We Missed The Point And I Built A Machine

We Missed The Point and I Built A Machine.

It’s a lot like when we said

We miss you, we love you, we hate you, we forgot you

It’s a lot like when we started

Saying “we” instead of “I”

Rube Goldberg taught me a lot

About life, the taking of life and living.

But I also took his class on explanation

So I never really got to the point, did I?

Someday I’ll figure out how to connect

Two seemingly unrelated things

Today’s not that day

A causal glance to the beginning

Proves this well enough. 

An Explanation of My Definitions.

It's come to my attention that I may have been using a certain word wrong. In a couple of my previous posts I've used the term Northern Americana. Now, I know I got the northern part right. I know this because I can look at a map and clearly see that where I live is north of most other places in the U.S. The word in question here is Americana. Now I've long understood the word to be an encompassing term to describe culture in America. But according to a few definitions I've read, Americana refers more to physical objects that are considered part of American culture. The things I've discussed haven't necessarily been physical, but definitely more intangible.

But, there is a discrepancy. I have also seen a few definitions that describe Americana as simply American Culture. So, while I may be wrong in using Americana, I may also be right. I'm banking on the latter.

Basically, what I'm trying to do with some of my blogs, specifically Important Lessons From The Country Cafe, is examine some of the enjoyable,sometimes questionable, but always acceptable things I see while living in the northern U.S. I personally believe that the things that I've mentioned and will mention are pieces of what might make living here unique and different.

I hope this clears some things up, if it really bothers you that I may (or may not) be using Americana wrong, I apologize. I just really like how it sounds.

Important Lessons From The Country Cafe. (Vol. 3)

In case there was any doubts that the fall was over, the snow a couple nights ago should’ve put those to bed. It’s still hard for me to imagine a place that doesn’t have snow in December, even though I have friends who live in those places. I guess I’ll have to go and experience it for myself to fully convince myself. I know there’s some who seek out these places every year because the concept of enduring the cold for 3-4 months is hellish. I just don’t think I could ever be one of those people. Below zero temperatures and multiple feet of snow is something I believe is engrained within me. So regardless of how much I complain, I don’t think I could live without it. It’d be like complaining about the color of my eyes. But that hasn’t stopped me from observing and dissecting the coldest of seasons.

Winter is strange. It comes every year. But it still tends to shock a majority of us, but we never admit it. But that’s just a trait of Northern people. Instead of letting ourselves get wrapped up in the wonder of things, we seem to get angry at those who do. I’ll admit that I’m one of those people who drive well under the speed limit during the first snowfall but then yell at those who do the same thing after I’ve gotten used to it.

There’s another trait that northerners have that really shines during the winter and that’s the belief that we’re all psychics when it comes to the weather. Everyone has their own little theory. If it was a particularly dry summer, then the winter will come with a bountiful amount of snow and vice versa. If it’s blue skies and sunshine on Monday and Tuesday, then you can guarantee that Friday will bring a blizzard. Perhaps it’s just luck, or a game of odds, but all these predictions tend to come true at least once. That’s all it takes for these predictions to become fact.

There are a few other things related to winter that I intend to touch on later. But for now I’ll leave you with just once lesson that I’ve just recently learned.



Lesson #1: A good server will insult you. In fact, they will say things that would warrant a fight back on the playgrounds or in the bars. But if they are quick with a refill of coffee, then all is forgiven and encouraged.

In .9 Miles Send Me Off A Cliff

In .9 Miles Send Me Off A Cliff

Guide me to the light

And I will faithfully follow

Speak to me without a hint of life

And I will gladly give breath away

Accurately reveal the turns ahead

And I will close my rumored eyes

Utter the legend of a home

And there I will reside

Scold me for my disobedience

And I will weep onto the dash

Calmly correct my mistakes

And I will erase what’s left of my pride

Turn angry and sentient

And I will promise to be unaware

Guide me into the sky

And I will swerve where no road exists. 

And Only The Song Ever Talked About Dying

And Only The Song Ever Talked About Dying

It’s dead now.

