throwing my head back and staring at the light in my ceiling, clenching my jaw because my eyes are filling with hot tears, and I have to hide my emotions from everyone because I am a big man, a big stupid tough guy that is afraid of being emotionally vulnerable even in front of the people that love me most)</p><p>Here in Michigan we have Sand Hill Cranes. They are a large bird, standing between three and four feet tall. They are mostly grey with streaks of brown, except the top half of their heads are a bright red. They have long, pointed beaks and wild orange eyes. They walk slowly and pick through the grass looking for whatever food they can find there, seeds and bugs and worms. They migrate, and so usually we don't see them much in the winter months, though I am not sure when they leave and when they come back. Some people find them a nuisance, because they can tear up your lawn and they poop all over your grass, but I think they are magnificent and couldn't care less about the condition of my lawn.</p><p>I am thinking about Will and I am sad, of course I am, but there's this anger built up as well, and guilt, and what is this? Is it shame? The fucking injustice of it all galls me; it is so completely unfair that it hurts extra, somehow. And we can cry out and wail and gnash our teeth but ultimately the world doesn't care that a genuinely good person has been taken from us, and standing there in the cold morning air I clench my fists and my jaw and I quietly scream, hiss through my teeth in frustration and fury. I am trying to hide it, how badly this has affected me because I have a kid that needs to focus on his fight and he is sensitive to me and my mercurial moods so instead of talking it out and feeling whatever I have to feel, I am standing in the driveway, furious at the callous and indifferent world.</p><p>A lot of people don't know this but Sand Hill Cranes dance. They do it for similar reasons people do: as an expression of joy, to impress a potential mate, to show off to rivals, and sometimes just because they are feeling it and it is nice to move around. It is a nice thing to witness; they jump and throw out their wings, they thrust their head into the air, they prance around and even grab sticks and leaves and throw them into the air. It is beautiful, and again like dancing people, it can be a bit goofy as well.</p><p> When a friend dies you feel like a part of yourself was taken from you and the closer they were to you the bigger the piece is taken and since I truly wouldn't be who I am without knowing Will, since he was such a huge part of my growing up and such a huge part of my young life, I have this hollow feeling that I keep trying to put my feelings into and so the place that Will held is now filled with this sick anger and bitterness and sadness and joy and I have no idea what to say or what to do with any of this-</p><p>(and here at my desk my eyes flood again, and I have to wonder who any of these words are for, what the hell am I even doing here and why write about birds and friends and loss who the fuck cares about any of this, but here I am, trying to get it out of me so I can see it and examine it and edit it and make it real)</p><p>We were in a band. For a long time it was just the three of us, Will and Eric and I in Marty's Garage, and we made music, music like us: some good, some bad, some silly and fun and stupid and angry. I was the singer and I sing still, sing along with the songs that mean so much to me. Sometimes when I am home and there is nobody else here I sing hard, like I did when I was in the band, I sing until my voice breaks and my throat hurts, I sing in this great release, because music to me isn't just a series of pretty sounds, but is the realest I can ever get, and when a friend dies, I sing Eulogy by the Flatliners: "<i>You will always be remembered, you will be celebrated. You will never be forgotten, these tears still haven't faded</i>" and I sing and I sing. </p><p>Cranes are symbolic, because in a chaotic and unforgiving world we seek meaning, even when there is none to be found. We impose meaning on a meaningless universe. Cranes can be symbols of rebirth, and of peace. they are symbolic of other things too, but we take what we need and leave the rest behind.</p><p>As I stand here in the cold Feburary air slow breathing, seeking my center, trying to find a bit of stability, to find a solid place to be, I hear a crunch in the leaves that were left unraked from last fall, and I look over and there is a crane, very close, watching me. Oh hello, I say, where did you come from? I think of my brother who, when my grandma died, saw a goldfinch at one of his feeders for the first time, and when he told my mother about it, she told him that it was grandma's favorite, and he got a bit of peace from that like maybe she had sent him a little message. I think of myself seeking a bit of peace here in the cold Feburary air, and there, a few feet away, is what appears to be a walking symbol.</p><p>I talk to the cranes that come visit my yard, I say Hello and I'm sorry I don't have any food, and I am not supposed to feed you anyway lest you become fearless of humans and people can be real fucking assholes sometimes, and they are not all bird lovers, that's for sure. Best to stay away and not get too attached. People can hurt you. </p><p>Something people also do that can hurt is die and leave you behind, feeling lost and alone, and in such a state that you think that maybe this enormous bird is a message from your dead friend that it's going to be okay, and that you have to hold your shit together because you have people counting on you. </p><p>I stand very still and the crane and I regard each other. I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend I tell it. You deserved better. I'm sorry I left you alone when you needed me when we were young, and I am grateful you had the heart to forgive me when we were old. I'm sorry that I never took the time to visit and I'm sorry I never got to witness the good life you built for yourself. I thought I had more time. I always think I have more time, and I never do. </p><p>The crane, of course, says nothing.</p><p>I stand and I slow breathe, thinking about how we cling to symbols, how we seek meaning, even when there is none to be found, how dumb and ridiculous I can be, and then the crane tips its head, bobs it to the ground. It hops and flaps its wings. It thrusts its head to the sky. It dips its head to the ground and picks up a small stick and throws it into the air. It is dancing. </p><p>I travel back in time and I am seventeen years old in the passenger seat of the world's shittiest white station wagon, it has no back window and no power steering, we call it The Beast and Screeching Weasel plays scratchy and thin through the blown speakers and that is all that will play in that car because the cassette is stuck and so Weasel it is, all summer long, and we have a show tonight and our entire lives ahead of us and yeah we have problems sure, life isn't always easy even when you're seventeen but goddamn is there anything better than riding in a shitty car with your best friends singing along to all the songs you love? </p><p>I watch the bird dance, at once beautiful and goofy, graceful and silly, and I sing, softly, just for me. "<i>You will always be remembered, you will be celebrated. You will never be forgotten, these tears still haven't faded. You're not lost, you're not lost, you're watching over us..."</i></p><p>(and here at my desk I can cry, because I am alone in the house and there is nobody here to witness me cracking open, nobody to see how shaken I am, how much I hate this sick empty feeling, how much I hate losing another person that knew me before, here alone at my desk I can whisper through my tears goodbye old friend I will always love you and I promise you will never be forgotten)</p><p>The bird is unimpressed with my singing and just walks away because you will never impress a bird with singing, you need to do something that involves thumbs like opening a door or riding a motorcycle. It is just a big goofy bird and not a message from my old friend and not a symbol of any kind. I breathe in the cold February air, and release it in a sort of laugh. I need to go inside where it is warm, where my family is. Godspeed I say, but the crane is gone, wandered off to wherever they go. Be safe, I tell it anyway. Maybe I will see you again someday.</p><p>Still writing, </p><p>RP 2-28-24</p><p></p><div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio6lUqMFrxI9FfT7TmJ7qt-acjniDjImhmws2wHer5Ye3oyW_xEcKO2Tvoy4dx9JkLDJzYaJr-bXYZkba8VlmVeVnQ0ChohmI-XBv-xsfGiJPMI-HwDbhiQTdvT0XpvlGAAJ5gQSKarXLhR_AkeOXalpmoGygNy45BICTpmrny6faOAru1CmMqM-3oxajD">
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio6lUqMFrxI9FfT7TmJ7qt-acjniDjImhmws2wHer5Ye3oyW_xEcKO2Tvoy4dx9JkLDJzYaJr-bXYZkba8VlmVeVnQ0ChohmI-XBv-xsfGiJPMI-HwDbhiQTdvT0XpvlGAAJ5gQSKarXLhR_AkeOXalpmoGygNy45BICTpmrny6faOAru1CmMqM-3oxajD" width="400">
</a>
</div><br><p></p><p>I usually write an afterword here but instead,</p><p>Here is a video of dancing Sand Hill Cranes:</p><p>https://youtu.be/4EJbxKnDvaA?si=pcXflr_QiJOVMLOK<br></p><p>Here is Eulogy by the Flatliners:</p><p>https://youtu.be/BKDnjH7o6kY?si=zsYaESIj4fNePtax<br></p><p>Here is the GoFundme organized for Will's Family </p><p>https://www.gofundme.com/f/donate-in-memory-of-william-drewry?utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link_all&utm_source=customer<br></p>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-58940327763523337902023-07-06T10:44:00.003-07:002023-07-06T19:48:10.076-07:00One of the Best of Us<p>In the stifling heat my breath comes fast and heavy. What the fuck am I even doing here? What the fuck am I trying to accomplish? I'm sitting on the mat, maybe dying, a forty something dad playacting at being a fighter. This is my mid-life crisis, this is so, so stupid. This has to be the end for me, assuming I can get my heartbeat under control, assuming I don't just peg out here on the mat. I can't do this anymore.<br></p><p>"It's okay man, it's okay, you just need to breathe through it. You're fine, you're okay." The voice of my training partner, gentle and kind. My partner, the maniac that drove me to such a state, that I think I might die, he sits next to me and shows me how to breathe, how to calm my body. He teaches and guides me through it, and in a few minutes I actually am okay, the panic settles down, and maybe this isn't my last class after all. "You're alright? Okay. Now lets get back to work." And back to work we go.</p><p>There is something that happens on the mats or in the cage, this shared energy when you're rolling or sparring, a transfer of intention that the guys don't really talk about much, but its real. There is a delicate balance to be struck here. Someone new might not understand how it works, they come in and throw wild, trying to land something good, they don't get it. What we say is you get what you give, meaning if you come in thinking you're Mike Tyson, and you want to swing for the fences, you're going to get touched up, and nothing settles you down quite like getting punched in the face. You get what you give. Mutual respect. Cooperation not competition. Our efforts on the mats are shared, in other words. </p><p>You can feel it, if your partner gets frustrated or mad, you can tell if you need to walk it back a little, if you need to sake a breath. You can read them, and some of it is body language, sure, but it isn't just that. You can feel it, that shared energy, a give and a take, we don't talk about it, but it is real. </p><p>What we all know, and never say is this:</p><p>Fighting is intimate.</p><p>It is about as intimate as anything can be. With a couple of notable exceptions, it is about as close as you are going to get to another person.<br></p><p>At a gym like ours, small and simple (we're a broke-ass fighting gym Coach once said to me), we know each other in a way that other bigger, busier places might not. This is more than a place to learn skills, it becomes like a family. We fight and hurt each other, we lean on each other, we share each other's burdens. We are in each other's faces and spaces all the time; there is no hiding who we are from each other because this shit breaks you down, it humbles you and cracks you open.</p><p>These guys aren't just some dudes I work out with, they aren't just a bunch of fighters, they are people that I have grown to love, through blood and sweat and pain, through triumph and failure.</p><p>I might have quit that day, panicking on the mat, in the heat and sweat, thinking I am just a broken-ass fat middle-aged bag of shit playacting at being a fighter, and maybe I would have if not for Milton Page and his gentleness, his kindness, his patience and humor, maybe I would have quit, and I wouldn't have these men in my life that I feel are like family, for better and sure, sometimes for worse, maybe my sons wouldn't have kept going if I quit, maybe all we have learned, all the ways we have grown and developed through this place, all the friendships and bruises and exhaustion, the victories and difficulties, maybe all that would have just never happened, and maybe I would have walked away and never have had any of it. But he <i>was </i>there that day and so many days after that, laughing and teaching and smiling and hitting me with that sneaky underhand jab that comes so fast that your head snaps back before you even register that he threw it. He was good, very good, one of the best of us.</p><p>What I said last night after I learned that he</p><p>I said </p><p>I had a chance to text him, but I was on vacation, we were out on the road and there just wasn't the right time. I was driving and busy with family stuff, okay I get that, but fuck man I swear I thought I had more time.</p><p>I thought I had more time.</p><p>What I said to the guys at the gym on our feed last night was this: I love you, and you are not alone. We will share this too, we will share this and lean on each other and help each other up off the mat when we fall. </p><p>He was one of the very best of us, and now he is gone from our lives, except in love and memory, and in the things he taught us.</p><p>It is strange how people come into our lives, how they make their mark, and then they leave us behind, wondering what we are going to do now.</p><p>Godspeed Milton, my friend, my brother, may we see another once again in the fullness of time.</p><p>May we find ourselves standing across from one another sharing the grace and violence of this mad thing we love.</p><p>We sometimes say there is no such thing as loss; we win or we learn. And maybe this isn't a loss, maybe not, but man, it sure <i>feels </i>like one today. <br></p><p>Peace to you and your soul, and to those that you leave behind. </p><p>Peace, brother.<br></p><p>Still Writing, </p><p>RP 7-6-2023</p><p>Tell the people that you love that you love them. Send that text, reach out, say that thing you have been meaning to say. Right now. Today. Don't wait for a better time, don't wait until later; there may not be a later, and that is something you will carry with you.<br></p>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-39365257590641973822022-11-17T08:54:00.000-08:002022-11-17T08:54:13.525-08:00StainedYou have painted over everything and now the room is white, a clean slate, a fresh start and you sit in the middle of the floor content, but then it appears, a stain bleeding through, lurid, a violation.<div>You go to the paint store, you buy better paint, different paint, stronger, and you lay it on thick and true. It covers the stain and you are content.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then one day you go into the room and the stain is back, like it never left, like you hadn't painted at all and you go back to the paint store and you get the best paint you can, the most stain resistant, the most sealant, the absolute top of the line, and you bring it to the front and the clerk eyes you nervously. He says, "You must have something terrible to cover up, huh?"</div><div>You go back to the room, you paint again with the top of the line stuff, and before you can even feel content this time, before you even get to sit down to rest, the stain, it shows, and you keep painting and it keeps coming back.</div><div><br /></div><div>You realize it's not a stain, it's a wound, and it goes to the bone.</div><div><br /></div><div>The clerk says, "You have a problem, there's no amount of paint that can cover what you've got. There's nothing here that will help you. If it's still bleeding and you keep painting, all you're doing is wasting your time and energy. Have you tried talking it closed, finding someone to listen?"</div><div>You slam your fist on the counter, and you feel that familiar snap, the small bone by your pinky has been broken again. You make it clear to the clerk that you don't want to talk it out, you make it clear that the paint has been a fucking waste of your time and nothing has helped you.</div><div><br /></div><div>The doctor looks at your x-ray "A curious injury," he says, peering at you over his glasses. "Fracture fifth metacarpal, a rebreak if I am not mistaken. A boxer's break it is sometimes called. Are you a boxer?" </div><div>You clench your jaw, shake your head. You are not a boxer. You explain about the wound in your walls, about the paint, about your failure. "Ah a difficult case," he says. "Have you tried medicating?" You look at your chart, your EKG, your liver enzymes, and you shake your head. Medicating didn't help, medicating has made things worse, medicating is as useless as painting over an open wound. He nods. "Have you tried hurting yourself?" You look at your hands, swollen and scarred your shameful and stupid x-ray, your shattered heart, your broken and bruised mind. Yes, you have tried that too, tried it and tried it again and it didn't help.</div><div>The doctor looks at your chart again. He gives a wan smile. "It appears," he says, "that you're fucked. Completely and irrevocably fucked. Put some ice on the hand, drink lots of water, get some rest." You nod and you stand to leave. When you grab the knob with your good hand, because you have a good hand and a bad hand now, at least for a while, and there's nothing to do about that either, nothing will help that either, when you grab the knob with your good hand the doctor says, "Have you tried lying to yourself?"</div><div><br /></div><div>You go and sit in the white room, the imperfect stained wall, the puddle of blood, the open and bleeding wound. Why did you think paint would work, why would you go to the doctor at all when you already knew that you are irrevocably fucked? </div><div><br /></div><div>Go and look in the mirror. Say you have changed, say that you are no longer damaged and broken, say that you have learned. Say you have evolved, that things are different now. Say you are getting better, tell yourself that small steps eventually lead to big outcomes. Tell yourself that you will not fuck up everything that you have built and you won't ruin this life for you and everyone you love. Say that the house of cards you have built will stand forever, say that you have healed. You have healed, so maybe you don't even need to go into that room, maybe you close the door, you lock it, board it up, chain it closed and get yourself some drywall and some mud and you cover the door and maybe that room barely existed at all, maybe you can forget about it completely. Stand in front of the miror, look at yourself, and just lie your ass off, like your fucking life depends on it. </div><div><br /></div><div>And maybe in time you start feeling better, maybe you go about your life, your hand heals like it always has, and only hurts sometimes, and you have a hard time doing barre chords, big deal. If you start feeling bad, if you start thinking maybe you're fucked, truly and irrevocably, thinking that maybe you should go into that room (room? what room?), if you think that some stains can never be covered up, you can always go to the mirror and lie to your own face. You can go in there and tell yourself that you're different now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lie to yourself, like your life depends on it.</div><div><br /></div><div>And there in the darkness, the walls are still stained. In that forgotten, buried room, that wound still bleeds.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still Writing, </div><div><br /></div><div>RP 11-16-22</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Who are you? Why did you even come here? Let me know: for as long as it exists, I am still on Twitter @RDPullins, and (bareley ever) on Facebook. Email me at dissent.within at gmail.com, or be original and leave a comment here, even if its a friendly lie. Be kind to yourself, hold on for another day. "Sweetie, it gets better, I promise you." which are lyrics from a song called Your Heart is a Muscle the Size Of Your Fist, by Ramshackle Glory, which is beaturful and sad. Peace.</div>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-86859245966695080952022-06-22T09:42:00.000-07:002022-06-22T09:42:01.177-07:00Texts to Greg<p> Dude I went to see Dr Strange w the fam this weekend and it was pretty good. I always liked Sam Raimi's style, and it worked pretty well here, w the incorporated horror-adjacent elements. I dont know about the MCU gettign involved in multiverse nonsense tho; it removes the stakes a bit, no, like oh shit Spider-Man died. welp I guess were just gonna have to go and get a different one from an another universe eh? thats why I bailed on the Flash show; all that time travel nonsense always sucks ass</p><p> </p><p>Yo Man you gotta get back to me and assure me that all gun people arent absolute fucking lunatics, okay? or are you too busy yanking it to the latest issue of AKs and Hoes? I bet its that, ya fuckin perv</p><p><br /></p><p>Oh shit I saw a movie called Men tthe other day and it is absolutely batshit bananas. the dude that did Ex Machina and Annihilation made it. Alex Garland. its a bit artsy in spots and absolutely gross in others, but it stayed with me in a way that a lot of other things dont. I want you to see it so I can talk to you about it, but I cant talk to you about it if you havent seen it, you get it</p><p><br /></p><p>Today I went to the fireworks in Salem, the Flag day ones? and I remembered that it was last year when we went when you texted me and said that you were in the hospital. headaches and vertigo and shit. you didnt know what it was but they were running tests. I said jesus man I sure hope its nothing, remember? but it wasnt nothing was it? No indeedy it definately wasn't nothing. No Sirree</p><p><br /></p><p>The Boys season three is out but I havent watched any yet because the wife and I are starting it over from the beginning. its wild as hell, and very much my shit. I remember when I saw the season one reveal and lost my shit completely haha I hope they did season 3 right. Cant wait to get to it</p><p><br /></p><p>I dont know how to handle this shit man, so I just make dumb jokes and try to make you laugh. If I come off like a dick you gotta let me know and Ill... probably double down and make it worse cuz im am emotional infant lol</p><p><br /></p><p>Shorsey is fuckin rad man. like a more accesable Letterkenny and the dude that playes Wayne in Letterkenny Seeso or whatever? he kills in this and I know its the same dude, but there doesnt seem to be too much bleedover. Id love to talk to you about it, trade catch phrases n shit</p><p><br /></p><p>I was just talking about how we would flip each other off at work, trying to sneak them in in inappropriate settings, like staff meetings, or retirement luncheons or whatever, and about that one time when my kid was there and I used him as a kind of human shield cause even you arent going to flip off a ten year old haha </p><p><br /></p><p>Ive been thinking of you a lot lately man. this shit has got me all fucked up. I wish you could text me back.</p><p><br /></p><p>I have decided that if you have used the word Woke in any context other than speaking about actual literal sleeping, youre probably boring, and definately a dickhead.</p><p><br /></p><p>Amy called me and said that you werent using your phone anymore and that she wanted to get in touch and let me know what happens with you. she is very nice. Im glad she called.</p><p><br /></p><p>In the most punchable face olympics that smarmy shitweasel fuck Ted Cruz is definately on the podium, but I think that Rittenhouse kid is getting the gold.</p><p><br /></p><p>I saw the trailer for the Mandalorian season three the other day and it looks fuckin great, of course. For all your terrible and misguided Star Wars opinions, we could both agree that the Mandalorian rips. The other day I thought of a joke: the Mandalorian is just the car from Back to the Future with a dick. Man-Delorean get it? I didnt say it was a GOOD joke, did I?</p><p><br /></p><p>Went to visit with you a while ago. It was a bit weird, since I didn tknow if you even knew I was there, but your parents were very nice. your dad seems like he might be a bit of a hard ass, lol. I dont know man. this is some fuckin bullshit. Tried to flip you off under the table. Hope you saw it. I said something about how I thought the Last Jedi was the Empire of the new Star Wars generation, which isnt something I even really believe but I though it might wind you up a bit, so suck it Mack I can say what I want. You aint my daddy </p><p><br /></p><p>Stranger Things season 4 is great! they got rid of all that stupid 80's nostalgia shit, gave us some cool call backs to previous seasons, and leaned more into the horror aspect which I thought is what made the show great in the first place.</p><p><br /></p><p>Yo I bet she'd shit her knickers if you told her I said this, but your mom kinda looks like Nanci Pelosi hahaha. dont tell her I said that.</p><p> </p><p>Morbius was perfectly fine. there was some cool visual shit, and some fun scenes, but the lack of a villian really sucked the wind out of the third act. Its worth a look if you dont have anything better to do that day, but you certainly dont want it to be your last movie, ya know? Seriously, pick something better</p><p><br /></p><p>I keep thinking of you at weird times, thinking of stupid jokes I want to tell you, Movies I want to talk about and instead of that all this crazy dumb shit just stays in my head, rattling around on the inside of my skull with no where to go. </p><p><br /></p><p>Amy called and said that they had called Hospice. she was a wreck. I get it; this shit is the fuckin worst. the call got me shook; I wrote a bunch of stuff to the gym feed, told those maniacs to get crackin on shit and not leave things unsaid. Ive been doing shit too. I intend to take my own advice. Get busy living or get busy dying as Red from Shawshank said to Andy Dusfresne. I want to get busy living. maybe your last gift to me, eh? I will keep it on the shelf next to the book you got for me that Christmas a few years ago.</p><p><br /></p><p>I started Season three of the Boys finally. This is certainly something about which you would have OPINIONS. I would love to fight with you about this. DEBATE ME ya fuckin nerd.</p><p><br /></p><p>Your funeral was last week. I wasnt sure where I fit in in your life, you know? and people said Oh I know who YOU are and shit like that, so maybe I had a place somewhere in there, below Nigel the weiner dog, obviously, but maybe above the guy that delivers the pizza? these things always suck, but this one was rough. Met your brothers. Kevin also seems like a hard ass, haha. The chaplain did his best but thats a tough gig, man; the very definition of a tough crowd eh? Didnt cry, though it got close a time or two. You aint catching me, pal. you aint Old Yeller for fucksake.</p><p><br /></p><p>Its 1:02 AM right now and I'm writing imaginary texts to my lost friend. maybe I will allow myself ONE (1) tear, since everyone in the house is sleeping, and nobody can witness it. Just one, and that's it. You wouldnt want me crying over you anyway.</p><p><br /></p><p>Im gonna miss you man, and your terrible politics, and your garbage Star Wars opinions, and your thoughtfulness, and your intelligence and your kindness. Im going to miss you man. Already do. Aint nothing for it but to carry on. I dont have a lot of friends anymore, and losing one fucking sucks. Godspeed, buddy. Hope to see you again, down the road a ways.</p><p><br /></p><p>So it goes.</p><p><br /></p><p>Still Writing, </p><p>RP</p><p>6-17-22</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgySDHa_JjiRBUAhYy9K0WQTpoMgXZjhPXJwtgBIsDCVMc8SFHB10TJfg6vcCrezK8PXNCAahpjxdg0TuMDkZaZ9hqYiFsuWpiDfe_8pWHE7jF1enJnUY6rZWWPqS60YlPORMQd2qo2BnwdfdI5IHNW0s7Adxas6Tvtqeo17IImpvCrXTxAmgXgPztSkw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1079" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgySDHa_JjiRBUAhYy9K0WQTpoMgXZjhPXJwtgBIsDCVMc8SFHB10TJfg6vcCrezK8PXNCAahpjxdg0TuMDkZaZ9hqYiFsuWpiDfe_8pWHE7jF1enJnUY6rZWWPqS60YlPORMQd2qo2BnwdfdI5IHNW0s7Adxas6Tvtqeo17IImpvCrXTxAmgXgPztSkw" width="253" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKU-ftmcxJ5tOuoSw8oUTXjD04Cd7c-m3slwlj3dBkj4HoTylc0MpZY_fhfYR2j-I4ATmlJetIGTu6XjWVZtFgzGWg1MLTFmmGJ0XRbHqyfJr5Mm3aKi_yJZ8LSlUTtNncxP9LUQ1YkkiV_IXM_us6V5BmMuz9TaD1hPHJhai4rVU-Ss3-xaRZgi1Tyg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1778" data-original-width="1080" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgKU-ftmcxJ5tOuoSw8oUTXjD04Cd7c-m3slwlj3dBkj4HoTylc0MpZY_fhfYR2j-I4ATmlJetIGTu6XjWVZtFgzGWg1MLTFmmGJ0XRbHqyfJr5Mm3aKi_yJZ8LSlUTtNncxP9LUQ1YkkiV_IXM_us6V5BmMuz9TaD1hPHJhai4rVU-Ss3-xaRZgi1Tyg=w236-h388" width="236" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRvg9CS4a7LU12BBUeBsG5Ub13_0V_0Jo7sp4wIWTsJVUpqAHp1QoRJrP615MczpTAONRlWyJXogTUfA5jwYEIH1C0hihDnZwdjMA3gjfHovvx3-9hJxsv-OI-hcS7r2G1AchQpAiqoyj5jSGEsaWg77rMcKLEEEncbrs5yinRbGOIAqut1YyBYen3kA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="1079" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRvg9CS4a7LU12BBUeBsG5Ub13_0V_0Jo7sp4wIWTsJVUpqAHp1QoRJrP615MczpTAONRlWyJXogTUfA5jwYEIH1C0hihDnZwdjMA3gjfHovvx3-9hJxsv-OI-hcS7r2G1AchQpAiqoyj5jSGEsaWg77rMcKLEEEncbrs5yinRbGOIAqut1YyBYen3kA" width="227" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzEVED3_LYmI6p55k04L_3lvEP04y7BI7A80W-TFpO7DjbFiz7l1JB0AhyUU8A91lZBpdERFSmWHliUr_xx4tPy4WMWWMGqmaSHzPkr_f7wCGpoJ-An7Agm1aWsvf5NebXLRjK813dmVbM62V9bf1tSlA5iMlU6Z8qcqgO97sS40QCpgFurUfXAB59cA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1707" data-original-width="1079" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzEVED3_LYmI6p55k04L_3lvEP04y7BI7A80W-TFpO7DjbFiz7l1JB0AhyUU8A91lZBpdERFSmWHliUr_xx4tPy4WMWWMGqmaSHzPkr_f7wCGpoJ-An7Agm1aWsvf5NebXLRjK813dmVbM62V9bf1tSlA5iMlU6Z8qcqgO97sS40QCpgFurUfXAB59cA=w220-h347" width="220" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /> I dont have a lot to say in the afterword for this one. These things are just part of the process for me; nothing for it but to try to capture some of this shit before it overwhelms me. Anyway, tell the people that you love that you love them. We dont want to leave things unsaid. Get busy living. <div>RP<p></p><p><br /></p></div>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-84307506056752479632022-05-31T08:33:00.000-07:002022-05-31T08:33:20.968-07:00Millar's Song<div><i>So I have been sitting on this one for quite a while, the reason being is that I feel it is publishable in my humble opinion, and if I post it here it is no longer, since most journals and magazines and whathave you make it extremely clear that they only want original unpublished works, and my having posted this on my website counts in a way as publishing. But I reasoned that since I'm not subbing it anywhere anyway, who cares if I render it unpublishable?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I wrote this a while ago, and I quite like it. I have sent it to a few people, family and friends, and other untrustworthy folk, and have gotten a mixed response, which I am certainly used to by now. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I identify quite a bit with Mr Millar, in that I am not a serious man either, and I tend to sing while I work and make up stories if my mind is left idle too long. Oh, and I named him after my high school principal for no particular reason other than it amused me at the time to do so.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Anyway, this is Millar's Song</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Millar's Song </div><div style="text-align: center;">a story by Ralph Pullins</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>A few weeks prior to his eighteenth birthday, a young man named Mick Millar was caught in the bed of a local merchant, a bed that also included the merchant's young wife. The affair was made all the more public as young Mr. Millar was chased through the town square while being repeatedly assaulted with a broom by the merchant, who had merely come home because he had forgotten his lunch, and had found his wife in a bed that contained one too many occupants in his opinion. Some kind townsfolk relieved the merchant of his broom and led him away, and young Millar was allowed to dress himself properly before he was brought before the bishop, a severe man without humor, who served as an authority in place of an actual judge, which the village did not have.<br />
