Monday, January 10, 2011

Dirt War

She was always telling me about how her father would go out into the woods behind their house and stay out there for hours at a time. When he'd finally return there'd be a remote look on his face, as if the the forest and the animals living there had special secrets meant only for him. He wouldn't talk much after each of these journeys, he would just sit in the den near the fireplace and watch the logs crack and whistle. Mother would bring him potato soup and set it near him, but it would mostly go unnoticed unless the cat came over to investigate. Then he would swipe and hiss and the cat would run off into the dining room to sit beneath the dinner table and watch as father finally ate the soup.

She told me about the time she decided to follow her father out. She gave him a two minute lead before sneaking down the trail that wrapped around the back side of their property. After an hour of steady walking he stopped at a large tree with thick, low hanging branches which covered the trunk from view. He entered in and remained there for some time. She fidgeted with her hair and watched two squirrels gather nuts on the ground and race back up into the trees to a nest high in the canopy. She counted each ascent... once... twice... three, four, five times before her father finally emerged from his own nest.

As soon as he was out of ear shot she moved in to investigate. Inside the tree she discovered an elaborate miniature battleground dug into the dirt surrounding the trunk. Military bases were built out of rocks and sticks, trails and trenches were dug and snaked off in multiple directions. An army of plastic G.I.Joe toys were positioned all around, holding rifles and bent in ways that mimicked various acts of warfare. And just above the suspended dirt war below, carved into the tree bark were the words "ME" and "THEM", and next to each word were hash marks representing the death toll of both sides. Apparently her father was winning, 6-4, and this made her very happy.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Sensimorical


sensimorical
by Mick Tomlinson


oh earnest lover,
squelched and fastened to drought,
you split apart
and both halves make me
stupidly happy.

this frail thing,
indigenous and hunted by spirit,
cloaked by our love
and tricked by the hues coming in
through my window.

I think I may be
bordering the edge of narration,
talking more/loving less
while I cushion these gills
with water.

listen lover, I am your property
finger by finger,
hollowed chest,
four arms worship the moon.

Friday, January 7, 2011

In The Beginning, God Was A Little Nutso.

Christmas and New Years came and went, and just like that America feels calm again. Well, as calm as one country can be in the lull between recessions. Did I just pluralize "recession"? Yes, folks, I did. You think that first one was bad, just wait until the next one hits. I hope you know how to set snares and field dress a rabbit, dear readers. Just promise me that you will blog about the experience when it comes!

Speaking of snares, I just finished reading The Hunger Games by Susan Collins. What began as an interesting story set in a cruel futuristic totalitarian North America, turned into a semi-conscious love story between boy and girl. Ugh, really? Something tells me the author, Susan, at some point in her life watched Battle Royale and thought to herself, "Hey that was a great movie, there needs to be a book about it!". And away she went with those hungry little fingers, pecking away at the typewriter with a genius story idea in her head (completely stolen from a Japanese movie that was based upon a Japanese novel of same title). Yes, Susan, this has been done before, and might I add it was executed exceptionally better (pun intended).

Why does it seem like America is all about ripping off other people's ideas (or recycling ideas from the past)? It feels as though we've become a nation void of creativity, why is this? We don't produce anything anymore, unless of course it can be used in war to kill other humans, then we are innovative as all get out. This is upsetting to me, but don't you dare label me a Liberal. Libertarian maybe, but even then I'm still leery about ideologies. Out government needs a lot of fixing, and it will take more than a Democrat or a Republican to get the job done. If you are entrenched in either one of these parties and are unwilling to "compromise" (as John Boehner so doggedly put it), then you are part of the problem and I kindly ask you to get the fuck out of the way. There, I said it.

Whoa, where did that last paragraph come from? Sorry folks, I've been drinking and listening to the news again. Oh, and I cut my nut sack while shaving my ball hair again. Yes, these things will sour a good mood. Now, on to the next paragraph.

My parents sent me a Barnes & Noble gift card for Christmas, which is awesome. But before I tell you which books I purchased I need to explain a little about my mother. She is a wonderful human who raised three children the best way she could. I love and admire her for trying to be a mom while simultaneously dealing with her own personal issues, something I do everyday (minus the being a parent part). I could never do what she did, I'm not that strong. She is a very religious person who believes the Bible is the infallible word of a singular (upper case G) god. She embraces the Christian ideology and wears it like an electric blanket. It protects her, keeps her warm. Cool, no problem. She has pictures of dead fetuses as screen savers on her computer. Eh, not so cool, lol.