You may have believed

That it had finished over a year ago

But for the first time in your prophetic life

You were wrong.

In a strange and wholly enjoyable turn of events

I came to the realization

That I could strip away the dead weight

Of my perceived mistakes and long list of shortcomings

All it took was two 3 hour drives.

I still listen to that tune

In fact it’s one of my favorites

Just the other day I stopped inches from that downtown deadzone

And backed up a long line of people

Waiting for their turn at the red light.

I had to hear that song,

But this time it was to hear the background vocals

And not the frontman,

The one you said

You’d die to meet.

I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance

To tell you my new story

Of how I dodged my way through a labyrinth

Just to see that band

Live.  

Important Lessons From The Country Cafe. (Vol. 2)

When I think about the idea of Northern Americana (remember, there's still a difference) I can't help but think about how intricate the consumption of alcohol is to it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say that we're all a bunch of drunks or that the only unique thing about the northern midwest involves alcohol. But there is no denying the fact that alcohol in some sort of form makes it's way into many activities while also being an activity in itself.

The problem is, when it comes to alcohol there's always a price. Sometimes it's minor, sometimes it's massive, but there's always some sort of price to pay. For most people, like me, it's a hangover the next morning. Now what's fascinating to me about hangovers is the nearly endless list of remedies that people have put together over the years. For me, it's a plate of biscuits and gravy with a side of hashbrowns and cheese at the Country Cafe.

Even in my injured state I was able to take my seat, order my food, drink my hot chocolate (they were out of coffee) and learn a few things about the world.

Lesson #1: There's something oddly welcoming about an empty cafe on a cool rainy day.

Lesson #2: There's also nothing quite as depressing as an empty cafe on a cool rainy day.

Lesson #3: Regardless of the large windows that reveal a nice view of main street, questions about the weather will be thrown at you. This isn't because the people asking you are blind or oblivious, it's a test to see what kind of person you are.

Important Lessons From The Country Cafe. (Vol. 1)

I live in a one bedroom apartment with low ceilings, a leaky shower head, threadbare carpets and cracked cracked tiles. There isn't a lot of space for all my things, and I'm afraid of saying certain things too loudly due to the thinness of the walls. But, even in the face of these things I love my apartment for a few reasons, most importantly though is its proximity to a little local cafe.

The cafe is a typical slice of Northern Americana (there is a difference, just ask Garrison Keillor). The coffee is served incredibly hot, or just not quite hot enough. The food is good, but leaves you questioning your life decisions as you stare into the little pool of oil left behind. The decor is inviting at first, then as you finish your third cup of coffee it becomes confusing. The walls are pink with green trim, the wallpaper border is this rustic looking pattern of apples in a bucket. This is paired with multiple wooden signs depicting sliced, whole, and quartered apples. But there isn't a single item on the menu with apples in it. The servers are polite and demand politeness in return.

The clientele is the most fascinating though. The cafe serves a wide selection of people. The usual helping of senior citizens with strong opinions on just about everything. Factory workers just getting off their shifts. Construction workers in the summer, hunters in the fall and just a few people like me who have motives, other than eating, for being there. The patrons of this cherished small town establishment have taught me a few things as I eavesdropped on their conversations. I have held onto these lessons for awhile but now I wish to share them. Here is a few nuggets of wisdom that I heard today. More will come as I hear them.

Lesson #1: Wishful thinking is something all great men possess. Apparently seeing 14 deer, five of which are decent sized bucks and not taking a shot of any of them because you know that the biggest deer in the world is still out there speaks volumes about how strong your character is.

Lesson #2: Nicknames are earned. Once you have earned your nickname you will tell every person you meet your nickname and how you received this nickname. Upon telling your story to someone you have now qualified them to receive there own nickname someday unless they already have one, if this is the case you must listen to their story as a courtesy. This process can be repeated multiple times with the same person.

Lesson #3: If you drink your coffee with sugar, you are a pussy no question. Cream is okay, only if you use it in an attempt to support the local dairy farmers. I support the local dairy farmers.