<br />
It was clear, the bishop said once the particulars of the issue were made apparent to him, that young Mr Millar was a man in need of a bit of contemplation and meditation; his actions of the day clearly have demonstrated a lack of respect for propriety, of the village's business leaders, of the very institution of marriage. Young Millar, who indeed lacked respect for all of those things, stayed silent, in the hopes that he looked repentant, and the bishop would let him off with a warning. Mr Millar, the bishop continued, had a reputation of being a bit of a dreamer, a storyteller, a man of words and ideas. Millar beamed, while continuing to try to appear penitent; this was going better than he had thought. Not a serious man at all, the bishop concluded, and Millar's heart dropped. He wasn't lazy, far from it in fact. He had worked in his father's mill since he was old enough to, but his habit of singing and making up songs while he worked had indeed earned him a reputation of being flighty, perhaps. He certainly knew in his heart that he was not a serious man, not like these stone faced witnesses, and the ill humored men of the village. The bishop himself quite obviously regarded seriousness as the pinnacle of human achievement. If the bishop didn't think he was serious,Young Millar could be in more than a spot of trouble. He didn't like the sound of the contemplation and meditation, either.<br />
<br />
There was a hermitage, far off the coast, on an island, the bishop said, that needed a young strong back for its upkeep, that needed a pair of clever hands. There, the bishop said, a young man might find the quiet and contemplation that was required in order to find his way back to respectability. <i>Oh no</i>, thought young Mr. Millar, <i>oh no indeed</i>.<br />
<br />Thus, a few weeks prior to his eighteenth birthday, Mr. Mick Millar was sentenced to a year of meditation and maintenance of the ancient hermitage on the island far off the coast, an island that nobody had bothered to name, because aside from the ancient and crumbling hermitage, it was quite inconsequential. He was placed on a supply ship, along with several animals and bags of grain and various implements to accomplish the tasks at hand, which was to maintain and restore the old hermitage, and also to feed both himself and the monk that was the only inhabitant of the place. He was dropped somewhat unceremoniously with the supplies and animals on a rotting dock on the south side of the island and the ship left without so much as a wave good bye.<br />
<br />A quick walk up the only path led to the hermitage, which was a shambles, and the monk, who was supposed to greet him, was dead. Young Millar, newly exiled to an island, found himself for the first time completely alone. He was filled with despair, knowing that the ship was not going to come back for at least a year, and the monk that was supposed to help him adapt to life on the island had passed on. But Millar was not a man to wallow in misery, and he certainly didn't want to live in this crumbling old hermitage with a dead monk, so there was only one thing to do. He set to work. In a shed he found a spade, and a few minutes exploring led him to find an appropriate place to lay the monk, who, according to a few scattered writings, was named Friar Weston, into his final resting place. As he dug, Millar began to sing, a song of his own devising, one of sadness and loneliness and grief, not only for the monk, whom he had never met, but for his freedom and his comfort, at his fallen place in the world, and at the work itself, the grave that he was digging, and at the supplies, most of which remained still on the dock that would need addressing. He sang a song about his plight and as he worked it changed, and evolved, as his sweat poured out and as his muscles stretched and grew weary, the song changed and grew. He laid the monk to rest in the grave he had dug himself and he sang a song of lament over the monk's grave, a song of journey and farewell. When that was done, he set about the rest of the work of the day and he sang the entire first day of his time there, about his worries and his fears, and at the end, when he lay down and the sun had long set, he had sung his first day away entirely.<br />
<br />
Millar set to work immediately the following day, first repairing the coop, housing the chickens that had come with him on the ship. When it became apparent that the goat shed was a complete loss, and that there was no lumber with which to build a new one, Millar began to sing a new song, a jaunty and silly tune about having to live with a goat until he could find the time to go to the other end of the island and fell a tree or two and hew wood for a new goat shed. For the first time he didn't feel like he was being watched, except by the chickens and the goat, neither of which seemed inclined to judge him too harshly, and so he was free to rhyme or not, he was free to be as silly or as serious as he felt. He was, he realized, completely and utterly free of judgement. <br />
<br />
He decided that he would spend his year of contemplation singing songs, a new one every day, and would revisit the other days if he felt so inclined, incorporate them into this day's song, refine the themes and keep the good and discard the bad. And so he spent the year working at repairing and maintaining the hermitage, and the old monk's grave. He worked at keeping himself and the animals fed, including a number of cranky cats that lived in the hermitage, that he tolerated because they kept the number of mice down to an acceptable level, and because they would watch him curiously as he worked indoors on days when it was too rainy or cold to work outside. Cats, of course, are great lovers of music, much more appreciative than goats or chickens, and he sang them songs of mighty tuna washed up helpless on the beach, songs of endless bowls of cream and of slow and fat mice.<br />
<br />
For months Millar sang, each day incorporating the best of the previous days songs into the song of the day, and while he was lonely, he knew that the day would arrive that a ship would come and take him away from this place and he could return to his life. <br />
<br />
He was lucky, in a sense, to be exiled on an island, for a terrible plague arrived in the village that winter, an uncontrollable fever that burned fast, and the bishop was stricken down, and most of the merchants, and the Millar's themselves, his mother's last thoughts being of him, wishing that she could have seen him again before she passed, and soon the bodies of the victims of the plague filled the church, and filled the merchant's sheds, and eventually the entire town was razed, Millar's entire life burned away into ash, along with any record of his exile, any person that knew where he was, buried in a plague pit, or whisked away to die in quarantine. <br />
<br />But Millar knew none of this, and he kept singing and refining his song, keeping the best of the day and incorporating it and his song grew longer and more intricate and beautiful, and one year to the day he stood on the dock, no longer shaky and rotting, but in good repair; he had done the work himself that autumn singing about the coldness of the water and the heaviness of rocks and timbers the entire time. He stood there, facing the direction from which the ship would arrive, singing about his relief and the end of his exile, and then, as the sun rose high in the sky, he sang of his impatience and about the unreliability of ship captains and the sea, and as the sun set that day, he sang of perhaps his failure of keeping track of days, and as he walked back to the hermitage his song wavered, his anticipation and expectation having gotten the better of him that day.<br />
<br />The next day he stood on the dock again, and the next, but the ship kept not arriving, and each day his song fell into darker and sadder waters, and he began to realize that the ship may not be coming back, that perhaps the bishop had said a year but was a friend of the cuckolded merchant and simply wanted him gone. He had no knowledge of the plague and had no idea that his exile was lost to the shifting winds and the tides of the sea; he only knew that he was abandoned here, left to rot and die like the old monk now buried under the trees.<br />
<br />The next day he didn't get out of bed. The following day he did, but only to feed the animals. The following day, he fed the animals and then himself. The following day he repaired a hole in the roof. The day after that, he went down to the dock, and he began to sing his song, all the best parts of the year, all the struggles and the work, the loneliness and the dreams, he raised his voice and his song was a release and a lament, an entire year of expectations and hopes and failures and unexpected joy. He sang all day to the sea where the song was washed away and when the sun set he finished singing and went back to the hermitage. He fed the animals and began planning for his second year. <div><br /></div><div>He started a new song then, a song of abandonment and acceptance, and every day he added to the song some days whimsy, some days despair and deep black loneliness, and every day he kept the best parts and incorporated them in to the song of the day, he kept what was good and let the rest go, and he learned how to do it better, how to recognize the best parts, how to change the melody to incorporate the new lines, and he sang to the animals and to himself and to the sea and to the trees and the grass and birds, for an entire year he worked and sang and on the day one year after the ship was supposed to arrive to take him home again he was down at the dock, and again the ship did not arrive and it stung, the hope he had allowed himself still burned fiercely, even despite himself, and the following day he went down to the dock and sang his song, another year's worth, he sang it to the sea and it was washed away.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day was the beginning of year three and the song came easier, and he did it again, kept the good, discarded what was left and it was like this that the years passed, and his song grew and he changed along with the song, new themes emerged, his first grey hair, new aches in his back, and his hands, and the years passed like water, like sand through his fingers, and every year he went down to the dock, he scanned the sea for a ship, and he sang his song, though now it took longer, having grown with each passing year. The hermitage was no longer a crumbling old nothing, but a well maintained and cozy homestead; he had worked hard to make it so, to keep it so.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thus the life of Mick Millar was spent, every day taking the best of his song and keeping it and discarding what was left, every day adding, refining, changing, and it grew into this magnificent beautiful thing, filled with longing and regret and moments of surprise and magic, disappointment and fear, triumph and joy. His back stooped and his step shuffled and and he grew old, his once rich and strong voice tamed down, the sharpness worn soft, and oh, he grew weary and tired. </div><div><br /></div><div>And one day he knew that the trip to the dock would be his last and, leaning heavily on his stick, he walked to the dock, and he scanned the horizon for the ship that was to take him home, the ship that had never come for him, and he sang his song, his entire life's work, an entire life distilled into a song rich and deep and pure, and Mick Millar sat down beneath an old tree to rest his weary bones and he sang his life away into the sea, this huge and beautiful thing, this pure distillation of a man, forgotten and abandoned, who, instead of despairing, instead of lying down to die, decided to sing instead. And his last breath in this world was the last of his song, and Mick Millar, never a serious man, was finally taken home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Years passed and time ravaged as it is wont to do. The roof of the hermitage fell in one winter, the mortar crumbled and the walls fell; the sea took back the dock; the animals scattered and went feral and finally, after many many years a ship did arrive. A young sailor was sent to scout the island, but after only a few hours returned to the ship, reported that there was nothing there, just a few rocks. The ship left again and quiet once returned to the island, far off of the coast, that was once filled with song.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Still Writing, </div><div><br /></div><div>RP</div><div>5-25-22</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I often wonder what it is I am doing here, why I keep writing these things, why do I send my friends snippets of songs that will never be sung, rhymes and ideas that will never become anything, will never gain me anything at all. Why create anything? In the end, I believe Mick Millar's life was one well spent, not a waste. I have to believe that, or maybe I would stop singing my own songs...</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Let me know if you like it, or hate it or just though it was a waste of time. Comment here, reach me @RDPullins on Twitter or email me at dissent.within@gmail.com. Don't stop singing your own songs. Peace.</i></div>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-87097635201027015112022-05-10T08:42:00.001-07:002022-05-10T08:42:21.842-07:00Fighting for Clarity <p>There's this to be said about fighting: while you're doing it, you don't have room in your head for anything else, not your busted ass car or your worries about your family, not the leak under your bathroom sink, or how you're going to pay your bills. There's only breathe one two, step out of range, shift off the center line, move breathe one three two slip the jab level change three to the body check the low kick counter one two... it is a better escape than most, and I've tried most of them, believe me.</p><p>I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here.</p><p>I get humbled and beat up at every session, I don't understand why I even go.</p><p>I'm feeling defeated; everything is so fucking hard for me, and I don't know why I'm doing it.</p><p>I should just quit, right?</p><p>Fuck you. I'll show you motherfuckers what I am capable of.</p><p>I'll show you- </p><p>And then I go and I try and my knees give and I get pummeled and twisted and what the fuck man how humble do I need to be? How many times do I need my ego crushed into dust, how many times do I need to get home feeling like I've been in a car wreck, so sore the next day that I need two hands to even lift my coffee cup and these kids don't have a fucking clue what it is like for me how fucking hard it is how bad I wish I had started twenty years ago, these little fucks knock off push up after push up and I'm thinking that's great you weigh a buck fifty, I'm pushing over three bills here. </p><p>And that sentiment, fuck you I'll show you what I'm capable of? That only means anything if you're capable of something more.</p><p>What if I'm not?</p><p>Oh and yeah the inspitrational slogans, the pain is weakness leaving the body bullshit, the you set your own limits bullshit, the it's not how many times you get knocked down it's how many times you get back up bullshit, yeah okay poster slogan writer you spend your whole day staring at numbers and letters on a computer screen and then decide that the best way to spend the remainder of your day is going to demonstrate to everyone that you can't do it? Find the will to show the world how fucking terrible you are. </p><p>Maybe fuck you I'll show you what I'm capable of should just be fuck you and I stay home and I don't have to prove anything to anyone.</p><p>But there's this thing, this itch, this big stupid block in my brain that doesn't know anything, and who the fuck am I really? How do I get to find out? Is it too late for me, and this is as good as I'll ever be at anything and there is nothing left but the last pathetic slide into the darkness, slithering into nothingness...</p><p>Just how fucking humble do I need to be?</p><p>I don't know, maybe there is something here. Maybe one more session, maybe getting my ass kicked one more time will jar it loose, or maybe the answer doesn't lie in pain and humility and violence, maybe what I am looking for doesn't lie here at all and this is just another thing that I tried and quit like a thousand other things. </p><p>There's ways to get in shape that don't involve getting punched, right? Jazzercise maybe? Waterobics?</p><p>Fuck you I'll show you-</p><p>Show who? Who even cares? Show what? </p><p>I don't know what the answers are, and I don't even know what the questions are, but I do know that sometimes my hands feel like fire and I walk around with my fists clinched and I swear I feel...</p><p>Dangerous.</p><p>Like an unexploded bomb, a landmine in some field somewhere hidden and ancient, abandoned and forgotten but one day someone is going to step wrong and lose a fucking limb.</p><p>Maybe fuck you should be turned around, turned on myself, fuck you for not ever trying, for not ever applying yourself, fuck you for wasting your youth for squandering all your gifts, for pissing on every opportunity, fuck you for waiting until it was too late to do anything signifigant. </p><p>But I've done all that, tried fighting myself, and that way leads to madness and pain and death. You lose, every time.</p><p>Maybe fuck you shouldn't be fuck you at all but instead I should understand that I am one with the universe and all beings and I reach a state of pure enlightnement. But, I mean, this is me, right? This is me the big dumb jackass stumbling and wheezing and making a fool of myself over and over. This is me reading and speaking and learning and finding the quiet moments of peace. This is me, a contradiction in everything I do. This is me the monk, me the guru, me the asshole, the idiot, the father, the fuck up. This is me, a wild collision of everything I ever learned, a beautiful imperfect wreck and I'm pretty damn far from pure enlightenment so maybe fuck you is going to have to do for now.</p><p>What if I quit and I never get to find out what I am made of? Because what it appears I am made of right now is sweat and softness and a desperate need for validation. What if that is all I am made of? What if I find my answers are everything that I am afraid of? </p><p>Fighting is stupid and dangerous, and okay, fair enough, that's all well and good, but what if I have unanswered questions buried deep in my heart, hidden things that I am afraid of, what if the only way to find out who I am or who I am meant to be is through violence? In so many ways violence made me who I am, and I have denied it for so long that I thought it was gone, but it has just been waiting, dormant maybe, but far from dead. Maybe I have to break it out, maybe-</p><p>Maybe some things are best left sleeping.</p><p>I don't know anything, like I said.</p><p>Sometimes I get caught by some jacked maniac, I drop my right hand when I throw a hook and catch one on the ear, and stars splatter across my vision, and for just a second everythig goes quiet, just for the tinyest of moments it is there, the thing I have been looking for. Just there, in the spray of stars, just out of my reach, a wisp of fog, there, then gone.</p><p>Or maybe I've been concussed and I need to sit down for a while and think about my life choices. </p><p>Most days I feel like a fool, most days I believe everyone thinks I'm a joke. Maybe I am. </p><p>I don't have any answers, just more questions. </p><p>And maybe I just go until my body gives up, until I blow my ACL, or dislocate my hip or shoulder or worse, maybe I'll just keep fighting until I can't fight anymore.</p><p>Maybe I just keep fighting until I find some clarity.</p><p>If there is any to find.</p><p>Still Writing</p><p>RP</p><p>5-09-22</p><p><br /></p><p>This one is pretty straight forward, no? Just a rant about being filled with self doubt and fear and confusion. Its nothing new I suppose, but it is honest and feels true, or as true as these kinds of things can be. Anyway, its been a while since I have written anything, so I figured what the hell. You can reach me at dissent.within@gmail.com, on Twitter @RDPullins, and as always I have a Facebook that I never check so theres that, too. Find quiet moments of peace when you can, savor them. Cheers.</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-59740066610922385502021-05-21T10:24:00.000-07:002021-05-21T10:24:21.166-07:00Kintsukuroi<div>You painted my hands with violence, painted them to be bludgeons, crude and scarred. You painted my heart the color of despair, the sickly yellow of self loathing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was untouched at first, Tabula Rasa, waiting for the artist's hands to tell me who I was, to tell me what I will be, but I didn't get an artist, I didn't get a saint.</div><div><br /></div><div>You showed me who I was, who I would be. You did this, and then you handed me the brush and told me to keep painting. My hands are not an artist's hands, they are thick and blunt, the hands of a fighter, of a brute, of a monster, I took the brush and slopped paint over everything you showed me, layer over layer, tried to cover the worst, hide it from view, and sometimes I could convince myself that it wasn't there at all, but <i>in vino veritas</i>, and some things cannot be hidden, some stains cannot be washed away.</div><div><br /></div><div>You painted my hands with violence, black and red with rage, you painted my face into a leering jack o lantern and now what can I do? The cracks are beginning to show. </div><div><br /></div><div>You pressed the brush in my hands, showed me how to paint myself and worse, how to paint others. Here are your hands, they are tools of pain, they are used for choking, for striking. Here are your eyes. Look into them late at night and see if you can see the bottom, if there is anything left, stand there in front of the mirror, peer into yourself and see if there is anything there. Is it all used up, are there any colors left inside? Answer me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I SAID ANSWER ME GODDAMN YOU</div><div><br /></div><div>I try to chip away at the old paint, try and change what I was made to be, but it is too deep, it has penetrated and stained and no matter how hard I stratch and scrape, no matter how many times I have made myself bleed, the stain is always there, is always deeper than I can cut, maybe all the way to the bone, maybe in my marrow, maybe there isn't anything pure left, just the colors that were painted on me long ago, maybe there is nothing underneath the colors you first painted on me back when I was untouched. </div><div><br /></div><div>You made me a copy of yourself, a bastard imperfect copy of yourself, you made me into you, goddamn you. And layer after layer I have shed, only to find more of the same underneath.</div><div><br /></div><div>You painted my heart with love, yes, but also envy, sickly green veins running though the light. You painted my head, my eyes, my bones.</div><div><br /></div><div> You painted these patterns. This line is the alcoholism, the addiction. This line is the doubt, this one the self destruction the black despair, this line you painted on me tells me that I am not worthy, this one says that I am a fraud, and these hands are still blood red, still veined with black hopeless rage. </div><div><br /></div><div>You pressed the brush in my hand and showed me the words. Worthless and stupid, broken and alone and pathetic and weak and selfish, and soon I didn't need to be guided at all, I knew the words, freshened them up from time to time. Loser, sinner, liar. You showed me where to start and I did, kept adding layer after layer kept writing, kept laying it on thick and deep.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thick and deep.</div><div><br /></div><div>These are not artist's hands, these are the hands of a dead eyed killer.</div><div><br /></div><div> I didn't get an artist, I didn't get a guardian angel. It was you who painted these hands with violence.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried to wash myself clean, I tried. I thought maybe the worst had faded, on most days I can lie to myself, be convincing enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>Most days.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now I have been gifted my own Tabula Rasa; they stand before me, asking me to show them who to be. </div><div><br /></div><div>I look at myself, covered in violence and fear and grief and regret. I see the lines, my violent damaged hands, broken and healed so many times. I look at the words on my arms, tattooed so deeply, and my Tabula Rasa, they ask</div><div><br /></div><div><i>What shall we become?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div> I look at my heart, shattered and repaired with care, with gold.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hand them the brush. I show them how to hold it, tell them this is love and hope and inspiration, be generous with these. This is fear and anger and doubt. These are also important, but go light, as light as you can, I tell them to be careful, the paint stains, some things cannot be cleaned.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>What shall we be?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Anything at all, I say, you're the one holding the brush. You can be anything you want. Choose well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just promise me one thing:</div><div><br /></div><div>Promise to never become me.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Still Writing, </div><div><br /></div><div>RP 5-21-21</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So it's been a while, too long really, and I wasnt sure what would happen if I tried to write again. I had wondered if I had anything still to say. It was not easy, it was slow and stuttered, but apparently there is still a good measure of madness left in me, enough to scrape this out of the barrel at least. So it goes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a son on the cusp of manhood, that just got his driver's license. It is hard as hell being a parent, and harder still to trust that you have done enough that you can let go when they need you less and less. I often wonder how much of my own crazy I have painted on them. I hope not too much, but only time will tell. Reach out if you have something to say. Comment here or email me at dissent.within at gmail.com. I'm on Twitter @RDPullins, and I have a Facebook and Instagram that I haven't logged on in forever, probably since the last time I wrote something here, so thats a terrible way to reach me, clearly. You can text me if you have my number, and if you don't, try texting a random number; maybe you will make a new friend.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-29387781825989770162021-02-10T11:17:00.001-08:002021-02-10T11:17:08.821-08:00#FFFSo as many of you must know, November is National Novel Writing Month and writers everywhere get all wound up and try to knock out a novel in a month. It is abbreviated as NaNoWriMo or something stupid, presumably an event created by and intended for writers and that's the best thing that they could come up with? The world's most garbage portmanteau? Writing circles generally call it Nano, which is only marginally better, but at least its shorter. I never do it because November is a terrible month to attempt to do anything other than watch football and dream of turkey and mashed potatoes and whatnot. Who has time to sit down at the keys in November?<div><br /></div><div>I don't know about y'all, but I haven't been able to do jack shit creatively in the last year, what with the pandemic and the election and protests and civil unrest and the many and varied other goddamn attacks on my peace and sanity and holy shit it was all I could do to hold it together and not run screaming out of the house pulling my hair out. So the upshot here, what I am trying to say as, even now, I knock the dust off of my rusty ass writing skills, what I am trying to say here is that I don't want to write a goddamn novel in November when I have so many unfinished things right now. Nano is great for some people but for me it is an exercise in frustration and disappointment and its the fucking holiday season folks, and sure, it might be nice to get away and put on the ol' headphones instead of listening to Uncle Larry go on and on about how Antifa are injecting the nation's youth with vaccines and making them gay, so I get why some would want to do it, even if you don't get anything good out of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>But the thing is this, okay? The thing is, I have unfinished projects galore here. I have a novel that is written and just needs some fixing here and there, I have a middle grade sci-fi thing that is pretty much ready to go, I want to put Antiartists up on KDP and guess what? It ain't New Years anymore and Valentines Day is absolutely irrelevant since the last time I put a construction heart covered shoebox on my desk in grade school and we all traded up valentines, which was rad as hell. Why thank you Heather! I will not, as Bart Simpson has instructed me to do on your thoughtful valentine here, 'have a cow, man,' but I will, as Bart has further instructed, 'have a radical Valentines Day.' Since then Valentines has been stupid. Like I just wanted flowers, but not spontaneous meaningful flowers, but mandatory flowers that don't mean shit. Grow up you doofus, Valentine's is for dorks. </div><div><br /></div><div>SO lacking any good excuses, what I propose is this: lets make a new, non-Nano, writing/creative event and call it Fuckin Finish it February or FFF, for those that shy away from the eff word or like those goobers that like to put asterisks instead of vowels to protect us from the terrible poisonous sin that is profanity. I got some bad news for you dipsh*t, with or without the asterisk it reads the same so if you want to write f*ck you may as well go the full monty because it don't make a d*mn bit of difference.