Anyway, so yes my mother is a devout Christian, which brings me to the humorous side of the point I'm trying to make. Now back to the gift card she and dad bought for me. I went online (since there are no Barnes & Nobles here in Salem) and ordered a few books, here are the books I ordered and will be reading over the next few months:


I am too lazy and buzzed to write a synopsis for you about what these books are about, but let's just say that the Christian community wouldn't embrace either one of them. The first one is about the evolution of man, his journey from monkey to mushrooms; the second is about man's creation of civilization, myths and gods. Haha, oh boy. This is what a curious mind, untethered to ideology, will read about. I know my mother still loves me, even though I am tough on her religion and ask many questions, but I'm sure if she knew her money helped support anti-Christian exploration, she might have a tisk-tisk aimed my way. It's okay, mom, I'm still a good human being with love in my heart and hope for humanity! I just believe religion isn't the answer. God isn't suppose to be a complex math equation or an impossible riddle to solve. Or is he?

Wow, this blog was 98% religion and 2% politics. I need another beer..

Saturday, January 1, 2011

A New Year

It's New Years Eve in Stumptown. The rhythmic sounds of a live band can be heard for an entire city block. The music bounces off walls and tunnels its way through the busy Portland streets. The city is alive and the sidewalks are jammed with people, young and old. Everyone is having the night of their life in their own unique way, and I am dodging puke puddles in attempt to get near the action. The girls have dressed themselves whorishly with their make-up, skimpy see-thru blouses, short skirts and stiletto fuck-me pumps. Everywhere I look I witness the sexual hustle of the female city dweller seeking a mate, willing to show the goods long before the sale is even made. This is their town, their prey grounds.. and all the combined tits and ass are merely flotsam, and the city is their sea.

The men have a feral look in their eye as they stagger across busy streets, cursing traffic and howling delightfully at anything or anyone of interest. Hipsters, punk rockers, emo's and artists, muscle heads, skinheads, potato heads and hackers. The male city dweller has a myriad unique angles, each considerably different from the other, but all with a single intent: hook-up and get laid. And the girls know this as they drink and curse too, flash their tits at passing traffic and fall down every time they encounter a curb. There is a game being played here called The Pussy Perception and it scares me terribly, so I retreat indoors where I may feel safe from the depravity that lingers outside.

Inside, the music strengthens and the bass pounds my chest. The party is in full tilt and all four bars are slammed with thirsty patrons elbowing for better positions, trying to make eye contact with the bartender. There is an electric current that originates on stage with the musicians and surges across the dance floor, intensifying as it passes from one sweaty person to the next. As the band plays on a new game begins, The Monster Mash. The youth are angry about something, possibly the rising cost of education or societal constraint, or maybe bigoted family affairs. Either way, they've decided to take it out on themselves. As the music crescendos they begin crashing into each other with force, an ebb and flow of bodies against angry bodies. A tidal wave of emotion spills across the dance floor as arms extend upward in a sign of worship and adoration. The rock stars have become gods and the kids would gladly mosh their way off the top of Portland's tallest building for them.

Deep within the chaotic center of insanity a girl's shirt has been ripped from her body, her bra barely keeping her tits in place. She is being mosh-raped by dozens of indifferent hands attached to souls charged by music. The look on her face is pure bliss, she is having the time of her life. Her cheeks are red and puffy from collisions with other faces and red outlines of hand prints can be seen on her bare chest and back. Maybe her favorite song is playing, I don't know for sure.

The night is nearing it's end, the new year is here and the band has left the stage. The party has moved out into the streets, so I follow it. A frigid temperature drop has occurred but no one seems to notice, or maybe they just don't care. Drunk chicks are passed out on cold concrete, their skirts hiked up to their hips, legs spread open in an invitation for danger. Car doors have been left open and vehicles abandoned, purses and keys and cell phones left on the floorboards unguarded. There is a strange carnal sensation to it all, to the way the city dwellers are undulating up and down the street in wave-like fornication. Limousines cruise by with its contents dangling from sunroofs and rolled down windows, screaming "Happy New Year, fuckers!" and other assorted phrases.

Cops are on the beat. Cops are everywhere. In cars, on motorcycles, on bicycles, on foot, even on horseback. Firetrucks too, with lights flashing and horns blazing, race up and down the street. The pulse of the city is completely jacked and I can feel it beating faster... faster... faster. Everywhere I look I see people, people, people. Huge groups of people hogging the sidewalks, stragglers darting here & there, people sitting, people running, people in trees, people crawling on their hands and knees. I find myself both overwhelmed and fascinated at the sight of so much nocturnal activity. Wreckless and daring, eclectic and epileptic, fueled by a sense of artistic independence, they are the lifeblood that flows through this town's arteries. This is Portland unhinged on New Years Eve.

And now it's time to go back home. Happy New Years, everyone.