These Drums Go Clink Clink

I can hear it coming for me,

A thundering chaos.

The heat of clashing shields and swords

Is growing closer.

I can remember the last time I watched it approach.

The sound of young lustful eyes

And veterans of love

Both forgetting their nature

In order to ensure

The sensation of a gentle touch

For just one more day.

I will never forget the guilt

That swelled as I watched the mayhem pass,

I mourned for every broken piece of glass

And wept at the burnt remains of habits discarded.

I can hear it coming for me,

An army is rising

And this time I will join the ranks

And fight against sobriety and inhibition.

The Deeds Of Devils and Angels: Chapter 2

Open publication - Free publishing - More 1940s

The Deeds of Devils and Angels:Chapter 1 (blog)

So here it is. The first chapter of my crime story. In this chapter I introduce the main character, Jackson Lark, as well as some of the other characters that will be running around the city of New Constantinople.

Also, I remembered this software that I used a long time ago from Issuu. They specialize in publishing magazines and journals online. Some of it is really cool, so go check it out. But anyways, I feel that the format they put files in works really well here. I personally can't stand reading prose in a blog. It's clunky and it's really easy to lose your place. So I hope this format here works a lot better.

If anyone has any problems with it, let me know and I'll see what I can do.

But anyways, here it is, the first chapter. Enjoy.

The Deeds of Devils and Angels: Chapter 1

Open publication - Free publishing - More 1940s

The Deeds of Devils and Angels (blog)

Here it is. This is the beginning of a writing project that I'm hoping will consume most of my creative juices and time for a few months.

This is actually something that I started almost a year ago. It was originally designed to be a novel for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, look it up). Fortunately I didn't finish it back then. I say fortunately because I don't think a standard novel is the proper format for this.

Anyways, onto what this is exactly. This is going to be my attempt at writing a crime story with the old 1940s serials in mind. Those who are friends with me on facebook probably have noticed my recent obsession with Noir styled things. From movies to books. I'll admit that the recent resurgence of my interest in this genre was sparked by the video game L.A. Noire. I've already explained the reasons why I love this game on Facebook so I'll refrain from doing it here. That being said, this will hopefully become my contribution to that fascinating realm of fiction.

Now I know that a blog isn't necessarily the best format for this sort of thing. I'm hoping eventually that I'll have a website devoted to this, but at the moment I'm trying to focus on actually writing the story rather than working out the kinks in displaying it. I hope you understand. Speaking of plans, I'm planning on this being a weekly feature. A chapter a week until it's conclusion. Yes, this will have a conclusion, I won't even attempt to try and make this an ongoing thing.

Also, as a little disclaimer, in the interest of actually completing the chapters on time and releasing them on time, I've told myself that I'm going to keep editing down to a minimum. So if there's some grammatical errors, or some sections seem awkward, I apologize in advanced, I'm simply playing this with my characteristics in mind. And when I say that I mean my habit of self-editing myself until I've destroyed what I've written and then eventually scrapping the whole thing. So once again, to avoid this, editing will be kept to a minimum. Consider this a rough draft, who knows perhaps when I finish I'll go back, clean it up and then re-release it.

Alright then, Enjoy the little prologue. I promise next week, there will be a much more substantial chapter next week. Also, expect little blog posts to accompany each chapter where I'll discuss the behind-the-scenes and various other fun things. I hope to get some feedback from you guys as I write this little story.

The Deeds Of Devils and Angels: Prologue

The sun was an oppressive sort of friend. It offered up its light, only if a person was willing to sweat for it. It offered up its heat but only if a man was willing to burn a little for it. Most of the people in the city of New Constantinople were smart enough to keep their time in the morning sun short, but some were forced into it by their callings in life. Or at the very least, by the thing that paid that month’s bills. It was well known that the city had grown dangerous. The night was filled with deadly threats but it was the daytime that revealed the gruesome remains of those treacherous nights.