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, what I propose is that we take these unfinished projects, hell just pick ONE even, and we take February and finish the fucking thing. We fucking finish it in February, we FFF the shit out of it, okay? </div><div><br /></div><div>Look I know its been hard, I have read about people who respond to stress by working, they just rise to the occasion and knock out a bunch of stuff and feel great but what I do instead is I roll up into a chubby middle aged ball and I protect all my softer bits, and I snack until I feel a little better. I stay up too late feeling anxious and alone watching the same shows over and over (anyone want to take another run through Letterkenny? Anyone on their third or fourth trip through every season of Rick and Morty?) What I do instead of working is NOT work and I like to feel guilty about not working and I like to fill my fat congested heart with despair and fear and I like to wish for a meteor to strike or a huge sinkhole to swallow my house because I just can't do anything to extricate myself from this stupid and self defeating cycle. I don't lose myself in the work, I fill a gigantic salad bowl with Fruity Pebbles and watch seven seasons of The League, all while berating myself for letting my goals to slip so far away. </div><div><br /></div><div>So its been shitty I get it, I've lived it. But I have a cool story that has been sitting there on my drive and goddamnit I want to be free of it, it has been taking space up and I need to let it go. I need, in other words, to FFF the shit out of it so I can move on with my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can FFF too, if you want. You can take that thing that has been sitting there, that unfinished screenplay, that song, that half built birdhouse, you can take that thing and you can fucking finish it. You can just FFF the hell out of that model airplane or that ship in a bottle, you can pick up your paints and dust off the easel and you can dig that canvas out from under the unused winter coats and you can finish the fucking thing. You can FFF that piece of shit and move on with your life.</div><div><br /></div><div>What's hilarious is that I have been meaning to write this for a while now, more than a week, and moments ago I was screwing around on my phone instead of doing anything and I saw a tweet from these dudes that do this Propagandhi podcast (Unscripted Moments; these dudes are superfans and take one Propagandhi song and research and talk the absolute shit out of it. It is wild and an absolute love letter to one of my all time favorite bands. Check them out @Propagandhipod on Twitter) that said this: "If you're sitting on a cool idea PLEASE do it. Start on it right away. DO IT." and I mashed the retweet button because I know for sure that it is a sentiment that I agree with, but then I realized that I was on my ass again trying to decide if I wanted to start a fresh character on Borderlands 3 or if I wanted to try and respec my maxed Moze to take on endgame content solo, and I thought hey I've been meaning to launch FFF and I haven't done anything that feels like progress in forfuckingever so what the hell, why not knock this shit out instead?</div><div><br /></div><div>And here's the thing: I did it. I got up, went into the bedroom, grabbed my wife's Chromebook, sat down at the kitchen table and I FFFed the hell out of this blog. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can do it too. FFF it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here are the things I want to FFF this year: </div><div><br /></div><div>1. Finish my story The Coast, a bleak as hell horror story inspired by the PUP song of the same name.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Start a new weekly blog called Fatboy Diaries where I chronicle the successes and struggles of my goal this year of losing 125 pounds. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. Submit my story Millar's Song for publication. I have a dream spot and this story is perfect for them. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that's it. February is a short month, and it ain't a leap year, Jack. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can FFF too if you wanna. Do it. Now. Go get your wife's Chromebook and get to work. You know, metaphorically. Or literally, I suppose; I don't know your life. FFF the shit out of whatever it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have always signed off Still Writing, and I would like to believe that is true, even now. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy FFF, my friends. Good Luck. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still Still Writing</div><div><br /></div><div>RP </div><div>2-9-21 </div><div><br /></div><div>I cut out all social over the holidays, but I am more or less back on Twitter. Tell me your FFF goals. Use the hashtag unless it means something already and chances are if it does, its probably something gross, so maybe check it out first I guess. @RDPullins dissent.within @gmail .com I wouldnt really bother trying to reach me on Facebook or Instagram; in all likelihood I wont see it. Stick together. Tell the people that you love that you love them. Now if you don't mind I am going to go respec my level-capped Moze. Peace.</div>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-68249127547935303432020-08-21T16:05:00.002-07:002020-08-21T16:05:55.127-07:00You Can Get Out Any Time You Want<p>Step on, get in, you are going on a ride. You sit down, wait for the safety rail to come down and when it fails to, you look at the attendant for an explanation. S<i>afety?</i> he says, Y<i>ou don't need it; you can get out any time you want</i>, and he smiles, because he always smiles and did you see his face slip a little, a fleshmask over something else, something... did you imagine it? But it is too late now and anyway, you can see that he was right; the way is easy, the track stretches off into the distance and you know it must curve, but you can barely even tell, maybe far off down the line, it turns? The ride is slow, and you remember the attendant telling you that you can get off any time you want to and maybe you do, just to prove that you can, you get out and you walk along, you sit down next to the tracks and watch as the car keeps rolling into the distance. It is easy here, easy and fun, and you catch up and get into the car again because riding is better than walking. You relax, because it couldn't be safer, couldn't be more comfortable, and maybe you rest, maybe you are lulled into sleep where you have terrible visions, half remembered faceless things following you down dark and endless corridors, bone white hallways without doors, the sense of inevitability, the sharp bitter tang of fear that threatens to choke you if you cry out, and there was something else, a figure grinning in the half light, his mask askew, sliding, and you open your mouth and find that you cannot speak, and the air turns thick and you cannot flee as he reaches for you-</p><p>But you don't remember these things, not really, just the sense of helplessness and unease, and you see that things have changed while you were not paying attention. To your right are rows and rows of tracks and there is still no safety bar but you are moving quickly now, and you realize that the times of getting out safely have passed, and a leap now would hurt, you could twist something, you could break something. Ahead the track is no longer flat, but obviously turns, <i>leans</i> to the left, and the endless curve is easier to see. You are, you realize, turning inward, always inward, and as you take it all in, the predicament you have allowed yourself to get in, you hear the attendant again in your head:<i> Safety? You don't need it; you can get out anytime you want, </i>and you lean out and look and the ground is a blur, dark and hard and jagged, and you guess you can still get out even now, and survive, most likely you would survive, but ahead it is getting darker, and you believe that the curve is inward, but do you know that, know it for sure? Maybe ahead the track flattens out again, you don't know anything do you? And you can convince yourself that ahead in the darkness, things will get better, but the uneasiness of the dream stays with you, and you know that there is only one way off of this ride, and it is painful and dangerous, and soon, a leap will be impossible, but if you squint, if you look hard enough, long enough, you can almost see it, the time ahead where the curve turns out, where it flattens. It will be fine you tell yourself, everything will be fine. And you close your eyes, because lying to yourself is exhausting. And again the endless bone white walls, the faceless reaching grasping pursuers, the attendant and his terrible grin, his mask finally gone, and you can see-</p><p>When you awake, you are shoved all the way to the side of your car, and the wind is a howling cold blast in your face, and each turn of the track takes mere seconds, and you look, and there is only tracks to the left and right, but also somehow overhead, and you realize that you are seeing the turns you took only seconds before flying past overhead, you are a coin in a funnel, and you cling to the car, because a fall now would be catastrophic, would be devastating, and there is nothing to do, and there is no one to hear you, there is no one left, but you let out a helpless wail, a high keening, filled with fear and regret, because you are spiraling and have been for a long time. But no one can spiral forever, no one can live like this for long, and the force and the pressure and the wind have kept you pressed against the wall of the car, held down, clinging to anything familiar, and outside there is nothing but howling darkness, the black terrible unknowable vastness of space, a void, and out there lies...</p><p>maybe nothing</p><p>but maybe something</p><p>and you</p><p>you</p><p>let go.</p><p>And you slide, pushed by laws older and surer than any that man has ever concieved, and you don't know what lies out there, but you know that anything, even nothing at all, God help you, even nothing at all is better than spiralling forever, and you slip out and away, into the unknowable void, and your lips peel back into a terrible grin. As you fly to your unknown and inevitable fate, you think, <i>Safety</i>? Y<i>ou don't need it; you can get out anytime you want</i>.</p><p>It is easy.</p><p>Just let go.</p><p><br /></p><p>Still Writing, </p><p>RP 8-20-20 </p><p><br /></p><p>This afterword, this call to action, may end up being bigger than the piece itself, but so be it.</p><p>Every creative that I know has been struggling recently; this time has been difficult for the muses as well, apparently. For perhaps the first time in my life, I have been struggling not only with the writing itself, but the desire to keep writing, the belief that somehow this isn't all for nothing. These are difficult times for many reasons, but the atrophy of the creative urge is worrisome, because I believe that uncertainty, anger, fear, anxiety, these things make the work more important, more essential, not less. I have struggled over the last few months, feeling useless and tired, feeling like any effort is not worth it, and maybe in the end that will prove out, but goddamnit, I will not lay down quietly while I still have a voice. </p><p>Every single word of this was a struggle. The headspace I love to be in while I write, where I seem to step outside of myself and things come easily, the words pour out, they flow, that never happened here. This was a work of will, not inspiration, and maybe it reads like that, maybe it sucks just a little because of that, but it is something, which is better than nothing, always. </p><p>Maybe none of this will mean anything to anyone, maybe in the end all this effort has been a waste, maybe all of my words are ultimately just nothing, whispers into the uncaring void, but I had to remind myself recently, that this isn't for you, or not only for you, but it is for me too. This is a gift that I give away, but that I get to keep too. It is a gift and a privilege to be able to do this, and for that I am grateful.</p><p>So please, stop waiting for inspiration, stop waiting to feel like it, do not lie down quietly while you still have a voice. Force it, choke it out, even if it sucks, sing goddamnit, even if you make garbage, make it happen. I hate that I feel like this, I want the spirit to take me, the muse to sing, the words to flow, but they just don't, not anymore, so this is what I can do. This is the best that I have right now, and maybe it isn't great, but it isn't nothing, either. Get busy, because we need it, now more than ever. <i>Our </i>work is also essential.</p><p>Reach out: @rdpullins on Twitter, and I am on Facebook too even though every time I open it, it makes me feel like I have been soiled in some indefinable way, and as always comment here, or email me dissent.within at gmail.com Please be kind, even to shitbirds, even to the asswipe rat bastards that are so freely roaming. Be kind. Create. We need each other.</p><p><br /></p>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-22968797891495495312020-03-24T09:59:00.000-07:002020-03-24T09:59:02.581-07:00RatsThe boy walked across the field with his grandpa. The old man carried a large dented gasoline can, the old timey kind, rounded on the top and probably older than the boy's dad. The boy liked being around his grandpa, liked his silence and his tolerance of the boy's questions. The boy was quiet for the most part, studious, and curious and interested in learning, so his questions were never the inane kind, but usually of the how does that work, why do you do it that way, can you show me how variety which the old man appreciated and approved of. The boy liked his time with the old man and he liked when one of his questions would make the old man pause and he could tell he had said something that had made his grandpa think about something in a new way or from a new angle.<br />
<br />
He looked over to their destination, the storage shed, large and dark, filled with the smells he associated with summers out here, dust and grease. There was something special about the air, the boy had decided. It was fresher than the air by their home in the suburbs, but that wasn't it, really, the simple lack of car exhaust. Even the air in his house was filled with artificial smells, his mother's candles or the somehow used taste of the air from the air conditioner. Here, the boy decided, the air was slower, and older, and more real in a way that he couldn't quite describe.<br />
<br />
He could hear the matches in the old man's pocket, a smallish box that the old man had produced from some cupboard in his cavernous shop where he spent the bulk of his time. The boy looked over at the old man's hands, scarred and rough from years and years of work, laboring in the fields nearby, planting and harvesting and clearing the grains year after year. They were the hands of a man that had worked for everything that he had, and worked every day to keep it. The boy looked down at his own hands that were soft from books and computers all fall and winter and spring, but that were now crusted with a little grease from when they had fixed the rototiller, and with a small blister that he had developed while shoveling gravel to fill a pot hole in the long driveway. It was painful, but it brought him a touch of pride, too. He had earned that blister.<br />
<br />
Now they walked in silence, the gas in the can making a slow quiet slosh, the matches in the old man's pocket rattling with every step, the slightly overlong grass whispering on their boots.<br />
<br />
"Are we really going to burn it down?" the boy asked, breaking the silence.<br />
<br />
"We are," the old man said.<br />
<br />
"But why?"<br />
<br />
The old man walked in silence for a few steps, considering. The boy knew that he was wondering how to say what he had needed to say without divulging too much. Last year the boy had seen Max, the male hound that the old man took hunting sometimes, engaging in what looked like an attempt to get a piggyback ride from Daisy, the female. When he had remarked on it, old man then laid out the biological facts plain as day and when the boy was asked about what he had learned that day at the dinner table, he laid those same facts out until he saw his granny's face had seemed to harden into stone. He had heard them "having quite a discussion" that evening, and since then the old man was a bit more thoughtful about the things he shared. "We have rats," the old man said finally.<br />
<br />
The boy nodded, and thought about that until they arrived at the storage shed. The two of them stood there looking at it for a couple of moments.<br />
<br />
"What about traps?" the boy said.<br />
<br />
"I did traps for a while," the old man said, "and they work, but only if you have just a few rats. If you get them early you can trap them. If there's too many though, you can't keep up. They reproduce too quickly, the traps fill up, and the rest of them roam free."<br />
<br />
"Poison?"<br />
<br />
"We eat the grain in here, use it to make bread. We use it to feed ourselves, and our animals. If we fill the shed with poison, we will always be afraid we are harming ourselves."<br />
<br />
"But I <i>like</i> this shed," the boy said. "It's always been here, and it still works right? We still have food, don't we?"<br />
<br />
"I like it too," the old man said. "I built this shed with your daddy a long time ago, him and me together just like you and me are here now. He complained a lot more than you, of course. A big complainer, your daddy was when he was younger. And yes, we still have food, but the the thing about rats is this: they're greedy little bastards, and don't tell your granny I said that, they're greedy, and they just can't eat enough, they just gobble grain until they are fit to burst and then they eat just a little bit more, and maybe that is something I can tolerate for a while, maybe a farm is always going to have rats, and that's just something we will have to live with, but word gets out, and the rats all hear about this great store of grain here and every damn rat in three counties is in our shed just eating everything in sight, and it gets to the point that we end up working hard, and all we are doing is feeding rats."<br />
<br />
The old man picked up the dented old gas can and unscrewed the cap. The boy smelled the diesel instantly, acrid in the warm summer air.<br />
<br />
"Will they get out? When it burns, will they go?"<br />
<br />
"Some will, for sure," the old man said. "If they are smart, they will smell the smoke and head for the hills. Some are too lazy, too full of grain or have grown too fat eating up all our hard work that they will just burrow deeper, try to hide from the fire. But there's no hiding from fire. The ones that don't go, they will die."<br />
<br />
"I feel bad for them," the boy said. "They don't know any better."<br />
<br />
"Don't ever shed a tear for rats. Listen,there's plenty to go around, right? We plant and harvest and clear the fields, we bring the grain in, and there's plenty for everyone, for us to sell, for the chickens and even a for few rats there's plenty. The trouble is the rats. They can't stop eating and eating like the greedy little bastards that they are, taking more than they are worth, taking more than they ever earned themselves. If the rats could just control themselves I would never even know they are there, but they can't. They take and take and add nothing, and now we've got to burn the whole thing down."<br />
<br />
The boy stood there as the old man walked the perimeter of the old storage shed that his father had helped build, watched as the old man sloshed diesel around the base of it.<br />
<br />
"It seems a waste," the boy said when his grandpa rounded the final corner and came back to stand next to him. "It's a waste. It works, and we're just going to burn the whole thing down?"<br />
<br />
"It <i>did </i>work," the old man said, "until we let the rats in."<br />
<br />
"So where are you going to store your grain now?"<br />
<br />
The old man gestured over to a tarp that covered something nearly completely, but the boy could see the bright cream of new lumber peeking out. "Tomorrow, you and I are going to build something new, something better. It isn't going to be easy. Maybe we will get some splinters, but in the end we will have a new shed, and hopefully we do a better job at keeping the rats out this time."<br />
<br />
The boy liked the idea of spending some time building a new shed, one that he would be able to come back and see and know that he had helped build it. "Okay," he said, and nodded. "I'm glad we're getting rid of the rats, and this time for good, huh?"<br />
<br />
"Son," said the old man, striking a match, "I'm afraid there's always more rats."<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
<br />
RP 3-24-19<br />
<br />
<br />
Hey there stranger! I have been wondering what it would take for me to shake this stagnancy and general malaise, and it turns out "Global Pandemic Accompanied by Near Complete Social Isolation" was the answer. Obviously these are strange times, which works out great for strange people; we finally feel at home in the world. Like, '<i>I'm </i>the freak? Buddy, you have six hundred and fifty rolls of Charmin in your garage; I just write dumb stuff on the internet. One of us is the weirdo, and for the first time in my life it ain't me. Anyway, I am on a media cleanse right now, but usually I am best found on Twitter @RDPullins, and email dissent . within at gmail.com, or comment here. I'm on Instagram, but that's mostly reserved for lowbrow art, socialist propaganda, punk rock, and spoon carving. Care for each other, call your loved ones, even those that you haven't talked to for a while: forgive or ask forgiveness, whichever is most appropriate. Be kind, all we have is each other. Peace. <br />
<br />
<br />Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-24848420210668979682020-03-07T21:02:00.001-08:002020-08-20T20:10:36.013-07:00Hello, My Name IsMy high school class lost another member recently, an exceedingly nice guy that had apparently spent most of his life in service to others by way of being a first responder. His name was Mike.<br />
<br />
In response to this, someone created a KHS class of '96 group on Facebook, and I joined when I was invited, because why not?<br />
<br />
People started posting pictures that they had dug out of various closets and photo albums. Someone posted all the pictures of the senior class from the yearbook, and there I am, in a Minor Threat T-shirt that I happened to be wearing when they were taking pictures of all the kids that didn't get senior pictures. I never got senior pictures. They were expensive and we were relatively poor, but that wasn't the reason. If I really wanted them, my mom would have found a way. She found a way for pretty much anything we wanted or needed.<br />
<br />
I haven't posted any pictures, though I have commented a couple of times when I thought it okay.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I-<br />
<br />
So, I have a hard time-<br />
<br />
Look, let's face it. I was a bit of a shithead, okay? I spent most of those years selfish and rude, and seeing all these pictures, watching our graduation video, I am not filled with a warmth, a big, those-were-the-good-old-days feeling. What I feel is a vague shame, an embarrassment of the person I was.<br />
<br />
I guess its okay for a teenager to be a shithead, maybe I can forgive him. He didn't know any better, I swear to God he didn't.<br />
<br />
I see these pictures and I can't help feeling guilty, like I owe someone an apology, but I don't know who.<br />
<br />
I am a different person now, and I feel like I have spent a lifetime tumbling in the oceans of life, learning and growing and becoming more integrated and at peace. I have spent a lifetime working on getting to a point where I didn't feel broken.<br />
<br />
There is a picture of a boy. He is smiling. He is seventeen years old. I see him and he is a stranger.<br />
<br />
Hello, I am Ralph Pullins. I am not the person you remember.<br />
<br />
Since we last met, I have-<br />
<br />
Shit. I lived in Southern California for a few years. I made terrible choices, made people worry. Once, I was homeless there, but only for a couple of days. It sucked. I spent time on the beach, I learned to skate, I learned to juggle, I tried to surf. I wrote a lot of songs that were never played. Made some friends that I still have to this day, even though we all live thousands of miles from each other.<br />
<br />
My friend Jordi and I worked in a Pizza Wagon at the San Diego county fair. Delivered ice there too, some days.<br />
<br />
I lived in Alaska for a while, too. I swam in Resurrection Bay. I touched glaciers. I lived on a boat with an ex-con named Cyrus, who was a good friend to me until one night we got in an argument and it became apparent that he was half a Nazi. I decided we couldn't be friends after that.<br />
<br />
I waited ten thousand tables, served ten thousand drinks, and I gave every penny I ever made to bartenders and liquor stores and cab drivers and a menagerie of other unsavory characters.<br />
<br />
I spent a lot of time angry, a lot of time sad, for reasons it is hard to explain. I read a lot of books, and somehow I got the idea that things get resolved, that there are ends, and new beginnings. I wanted life to be story shaped, tidy, contained, not this wild loose mess of events. I tried to hide from my anger, drown it, escape my sadness in so many ways.<br />
<br />
I got a few tattoos, quite a few scars, a couple of broken bones.<br />
<br />
I hurt some people's feelings, sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose. I got my heart broken. Maybe I broke a heart. Maybe I was the worst, maybe I hurt more than I was hurt, maybe I took more than I gave. Maybe. Who can tell? This late in the game, who gets to say?<br />
<br />
I have set foot in forty out of fifty states. Maybe forty-one: I can't remember if I went to Oklahoma or not. I think I may have driven through Delaware, too, possibly. <br />
<br />
I lived in Florida for about six months. My roommate and only friend there was a body builder that called me bro all the time. We worked out a lot. I wrote some terrible, unworkable poetry. Behind our house was an abandoned building that was being squatted in by a number of crack addicts. One time we came home and one of those gentlemen was buck naked on our back porch taking a shower with our garden hose. I hated Florida. Still do.<br />
<br />
There were other times I will not write about here, times when I screamed into the darkness until my voice broke, cried until I thought I had no more tears left, but I was wrong. There are always more tears. Always.<br />
<br />
I thought I was in love a few times. Maybe they loved me back, a little. Didn't matter, though. I was too self destructive and emotionally wrecked for anything to last.<br />
<br />
When I was in California I lucked into a job. I traveled with a production company that set up lights and sound and displays for hair shows, kind of like a fashion show, but for hair. We did a show in Chicago, and while I was working, I noticed a girl with purple hair. We spoke a few times and it was nice. I got her email and then I helped break the show down and moved on. I emailed her when I got home, and over the course of a year or so, we wrote to each other or spoke on the phone. My boss for the production company that provided my phone once presented me with a six hundred dollar phone bill, back when they still counted cellular talk time minutes. Ended up being worth it though. I married that purple haired girl a while later. She is asleep right now, upstairs.<br />
<br />
I went to Salzburg Austria. I went to Germany, went to Dachau. I walked through the gate that said Arbeit Macht Frei, which means, in English, "Work will free you," though that was a terrible lie; work never freed anyone that went there. I saw the ovens, the barracks, the showers.<br />
<br />
In 2012, I finished my college degree, a BA in Psychology. Summa Cum Laude, if that means anything.<br />
<br />
I wrote a novel, a good one, that says everything that I wanted it to say, as hard and as honest as I could say it. Nobody read it, of course. It is out of print now, after my publisher shuttered. <br />
<br />
I live slowly now. I have a solid, if somewhat uninspiring job, and a perfectly serviceable three bedroom in suburbia. I am careful to not hurt people's feelings, if I can help it. I try my best to put more good into the world than bad. I have an amazing caring, beautiful wife. Her hair is no longer purple. I have two sons that I try to raise to be better at all this stuff than I ever was. They already are. Sometimes I am still angry, for reasons I find hard to explain, sometimes I feel lonely, even if I am surrounded by people that love me. Sometimes I am afraid that all this hard earned peace will be taken from me. Sometimes I worry that I am not good enough, that I do not deserve the love that is given me, that all these blessings were meant for a better man than I. Sometimes I write about my fears, my anger, my sadness, and they go away, at least for a while.<br />
<br />
I know everyone has lived, have done and seen things, experienced joy and heartbreak, have experienced magic, have lived through tragedy. Some people were a lot smarter than I was, and learned their lessons early. I only ever learned anything by doing it wrong first.<br />
<br />
This is my life, so far, or fragments of it, at least. And it is easy for me to criticize myself, to think of all the bad decisions I made and wonder what would be different if I had made better choices, but then I think of that girl asleep upstairs, think of my two sons and our dumb dogs, and I am grateful for everything, even the shit, because it all led me here.<div><br />
Imagine my name as a sticker, a nametag. Imagine we have never met, imagine I am a stranger.</div><div><br />
Hello. My name is Ralph.<br />
<br />
Still Writing, 9-28-19 <div><br /></div><div>I wrote this ages ago, obviously judging by the date, and I never posted it out of fear and out of apathy and a whole lot of other reasons, including a healthy dose of who gives a shit, and who would care about your dumb boring story. I know everyone has a story. I know everyone has their own tale of struggle and love and loss and redemption. This is mine. </div></div><div>If you like dumb jokes and silly comments, follow me on Twitter @rdpullins. I don't do too much other social stuff, but I am pretty available via email dissent. within at gmail.com <br /></div><div>Peace.</div>Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-35369816930883845332019-07-31T14:22:00.000-07:002019-07-31T14:23:39.730-07:00The Terrible Darkness<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;">Out there in the darkness, something is circling us. something
cold, something terrible. It circles us, and sometimes, it takes one of
us.</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Punks tend to have a short lifespan. We die early, through
overdose or violence, through neglect or disease. And we die of suicide.