Two uniformed policemen, Gurrero and Jimenez, stood in the city’s central plaza. A large fountain depicting a trio of angels holding up a replica of the earth offered a little relief for the men. A cool mist floated through the air as water poured from the angel’s eyes into the pool below. The earth upon their hands blocked the sun for the cops. At the feet of the cops laid the rotund body of a well known police captain. No immediate signs of foul play, in fact, if it hadn’t been for a letter delivered to the police station before anyone arrived claiming responsibility for the death, there was nothing about the body that suggested murder. But as it stood, the once well respected captain of police would join the nineteen other bodies, each with their own letter, in the morgue.

The body faced the sky. The sun poured into its blank and lifeless stare. The mist from the fountain had fallen on the body for hours it looked. The grey uniform that was standard for high ranking police officers was nearing a shade of black. Water streamed slowly down the well earned wrinkles on the captain’s face. His lips were slightly parted as if they were frozen in an attempt to say something important.

“My God, it’s the captain all right.” Gurrero said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“I guess we better call it in to headquarters. I’m sure they’ll want a detective on this.” Jimenez said.

“Don’t bother. Just call the coroner, those second floor pencil pushers aren’t even bothering with this anymore.”

“What? Why not?”

“Orders straight from the top I heard.”

“The top? You mean Patricio?”

“That’s Father Patricio, but yeah, the word is he has some guy, an American, coming in sometime soon and he’s supposed to get all this squared away with.”

“You don’t say.”

“That’s right, I don’t say, keep your trap shut. Trust me on this one friend. Just do your paperwork, walk your beat and hopefully soon we won’t be having to deal with this shit anymore.”

The policemen nodded in agreement and began the formalities involved with dealing with a murder victim that would never see an investigation.

The night is a dangerous time in New Constantinople, full of hidden threats, sensationalized villains, and paranoia. But it’s the day that reveals the deeds of devils and angels.

I Come To You Buying Gifts (Blog)

There's a strange and scary practice we do in Western Society that I'm becoming rather tired of. That is of course, the practice of picking up people. When I say picking up people I refer to the act of trying to get someone's attention in order to initiate a romantic relationship with them.

In some cultures, relationships are arranged and the people involved learn to like and love each other. But here it's reversed. We think we know how to love and like someone we just need to learn the person. Now I don't think I'd particularly care for the arranged relationship thing, but I can see how some would think the pros outweighed the cons. The things some people go through to pick up someone is really startling. We buy people drinks, we come up with clever things to say, we put ourselves on the line in hopes that that person will bite plus a ton of other things. It seems like a really complicated set of things we have to do in order to engage in something that's really complicated.

The biggest problem about the whole dance is that there aren't any set rules or processes. Every time you get out on that floor trying to find a partner it's different. A different place, a different person, different words, different everything. All you can do really is pray that you can piece together the right words, looks and gestures from a 100 gallon drum and hope you have the things you need to put together something successful.

Perhaps I'm just bitter about it all because I've never been particularly good at picking up women. I've had a few successes but a whole hell of a lot more failures. I'd be sent back to the minors if my success rate was my batting average. Sometimes I think that little kids got it right. If you like someone, push them down and kick dirt on them. That'd be so much easier.

I Come To You Buying Gifts

A pack of gum

that shall remain a rectangle.

Cigarettes

that will never burn.

A tire pressure gauge

that will never feel the breath of rubber.

One more book of poetry

than I have money for.

I offer up these sacrifices

so that, if you wish it,

you will caress my face

with ten divine digits.

Paint These Weary Dreams In Oil Based Paints (Blog)

I like to consider myself a pretty creative person. Some may argue this and that's okay. But, there's always been a jealousy I've held for people who can create visual art. I myself am not one of these people.

I remember the first real exposure to visual art was when I was very young. Sure I had seen drawings and stuff like that before, but it wasn't until I was around 6 or 7 when I decided that I wanted to be able to do that stuff too. My mom had bought me this painting of a whale, (I really liked whales back then) and it mesmerized me. The way the paint rose off the canvas, the way the painter had used what looked like 1000 different shades of blue to create the perfect colored sea. Everything about it captured my attention. It was after hanging this painting that I begun my fruitless journey into the world of art.

I tried drawing, painting, sculpting, pottery and everything else in between. But nothing I did looked good. Some of it was actually pretty laughable. Art class in school became a hell for me as I struggled with my grand clay sculpture that eventually turned into an ashtray, over and over again. I began to hate the other people around me and how easy images and shapes seemed to flow from their fingertips. This is not an exaggeration, they all made stick figures better than me.

I then made the mistake of growing close with a couple of artists. I found myself in awe of the things my friends had made and once again jealous that I could not. This jealousy actually lead me to start writing. Once I finally resigned myself to a life that would never involve a gallery showing off my work, I turned to words. I wish I could say that I started writing in order to explore the intricacies of the written word, but the truth is, I was tired of watching my friends create stuff I could not.

At this point in my life I'm comfortable with my lack of artistic talent. Perhaps it's because I've grown comfortable with my writing, or maybe it's something else like maturity, but that's probably not the case. Either way I know I'll never have a museum piece and that's just fine. But dammit if I still don't feel that green mist of jealousy flicking my ear when I see a really cool painting.

Paint These Weary Dreams In Oil Based Paint

I have envied the speckled Pollack minds

and the Guayasamin hands.

I have never tasted Warhol branded soup

nor have I tanned under Van Gogh's yellow sun.

My knees refuse to touch the dirt

in front of canvas churches.

Once I tried to hold David's pose

all moring into the Kinkade twilight,

I shook and cracked

in unattractive ways.

But my ears remain attached

and I haven't succumbed to wine.

Not yet at least.

Refresh the Howling Wolves in Digital Moonlight (blog)

I did something today that I haven't done in awhile, I picked up a Rolling Stone magazine. The fact that I bought a print copy of something itself is enough to warrant a blog post but that's not what I want to talk about. Inside this issue was an article called "The Girl Who Played With Fire". The article was about a girl who has an internet persona named Kiki Kannibal. It goes into detail about her rise to internet celebritydom and the horrific backlash she received as a result. This got me thinking about cyber bullying and the internet in general.

I myself have not viewed anything that Kiki Kannibal has done, nor do I intend to. Just simply the description the article gives doesn't really invoke any interest from me. But it sounds like typical vlog type things wrapped up in a fashionable candy shell. For this, Kiki has dealt with people who send death threats, pedophiles, stalkers, animal killers, amoral internet tycoons and essentially the entire rogues gallery of less than stellar human beings. It really is a sad story that broke my heart a little bit and left me wondering why does this stuff happen on the internet so much?

Unfortunately I really don't know for certain but I'm going to attempt to come to some sort of conclusion at the end of these thoughts.

I first started using the internet at home around 1999-2000. At this time I was 12 years old. It was a strange time indeed. The internet was still fairly young, most of its users were fairly young and it was chaos. The term "The Wild West" has often been associated to the earlier days of the internet and it's a surprisingly apt term (well, assuming you're thinking of the romanticized version of the wild west). There were little to no rules. You could essentially do whatever the hell you wanted and it'd be okay. Because at that time the internet just didn't matter. It was a fun little thing but it certainly didn't bleed into the real world. This provided a playground for everyone who wanted to release their personality flaws, pent up rage and frustration that they normally could not express in normal society. I unfortunately was one of them.

I remember pretty well some of the things I said on chatrooms. Hurtful, ignorant and at times downright evil things. I even remember being proud at times of the messed up things I'd come up with. That pride has faded away into guilt and sorriness but that doesn't change the fact that I participated in cyber bullying. Now I consider myself a fairly level headed and well rounded individual. So I have to ask myself, what drove me to be so mean? Like I said previously that the internet was (and still is) a place to be anonymous and release everything you could. But that's not the whole story. There's also this human compulsion to either want to be better or more popular than everyone else or if you can't, attack the one who is better and more popular than you. Both of these motivations seem to lead to the same course of action, bullying. You either insult, threaten or straight up act in a way to establish dominance or remove dominance from someone else. That's just how it works it seems.