It happens. Way too often, it happens.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;">It is patient, this terrible thing, it waits. We huddle
together around the light we created for one another. The thing hates the
light, but there is just too much darkness, and the terrible thing whispers,
and sometimes, one of us, we listen.</span></i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We come to punk in self defense; in many ways it is a reaction, a response to a hostile and uncaring world. <span style="color: black;">Hardly anybody comes to punk as an adult. You don't come to punk
because you are well adjusted</span><span style="color: black;">. You come to punk because you're fucked up.
You're fucked up and angry and young, and then you hear a song, and the sound
sounds like you feel, and the words speak like you feel, and you realize that
someone out there feels like you do, someone out there understands. And
you go to a show, and there in the sweaty roaring darkness you get it, you
understand that you're not alone, and you are never the same after that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;">Sometimes it speaks to us, the terrible thing, and one of us
wanders off into the darkness, and we get lost out there and all we can see is
the dark and all we can hear is the voice of the terrible thing and even though
our friends are near and the light is close, we get lost. Sometimes we find our
way back, sometimes we find the light again, we find our friends and our
songs, but sometimes... Sometimes we don't come back at all.</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is tribal, in a way. We show our affiliation in our
tattoos, in our piercings, in our hairstyles and our T-shirts. As we age,
these things tend to fall away; we get older and we begin to wear our Mohawks
on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inside</i>, so to speak. We may
look normal to a degree, but we know who we are, and we can sometimes recognize
each other in the world. We nod at each other, we say I like your shirt,
we go to shows and we stand in the back and maybe we have a house, a mortgage,
but this is home, here with our brothers and sisters, strangers, people we have
never met. This is home. Here we are never alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: black;">When one of us is lost, we cry, we grieve. When one of us
doesn't come back, we get scared. We know the darkness, have
wandered it ourselves. We know the voice out there, know that terrible
thing that encircles us, that waits so patiently. We hate ourselves for losing
another friend, for allowing them to walk off alone. We hate ourselves for
wondering who is next, which one of us is the next one to be lost? Is it
someone close? Is it me?</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">We lost someone recently. Someone close, someone too fucking
close, one of <i>us</i>. It hurts, and we grieve, we fear, and we
cling to one another and hide our guilt, our shameful failure, drown our regret
in songs and booze. And I have to wonder, have any of us really made it out
alive, or are we all just wandering in the darkness, riding out the inevitable,
just waiting for the terrible thing to take us... I hate it, but I can't
help but wonder: who is next? Could it be me?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">.<i>..and out there somewhere in the darkness that surrounds us
all, the terrible thing, it waits for another one of us to wander off, away
from the meager light that we have created for each other, waits for one of us
to forget that we are not alone. Out there in the darkness, it waits and
it whispers, and maybe it is just a matter of time, maybe it is inevitable that
another one of us will hear the voice of the terrible thing and we will listen,
and it will take us.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">...and the worst thing, the coldest, hardest truth is that the world
barely cares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow will come and the
sun will rise and we will all get on with our lives pretty much the same as
before, the only real difference is today we all have one fewer friend in
this world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">Still Writing, </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">RP</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">7-31-19</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I have been thinking for a long time about why I write things and why I feel compelled to share them, whether it is about some kind of validation, or about my ego, or whether it is about art, or something else entirely. I don't fully understand why I do it but I hope it makes a difference to someone, somewhere. I hope I reach the right person at the right time. I don't know. I know I write things that I want to read, that I want to exist in the world, and sometimes that alone is enough. I hope the things I choose to share are meaningful to someone. I hope that I am not just seeking something meaningless, I really do.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, Comment if it means something. And as always I am reachable via email: dissent.within at gmail.com and on Twitter @RDPullins and I check Facebook for a bit after I post things, and then generally avoid it after that. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Give more than you take, love more than you hate, show grace and mercy and kindness to the world. We need you.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-54879683141279176952019-05-31T13:16:00.000-07:002019-05-31T13:16:28.837-07:00Yeast Party!The trick to fermenting honey or apple cider, or any sugar really, into alcohol is to set up a yeast party. What you want to do is set up a perfect place for your yeast, a little yeast heaven, filled with good food and warmth. You want to create a fun, wild, yeast party, one where everyone feels comfortable and happy, where yeast can really chow down on all the stuff you have provided, where nobody makes them feel like a hog if they eat too much or dance too wildly. Yeast like atmosphere; give them good dim mood lighting and a cozy space and they are down to party for a while. You want it to be just right. Not too hot, not too cold. If you don't get the temperature right, the yeast don't want to party at all. They just sit down and quit, no small talk, no picking at the snacks, they just shut down. <br />
<br />
I like yeast. I identify with yeast. Given the right environment, I too like to party. I also hate it if it is too warm. I too like being cared for, and provided with the things I need to relax and really get down.<br />
<br />
The thing is, though, is that yeast don't have an off switch. Yeast love to party so much that they just gobble down that sugar, they fart out CO2, they spit out alcohol. And this is fine for a while, it is more than fine actually, it is awesome. If you have set up your yeast party well, there is plenty of sugar for them to chow down on, there are nutrients for them to snack, but as time goes on, and there is more and more alcohol and less and less sugar, the party starts to sour for the yeast. They keep eating and farting and spitting alcohol, and they keep on doing this until the entire environment is filled with farts and booze and there is nothing left to eat. They just don't have any middle gears, no <i>moderation</i>. Yeast will keep partying until it kills them.<br />
<br />
I imagine there is a point where the sugar is nearly all gone, and almost everyone is dead to the world and there are just a few partiers left. Maybe it feels lonely then; the place is a toxic swirl, and there is nothing much left to do but to check out. Perhaps those last few yeast just look around at the wreckage that their excesses have wrought and feel shame. But we can hardly expect much from such a simple organism. I imagine they don't <i>want </i>to ruin everything, but hell, it is what they do, it is what they were <i>made </i>for.<br />
<br />
You can almost feel for the poor little guys. There they are doing exactly what they were born to do, and every time, every goddamn time it just goes south on them. Every time they find themselves peering out of the curtains at a bright sunny morning, and out there, out in the world, there is probably way more fresh air and way less shame and sadness. But they don't leave. They couldn't even if they wanted to. The way out for them is sealed shut, and even if they want it more than anything, there is no escape into fresh air and bright sunshine, not for them, not ever for them.<br />
<br />
And here is something else: they don't learn their lesson. There they are, in the most toxic environment possible, everyone is wrecked, the place is unlivable. But if you throw more sugar in there, they get right back up, they wake up their buddies, they start chowing down and farting and spitting booze everywhere all over again. Yeast <i>invented</i> the boot and rally. <br />
<br />
You can almost feel for the little guys.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I know how they feel.<br />
<br />
I used to be a single cell, too, but I like to think I am a bit more complex than I once was. I like to think I evolved, maybe, if even just a little. Sometimes a little evolution can open doors that were sealed shut before. <br />
<br />
I still like to party, though, if the environment is just right, and it isn't too warm.<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
<br />
RP<br />
5-31-19<br />
<br />
I actually do like to set up a yeast party in my spare time; I have been brewing mead and cider in my basement, and I find the whole process fascinating and fun. If you want to share recipes or have an interest in fermentation, get in contact. I am very rarely on Twitter, but I check in occasionally @RDPullins. I am even more rarely on Facebook, pretty much just dropping in there to post links to this site, but I do check in after posting these and to clear my notifications etc, so drop me a line. The best way, and most likely to get a thoughtful response is via email: dissent.within(at)gmail.com. Hit me up, if you are interested. I'll get back to you, probably. Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-73043251263499317402019-03-18T09:47:00.001-07:002019-03-18T09:47:43.166-07:00Always a CardinalWhat I remember most is the laughter. We stayed up too late, singing Jimmy Buffett songs, and those tragic oldies, Neil Diamond, Bottle of Wine... I remember drinking, and smoking cigarettes, and laughing.<br />
<br />
We-<br />
<br />
I am feeling-<br />
<br />
Maybe I should just state the facts, as if there are facts to state, as if I were capable of just stating them if there were.<br />
<br />
I had a friend, and his name was Ben.<br />
<br />
Ben died, recently; he was a relatively young man, when it comes to dying, not yet out of his sixties.<br />
<br />
When I was sixteen or so, my friends and I would hang out at his house, and our band would play shows and practice in his garage.<br />
<br />
He was my friend's dad.<br />
<br />
I don't know what to say here, except my feelings are complicated and ever changing.<br />
<br />
My friend is dead and I don't even know how to feel.<br />
<br />
He was a veteran of the Vietnam War.<br />
<br />
He was, and remains, a large part of my life. He was a huge influence on me. And yeah, my adult self cringes at the idea of a kid drinking and smoking and laughing with an adult, but the truth was, I was going to make terrible decisions, shit, I had <i>already </i>made many of them before we even met. He provided a save place, a safe haven for us to do what we were going to do anyway.<br />
<br />
Am I being too generous? I don't know.<br />
<br />
There were never enough seats, and we all piled in on one another. It was hot and smoky and wild... and we laughed and listened to music, and we watched wrestling and we sang old songs.<br />
<br />
We used to do this thing that we called The Carlton: the gag was to attempt to prompt someone into saying a thing, an actor or a movie or a band, and then when they correctly identified that thing, we would say no, that's not it, and then describe that thing in more and more obvious detail until the person was yelling in frustration, or until they caught on to what you were doing.<br />
<br />
A classic Carlton:<br />
<br />
"Hey, I just watched a movie by that one director, oh shit what is his name, the dude that did Goodfellas?"<br />
"Are you talking about Martin Scorsese?"<br />
"No, you know, he did a few of those gangster movies. Oh yeah, he did Gangs of New York! Italian name. Jesus, what is it?"<br />
"That's Martin Scorsese. Gangs of New York was Martin Scorsese."<br />
"Nooooooooo, close, maybe, but no. You know what I'm talking about though, right? Fuckin' DeNiro, 'You talking to me?' Taxi Driver, right?"<br />
"DUDE, that's Martin Scorsese, you're talking about <i>Martin Scorsese."</i><br />
<i>"No, </i>man, guy is legendary... What the hell is his name? Shit, it's right on the tip of my tongue...Oh! He did the Departed! With Marky Mark and Leo!"<br />
"What the Hell? It's MARTIN FUCKING SCORSESE you goddamn asshole! M-A R-T-I-N SCOR-FUCKING-Say-ZEE, are you...Oh Sonofabitch, you shitheads! Hahahaha yeah that's right you jerks, laugh it up, super hilarious as always..."<br />
<br />
It was infuriating if it happened to you, but it hysterical when it happened to someone else. <br />
<br />
I remember laughing, laughing until my stomach hurt, laughing until I coughed myself blue.<br />
<br />
There is a secret brotherhood, called the Cardinals, which he initiated us into.<br />
In order to be entered into the brotherhood, there is a procedure, a test of sorts, an initiation. At the end of the ritual, after he or she had proved themselves worthy, the initiate would stand and state, Once a Cardinal, always a Cardinal.<br />
<br />
It was a dumb drinking game, a silly little nothing, except it wasn't, it isn't.<br />
Among the group, there were Cardinals, and there was everyone else. It is nothing, but at the same time it is something. Something real.<br />
<br />
I, uh-<br />
<br />
I sort of shut him out when he attempted to contact me recently. I never accepted his friend request, never answered his messages. And I swear, it wasn't personal, it wasn't anything other than a lack of space in my life for people from the past. I hadn't talked with him in twenty years. What would I have to say?<br />
<br />
This is a theme in my life, maybe. Not having time for old friends.<br />
<br />
And it never seemed urgent, right? I could always say hello later, couldn't I? I could always find some grace, some openness, some compassion? I thought maybe later I would find the time to be a friend.<br />
<br />
And maybe I wouldn't feel regret that I didn't except for this: I know he would have made time for me, if roles were reversed.<br />
<br />
And now later has come and gone.<br />
<br />
I am a Cardinal, have been since '95 or '96. One day, I will die, and I will die as a Cardinal.<br />
<br />
Ben died as a Cardinal, and he took with him an important part of my history, an influential part of my development as a storyteller, hell, as a <i>person. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I never took the opportunity to tell him any of this, I was never open enough, wasn't kind enough-<br />
<br />
Fuck<br />
<br />
Still, somehow I feel like he would forgive me, I really do.<br />
<br />
Godspeed old friend.<br />
<br />
Once a Cardinal, always a Cardinal.<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
RP<br />
3-18-19Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-10313213514015107922019-02-25T09:24:00.000-08:002019-02-25T09:24:12.452-08:00I, Failure.Listen carefully, because this is important.<br />
<br />
You are going to fail.<br />
<br />
There will come a time when you will think it was all for nothing, all of your time and effort, you will think it was a waste.<br />
<br />
You will look at all you have accomplished, all that you have done, and you will not feel pride at the things you have managed to do in the face of resistance and adversity, but a numb despair that, after everything, this is all you have to show for it, these shabby relics, these nothings.<br />
<br />
You may consider quitting.<br />
<br />
Maybe you <i>will </i>quit, you will tell yourself that it isn't worth it, that arriving at the destination is not worth the hardships of the journey. You will try to walk away.<br />
<br />
You are going to fail, and if you fail, you are then a failure.<br />
<br />
You will be a failure.<br />
<br />
Maybe you have had nothing but success up to this point, maybe you begin to believe that the usual hardships have just passed you by, maybe you will begin to think that you are just lucky, or that all the warnings have been overblown. Maybe, you tell yourself, all those others that came before you just weren't that good.<br />
<br />
You may have begun to believe that you are special.<br />
<br />
And then on the day of your failure it hurts that much more, it burns, because you had begun to believe that you were somehow immune, or had done something different.<br />
<br />
It will hurt you when you fail.<br />
<br />
Even if you expected it, even if you thought you had prepared for it, braced for it, even if you were resigned to it, it will still hurt. You might not tell anyone, you might not ever speak about it, you might put on a brave face and straighten your spine. You will say it is fine, you will say I'm okay, but secretly, privately, it will still hurt.<br />
<br />
Maybe you will want to share that pain and you spread it out, you say or do things that will make people feel the way that you do. Maybe you want others to fail too, so you are not alone.<br />
<br />
Nobody wants to be a failure.<br />
<br />
But it is inevitable.<br />
<br />
Maybe you quit, maybe you walk away. But there is something there right, something that keeps bugging you, like an itch, like a whisper that you can't un-hear.<br />
<br />
It wants you back, and you realize that working for something is better than living for nothing. That itch, that whisper, it has a name.<br />
<br />
Hope.<br />
<br />
So you look again at your failure, your fall. You get up off the ground. This is stupid, you tell yourself, you are just going to fail again. It is inevitable and it hurts every single time. Arrival at the destination is just not worth the cost of the journey. It is stupid, you tell yourself.<br />
<br />
And then you start again, because every time you try, you grow, you learn, your wounds heal, and your scars fade. Every time you fall, it is easier to stand back up. You stand, because even falling is better than never moving forward.<br />
<br />
Stand, because we are not meant to just lie on the ground.<br />
<br />
That terrible part of you, that cringing, flinching part of you, it is scared and small, and weak, and it wants you to be small and weak too. It remembers the pain, the disappointment, the darkness and the fear.<br />
<br />
It does not like failure, because failure means growth, it means hope. And fear hates growth, it abhors hope.<br />
<br />
I have something to tell you. Listen carefully, because this is important.<br />
<br />
I am a failure, a giant wreckage of rejection and broken dreams and shattered expectations. I have failed again and again, disappointed myself, hurt people that I loved with my callousness and lack of empathy. I wish I did not have to write this, and I am glad that I have.<br />
<br />
I want to tell you this truth.<br />
<br />
I am a failure.<br />
<br />
And that is good.<br />
<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
RP<br />
2-25-19<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Broken record time here: I am off all social media until such time as I am not. I want to focus less on writing dumb tweets that nobody cares about, and instead pour my energy into writing novels that nobody wants to read. email me if you feel so inclined; dissent.within (at) gmail.com, comment here, or on Twitter @RDPullins<br />
Hope and peace to you and yours. Cheers! RP<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-1073677839902858442019-01-31T10:02:00.001-08:002019-01-31T11:50:30.031-08:00The Wall<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I originally wrote this story for an anthology of cosmic horror that ultimately never came to fruition. It is based on an idea from my son, Cayden, who asked during the run up to the 2016 election, what if they actually did build a wall, and then there is some kind of apocalypse and instead of keeping people out, the wall ends up trapping everyone inside with the sickness? So when I saw the call for submissions for cosmic horror stories with a political theme, I asked him if it was alright if I stole his idea as long as I give him a co-author credit, and that he had better say yes, or I would make him pick up the dog poop all summer. He agreed, his brother got stuck with the poop patrol again, and I sat down and wrote this story. Since the anthology never came to pass, and it was written for that alone, it has been sitting in my file for quite some time. Recently, there has been a lot of wall talk in the news again, and so I decided to just put it up here because, after reading it again, it seems particularly timely. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I hope you like it, because if you don't, I'll make Cayden pick up the dog poop all summer long.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So without any further ado, this is The Wall</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Wall</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
By Ralph and R. Cayden Pullins</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<i><br />“I will build a great wall -- and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me -- and I’ll build them very inexpensively. I will build a great, great wall on the southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words.”</i><br /><div style="text-align: right;">
-Donald J. Trump, 45th President of the United States</div>
<br /><br /><br /> Construction started almost immediately. We watched it on TV, my mother, and sister and I. They had a grand opening ribbon cutting ceremony like they had just built a museum. The president was there, with his smug grin, all his cronies standing around him with the same arrogant looks on their faces. The actual dirty, not good for TV, labor started soon after that. It was a difficult job, and costly. It took two years, but it was finally complete.<br />
Then things started going bad. Attacks on citizens, incidents, shootings. People became scared. The government told us that it was the work of outsiders, that after the loss of life, and the billions of dollars in construction costs, the bad people were still getting in. The answer, they told us, was another wall, this one across our unsecured northern border. That would stem the tide. And thus, a second wall was started despite the protests of hundreds of thousands of people, this one cutting right across the border with Canada, around lakes and over mountains.<br />
But the incidents of violence didn’t stop, it just got worse and worse, people shooting each other in the streets over parking spots, bashing skulls with baseball bats over disagreements about property lines and possessions. Line cutters got stabbed, road rage turned to murder, and tons of cases of just random senseless violence, people turning on each other over nothing.<br />
The coasts, they told us. Outsiders were streaming over our coasts, causing trouble with good God-fearing Americans. We will not be safe, they told us, until the wall is complete. When the next presidential elections came around, every other issue fell to the background. Education, healthcare, economics, all made way for the central issue, security. The polls for the last American election were heavily guarded, but even with the police, and in some cases the National Guard present, there were still horrific tales of violence that day, stampedes of people stomping those with opposing political views to death, mass hangings of dissidents. People were terrified, and after the lowest voter turnout in our nation’s history, they barely made a pretense at counting the votes. He has won, they told us. Our 45th president, the architect of the wall plan, was elected in a landslide. <br />
By the end of the election cycle, the coastal walls were complete, democracy had died, and we were trapped.<br />
No one knows when he stopped being president and became king. “Like a king,” they kept repeating over and over on interviews and news shows. ”Like royalty,” they kept saying, and then they just stopped saying “like,” and kept the “king” part. The White House was painted gold, which glowed orange in the mornings and evenings, and people would gather and marvel at its beauty. “All hail the Orange King,” they chanted, from outside the fences. “Keep us safe, Orange King.”<br />
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Even if he showed the slightest interest in caring for the citizens of this newly walled nation, there was no way to keep us safe from the attacks, which happened all the time, sometimes two or three a day, in random places. People just seemed to give in to hatred, just seemed to turn into monsters. And there was no reasoning for the violence; mothers killed their children, children killed their grandparents, every day the news and internet was flooded with horrific images and terrible stories, and at night our sleep was interrupted by nightmares, faceless mobs and irresistible angry forces. <br />
And then they cut off the internet. “Cyber attacks on our grid, they told us, our networks were being flooded with foreign propaganda. The only way to stay safe, they said, was to isolate ourselves. The TV stayed on, but all regular programming stopped, and was replaced with a government approved feed; happy white families cheerfully and passively allowing security sweeps of their house. There were news stories downplaying the wave of violence, the palpable terror in the streets. <br />
Smart people stayed home, if that was a possibility, but you had to eat eventually, you had to pay the bills or they would shut off the increasingly erratic electricity. Every step outside the house was filled with fear. Every loud noise, every unexpected footstep behind you could mean your death. <br />
The incidents of violence continued and nowhere was safe. People disappeared. School had gotten terrible too, all the classes were flat and boring. All the teachers either burn-outs that would put on a movie, or were active party members, spreading their version of events, glossing over facts that we had been taught since we were kids. Any challenge to the information they gave us got us detention, or assigned “freedom work,” mind numbing and boring memorization and recitation of these alternative facts and statistics. I quickly learned to keep my head down, to avoid drawing attention to myself. After the third mass shooting in our district, Mom stopped even asking us to go. <br />
I was in my junior year in high school, and my sister had just turned fourteen. She was happy to stay home. She had somehow gotten involved in a kind of radio club, and her half of our room was filled with disemboweled radios and televisions, and anything else even remotely electronic that she could get her hands on. Most nights, I went to sleep listening to her whisper into a microphone “Hello, this is Roo, is there anyone there?” Roo. That was my mother's nickname for her, and she had adopted it as her secret radio nerd codename.<br />
It was Roo that saw the first shaker. “Oh my gosh Kanga,” she said, using the hated nickname my mother had given me. <br />
“It’s Catherine,” I corrected her, using my whole name because I liked the way it sounded, royal. Not Cath or Cat or Cathy, but Catherine.<br />
“Whatever,” said Roo. “Come check this out. This dude is messed up.” <br />
“Yeah, so what?” I said, but after being cooped up in a two bedroom apartment since forever with only government approved TV, any distraction was welcome. I turned out the lights in the room. Didn't want to be a silhouette in the window, people got shot like that. I walked over to her side of the room. Her side always smelled like hot electronics, dust, and nerd. I looked out the window and saw she was right. The guy there in the alley behind our building, staggering under the orange streetlight, looked messed up alright, but I thought he was sick, not drunk like Roo seemed to be implying. He was shaking and twitching, clenching and unclenching his fists and mumbling to himself, we could hear it even on the second floor. <br />
“Uh oh,” Roo said, and pointed further up the alley. There were two hooded figures walking toward the shaky guy, carrying bats. Given how people were afraid to gather in groups anymore, I wondered how long it had been since a baseball bat had been used for actual baseball playing. <br />
The shaker stopped walking and tipped his head to the side, watching the two approach. <br />
“Roo, this is going to get nasty, we might not want to see this.” I tried to back away, to turn her shoulder, but the scene in the alley was completely captivating. It looked like an old western showdown. The two hoods with the bats said something, it was muffled by the window so I couldn't make out exactly what they said, but it definitely wasn't friendly. The shaky one made a noise, not a word exactly, but a sound, a barked exclamation that was filled with hatred and loathing. “HAK!” It sounded like and then the shaker charged the two hoods. I grabbed Roo's shoulder. “Don’t watch this,” I said, but it was too late. One of the hoods raised his bat and swung like a designated hitter, and cracked the shaker right across the face. <br />
“Oh DANG!” Roo blurted. “Look at his jaw!” The hit from the bat had dislocated his jaw from the rest of his face, but it didn't seem to bother him at all. He staggered back, then charged again before the hood could get another swing in. The shaker grabbed at the hood’s face. We couldn't see what happened but we knew it was terrible, because an awful scream rose in the alley, clearly a cry of agony. The guy dropped the bat and clutched at the outreached arms of the shaker, trying to break his grip. The other hood took a huge swing at the guy, trying to free his partner. The bat struck the shaker square in the back. He let go of the first hood, turned, and grabbed the second hood by the throat. He squeezed and pulled and I saw a spray of red before I dragged Roo away from the window and straightened the blackout curtains closed.<br />
“Holy-” I said and sat down hard on Roo’s bed. I couldn’t get that hood’s scream to stop ringing in my ears.<br />
“That was messed up,” Roo whispered, and sat down next to me. She looked over at me and her eyes were wide and frightened. “What is happening out there?” <br />
“Some kind of virus” was the best explanation we got from the TV. It was “being investigated by authorities,” they said. <br />
“What authorities?” Roo said when she heard this. “They've gutted all the science funding, the CDC, even FEMA. Which authorities are doing the investigating?” she said.<br />
“How should I know?” I said. <br />
“This is bullshit!” She was over on her side of our room hunched over some ancient piece of radio equipment. I could see a wisp of smoke from her soldering iron. “They aren't investigating a damn thing.”<br />
“Oh, what do you know anyway,” I said. “You're getting the same information I am.”<br />
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she told me. “Look.” She lifted up her old phone, a smartphone, a couple generations off of the current one. <br />
“Oh, what? You managed to get the internet back all by yourself? Give me a break.”<br />
“No, not the internet, but there's something happening, alright. You know how I've been speaking into the radio?”<br />
<div>