This in itself is horrible. It's not how civilized humans should act. But it can get worse. We've all seen the special reports about how internet celebrities eventually get stalkers finding out who they are and coming into their life away from the internet. Let me be clear, I haven't done this. But there are many who have. At some point in their daily routine they lose track of their life. They forget that they're releasing their frustrations with life online because they can't in physical society and they let it all seep out into every facet of their life.

The internet isn't the same place as it was back then. But the same sort of people that made it wild back then are still around. Except now, the internet is almost a vital part of many peoples lives, so the access these tormentors have has increased. It's just masked well behind archaic rule sheets and promises to act properly.

So I suppose that's my conclusion. This sort of torment of other people exists because people in general want to let their anger be known. They want their dominance. They want their popularity and to get it someone has to be hurt in their minds. Then some are not satisfied with the torment they deliver via screens and broadband connections they need those things in person.

Also, I want to apologize to anyone I may have hurt with my own cyber bullying, I know this apology is useless considering the people I may have hurt probably don't read my blog, but it's an attempt. Also I want to wish Kiki Kannibal good luck with her continued presence on the internet and the sincerest hopes that the torment she received stops. That goes for anyone else who has dealt with the things she has.

Refresh The Howling Wolves In Digital Moonlight

The idols, false and attractive

have risen upon numbers and statisitcs

and equally attractive layouts.

They walk brittle lines

more fragile than a nail

severed from the finger.

They count their blinks

in frames per second

and when sleep draws them in

the fleshy world

filled with the hot blooded

knocks wistfully on their bedroom window.

Because The Spinning of The Earth Demanded It (blog)

I feel like the most recent poem below needs a little forward.

Recently, the state of Wisconsin has been plunged into a long debate about education. Whether the actual practice of educating or the circumstances surrounding it. The opinions on this are varied and divisive. But I don't want to go into the politics of it all, I simply wish to give my views on what education really is.

In my mind there are two types of things a person can learn: The sort of things that you learn from instruction, and the sort of things you learn from listening. Now I know that these seem like the same thing at first but let me explain.

Things you learn from instruction are things that you watch, you try and and understand the intricacies of what's around you and then you attempt to mimic them. These sorts of things teach you how to operate in the world. Whether it be social skills or instructions on how to do your chosen job. The world needs these sorts of lessons or else it would fall apart. We need people to know how to do things and how to learn to do new things.

Things you learn from listening are a little bit harder to explain. But basically, these are the things that you learn about yourself. These are the things that show you your reasoning, your motivations, your potential, your desires and personal philosophies. These sorts of lessons teach you what your role in the world is and why. But to learn these lessons I feel that we all need to listen more. Listen to other people, listen to your own thoughts, listen to the world as a whole as it moves around us, listen to a higher power if you believe in one and listen to the examples of those who have done this before you. As soon as you start actually listening to it all you start to process it in your head. You begin to make sense of it all and piece it all together and once you start to do that your opinions of everything begin to get clearer.

Both types of things are incredibly important. The things you learn from instruction are important to the society you belong to and the things you learn by listening are important to your sense of self. So with that said, it's necessary for there to be a place where people have access to both of these things. To me this place is an obvious one, schools. I'm not saying that other places don't exist because they do, what I'm saying is that schools are places that we all have access to in this country. We're instructed by our teachers on the things we need to know to operate, and we listen to everyone around us and learn how we feel about it all. In my mind, the things we learn are necessary to live, so having a place to learn these things is equally necessary. In fact, not only do these places simply need to exist, they need to thrive. They need to be constantly evolving and becoming better as the world changes. They simply cannot fall by the wayside or be sacrificed for some other purpose that may have importance today.

Okay, so I lied a bit and did go a little into the politics, I apologize for that. But in conclusion, there are things out there that we must know to live, and there's things out there we must know to understand why we survive. We can only become necessary members of the world when we attempt to learn both, and to learn both we need places that gives us our lessons.