“And keeping me up all night? Yeah I noticed.” I laid back on my bed, and stared at the ceiling.<br />
“Well the other night, someone answered.”<br />
I sat back up. “What? What do you mean someone answered?” <br />
“He spoke to me, on the radio, told me how to change the frequency to make it less detectable.”<br />
“You’ve been speaking to a strange voice on the radio? Does Mom know about this?”<br />
“No, of course not. Just listen okay? I talked to him for a while, and there's stuff happening out there that they aren't telling us, something worse than crazy people with guns. There's something awful happening, and since we built the wall and cut ourselves off from the rest of the world, there's no one to help us. If something doesn’t change, we might have to leave. If we were smarter we would already be gone.”<br />
“So you talked to a crazy person, then?”<br />
“No. There's a secret group, that all shares information through this network.”<br />
“There is no network, remember? They shut off the internet.”<br />
“How do you think you used to get data on your phone? Fairies? It's a radio signal. 3G, 4G, it's all radio. He talked me through it, and I converted my old phone into a receiver. I can get information from the group, on my phone now.”<br />
“When they bring up the networks again, you're not going to have a phone, you know that. You bricked that one for sure.” <br />
“Have you not been listening to me? They are not going to bring up the networks. According to the group, we are boxed in. The wall might have been built to keep people out, but now it's keeping all of us in.”<br />
“You're crazy. Crazy for listening to voices on the radio, and crazy for bricking your phone. You keep this up, I'm telling Mom.”<br />
<div>
But I never got the chance. We woke up that following morning, and she was gone. She might have had work that day, I guessed, but I swore she had told me she had the day off. Roo stayed in the room, messing with her radios and her phone. I waited in the living room, telling myself that I wasn't going to worry, that everything was going to be fine. I kept telling myself that she had just gone to get groceries, that she was just held up by something simple. But then it was night, and the TV didn't say anything useful, and Roo kept working in the room, and I kept ignoring her and trying to ignore my rising fear and my worry. What if she didn't come back? How much food did we have? If she never came back, what would we do? How long would we wait?</div>
<div>
I must have fallen asleep because Roo was shaking my shoulder. “There's more of those shakers” she whispered. <br />
“Is Mom here?” I mumbled, trying to shake off the sleep. <br />
“No,” Roo said. “Come look,” she hissed. “There's a bunch.”<br />
Something about the urgency in her voice finally broke through the sleep, and I felt fully awake. I followed her to the room and I saw that her side had begun to spread, the disemboweled electronics spilling over the line of demarcation onto my side, which I liked to keep tidy. <br />
“Oh geez, Roo,” I started to say aloud, but she hushed me. <br />
“I know,” she whispered. “ I'll take care of it I promise, but you've got to see this.” I walked over to the window and peeked through the curtain. <br />
“Holy- I mean, what are they all doing out there?” There were at least a dozen people, all shaking, all moving in that crazy erratic way out in the street, bumping into things and each other. I looked at Roo, who was pacing the room. “They are all acting crazy like that one guy.” <br />
I turned to the window to check out the shakers again, but as I did, I stepped on a stiff piece of copper wire, and cried out. I stumbled and fell through the curtain, leaving me completely exposed in the window. I looked down in the street to see a dozen shaking faces all turned up and focused on me. They held still for a minute and then, as one, they broke for the base of the building. <br />
They were coming for us, I knew it. <br />
“Kanga?” I heard Roo say as I ran for the living room. Our apartment was small, but it seemed to take forever to get out there. I ran over and locked and bolted the door and I heard a crash somewhere on the floor below. I was desperately looking for something heavy to throw in front of the door when the first arrival struck the door. The whole wall shuddered with the impact, and I could hear the shaker on the other side of it, jabbering to itself, a stream of awful hatred and filth.<br />
It was horrible.<br />
The pounding started then, the shaker on the other side of the door hitting it, accentuating each strike with a curse from the stream of words pouring out of it. Then there was another thump as a second body struck the door, and it shook in the frame.<br />
The couch. I went to push it, but it was heavy and kept getting stuck on the carpet. <br />
“Roo!” I called. “Help!” But she was frozen in the doorway to our room, staring at the hammered door in terror. “Please,” I yelled. “Come help push this thing. It's too heavy for me.” She finally saw what I was doing and rushed over and took the other end. The ancient couch was ridiculously heavy and had never been moved in the entire time we had lived in the building. We managed to shift it in front of the door just as a third and then a fourth body slammed into the other side of it. The door buckled and a bloodied and ragged hand squeezed through the crack. We shoved against the front of the couch, and after a terrible crunch the hand was pulled back and the door slammed shut again.<br />
The pounding continued for the rest of the night, and Roo and I sat on the floor in front of the couch pressing against it with our backs, holding the door closed against the intruders. <br />
<br />
--------<br />
<br />
“They are saying it's hate,” Roo said, three days later. There were no more attacks on our door, but still no more Mom, either.<br />
“Gabriel says they are sick. The shakers. He says there is something terrible happening.”<br />
“Gabriel?”<br />
“He’s the one that I found on the radio, but now he’s on my phone, look.” She handed me her old phone. It now had some bulky pack on the back of it, like one of those extended battery packs but bigger, all wrapped in black electrician’s tape. I looked at the screen, but it was just a stream of words, all together, flowing bottom to top. <br />
“What is this?” I said. “How are you getting a signal?”<br />
“It's not the usual towers, or satellite phone service, it's a broadcast, like a stream. It’s radio, but in text.”<br />
“I can't understand anything here,” I said handing her strangely converted phone back. <br />
“Yeah, there's no way to sort it, it's just this stream of people all sharing information all the time, and there's no topics or anything, you just have to sit there and watch it for a while and eventually the information becomes clear. It's weird, but after a while it starts to make sense.” <br />
“What?” I said. I was on edge, I hadn't slept but a few hours here and there, and we were down to scraps in the pantry. We sat all night in the dark, afraid that having the lights on might bring unwanted attention. The shakers had all wandered away from our front door eventually, but they were out in force, especially at night.<br />
“Res thinks it is hate that is driving the shakers, that makes them change.” Res. She used the collective noun for the group of people that had all hacked or cobbled their phones into those bricks, acting as both a receiver and a transmitter for the ad hoc network that Roo had plugged into. Res. Short for Resistance, and also a child's codeword, this group of teenagers all with delusions of grandeur about being this underground resistance against whatever was happening outside and the Orange bastard that had allowed everything to fall this far. <br />
“Hate?” I said. “How? What does that even mean?”<br />
“So this one lady on here, she is medical somehow, something about the brain, a neuro something, she says that there is something new happening, that it has spread, like a virus, that we all have it, even those of us that aren't shakers.”<br />
“Even you and me? We’re supposed to have this in us too?”<br />
“That is what this lady says, and she is using words to explain it that I can't even begin to pronounce. The main point is that there is a sickness, and it is in all of us now, something that wasn't there a few years ago, and that somehow it was sparked by hate, and that is what is changing all those people into shakers.” <br />
“Well you read it on the internet, so I guess it's true huh?”<br />
“This isn't the internet,” she snapped. “This isn't like that.”<br />
“Did you ever think that maybe the people you are speaking to are the government trying to find people that are going to fight? Did you ever think that what you are doing is putting us in more danger? Who are these people? Why are they even doing this? If this lady is a doctor why isn't she in a hospital or lab working out how to fix this instead of texting with a bunch of Nickelodeon freedom fighters?”<br />
“I don't know,” Roo said. “I don't have any answers, but I do know that I am scared, and you sure aren't doing anything about it. At least I'm trying.”<br />
“Mom will be back soon,” I said, “and then we will-”<br />
“Mom is not coming back!” Roo shouted. “Haven't you caught on yet? She had been out there-” she flailed an arm at the front door, still barricaded with the sofa, “for four days now, with them, the shakers, and she either has been arrested, or-”<br />
“Don't say it, you don't know anything-”<br />
“Or she's dead.”<br />
“SHUT UP!” I shouted, and I began to cry. I hated to do it, I hated to cry in front of her, because the first one to cry loses the fight, right? But I was so tired and scared and she was really only saying aloud the things that I was scared to admit even to myself. “It is fine,” I blubbered, “it is going to be fine.”<br />
“Kanga, -”<br />
“Catherine!” I corrected. “Why don't you just shut up and leave me alone? Go back to your stupid phone and your fake internet friends.”<br />
“We can't stay here,” she said again, and then she turned and went back into our room.<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
Another two days, and still no Mom. We hadn't had a decent sleep in what seemed like forever and now we had even eaten all the scraps. The nights were the worst, people screaming in the streets, shakers everywhere, attacking anyone they saw, attacking each other, and peeking through the window, it definitely looked like Roo’s radio network buddies were right, they shook, constantly, with rage and hate, and they went after anything that moved. Anything that was even a little different than what they were used to seeing, they destroyed.<br />
I was a mess. Hungry and exhausted and terrified and worried and grieving for our lost mother. I was lost, drifting somewhere in my mind, daydreaming that none of this had happened, that somehow America was restored to something that I recognized, and jumped when Roo touched my shoulder.<br />
“Sorry Kanga,” she said, and I didn't even have the will to correct her for the millionth time. <br />
“You were right,” I mumbled. “We can't stay here. What about your resistance? What do they have to say?”<br />
“It's not really a resistance any more,” Roo said. And my heart fell. We were truly alone then.<br />
“What?” <br />
“It has become something else, something like an underground railroad, maybe. It's less of a resistance, and more of an evacuation.” <br />
“Can they help us?” I was tired, washed out, hollow. <br />
“Yeah, I think they can. I have been talking to them, and arranging things. I'm sorry Kanga, I just knew that we were going to have to leave. We have to get out of the city, out of the country even. We have to get over that wall. Might be too late though. They might not even let us out.“<br />
“What? I saw on the news that the Mexican Government has taken over the wall. The TV called it a cost saving measure, were holding it up as an example of the Orange King’s deal making skill.” <br />
“Kanga, think about it. You saw those guys on the wall right? Were they looking south? Did it look like they were keeping people from coming in?”<br />
And I did think about it, about the footage they were showing, the Mexican border patrol on the wall in their strangely militaristic uniforms, all the while the news anchors crowing about what a good deal this was for the Orange King to make for the American people, his business acumen shining through, but Roo was right, they weren't looking at their side of the wall at all. <br />
All of them were looking north. They were not keeping people from coming in, they were keeping Americans from getting out.<br />
“Oh.” I said, and suddenly everything seemed unreal, the whole world felt detached from reality. “Roo, what are we going to do?”<br />
“There's a plan,” she said. “A truck is coming. It will take us to the wall, or as close to it as we can get. They tell me there is a way under it, a tunnel or something.“ <br />
“That's it? A tunnel or something? That's all you have?” I sat on the floor, focused on the carpet. “A tunnel or something,” I said again, unbelieving.<br />
Roo knelt down, lifted my face to look at her. “I believe them,” she said, “and you can believe me. You have to keep hope alive. Keep believing in something better, otherwise you will become one of them.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at our window. “Filled with hate and rage. Have faith. We will make it.” She stood. “Pack a bag. No more than you can fit in a small backpack. If you've been holding out any granola bars or something, bring those too. The truck will be here in the morning.” I stared at her, at how grown up she had become, working the problem while I fell apart. She seemed hardened too, not the kid sister I had, but something else, a veteran maybe. I stood up, that surreal feeling falling away. If she was going to be tough, I could too. I sought hope inside myself. We will be ok, I told myself. We will be fine. <br />
The truck came, just as it was supposed to. I had written a note, in case Mom ever came back, if she had been detained or something and they let her go. I didn’t really believe that she was okay, that she would ever see the note, but I wrote it anyway and I left it on her pillow in her room. We moved the old heavy couch away from the door and I stood there for a minute, looking at Roo. <br />
“This is real, right? We’re not running away for nothing right?”<br />
“It’s real,” she said. <br />
“These people aren't psychos?”<br />
She hesitated. “Mostly not,” she said. I sighed, because one way or another, we had to go out there. Psychos or not, we had run out of options. It was either the truck, or we try to find our own way out there with the shakers. <br />
I opened the door. The hallway was a mess, filled with trash out of people's apartments, and there was blood on the walls, a long dragging handprint made clear that someone was trying to gain a grip on the wall as they were carried away. I turned, wanted to go back in the apartment. This was nuts, leaving our safe shelter, maybe the last safe place ever, and I was going to go back, maybe just keep waiting for Mom, but Roo stopped me. <br />
“We can't stay here,” she reminded me. She gently turned me around and I somehow started walking down the hallway, stepping over trash and dark puddles on the carpet, holes in the plaster where something had been smashed against the walls, and more smears of blood. My heart hammered in my chest, the whole time down two flights of darkened stairs, constantly expecting some terrible sight, some shaking neighbor to jump out of the shadows. I nearly screamed when the door on the bottom floor opened, and a bright fan of light bloomed in the dark. A bearded face poked in through the open door. <br />
“Are you Roo?” he said to me. <br />
I shook my head. I tried to speak, but couldn't. <br />
“I’m Roo,” my sister said behind me. “This is Kang- Um, this is Catherine.” She corrected herself. “You're Dax?”<br />
“Yeah. Can you two hurry a little? There was a patrol just a minute ago, and we don't want to be questioned, not in this neighborhood. You're Hispanic?”<br />
“Italian,” Roo said. <br />
He shrugged. “Still dark enough to get us detained. I've got the back of the truck already opened. You just go in, climb over the full crates, and there's two all the way in the back that look full but they aren't. You just have to lift on the, uh, merchandise there, and it's on a hinge. You get in, and you stay quiet. You hear something, you hear anything at all, you stay down and you don't make a sound. Do you understand?”<br />
I just stared at him. It was all too surreal, the dark hall, the bearded guy. It sounded like we were going to get smuggled. <br />
He looked past me at Roo. “Is she alright? If she's got problems, this can't happen, okay? I'm sorry, but if she freaks out at a checkpoint, she could get us all arrested or worse.” Worse? I thought madly.<br />
“She’s fine. Maybe in shock is all. Our mother,” she started to say then choked on the words, showing the first cracks in her new in-charge attitude.<br />
He nodded. “I get it. It's okay, you've just got to hurry. In the back, in the crates, stay quiet. You get it?”<br />
I nodded. “Thank you for helping us,” I managed to blurt. <br />
“It's fine,” he said. “The whole world’s gone crazy, it seems like. There’s worse things to do with your time than try and help people find some sanity.” He smiled reassuringly. “It will be fine. Hop in quick and this part will be over before you even know it.”<br />
We stepped out and were blinded by the sun after the dark of the stairwell. My eyes adjusted just in time for me to catch a glimpse of the street, and it seemed just a bigger version of the hallway. Uncollected trash, distressing smears. We got hustled in the back of the truck, and were again momentarily blinded by the darkness. I followed Roo who was already scrambling over the tops of the wooden crates until she reached the ones in the very back. She lifted the lid of one, and inside were guns, big and black and ugly, laying in some kind of straw packing. She pulled up on the straw stuff, and it lifted easily, revealing a dark empty space underneath. She hopped in and I could hear her shuffling around in there.<br />
“Get in,” said Dax behind me. “But remember to stay quiet, okay?”<br />
It was pitch black in the space under the crates and it seemed like every way I moved, I hit something, a wood crate, or my backpack. It was like being buried alive. <br />
I could feel the panic start, feel my breathing start to rush. “Roo,” I said, “I can't do this. I can't be locked in the dark like this. I'm going to scream, I feel like I'm going to die in here. It’s too hot, it’s too- I've got to get out, I've got to get out...“ Then a light flared in the darkness, and I could see my sister’s face. She was holding her big brick of a phone out, so it lit the whole space.<br />
“Okay,” she said in a soft voice, “Shhhh, look, there's plenty of room.” She directed the light around so I could get a sense of the size of the space, and while ‘plenty of room’ seemed like an overstatement, I could see that it wasn't a coffin, and if I put my feet at the bottom, I could lay fairly comfortably there. Using the light, I shuffled my body around and got my backpack off. I still felt like I was going to die, but my initial panic was winding down. <br />
“Roo,” I said, “how did all this happen? How did they let it get to this point? Where are we supposed to go now?”<br />
Her face looked like a ghost floating in the dark, lit in the white light of her phone screen. “Next stop,” she said, “The Wall.”<br />
The trip was a nightmare. It was perpetually dark and every time the truck hit a hole or swerved or braked hard, it would jar us, send our things sliding into the darkness. In the three days we were boxed up in the back of that truck, we only got out three times, twice down some empty alley in some terrible town, the garbage piled up, and the stench of hot rotten meat, but the third time, was down an old bumpy country road, with fresh smelling air, and the empty sky above us, a million stars, and a moon that lit the whole plain. After being bounced in a terrible stale wooden box, it was like heaven.<br />
Dax tossed us each a protein bar which we both ate like animals. We were starving, and dehydrated, and bewildered. <br />
“We are outside the place we are going,” and he mentioned a town with a Latin sounding name that I was never able to remember, “and this is where it gets bad. Past here it is all shakers and self appointed border patrollers and vigilantes and lunatics. There is a friendly place outside of town that we will go, and that is where I'm going to drop you off.” <br />
“What are we supposed to do then?” I cried, suddenly feeling the reality of our situation drop on me after the euphoria of the night sky. “Are we supposed to climb? Or dig under or what? How do we get over the wall?”<br />
“That I can’t help you with. The place we are going, I don’t stay there long. I drop off my delivery, and then I go back. I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”<br />
“But-”<br />
“But nothing. We have to go,” Dax said. “I'm not trying to get killed out here. Hop back in.” <br />
And that was that. We shared a small bottle of water and climbed back in the box. In the thumping bouncing dark, Roo’s phone screen flared up again. I hadn't hardly seen it since the beginning of this awfulness; I think she was saving the battery maybe. She scanned the feed, that started pouring down the screen immediately.<br />
“It’s him,” she said. <br />
“Who, Dax?”<br />
“No. The Orange King. He’s why this all happened.”<br />
“He- What do you mean? The wall?”<br />
“That, yeah, but also everything, the hatred, the shakers, all of it. This isn't just politics, you know? People don't go insane because of bad policies. Something terrible is out there, and it all started with that man, and his ridiculous wall.”<br />
“Everyone blames the president for everything, “ I said dismissively. “that's nothing new. People have been holding the president personally responsible for every terrible thing that has happened since 1776.”<br />
“This isn't that,” Roo said, “this is different.” Her eyes never stopped scanning the feed as she talked and her voice had a distant dreamy quality to it. “It’s like suddenly he made it okay for people to hate again, like he somehow took off all the brakes on people's awfulness. There are theories being floated, a virus, maybe or something in the water supply, but nobody can seem to pin it down.”<br />
The truck started slowing down and we heard Dax tap on the floor of the cab with something, making a series of sharp tick noises. Whatever he was doing, the meaning was clear: Be quiet. Be still. Roo snapped off her light and we both held our breath. The truck stopped and we could hear voices outside, questioning and suspicious. And then the back door opened. “Yeah sure,”I could hear Dax’s voice, sounding somehow both bored and irritated. “Take a look.” And then the unmistakable sound of a crate being opened. And another, closer. Roo’s hand found mine in the dark, and squeezed hard. Another crate opened, and the ceiling above us creaked and bowed a little. I thought Roo was going to break my hand. Then light, just a sliver right over our heads. I could make out Roo’s face in the dark and I would guess that mine looked a lot like hers: a rictus of terror. This is where we die, so close to the wall, this is where we get shot in the street, or torn apart by shakers. All it would take is for the guy to try to lift one of the guns out of the facade and the lid would open. <br />
I heard Dax sigh. “We okay here?” he said. “I don't want to rush you guys here or anything but I'm expected at the militia compound and I've got to get back on the road. Those guys do not appreciate being kept waiting, you know what I mean?”<br />
“Yeah, alright,” a voice grunted right on top of us, a couple of inches of stage-dressed straw packing and a couple of guns the only thing keeping us from discovery. “Get on,” he said, and it was clear that he was a little disappointed that he hadn't found anything interesting in the truck. I never got a look at him, but I imagined from his grunty voice and lazy Texan drawl that he was a fat greasy slob of a man, stuck in a terrible checkpoint job, the only real pleasure he had was if there was something to find, and he could use his meager power against someone. <br />
The ceiling overhead bowed again as the man crossed over the crates over our heads, this time on his way back out, and the doors shut. Roo and I kept holding our breath and squeezing hands until after a few more mumbled questions that we could barely hear through the door, we heard the driver’s door thump closed and the truck start back up. Then the bumping and swaying started up again, and after a minute or two we heard that tapping noise again. We were clear. I let out my breath in a great big whoosh and when Roo’s screen came back on I could see the glistening trails of tear tracks on her cheeks. <br />
Nothing else happened on the way to Dax’s friendly place, wherever that was, and whatever that was supposed to mean, we passed through a couple more checkpoints, but no more inspections. We heard several times over the rumbling engine the sounds of what had to be gunshots, but soon all of that faded away, and it was clear that we had gotten out of whatever terrible city that was. <br />
When the truck stopped again, there was just a brief exchange this time and then a slow move forward. The back door opened and Roo again grabbed my hand and squeezed it. The ceiling bowed again, and the crate above us opened, but this time there was no hesitation, the facade was pulled up and there, surrounded by a halo of bright florescent light, was a kind looking Hispanic woman. <br />
She reached a hand in, and said, “Come on out of there kids, you’re here.” <br />
</div>
<div>
----------</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We sat at a splintery picnic table slurping down hot fragrant soup that had been poured out of a battered old plaid thermos into two styrofoam bowls. I looked around trying to get a sense of what was happening, what this place even was. It might have been a huge garage, and Dax must have driven the truck completely in one of the big bay doors that lined one side. The back was walled off and I could smell cooking and hear voices coming from back there punctuated with an occasional laugh. Dax was over by the truck, apparently negotiating the sale of his guns to a few scary looking men, scarred and tattooed up. He nodded at us and then with the help of a different scary looking guy started unloading the crates from the back. The Hispanic woman, who had helped us from under the crates and then had poured our soup came and sat down with us.<br />
“Which one of you is Roo,” she asked, after looking us for for a second.<br />
“That’s me,” Roo said and actually raised her hand. <br />
“I’m Marta,” the woman said and reached her hand out to shake . Roo shook it first and then me. Marta poked Roo’s brick phone with a long painted nail. “You built this thing?” she said.<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
“Nice work. We have some things that could use a good young eye. Remember to make me show you what we have. You two were very brave getting here.”<br />
“Can you help us get over the wall?” I blurted suddenly.<br />
Marta sat back, looked concerned. “Who told you we could do that?”<br />
“I thought- I started and then suddenly second guessed myself. “Wasn’t the idea that we would get here and you would help get us over the wall and away from all of this?” <br />
“Come with me.” We followed Marta over to a huge garage door that was standing open, letting in a nice warm breeze. “That is the wall,”she said pointing, and in the distance, we could see a strip of dirty white on the southern horizon, lit in even intervals by huge lights. “It goes for hundreds of miles in both directions, and is manned twenty four hours a day by angry Federales with itchy trigger fingers and excellent aim. They will shoot you or me or anyone else that gets within twenty yards of it. I'm sorry,” she said, “but there's no way over the wall. We are the resistance, here to fight the awfulness that had been going on since that Orange madman took office and killed our republic.” <br />
“But,” I started but my heart sunk and I didn't have any more words. <br />
“I'm sorry,” Marta said. “There's just no way.” <br />
“Hey Marta, come check this out,” a man called. “This was in one of the crates. What the heck is it?”<br />
Marta turned and looked. “I'm sorry if you were misled”. She smiled a sad a smile. “I have to go see what these guys are yelling about. Excuse me.”<br />
I started to cry then, quietly and filled with despair. Was this it, then? Were we going to live in this greasy garage behind that wood partition, just waiting for the day that the government comes kicking down the doors?<br />
“She’s wrong.” A man’s gruff voice from the shadows outside the door startled me. <br />
“Wrong? What do you mean? Wrong about what?” I asked.<br />
“There is a way to get on the other side”, said the voice, and I saw a match flare up in the darkness, and an orange glow as whoever was speaking lit a cigarette. “I've seen it,” he continued. “It's not too far. That way.” He pointed a lit cigarette to the west. “In the hills there is a cave of some kind, not natural, but old.”<br />
“Can you take us there?” I said. Roo grabbed my arm in warning, but I shook it off. Roo may have wanted to stay here and fix radios until we both got shot, but I didn't.<br />
“I don't have to take you, just walk along the wall, going that way. You'll get there eventually. The locals think it is haunted or cursed or something, they tell ghost stories. I don't know about ghosts, but I heard it told that the Orange King himself went in there when they were doing the construction. A bulldozer fell in, broke through the ground and just fell in. This was a while back when when the wall was first going up, understand? Before he was the Orange King, he was just the president, had to answer to the people. Well, ‘the people’ wanted a wall and he said he would give them one, and an ego the size of his demands him getting it done, or at least taking credit for it getting done, if you know what I mean. He went right in apparently, threw out all the academics that wanted to study it, artifacts and what have you, just moved the construction thirty feet to the south and kept right on building. I knew a guy that claimed to be there for all that part.”<br />
“I don't believe in ghosts,” I said. “Or curses.”<br />
“Maybe not, but I have to admit that hole in the ground is scary. People go in there from time to time, and I guess it goes under, because nobody ever comes back out.” <br />
There was some kind of commotion behind us, voices raised and something about their tone made me feel scared. I turned to see what was going on and then the world went white. I was lifted and thrown, back out of the door, and landed thumping and skidding in the gravel beyond. I didn't even hear it, but as I shook off the daze I realized I wasn't hearing much except a high keening. I got to my knees and it seemed like everything hurt my whole body was just one incredible bright pain. Sounds started filtering in as my ears recovered, and I realized that Dax was there too, blood streaming down his face from a terrible gash on his forehead. His face was a horror mask. “You've got to go!” He was shouting but it sounded like it was a long way off. “Run! Go for the wall!” He pointed.<br />
“What-”<br />
“Those inspectors must have put something in the truck!” He said. <br />
“Roo-” I looked around wildly, suddenly terrified.<br />
She knelt down in front of me and started pulling at my arm, trying to help me to my feet. “Get up!” she shouted. “Come on, we gotta go!”<br />
I shook my head. I couldn't understand what had happened. I heard a rattling noise from- I looked at the entrance to the building that I had just been standing in, and it was a long way away, and had thick grey smoke pouring out. There were flashes of light in there and as my hearing came back the rattling noise resolved into what had to be gunfire, then I heard the screams. A figure staggered out of the smoke, and it had that particular jerky movement, and I knew instantly that it wasn't a member of the resistance. <br />
“Go!” Dax said. “Go for the wall! Stay out of sight! Keep moving west!” He pulled from his waistband a huge handgun. “GO!” He shouted, as another two shakers came out of the smoke. <br />
“Please,” Roo begged, “we have to go.” She pulled me to my feet, and I was a little surprised that I didn't fall right back down. My equilibrium was off, and I stumbled, but I stayed standing. “Come on,” Roo yelled. “Run!”<br />
Roo grabbed my hand and we took off running in the direction of the wall, where that guy had told us there was a tunnel or a cave or something. Behind us there was more gunfire and another big explosion. We ran holding hands, and my head was aching and I thought my heart would pound right out of my chest, but we kept running until we were out of the light. I risked a look back to see if we were being pursued, but it looked like nobody noticed us leaving. The earth dropped away from under my feet, and I stumbled into the darkness. I pulled Roo off balance, and took her down with me. We slid and rolled down a steep hill until we finally tumbled to a dusty stop at the bottom of a gully that ran parallel to the wall. I hadn’t seen it in the dark and ran right off the edge. Here at the bottom, it was quiet except for our pounding breath and racing hearts. My body was battered and bruised and I groaned as I crawled over to Roo, who was just sitting there in the dirt. <br />
“I think we got away,” I said. “I don't think they followed us, and they won’t see us down here.” <br />
“Yeah, but what now?” Roo said quietly into her lap. “There's nowhere for us to go. There is nowhere safe anymore. And now we’re here in some ditch. We have nothing left. I don't even have my phone anymore,” she said, sounding more defeated than I had ever heard her. “I left it on the table back there.” Her voice cracked and broke. “They're all dead aren't they? Marta and Dax and the rest of them?”<br />
I thought they almost certainly were and if they weren't they would be soon enough. I didn't say anything, though; what was there to say? It was her belief, her hope that had gotten us this far. Somewhere on the opposite side of this trench was a wall, and on the other side of that wall was-<br />
What was over there? We had been so busy running from that I didn't even really consider what we were running to. Even if we somehow made it to the other side, it wasn't like there was a family awaiting our arrival with open arms, we were going to still be homeless, still be scrambling for safety. But what was over the wall that wasn’t here on this side was a hope for something better. Since the wall had gone up, all hope seemed to have been sucked out of the entire country. I bet it was a relief to the rest of the world that we built the wall, maybe it was good for them, that we penned our particular brand of American Crazy in, maybe they were glad that they didn't have to build the wall themselves. <br />
But instead of saying any of these things to Roo, my hopeful and brilliant sister, I just pulled her brick of a phone out of the pouch pocket of my hoodie, where I had picked it up off the table. There was a thick crack down the glass on the face of it, but it looked otherwise unharmed. Given that there was an explosion and a rolling tumble down a gravelly trench, it was a miracle that there was only a crack in the screen. <br />
I touched the power button and it came to life, and lit the ground by my sister. She looked up, and my heart filled back up a little when she smiled.<br />
“I shouldn't have to pick up after you Roo.” I said with a weak smile. “This is why we can't have nice things. <br />
“Oh my gosh!” Roo beamed. “Thank you so much Kang- I mean Catherine. Thank you.” She took the phone from me and did something to it. The flow of information began flowing down the screen again but it was a little more sporadic now, less of a flow and more of a occasionally updating feed.</div>
<div>
She looked up at me. “A lot of this is in Spanish,” she said. “It must be coming from the other side of the wall.” <br />
“Maybe,” I said. “There's a lot of Spanish spoken on this side of the wall too, remember.”<br />
She thumbed the screen, clearly typing something in. “Huh,” she said. “It's not too far, apparently.” <br />
“The tunnel?” But she didn't answer me, just kept her eyes on the screen. She stood up and started walking down the trench floor. “Roo,” I called, “where are we going?”<br />
“It is not a tunnel,” she said. “It’s some kind of temple or something. I can't seem to understand all of this, exactly. It seems like people don't really know what it is. It's not a tunnel, but more like a man made cavern or something, or maybe a building that was buried.” She kept walking and there was nothing to do but to follow her and listen as she asked questions of the anonymous network of people.<br />
“That guy was right,” she told me. “They had found it when they were digging the foundation of the wall. A bulldozer had apparently fallen in, broken through the ceiling of a previously unknown temple or something, and the driver was killed.” <br />
This was in the beginning of all this, she read aloud, back when they still seemed to care what people thought of them. The Orange King himself went there, with a bunch of cameras of course, to “pay tribute to the fallen patriot,” to be seen as caring. The cameras caught all of it, and everyone watched as he was lowered, with his smug grin plastered on his face and waving like a kid on a train ride, via a crane into the cavern. Then everything went dead, all the cameras, all of the equipment. People said they heard screams, and some kind of noise, something that nobody could describe. It was never clear what had happened down there in the darkness, but when the lights came back up, all of the secret service agents that had gone in before, all of the construction workers, all of the academics and archaeologists, everyone that had gone into that cave was dead. <br />
Except for the Orange King. He was still on the crane lift, still grinning. His eyes were open, but he wasn't moving. They took him away quickly before anyone could get a good look. He eventually came awake, but something was different about him. He was more deliberate, had lost all of his loose talk and his arrogant swagger. He simply ordered the place closed, sent everyone away, and negotiated that span of the wall to be moved thirty yards to the south. They just kept right on going, and then the wall was built.<br />
“Ghost stories,” I said, after Roo had finished reading all of this. “They make all of this stuff to keep people away. They don't want anyone to know that there is a way under the wall. If all this happened, why didn't we see it in the news?” <br />
“They are the news, remember? We only get what they tell us. Do you really think that if a bunch of people die in a hole, that construction would have to stop? He wanted the wall built, so they kept all the problems quiet until it was built. But people talk and even the government can’t stop stories from going around.” <br />
“Who are these people you're talking with anyway?” I said, voicing something that had been bothering me. “How do they know all this? And why would they share it with us?”<br />
“They're just people,” she said, “and they know things. I don't know, but what are we going to do now if not this? You want to go back to the warehouse and see if Dax survived? There is nothing else. If this cavern goes under the wall, then ghosts or not, we're going in, and we are getting on the other side of that wall.” She kept walking and I kept following with sore feet and an aching and battered body. The whole time she was working the phone, and getting more and more information.<br />
I wasn't sure about any of this. It seemed too crazy, too far fetched. It was nuts, but something had happened. It wasn't always like this, there weren't shakers and checkpoints and a country filled with hate. So maybe it was true. I remembered Roo telling me that it was about hate, that shakers were just people that had given in to hate, and so I tried to keep hope alive inside, but it was getting hard. If I dwelled on all the things that happened to us, all the terrible things that we had had to endure, and the new haunted and mature look in Roo’s eyes, the look of a girl that had had to grow up too hard, too fast, it was nearly impossible to remember to hope for something better. This was it for me, if this cavern or temple or whatever it was didn't work out? Well, it really was our last hope, that was certain. <br />
The trench eventually petered out, flattened out and became a path. The terrain had gotten much rockier, and filled with large scrub brush, and then after walking through the night and into the early morning, we came upon the place. The wall loomed on our left, and there was a broad and flat area that had been cleared, about a hundred yards between the wall and the scrub and rocks. In that area, there was nothing bigger than a pebble, nothing to hide behind, nothing to use as cover, just wide and empty land. We walked parallel to the wall, staying in the scrub, looking for some sign of a tunnel or a cave or something. <br />
“This is where it is supposed to be,” Roo said, “or close to it at least.” We stood behind a scrub brush the size of a car, looking at the wall, and to our left the sun began to rise. <br />
“I don't see anything” I said peering into the twilight. “There isn't anything but-” and then I did see something, or rather blackness where there should be something. “Roo,” I whispered excitedly, “there it is. Look!” It was a hole in the ground, huge, twenty or thirty yards across, and it was surrounded by chain link fence, at least ten feet tall. As the land grew lighter, I could see a Mexican patrol manning the top of the wall all looking in. They were, as Roo had pointed out to me what seemed like a thousand years ago, definitely keeping people in the States, not keeping people out. The excitement of finding the cavern dropped out of me when I saw the predicament. Anyone trying to go in there would have to first run across twenty yards of wide open ground, then would have to scale ten feet of chain link, giving even the slowest of wall guards plenty of time to take careful aim and shoot. “There's no way,” I said, and I felt that last wisp of hope in my heart begin to flicker. Our situation began to really dawn on me. We were out in the middle of nowhere, we had no food, no water and no means to get either. We were going to die out here. Whether it was by bullet, by shaker, by starvation or dehydration, our fate was sealed.<br />
“There's a hole, look.” Roo pointed at the fence, the side closest to us. <br />
“Yeah, I said. “It's a hundred feet across, I see it, believe me. But-”<br />
“Not that hole. There's a hole in the fence. Down at the bottom.” I could see what she was talking about. There near the ground was a hole, The chainlink was lifted in such a way that if someone was fast enough, and aimed just right they could slide under the fence, and right into the hole. <br />
“No.” I said it before I could even think, a flat denial of what she seemed to be proposing. <br />
“We can make it,” she said. She turned to look at me. She held my hands and looked into my eyes. “We can make it,” she said again. “You have to believe me.” <br />
I didn't believe her, I knew it to be suicide, but there was really no other option. I thought about this being our last hope, our really last hope, and so I lied to her. There was nothing else to do.<br />
“Ok,” I said. “I believe you. We can make it.”<br />
She smiled, and I am not sure if she heard the resignation in my voice or saw it on my face, but there was a touch of sadness in her smile, too.<br />
“Who goes first?”<br />
“You go first,” I said. “You're faster. Show me how it's done.” She was faster, but really I wanted her to go first because I thought the guards on the wall would be more taken by surprise for the first, that maybe she stood a better chance if they weren't ready. <br />
“Okay, but you follow. Promise me. You follow, okay?”<br />
“Yeah, I promise.” She got herself set, like she had when she was on the track team in school in a more sane world. She turned one last time, gave her sad smile again, and said, “I love you Kanga.”<br />
“Roo, wait,” I blurted, but it was too late. She took off at a sprint, her long legs pumping, and she was eating up ground like a gazelle. I felt a momentary flame of hope flare up; she was flying, all she would have to do would be to slide like she was stealing second base, and she did, aiming for the hole in the fence, her foot out, and she slid neatly under the fence. I saw a guard take aim high up on the wall, aim down his sights at the girl, there in the early morning sun, and I yelled “NO!” But his partner pushed his gun down, and shook his head. Roo hopped up, and started to run for the edge, but then she slowed to a stop. She turned. <br />
“Kanga,” she yelled. “Don’t-” and then the wind changed, and my head filled with the most awful stench, rotting meat, or something much worse- “Kanga?” Roo said, but this time it was lower, not a warning but a question, filled with fear. “It stinks. Don't come. Dont-” and then she went rigid, and behind her, something rose out of the blackness of the hole something alien and horrible that looked like liquid smoke. It was unmistakably malignant, an ancient horror filled with malice and hate. My mind recoiled from the sight of it, and I wanted to scream, to flee, to squeeze my eyes shut, the mere existence of it seemed a blight on the world. Before I could do any of those things, it whipped forward and wrapped around the torso of my sister. “Kanga?” she whispered, and then she screamed, her voice breaking in fear and pain as she was dragged into the hole behind her. It went on for while, her scream went on and on, and then it was cut abruptly off. <br />
I stood, there in the heat and the dust, my lungs filled with the stench of the hole, and my ears still ringing from the screams of my beautiful hopeful little sister. <br />
It was our last hope.<br />
There was no escape. <br />
The wall had won.<br />
And the last hope flickered in my heart and died. My hands began to shake as my heart was filled with hatred and fear and anger, and my vision went red with fury and despair. <br />
I began to tremble, and my teeth ground together as I clenched my jaw. I wanted to scream in absolute fury but all that came out wasn't even a word, but a sound. <br />
“HAK!” I screamed, and charged at the wall.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
1-31-19<br />
<br />
Keep hope alive. Don't give in to hate. Build bridges, not walls.<br />
<br />
Peace,<br />
RP<br />
<br />
My wife said that she thought Stephen King would like this, so if any of you know him, get a copy in his hands, please. :)<br />
Be sure to share this with your friends if you think it relevant. Or if you are angry about the themes presented here, steal an idea from your own kid and write a counter-story in response. If you send me a link, I promise to read it.<br />
Comment here, or reach me at<br />
@RDPullins on Twitter or<br />
email me at dissent . within at gmail.com<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-59578206233866638872019-01-16T09:50:00.001-08:002019-01-16T09:50:29.388-08:00DissolutionHere is a good word for you: dissolution.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It means is the end of a relationship or contract. What it means to me is that Antiartists is no longer being published by Pen Name Publishing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I am-</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I-</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Look, it took me a long time to adopt the word writer when describing myself, because I think it is one of those words that come with a lot of baggage. I don't like term as a title, because I believe people are too ready to adopt it as their own because it gives then a sense of accomplishment or importance or mystery, and there is no other word that distinguishes between a hobbyist knocking out a couple hundred words every other month if they remember, and someone like myself that has put significant parts of their life into the craft. We are both writers, and I understand that, but let's be real here, okay? There are writers, and there are <i>writers, </i>and for sure there are good and bad examples of both, but I am one and not the other and there is no word to distinguish between the two.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Actually, check that. There is a word, now that I think of it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Author.</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I do consider myself to be an author, in that I have written a novel that was accepted for publication by a publishing house and it was produced and launched, and I did a couple interviews and we had cake and fireworks. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One day, I got a box full of copies of the novel that I wrote in the mail, and I stood there for a quiet moment just looking at them there snuggled in the packaging, and then I picked one up and I held it in my hand, and it smelled like a new book, and it was solid and it had weight, and up to that point I had signed documents and edited and negotiated and discussed and planned, but it wasn't until that quiet moment standing by the front door of my house holding the book that I wrote that I believed I was truly an author.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I get it, okay, I have a couple books that I have written that are in various states of ready-for-publication-ness, and I know that I am still an author, regardless of the status of my first novel. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But still.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is this thing that happens now that maybe didn't happen to authors of the past, where if it ever comes to light that you have written a novel, the first thing someone often asks is "Oh yeah? Self published?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I believe in self publishing, I really do. There are a ton of excellent authors that decide to go that route, and I swing back and forth myself about my new book. It is a valid path to finding an audience and getting your work out there. I will have self published books eventually as well. I am NOT shitting on self publishing here, I swear. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But there is a sense of legitimacy that comes with having a publishing house, even a small, relatively unknown one like PNP, where I could say "No, I have a publisher." It's ego, flavored with a bit of asshole snobbery, I understand. But there is no way that I know of to survive the knocks that this industry can give you with out a fair bit of ego. You can only be rejected so many times, have your work shit on so many times. If you didn't have that ego, you would quit for good. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can swing wildly between I am a goddamn literary genius to I am a shitty hack in a single day, hell, in an hour.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dissolution.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What it means in a practical sense is that all of the rights to Antiartists have reverted back to me, and I can do with it what I will. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is a good book, one that says what I wanted it to say, and says it as hard and as real as I could say it. I wrote the book that I wanted to read, that I needed to write. It is good, and that ain't just ego talking.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And now it is homeless.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I will ultimately probably put it up on KDP just so it is available for anyone who wants one, but there will be no cake and no fireworks this time, and no interviews, because there is nothing more to say about it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today is both the end, and the beginning. Like all days, I suppose.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am still an <i>author</i>, and that is enough, for today, at least.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Still Writing, </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
RP </div>
<div>
1-16-19</div>
<div>
</div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-33513109292090313682018-11-16T09:27:00.001-08:002018-11-16T09:27:59.431-08:00Godspeed, Old Girl<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Few religions are definite about the size of Heaven, but on the planet Earth the Book of Revelation (ch. XXI, v.16) gives it as a cube 12,000 furlongs on a side. This is somewhat less than 500,000,000,000,000,000,000 cubic feet. Even allowing that the Heavenly Host and other essential services take up at least two thirds of this space, this leaves about one million cubic feet of space for each human occupant- assuming that every creature that could be called ‘human’ is allowed in, and the the human race eventually totals a thousand times the numbers of humans alive up until now. This is such a generous amount of space that it suggests that room has also been provided for some alien races or - a happy thought - that pets are allowed.</span></i><br />
<i><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Terry Pratchett, The Last Hero</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmf-_SKgbY6bE2gxO7cW7dndHRk7KotpcI3v29X5VfCgvINj_9sIkPVq7ToRFydjtQ3zRfGHjxs2o7BnuvRll7GHWicksOwzMqtRSj5iCjsyZReGRaHwXws8ydFhciXHFQLx_FDghbkr5/s1600/20170529_130333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmf-_SKgbY6bE2gxO7cW7dndHRk7KotpcI3v29X5VfCgvINj_9sIkPVq7ToRFydjtQ3zRfGHjxs2o7BnuvRll7GHWicksOwzMqtRSj5iCjsyZReGRaHwXws8ydFhciXHFQLx_FDghbkr5/s200/20170529_130333.jpg" width="200" /></a>I have been thinking of pets, and why we invite these furry little beings into our lives, and why it hurts so bad when they leave. It is stupid of us, like volunteering to carry a grief time-bomb; whether they get struck by a car or if they just get too old, eventually having a pet will break your heart.<br />
<br />
<br />
When my father in law passed away a few years ago, it was a terrible and dark time in our house; everything done or said was tinged with loss and grief. Our cat, Cornflake, was nearly twenty and had been showing signs of her age setting in. One night I held her and petted her and I whispered, "I'm sorry old girl, but you're going to have to hang in there for a while longer." I was scared that she would go too, and add to our loss. It might seem stupid of me, because obviously the loss of a pet is nothing in the face of the monumental and life altering grief and pain that my wife was already going through, but when you are trying to care for someone that is completely fragile, experiencing pain that is impossible to relieve, you are wary of anything at all that might break them.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To her credit, Cornflake did hang in there, for several more years. But nobody can hang in there forever.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPxr45tvo4LGe_Ec3H0xUufGbwvfZvx6T3qpuSCFN_ufhGZTNrroVUpD2r2gg1CnhTWdx-bF4lK83qMyO3gJ5Qhqn6qzraOeh-pUp6GE58a5uB5BqMj6zPTPJJdyy_GUVMCAAb36_9NQ5/s1600/20151129_094510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPxr45tvo4LGe_Ec3H0xUufGbwvfZvx6T3qpuSCFN_ufhGZTNrroVUpD2r2gg1CnhTWdx-bF4lK83qMyO3gJ5Qhqn6qzraOeh-pUp6GE58a5uB5BqMj6zPTPJJdyy_GUVMCAAb36_9NQ5/s200/20151129_094510.jpg" width="200" /></a>She was a rescue in the truest sense of the word, found, alone, in a field that my brother in law was clearing. It was a miracle of sorts, that he saw such a tiny black kitten in the brush and grass, that he stopped the machine he was operating and found her. He didn't want a cat, he thought, but maybe his sister might.<br />
<br />
It was my nephew that named her, when he was just a little kid himself, and when he was asked why he chose that name, he said simply, "I <i>like </i>cornflakes."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She had to be bottle fed, the kitten; she was just a tiny wisp of black fur, small enough to fit in a tea cup, and so my wife took her into work with her and fed her. This was all before I was around, but I imagine it to be the cutest thing possible, how could it not be? My wife is adorable on her own, but bottle feeding a tiny kitten?<br />
<br />
Cornflake was fierce and intolerant of strangers. When I first came to visit, Sheri and I were desperately trying to pretend that there was nothing romantic happening between us. How could it be, with us living thousands of miles apart? So when I stayed, it was on the couch. The first night, I went to go to the bathroom, where I found an angry black cat sitting on the toilet seat, hissing and swiping at me. I ended up having to knock on Sheri's closed bedroom door and telling her, somewhat embarrassingly, that I needed her to come get her cat so I could go pee.<br />
<br />
She would hide and lash out at you if you were unwary. She would swipe at you from on top of the refrigerator, or from under the couch. Many a midnight trip to the bathroom would be punctuated by an exclamation: "Damn cat! You scared the hell out of me, you little shit!"<br />
<br />
When my wife was pregnant with our boys, Cornflake would sit close and purr, and the boys would kick. She watched them grow, and begrudgingly loved them, I think, in spite of herself. Perhaps she witnessed us feeding them, something that could melt even the grumpiest of cat's hearts. <br />
<br />
People would come around sometimes and see her aloofness and fury as a challenge. Animals love me, they would tell me, only to go home in defeat, their ears still ringing with yowls and angry hisses. After a decade or so, it became apparent to the cat that I was actually done sleeping on the couch, that I was not leaving, and she accepted my presence. We reached an agreement; it was clear that we both loved Sheri and that both of us were not going anywhere, and so a deal was struck, a kind of tenuous truce between enemies with a common goal.<br />
<br />
Recently, some of her inner fire had cooled. She had taken to sitting near me, letting me pick her up, allowing me to comfort her. Cornflake never became <i>our </i>cat, though, not in the fifteen or so years I was around her. She was a one person cat; she was Sheri's and Sheri's alone, and a marriage and a growing family never changed that.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it <i>is </i>stupid to invite these beings into our lives, these creatures that become a part of our family, that insinuate themselves into our lives so thoroughly that it is difficult to imagine a house without them. Maybe in the end, though, it is still worth it.<br />
<br />
Last night, I whispered to her that it was okay, she didn't have to hang on any longer.<br />
<br />
And now we have to say good bye.<br />
<br />
We have other pets: two dogs, a tortoise, and a cockatiel. Barring injury or illness, the tortoise is expected to live eighty to a hundred years. My son should be able to pass it on to his own grandchildren, if they so choose; the tortoise will certainly outlive <i>me</i>. If you are looking for a pet, I recommend a tortoise.<br />
<br />
Having a cat will break your heart, eventually.<br />
<br />
Godspeed, old girl.<br />
<br />
RP<br />
<br />
11-16-18</div>
<div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-92002823168104460352018-10-31T09:31:00.000-07:002018-10-31T09:31:06.285-07:00Better, or Worse?I want to tell you something I am not proud of: when I was a teenager, I used to tell racist jokes. We would sit around and tell these shitty jokes and laugh, just a bunch of white as Wonder Bread suburban boys giggling at stupid stereotypes, and I swear I would never have understood why it was bad, if there were no people that would be offended by it around to hear it. What was the harm, if nobody cared? It honestly didn't occur to me that <i>I </i>should have been offended, that <i>I </i>should have cared.<br />
<br />
I don't tell racist jokes any more, haven't for decades, and the reason I don't is because I understand now.<br />
<br />
Words have power.<br />
<br />
It is not okay for a jackass teenager to tell racist jokes because it only serves to preserve these ideas, to solidify them in our minds, because there was always that one kid there that would laugh too hard, too long, that would then say something violent or truly hateful.<br />
<br />
And even though I would have fought you if you called me out, I would have told you how I hated these asshole skinheads that would come to punk shows and intimidate and start fights, I hated those assholes and I wasn't a goddamn racist. I would have fought you, and I wouldn't have understood. Even if it is a bunch of stupid whiteboy teenagers and there isn't a black person within fifty miles, it still wasn't okay, because the reason we could laugh is because somewhere inside, we believed these things to be true, if even just a little bit, even if we wouldn't admit it to ourselves.<br />
<br />
I have changed my thinking since then, and I don't laugh at those jokes anymore, I do not associate with people that tell them, and I abhor the sentiments that they contain.<br />
<br />
What happened to me was, I went out into the world. I left my safe insulated bubble and I saw how hard life can be, and as I struggled with my own identity and my place in the world, I also had a chance to observe others struggling too. I learned. I grew and I healed a lot of the lies, the bullshit things that I had been taught were okay.<br />
<br />
Maybe we can be forgiven, a little, for being idiot teenagers, for growing up where we grew up, in a school that had perhaps three black kids, and zero black teachers. Maybe we could be given a little slack because these are the words we grew up with, words that I will not even type here.<br />
<br />
Maybe not though. Maybe we shouldn't be forgiven of our ignorance, of our carelessness, maybe we should have to own it, to honestly assess our own roles in the way things are today.<br />
<br />
And maybe I should take a moment to be grateful that I grew up in a time before everyone had a camera in their pocket, ready to record everything. I am glad that those terrible things I said were not uploaded, preserved for eternity, but maybe these things are good, maybe this new generation will hold each other accountable.<br />
<br />
Or maybe the hate will be amplified, cauterized, tempered.<br />
<br />
The things we say matter. The thoughts we have, they matter too.<br />
<br />
We used to call each other faggot. If someone was acting scared, or sensitive, or was upset, we would tell them to stop being such a fag.<br />
<br />
I don't use that word any more and even writing it makes me a little queasy, a little sad. I don't use that word anymore because I recognize it for what it is, a label to place on someone, to make them a little less than human, a way to categorize and isolate and ostracize someone.<br />
<br />
I used to say bitch, I used to say retard.<br />
<br />
I don't use those words anymore, because they hurt people, they make them feel less than they are. I don't use them anymore because I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want to use my voice as a weapon.<br />
<br />
I don't use these words anymore because even though I didn't always know this, I recognize that words have power, the things we say matter.<br />
<br />
Before Antiartists went to print, I was afraid that someone might read my book and think that self harm was okay, that destroying beautiful things was okay, that suicide was a good idea, and I wasn't sure how I would ever be able to deal with that, if it came to light that something I had written had harmed somebody, or had given them the idea that these things were a good option. I asked my publisher to put a note at the beginning that said something like "these are the broken actions of broken people. If anything in these pages seems like a good idea, please seek appropriate help." I don't know if that helped, if anyone cared, but it was something at least.<br />
<br />
In my new book, I had to sit and think very hard about the violence in there, especially the gun violence, and if what I had written might somehow contribute to the gun fetishization we have here in America, if maybe I was making things just a little bit worse. It worried me, and it still does a little, if I am being honest.<br />
<br />
Look, I can see my numbers, I know my audience, I recognize that my reach is small, but I still try hard to be careful, still care about these things because I believe that the things we say matter. They have an impact, and though my audience is small, though my reach is mild it is a responsibility that I take seriously. And if my audience ever grows, if I ever have a bigger platform, my responsibility will be even greater.<br />
<br />
Words have power. The things we say matter. We, all of us, need to be mindful of the things we put out into the world. We need to be more careful, especially from the safety of the bubbles we have placed ourselves in, these anonymous and powerful bubbles.<br />
<br />
People read the words you write, they listen to the things you say. And maybe, you may inspire them to action. Maybe you say something that makes a person want to vote, or to start their diet, maybe they will finish their novel, after all these years.<br />
<br />
If we are not thoughtful about our impact on the world around us, maybe we will be faced with different consequences. Suicide. Violence. Hatred.<br />
<br />
Before you speak, before you post that meme, before you type that response, before you burn your relationships to ash, think to yourself, am I making the world better, or worse?<br />
<br />
Think. Do you want to live in a world that is better?<br />
<br />
Or worse?<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
<br />
RP 10-30-18<br />
<br />
<br />
I don't really have any clever things to say in this afterword. You get it, right? I am on Twitter @RDPullins, and you can also comment here or if that is giving you trouble as I have had reported to me and have yet to figure out, you can also email me at dissent.within at gmail.com. Please be kind. Practice silence. Practice love. Peace to you and yours. RP<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-36430622279744750242018-10-01T09:21:00.000-07:002018-10-01T09:24:10.068-07:00The World Has Moved On (Pt. 1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnd6Ppw1a6e74Vgnm2ZWf7PcpPG2b64Xgwqp3c90IWzNFH3GFBOWrlCJy3VG7MBS5gt48_CZs157buHhIQbddFRyFmT7VaAQcVcywfB3xcfCqvGSVFsUOL52Rw5xkprB4z166qZB8C5CnE/s1600/20180818_134338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnd6Ppw1a6e74Vgnm2ZWf7PcpPG2b64Xgwqp3c90IWzNFH3GFBOWrlCJy3VG7MBS5gt48_CZs157buHhIQbddFRyFmT7VaAQcVcywfB3xcfCqvGSVFsUOL52Rw5xkprB4z166qZB8C5CnE/s640/20180818_134338.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
</h1>
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
</h1>
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
</h1>
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
</h1>
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
</h1>
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
</h1>
“The world has moved on,' we say... we've always said. But it's moving on faster now. Something has happened to time.”<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">― </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3389.Stephen_King" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: lato, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold;">Stephen King</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">, </span><span id="quote_book_link_43615" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/46575" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;">The Gunslinger</a></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, so this one might get a little nerdy, friends, so buckle up.<br />
<br />
We're going to flash back a few years ago, to when Microsoft was about to unveil their new gaming console. It was rumored to be called Xbox 720, the double of the 360, get it? I'm an Xbox guy, given that Halo was the first version of a console FPS that I loved, and I think their controllers are superior to those of the Playstation, and so I was very excited to see the unveiling of a new console. Leading up to this, nerds everywhere were speculating and rumoring, and 'it is expected'-ing, and it became pretty clear to those of us that were paying close attention that it would likely be a large improvement hardware-wise, that there would finally be an integrated Blu-Ray player, since the other format, HD DVD, fizzled out.. Nerd Stuff. You get the idea, right? There was a lot of excitement and speculation, but there was some trepidation as well; rumors were out there that games would be locked to the console and would be unable to be traded or rented or purchased used, and worse than that, that there would be an online requirement, that the machine wouldn't even function without an internet connection, which would mean that if you were out in the sticks and couldn't get internet, or your connection was terribly painfully slow or you had to get it via satellite through HughesNet or whatever, you were effectively screwed.<br />
<br />
So after a while of all this preemptive speculation, the event arrived. I was at work, but I had a live stream in a little window in the corner so I got to witness the whole thing live.<br />
<br />
It was a mess.<br />
<br />
They unveiled a machine that afternoon. However, the new Xbox wasn't called the 720 at all. It would be called Xbox One, and it was supposed to become the center of your home entertainment, which meant that it integrated your cable and internet in one thing, and look at all the television entertainment options that you have now, and look, you can record television and fast forward television and pause television, and the television now has a television that watches television and oh yeah it also requires an always on internet connection and also games are locked to your console so you can forget about renting before you buy or buying used games or lending or trading games with your friends, But oh wow can you believe how great this thing is, look how cool it makes your television viewing experience now and you can go ahead and just toss out all those old boxes that are clogging up your entertainment center, that you already own... what's that? Oh sure it plays games too. Good ones, apparently, I don't know to much about that, but holy cow, let's talk about movies, because you can stream them right on the console...<br />
<br />
Gamer nerds like myself were confused and angry. What's all this nonsense about TV? I have a TV already and a cable box, and a DVR, and I don't give a crap about that. Is this thing a gaming machine or isn't it? And this integrated Kinect? Do I really want a live, always on, internet connected camera in my living room at all times? And what if I don't want to play online? What if online is the worst, and getting away from other people is one of the primary reasons to play games in the first place, and goddamnit I like to rent games before I drop fifty or sixty bucks on them to make sure they don't suck, and I have a friend that is in Iraq right now and Xbox is how he unwinds and he doesn't have internet at all... G<br />
oddamnit Microsoft why do you hate the troops?<br />
<br />
And I have to admit, I was right there with them. I loved my Xbox 360, even though I got the red ring of death (twice!) and when it came time to present the new machine, all they talked about was TV! It was, ostensibly, a game machine; what was all this entertainment hub nonsense?<br />
<br />
So this was the launch, and the only people paying close attention were nerds like me, and there was a ton of nerdy pushback. Playstation was also launching their next gen console at the exact same time, that didn't have any of the unpopular qualities that the Xbox One had; they actually trolled Xbox about this in a video where they say here is how game sharing works on the PS4, and the CEO of Sony Entertainment says hey can I borrow that game, and this other guy says sure and hands it over and then they both stand there grinning at the camera because they knew that Microsoft had shit the bed on this one, and this flubbed launch presentation almost certainly allowed the PS4 to get out to a huge initial sales lead.<br />
<br />
Microsoft caved.<br />
<br />
They listened to the outrage, and they removed a lot of the connectivity that the original launch had, and they addressed the game lock thing, and so ultimately what we got was a console that was pretty much a juiced up version of the 360, and everyone settled in. This vocal and public outcry about a machine that nobody had even tried, had never even seen, made Microsoft, one of the largest, richest and most powerful companies in the world, back down and deliver what the nerds, myself included, said they wanted, which was basically "the 360, but, like, more powerful and stuff. Specs, and GPU and frames per second hur hur hur."<br />
<br />
And we got what we wanted.<br />
<br />
We know the machine that we got, which is sitting in my living room right now.<br />
But what I can't help wondering about is, what if we, in our reactionary outrage, robbed ourselves of a truly different kind of machine? We know what we got, which, in all honesty, is a damn fine machine and it is comfortable and familiar and unchallenging, but what about the machine that we didn't get? What if it was something interesting and original that actually pushed the industry forward? What if the original machine took some risks like Nintendo did with the Wii and the Switch, and changed how we interact with our entertainment, and all the stuff we complained about, the physical discs, and the game sharing and the always on internet and the integrated Kinect and all that stuff wasn't that big a deal at all. Currently my user experience doesn't look that different from what they were talking about; I already do all that stuff. My machine is always online, and I don't want physical discs, they clog up bookshelves and I have to get up and go find them. I prefer my digital copies that I can just load up and go for it, and I can delete them if they are taking up too much space or they suck or whatever. I do buy used games, and I still occasionally rent them from my local video store, but otherwise I am doing pretty much exactly what they were going to require anyway.<br />
<br />
What if we cheated ourselves out of a truly awesome gaming machine just because we lack a bit of patience, a bit of okay I'll just wait and see how this turns out? What if the original version of the Xbox One was exactly the console we had been waiting for but we didn't even know it, and now we will never know.<br />
<br />
So, I'm an Xbox guy still; I have in my house at this very moment the original Xbox, the 360, and the One. I still think the controller is superior and I still love Halo, (though Borderlands 2 is, and will always be, my main squeeze). But I haven't rushed out to get an Xbox One X, the juiced up model of the One, because while it does have better specs and it has 4k fidelity and on and on and on, I don't see the point of dropping five bills to get more of the same thing, just faster. <br />
<br />
And maybe we dodged a bullet here; maybe the original Xbox One was going to be a terrible piece of crap that nobody wanted. Maybe Microsoft didn't really understand what it was that made the 360 great, what people wanted from a console in the first place. It might have sucked.<br />
<br />
Maybe, but it could have been great too, and the truth of the matter is, the world has moved on since then, and we we will never have a chance to find out.<br />
<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
<br />
RP<br />
10-1-18<br />
<br />
This is a little esoteric I know, but I am laying the groundwork for a larger point that I am trying to make here, so please stick around. This is actually the first part of a much larger series of things I have been thinking about and will ultimately address Star Wars and aging and poisonous nostalgia.<br />
<br />
If you want to see a supercut of the Xbox One Launch in three minutes it's here: <a href="https://youtu.be/KbWgUO-Rqcw">https://youtu.be/KbWgUO-Rqcw</a><br />
<br />
If you like this stuff but wish it was much shorter and had a bunch of dumb jokes instead of, well much longer dumb jokes, you can find me on Twitter at @RDPullins. I'm still off of Facebook, except to post these links, so if you have been sending me messages, I haven't seen them. Email me if you wanna; all I get in my inbox are meeting notes from the local DSA so I'll get you back quick: dissent.within at gmail.com Reach out to me here; comment and argue with me if you feel your nerdy hackles rising: "The PS4 controller has six axis haptic feedback! How could you ever presume that the X-Bone controller is better, you jackass!" Oh and PC gamers are nerds to other nerds.<br />
Come at me, dorks. Everyone knows your weakness is sunlight and vegetables. Peace y'all.<br />
<br />
<br />Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-82765957671644921092018-08-28T09:37:00.001-07:002018-08-29T09:18:48.970-07:00For One Night OnlyWhen the spotlight hits the stage, it illuminates a single microphone on a stand. The restless crowd goes quiet. I walk out from the wings, in a black suit, no tie, shirt untucked. It is very apparent that all the workouts and disciplined eating have really paid off.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I stand there for a moment, and appreciate the vast darkness that seems to swallow all sound. There is the occasional throat clearing from the audience, but all eyes are on me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I lean to the mic. "Hi there," I say. "Thanks for coming out tonight." There are a couple claps and as is always the case in these situations, some character in the back yells, "You're welcome!" I smile and wait for them to quiet down again, then I clear my throat. I reach into my inside jacket pocket, and pull out a single piece of paper. I unfold it, look at it for a moment, then reach into my other lapel and pull out a pair of half rim reading glasses. Behind me in the darkness there is movement and shuffling sounds. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Hello everyone," I say, reading from the paper. "My name is Ralph." I look to the wings, where my wife and two boys stand. I tip them a wink. "The Old Man is in rare form tonight eh?" I say. I turn back to the audience. "Tonight is the night I turned forty years old. My friends asked me what I wanted more than anything."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then from the huge stacks, comes feedback, then a single sustained bass note. I look back to the darkness behind me and nod. Then a high hat rhythm starts. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What I told them," I say, raising my voice to be heard over the building sound coming from the stacks, "is to come here-" the sound fills the space and I can feel the crowd fill with anticipation- "and rock our fucking faces off!" I take an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon from a pocket, crack it open, and pound it as the guitar builds, then the shriek of a pickslide. "We are the Lolligaggers," I yell into the microphone as the guitar fills the space, the music builds and the crowd begins to shout, "and we are here to fuck your ears to DEATH!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The chords start, the three chords that have lifted me since the day I was born, the music fills the space, fills me, and I am lifted, blown apart, shredded by the guitar, pounded by the rhythm, filled with whatever it is that fills me, the spirit, the life, the goddamn fucking unrelenting soul blasting power of music, and all is light, all is sound, and I am filled to bursting, filled up with a lifetime. This is it. This is what I was born to do. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is it...<br />
<br />
The perfect moment.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we are told to visualize the best result, the most ideal representation of what it is we are asking for. We are told that our intentionality will shape our experiences, will help manifest our goals in real life.<br />
<br />
This sounds to me very much like day dreaming.<br />
<br />
I get it; I understand that we need to keep the goal in sight, to keep that light at the end of the tunnel, but in my experience, there is no tunnel, and certainly no light, at least until you dig one yourself with sustained hard work and a smidgen of self discipline.<br />
<br />
When it became apparent that I would get to sing for the Lolligaggers on or near my 40th birthday, I wondered what it would look like. My intentionality was shaped a bit like the thing above, a surreal unrealistic dream, an ideal representation, and... yeah, it wasn't quite like that in the end, and how could it be? For instance, what stage? What audience?<br />
<br />
But I did get to play. I got to sing some old songs with my old friends, I got to show my kids what the old man got up to when he was a much younger man, I got to hug my bestest buddy, and sing in front of my dad. We got shut down by the cops like I had imagined we would, and my wife was there to witness it. It wasn't magic; I was as fat as I have been, I certainly wasn't wearing a suit, I hadn't transformed into some charismatic rock and roll god, I was just me, an out to pasture middle aged pork chop, and I missed all of the cues and forgot all of the lyrics, and I was always about a beat and a half behind, and it was sweaty and close and hot in an alley garage.<br />
<br />
Oh, and also, it was awesome.<br />
<br />
I got to play, for one night only, the songs of my youth, and magical daydream thinking can go to hell, because it was perfect. My mom and dad and kids and wife and brothers were there, and we played just as I remembered, in a dirty garage playing for a handful of people and a few randos that happened to be walking by, and the cops came and told us to shut it down. It couldn't be more classic.<br />
<br />
I just think sometimes our imagination can get in the way of our reality, which actually does present itself perfectly on occasion. Once in a while we get exactly what we need, even if it doesn't always look like we imagined it in our daydreams.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, it is just imperfectly perfect.<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
<br />
RP 8-27-18<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gO9EhVSjcEC2yNacUzKiA0MN4k3I5NxZz1ey00HPY8k_NbCLYvP1BAUwiE6QFAUStsgzUmgYHFss3W-2pt-HSIWd1zGTRbIMRCKPKeTRVm2EfpWDGcG9bJgKVtB-vPp6_y9DHztqRlrA/s1600/IMG_6016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gO9EhVSjcEC2yNacUzKiA0MN4k3I5NxZz1ey00HPY8k_NbCLYvP1BAUwiE6QFAUStsgzUmgYHFss3W-2pt-HSIWd1zGTRbIMRCKPKeTRVm2EfpWDGcG9bJgKVtB-vPp6_y9DHztqRlrA/s640/IMG_6016.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
A special thanks goes to the Lolligaggers, Ben and Dustin and Eric, my friends and rock n roll brethren, for putting up with me and my herd of cats family for an evening and making an old man's birthday wish become reality. Love you dudes. Comment here, follow me on Twitter, and Facebook, check out the Lolligaggers on Bandcamp: https://thelolligaggers.bandcamp.com/ <br />
Be kind. Make art. Give more than you take. Put more good into the world than bad. Cheers, y'all.</div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-66527928081551320622018-08-18T10:02:00.001-07:002018-08-18T10:02:31.265-07:00Walking Out AloneSomewhere out in the darkness of the forest there is a path. Not everyone who looks for it finds it, and not everyone who finds it was looking for it. Many who take the path wish they had not, and many that pass it by wish that they had the courage to take it when they had the chance. <br />
<br />
At the end of the path is a clearing. In the center of the clearing is a standing stone, weathered and ancient, the once sharp corners rounded by time and by touch. It is a hidden place, a place of loss and pain and sacrifice, but also a place of rest, a place of freedom. The front of the stone is stained, layer after layer, cracked black and dusty brown and wet shiny red.<br />
<br />
We speak of sacrifice, but what does that mean? <br />
<br />
The kid hangs onto my arm, clings in fear. He is maybe eleven, and even though he is big for his age, he feels small. He shakes and clutches to me, flinches at every sound. He knows that the world hurts, knows too young that mostly we live and die alone. He has been left and abandoned, he is alone in an empty house, he is surrounded by loving strangers. "Don't leave me," he pleads, "don't leave me out here alone." We walk along the path and his big wet eyes shine with panic. "I'm sorry," he says, "what did I do?" I clench my jaw, I don't say anything. Words are whips to him, nothing will comfort him, nothing I can say will make a difference. "It's dark," he says. "When are we going back?" When I don't say anything again, he changes. He shakes, but he does not resist. He walks beside me along the path. He recognizes what is happening here. "You are going to leave me," he says to the ground. "Please," he whispers. "Don't." His voice has lost the hysteria, has lost the sharp edge. "You are going to leave me out here alone." We reach the clearing, and there is the stone, a broken tooth jutting from the earth. I lead him to the stone, leave him standing there. He is big for his age, but there in the dimming light of the clearing with his back to the ancient and weathered stone he looks tiny and pale. "I am going to leave you," I finally say, and as I suspected, he flinches when I speak. I point the gun at him. "I am going to leave you here, but you will not be alone." "I'm scared," he whispers. "<i>You're</i> scared?" I say, "<i>I'm </i>the one who is going to have to walk out of here alone." It is the punchline to a terrible, unfunny, joke, and I immediately hate that I said it. His eyes meet mine, and for a split second I see there not fear, but rage, a shiny black diamond of hate, and I pull the trigger.<br />
<br />
It is the most scared you will ever feel. At stake is... everything. Everything you are, everything you want to be, everything you wish you were. It is a place of sacrifice and sadness, yes, but it is also a place of freedom. That freedom is why people seek this place.<br />
<br />
I lead the teenager into the woods. He is young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. He has long unwashed hair, and walks with a slouch. He has a flannel jacket with the sleeve ripped out at the elbow. He is wearing shorts, cut off slacks that he had bought at the thrift store for a dollar or two. He is wearing a dog chain around his neck that he had stolen from a friend's house, that they had actually previously used as it had been intended, as an actual chain for their actual dog, and that had now been repurposed as a necklace. He has scars, only a couple of them visible. Hand written around the back of his Converse All-Stars, the classic Chuck Taylors, in thick black marker is written the phrase Humpty Was Pushed. He is sad and angry and impulsive, and he feels like he is mostly alone in the world. The t-shirt under his torn jacket reads THE QUEERS: Grow Up, and features the silhouette of a young man yelling into a microphone. The kid has yet to get his first, but he has the look of a person that will get several bad tattoos. He looks over at his shoulder at me. "The fuck are we doing out here?" he says. We walk further into the woods until we reach a clearing, a large standing stone in the middle, splashed with something, layered, over and over, cracked and dried black, older brick brown, fresh bright red. "Hey man, what is this shit?" he says as I direct him to stand with his back to the stone. He turns to me, his surly eyes filled with confusion and fear. "What the fuck <i>is</i> this, man? Who even are you? What the fuck do you want from me?" "Nothing," I say. "I don't need anything from you anymore." I raise the gun, and the kid stands straighter, and the fear in his eyes is burned away by anger, bottomless and black. "I know you," he says, his voice a harsh and flat whisper. "I know you, you old sack of shit. You are a fucking pathetic jok-" and I pull the trigger. The stone is splashed red, and his body drops to the ground. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I thought I needed you, but you were just holding me back."<br />
<br />
There is something to this, this ritual. There is something cleansing about fire, there is something purifying about violence. In the blood, perhaps we can find peace.<br />
<br />
As we walk the path he nods along to a song only he can hear. He is smoking a cigarette, and drinks frequently from a flask. His arms are covered with scars, lines and lines of them, a criss cross chaos of them, some fresh, others older and puckered. Both of his hands are bandaged and broken, the classic fifth metacarpal fracture, sometimes called the boxer's break, the fine bone along the line of the pinky finger that gets broken when you hit something very hard and you don't lead with the first knuckle like you should. Boxers actually don't get this break very often anymore, because they wrap their hands before punching. No, this break is most often reserved for drunks and idiots that never learned to properly process emotions. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out an unmarked bottle of pills and dumps an extraordinary amount directly into his mouth. He stops walking for a moment, looks thoughtful. "I forgot what those even were," he says, then shrugs. "Might kill me, maybe, but fuck it," he says and starts walking again. He drinks again from the flask, a long and shuddering pull. "Sometimes it talks to me," he says, gesturing with the flask. "Sometimes it tells me to kill myself." His eyes look wild and confused. "I always tell it, don't be lazy. That's <i>your</i> job." He laughs, a mad hyena, a lunatic in a ward. He speaks again, his words slower more deliberate. "A friend told me once that suicides can't get into heaven. I told him, fuck heaven. Hell has the best music." He stumbles. His words have become mush, sloppy and liquid. "I told her that I would die without her," he mumbles, maudlin and embarrassing. "But she didn't believe me." He leans his back against the stone. "Or maybe," he says, "maybe she believed me, but just didn't care." He closes his eyes. "Thank God you showed up." He slumps against the stone. "Thank God you sho-" He never even sees the gun, he never hears the shot.<br />
<br />
There is only one more, and yet two bullets remain. I walk out of the clearing and do not think of this.<br />
<br />
The boy is twenty-one. He should be called a man really, would be convicted as an adult if he were ever caught committing a crime, but despite committing many crimes, he never will be. The legal system aside, however, this is a boy; he hasn't stepped into manhood, hasn't had anyone to teach him what it means to be a man. He has had models of manhood, but they were all lacking in one aspect or another. He walks, a broken boy in a young man's body, and tears pour from his eyes, and snot streams from his nose and he snuffles and his breathing hitches; the hyper ventilation weeping of a desperate scared child. "I just... can't...seem to calm down," he says between quick hitching breaths. He hasn't learned to calm his body and his mind yet, nobody taught him to breathe through the panic, through the desperation, through the grief. He is a shattered heart, a broken beer bottle of a man. "Will... I... always be alone?" He says to me. He believes himself to be a victim, though he isn't. He believes himself the hero of his story, but quite the opposite is true. He is not the victim, but nobody ever taught him to take personal responsibility for his actions and the consequences. He is here as the result of his making every mistake, he is here as a result of his selfish and self harming behaviors. He believes himself to be a victim, but he is not, except possibly the victim of his own failures. Still as we walk into the clearing, it is hard to convict him too harshly; he is a pathetic and broken boy, and even though it was he that swung the hammer that shattered his identity, it is hard not to pity him, just a little. He just didn't know any better. He stands with his back to the stone and instead of fear, or anger what shows in his red rimmed eyes is relief. "I see," he says, when he sees the gun, his voice heavy and thick. He leans forward, presses his forehead to the barrel. "Finally," he says and he looks directly into my eyes. "It's okay," he says when my own tears start to flow. "It's okay, I <i>want</i> this." I hesitate; I can't pull the trigger. This is too much, this is too real, this is too... and his hand covers mine, and he does it for me. The stone is splashed fresh red and wet, and then I am alone in the quiet.<br />
<br />
It is the most scared you will ever be. At stake is everything. There is nothing to be gained here, nothing to acquire, to collect. This is a place of loss and sadness and sacrifice, but also of freedom, of reflection. But as the silence drops and there is still one bullet remaining, I have to wonder: what if after this, I have nothing left? We speak of self-sacrifice, but what does that mean?<br />
<br />
I turn to go, confident that this is finished, but there, at the path leading away from the stone, is another. He is sitting on a rock, hunched over a laptop balanced on his knees. He is a large man, greying and slow. He has the body of a former athlete that has let himself go, even though he was never into playing sports, and had certainly never had an athlete's body. He sits and taps away at the keyboard with a desperate, trying too hard flair. "Hang on," he says as I approach. "Hang on just a minute. This thing is the thing, the thing that will do it, that will finally free me. Hang on just a minute." I walk behind him and I see him describing the scene, the stone and me, a faceless avatar with a gun, a simple noun, gun, a means to kill. Is it black, is it a revolver, is it heavy? How do I know that there were only five bullets? "This is the thing that will free me," he says. "They will all love me after this." And I have to wonder who <i>they</i> are. Who is he trying to impress? I stand behind him, and find that he has a presence. He is likable. He is generally kind and generally polite. I can see why he gets along with nearly everyone. He is safely married and safely chubby and safely non threatening. He is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off. He is a broken piece of glass that has sat in the sand and the surf and now the shine has been worn off, and all the sharp cutting edges have been ground down. I watch over his shoulder as he writes this scene, as he describes himself in these terms. I watch as he writes that I lift the gun, I watch in horror as he writes that I briefly consider turning it on myself instead. "It's okay," he says, and I see through my tears that he has turned from his keyboard. I look at him and he looks at me. "It's okay," he says again. I turn in a sudden panic, and I see that the way out of here has disappeared. Is there no way forward? "I've got to go too," he says. "Are you me?" I say, "Am I you?" He smiles. "You are what I mean when I say 'I.' I am you, but I don't have to be, if you don't want me to be." "I don't understand," I say. "No," he chuckles, "nobody ever does." He turns once again to his keyboard, and his fingers fly over the keys in fits and bursts. He stays hunched, watching the keyboard. All these words, hundreds of thousands of them, millions, maybe, and he has never learned to type properly. I cannot do it, I know this. "But you will," he says, not turning from the keys. "You will." "But I like you, I don't want to be rid of you," I tell him, pleading. "Look around," he says, "There's no way out of here." I hear him typing and I raise the gun. That simple noun, gun, and I try not to, I don't want to, but my finger tightens around the trigger but even though I resist, it happens anyway, and it explodes in my hand and then I am alone. I drop the gun. It is empty, like me. I see that there is a path where there was not one before. It leads away, but in a direction that I wasn't expecting, to a destination that I do not know, to a fate that I cannot control and cannot predict.<br />
<br />
There in the clearing the stone stands, ancient and cracked, stained black and dusty brown and fresh wet red. This is a place of sacrifice, of loss and sadness and regret, but also of freedom. It is that freedom that I came here for.<br />
<br />
We speak of sacrifice, but what does that mean?<br />
<br />
I turn, and I take my first step down the new path. Now, there is nothing left but to walk out. Alone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
<br />
RP<br />
8-18-18<br />
<br />
<br />
My dogs were very high maintenance animals while I was editing this, so if there are any glaring typos blame Hailey and Noor. The usual stuff here: Twitter @RDPullins and on Facebook, email me if you wanna at dissent.within at gmail.com, comment here, or you also have the right to remain silent, a right that nearly every single one of you choose to exercise. Listen to good music, kiss somebody you love, don't let the bastards get you down. You're good; just keep moving forward, and you will be fine. Peace.Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-68943531701584012522018-07-31T09:20:00.000-07:002018-07-31T09:20:07.569-07:00The Impossible Distance<i>I write things without knowing what I am supposed to do when they are done. when I finished the first draft of Antiartists, I literally Googled "I finished my novel. What do I do now?" If I feel compelled to write for whatever reason, I always write first and figure out what to do with it after. Sometimes these strange orphans find a home, sometimes they just wait until they come of age and then go out into the world alone. This is one of the latter. I don't remember when or why I wrote it, but I think it is beautiful and thought I would share it since it never got adopted. It looks like a poem, and it is, but it is also a story.</i><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The Impossible Distance</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-755ebe02-f112-b010-0a0e-e1eff1241441"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Off the late shift, walking and staring up at the stars, the impossible distance</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Between me and them, them and each other</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The impossible distance…</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I worked, and I didn't speak to another person</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is the nature of the job, a simple thing soon to be automated</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soon I will be redundant.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At home awaits cold darkness, an indifferent wife</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The heat has long left, gone</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With the hope, and our belief in each other</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A car sits parked, lights off, engine running, an anomaly,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Soft music, a hand resting on the sill,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I fix my eyes ahead; parked cars in the dark are none of my business</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kids smoking something illegal, maybe, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Or with roaming hands and mouths, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Breath on neck, hot flesh and desire</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lust or dreams, fire or peace, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These things are not for me, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These things are for parked cars in the dark.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I try to pass, to think of distance, of darkness</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But a voice, soft and gentle</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A warm whisper pleads Wait, please</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The voice says Mercy, it says </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don't leave me alone.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It whispers, Please</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I pause in my walk, I fear a trap, a honeypot</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I fear faceless voices in the dark</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I fear anomalous parked cars on my walk home</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the voice, male and soft</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Needing but not expecting</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I should ignore it, just keep walking</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Home to my dark and cold house, my indifferent wife</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I don't, I stop, thinking trouble</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fearing danger.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please, the voice says again</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just a minute, it says</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Have mercy</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it is that word, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mercy</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That is why I turn back, why I stop contemplating impossible distances</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I turn back; the car is dark inside</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I look over my shoulder, see my own house </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dark inside there too</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The voice in the dark says I am not dangerous</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But of course that is exactly </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">what someone dangerous would say</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please the voice says again</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A moment </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just a moment of your time</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I speak aloud; my voice sounds foreign</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I haven't spoken to someone </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In so long, so long</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who’s there I croak, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who is that?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I peer into the dark.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The voice from the darkness, You don't know me</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don't know you either</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are strangers to one another</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Strangers.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What my mother told me to never talk to.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But the voice said mercy.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I move forward, thinking </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">no</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, thinking </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">stupid</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I move anyway, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wondering, not understanding, why</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hear soft music playing, strings, a soft croon</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unfamiliar rhythms and shifting tempos</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Warm and beautiful</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will you join me, the voice again</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Overlaid on the music,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It won't be long. Please.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought I wanted to be alone the voice says</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I don’t, I can’t.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And there is only you, a stranger walking past.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You don't have to, says the voice, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I understand if you won’t</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I understand this is unusual</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have a story and it will not be long</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I want you to carry it with you </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I need someone to remember me.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just a story the voice says.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Something to remember</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That is all I have left.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And still thinking I shouldn't, I do </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I walk around</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I get in the car just like Mother told me not to</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The soft voice is a man, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pale and thin, lit green by the dash lights</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He turns and smiles a sad tired smile</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you he says </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you </span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who are you </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My unfamiliar voice creaks </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What is this</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That is me singing there, he says</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A hand makes a vague gesture at the stereo</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you like it?</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before I can speak he continues</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to tell you a story</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And time is short</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He looks out the windshield and speaks</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A pouring out of words, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A flow, a lazy river of words</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parents were religious, were zealots </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fundamentalists</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I was different than they wanted me to be</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They sent me to camps as a kid</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To try to fix me </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Convert me into something they could stand</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I wanted to be what they wanted me to be</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tried, I prayed, to be fixed </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But what was wrong stayed wrong, understand?</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stayed wrong and hated myself</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I began to hate them too</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Love and hate at the same time like family does</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then they quit trying, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They quit praying for me, shut me out, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">stonewalled, cold shouldered, silent treated </span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was a broken unwanted sinner</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And what was wrong kept being wrong</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I stopped trying too</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I started sinning for real</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sinning on purpose </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Deliberate and willful</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it was a relief to stop pretending</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A relief to finally be who I had always been</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be as I was </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">created </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to be</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was a relief, and I came to realize </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That I was not broken</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That there was nothing wrong</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I found a life, years after making every mistake</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I sang songs and loved</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I felt mostly whole again</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I couldn't shake the religion of my childhood</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ingrained, ground in, indelible</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was desperate I prayed.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I was made wrong, then God made me wrong</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it could not be a mistake</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because God doesn't make them</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And there were moments of sublime beauty</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A sunrise, a silhouette against a window</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I thought there is God, right there</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I reached out to my parents</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The fundamentalists</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The absolutists, the black and whiters</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wanted to forgive them, to be myself forgiven</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wanted </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To not be an orphan anymore</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are ashamed they said,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To have a son like you </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ashamed they said</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He stops talking, turns to me lit green in the dash lights.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why did you stop he asks, Why did you come back</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I want to have an answer but I don't</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They never spoke to me again</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He speaks to the windshield</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I never called them again</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I buried it, my parent’s love</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And their religion</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pushed it down inside, hid it in the darkness</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I think it grew he says </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The hate, the grief, I think it turned into this thing</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That has killed me</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Words have weight</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some weigh hardly anything</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For instance, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">grace</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. For instance, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">light</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some are as heavy as guilt</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Metastatic</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Inoperable</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some fall like stones</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alone</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Terminal</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He shudders, his voice slurs.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why did you stop he says</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Are you an angel?</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am just a man.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stopped because of a word, wet with tears and blood</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mercy.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I took all these pills, he says and thought I wanted privacy</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought I wanted to be alone</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But nobody ever does in the end.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The words pour from his mouth</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sibilant and wet</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They puddle on the floor</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the dark he takes my hand</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It trembles, weak</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It feels fragile, weightless</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parent’s God, he whispers,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will judge me harshly</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parent’s God will condemn me</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I ever face God, he whispers</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm going to ask </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why did this life have to hurt so much?</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And on the stereo his song ends</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And on this earth</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His story ends too.</span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the darkness I am alone again</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I whisper a promise:</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I will remember you </span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And there are calls to make</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Official things, and questions</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That I will have no good answer for </span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But in the end there is nothing left </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But to take his story, carry it with me, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And contemplate the impossible distance. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
Still Writing, </div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
RP</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
7-31-18</div>
<br /><br />I want to hear from you, so comment here, or follow me on Twitter @RDPullins, or on the pestilent diaper fire that is Facebook. Be kind to one another, please. Forgive, both yourself and those that have wronged you. Display mercy. </span></div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-50011049700591612072018-07-23T09:42:00.002-07:002018-07-23T09:42:24.985-07:00Reflections of a Prom King Runner-upIn all likelihood, I don't remember you. I can't remember your name or your face. Your name tag, your prompting, your cues, all of it will mean nothing to me, and I'm sorry.<br />
<br />
I'm not really sorry; I only have so much room in here and frankly you didn't make the cut. I need the space, you see, for the original two hundred fifty Pokemon, the Indigo League Pokemon, and the only real Pokemon if you ask me, and holy shit I can't believe I remember the Indigo League and I can't remember my own phone number or who I walked into prom with. I was nominated for Prom King, I know that, and I know I didn't win. I was runner up, second place, silver medal, the first loser. I walked in with some girl, not my prom <i>date</i>, but my counterpart on the prom court that was nominated as well, and I swear I can't remember her name or her face. Whoever she was, she didn't win, either.<br />
<br />
I was obviously not Prom King material. Our class may have had a pretty progressive idea of who should be Prom King and Queen, but even given that, I sure as hell wasn't Prom King material, and clearly everyone knew it because I didn't win, but seriously how the hell was that even real? Was it real? I kinda remember it, but maybe this is a story I made up; I was runner up for Prom King, kids, as if that is something to talk about.<br />
<br />
What's stupid is, I don't even care about Pokemon, not even a little, but if you want to know the evolution of Machop, I am, unfortunately, your man.<br />
<br />
<div>
So I'm sorry that I don't remember you. I'm sorry that I can't remember the name of the kid that sat next to me when I cried that time, sloppily, publicly. It was an act of kindness, and I wish I could remember, but instead that space is taken up with the names of all the bounty hunters that stood on the bridge of the Star Destroyer in Empire Strikes Back.<br />
<br />
This woman that I have worked with for four years keeps calling me Mark, and has been doing so for the entire time I have worked here, and it is way too late to correct her. Every time it happens, I feel sort of embarrassed for her, knowing that the day will arrive when someone who actually knows my name will hear her and correct her and she will look at me and ask why, after all this time, I never corrected her and I will have to say... something, I suppose, but what? Should I tell her the truth? That I just don't care enough about her to correct her, that she could have been calling me Gollum or Optimus Prime or Busta Rhymes the whole time and I still wouldn't have corrected her because I just don't give enough of a shit? So I just wait and someday she will look at me confused and I will just smile and shrug and go about my day.<br />
<br />
In the end my memory is selective; I remember Bossk and Dengar and Jolteon and Torchic, because I put a value on knowing things like that, because sometime long ago I made being a fucking dork part of my identity and forgetting 4-Lom and Mewtwo would mean that that part of me has died.<br />
<br />
But that's okay, right? I would happily forget the name, make and model of Boba Fett's ship if it meant that I would finally feel- what? Complete? Integrated?<br />
<br />
Somewhere it became a thing that I do; I am the douche that shouts out the answers to Jeopardy in bars. Because it is not only important to me to know shit, it is as important, or more important really, to be <i>seen </i>as someone who knows shit, and in all actuality, that second part is probably enough all on its own. For some sad pathetic reason my knowing useless stuff means something to me, it makes me feel good. And I need that validation, understand? That's why I'm here, you know? This isn't art; its an invitation to you to come to my house and tell me how great I am.<br />
<br />
Oh shit, you know what? Torchic wasn't one of the original two fifty, that's right. Back up, type in Chansey instead, maybe. Is that esoteric enough to get you nerds on board?</div>
<div>
<br />
Anyway, this is who I am. I am in a period of deconstruction, where I get to take everything apart and put it all back together again, and maybe when it all comes back together I will find that the machine runs just fine without this particular part of my identity. In the meantime I am scattered and lost and there are parts of me all over the place, scattered across the floor of the garage, hanging out for all to see. <br />
<br />
Maybe if you shot fire from your mouth, if you could use the Force or had feathers, maybe if you were the one that actually won Prom King ahead of me, and I'm looking at you, B.J. Spooner, then I would remember you. Maybe.<br />
<br />
Maybe not, though. I can't remember appointments or dates, I can't remember doctor visits, or my blood type, I can't remember- I can't remember anything I should except the the planet that Chewbacca is from is called Kashyyyk.<br />
<br />
I don't remember you, but I remember Sam Vimes and Kilgore Trout, Rorshach and Owen Meany.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, but my brain is full of dumb, useless shit and there's just no more room for you.<br />
<br />
I'm not sorry. Or maybe I am, I can't really remember.<br />
<br />
Still Writing,<br />
RP<br />
7-23-18 <br />
<br />
This is scattered, because I am scattered, and I thought maybe if I write and post about it, I would feel more together. Didn't work, but what the hell it was worth a shot, I guess. So it goes. You know where to find me, even though you never do: comment here, email me at dissent.within at gmail.com, @RDPullins on Twitter, and the noxious, festering diarrhea fountain that is Facebook. Peace.</div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839640152386255769.post-24236417200951639842018-07-12T09:56:00.001-07:002018-07-12T09:56:38.991-07:00Something Under the Stairs<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Sometimes when you look in the mirror you see some things you don't like. You see wrinkles, yes, and grey hair, sure, but that's okay, that's just what happens if you don't die young, you get older, and that just fine, but there is other stuff there, stuff that hides behind the eyes, things you hate, that meek child part of you, that broken fool part of you , that sad pathetic needy part of you, it is all there if you look close enough, there hiding behind your eyes.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
So what you do is, you take all the parts of yourself that you hate, all the weaknesses and failures, you take those things and you lock them away, somewhere deep, somewhere dark. All the times you failed, when you should have spoken up but didn't, when someone needed you and you didn't show up, when you could have easily given but chose not to, you reach inside and pull it out of you and you toss it down the stairs. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
What you do is, you look at all the worst parts of the people you love, you look inside, you identify those qualities in yourself and you lock those away behind that heavy, heavy door. You find there inside yourself the lost child, the depressive, the coward, the drunk, the absentee father, the lazy asshole, the pathetic need, you take them all out, and one by one, you shove them down the stairs into the darkness. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And then what you do is, nothing. You can assume that you are fine and you feel a lot better. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
But all those terrible, awful, hateful things, they keep on living down there in the darkness, they meet up, they recognize each other. They all realize that they are the same, and then what happens is, they meld together and you realize that you have accidentally created a monster, something dark and horrible and dangerous, and it is in your house, and even though mostly it sleeps, mostly it is safely locked away in the darkness, you can never rest easy. You have to go and check to make sure the door is locked and for a while it is fine, for a while the monster sleeps and you can relax, but a little uneasy, too aware that all that stands between the creature and the sunny place you have built is a piece of wood and some chains. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Sometimes the door rattles, sometimes the monster wants to be let out, but it has grown so huge and dangerous that you fear that it will eat everything that you love, and so then what you do is, you sit with your back to the door and you can't enjoy living in the light because you are so afraid that the monster is awake, that if you're not watchful, it will escape. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
You are afraid that it is inevitable, that one day you will fall asleep, you will forget to check the locks. You believe it is just a matter of time.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And what you do is, you wait.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Never once does it cross your mind that living with a monster is crazy, that only a damn fool would live like this, never once do you remember that it was you who created it. Never once does it occur to you that it is you.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
The monster is part of you.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
So there can be no peace for your soul, no rest, no reprieve, and the monster inside will never be slayed, it can only be put to sleep for a while. And the monster waits.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
What you do then is, you live with it.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
You live with it.</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
7-12-18</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Still Writing, </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
RP</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
You know what to do by now right? Comment here, email me at dissent.within at gmail.com, on Twitter @RDPullins, and Facebook, I suppose, even though its gross. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
I want to paraphrase something I heard recently:</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Whatever it s that you do, if you make music or write poetry or cut hair or make furniture or food or whatever it is, do it as hard and as honestly as you can, and get it out in the world. It is these things that remind us that we are not alone, and even though you may never know it, you have helped, even if just a little. Sometimes just a little makes a big difference to someone. Peace. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Ralph Pullinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10534005874102856715noreply@blogger.com0