For Gertrude (part two)

days like this, when i sink into contemplation when i cannot help but contemplate over contemplation itself,is there any damn good in it? am i damning myself by trying to find the good in it?am i losing the details of life,as life rushes past all of us at a fair lip, am i not getting my share because i am focusing too much on the details inner details,like i am turning myself blind, like i am holding back my own breath?


what a drag this is..this dragging myself into mental pits,where i have no means or motive for pulling myself out,i cant possibly be the one who can give myself the helping hand out when i am too busy digging the pit deeper.divulging myself in the fact that i have been miserable most of my life and because of such,i have become very good at being miserable;definately better than most,if this is something to brag about,i am not certain,but i feel to brag about it is better than whining about it, legions whine about their problems and i am making an effort to not be a part of the legions so i will embrace this as part of me as it has embraced me as some kind of nest for which it will grow stronger, able to pollenate from this point...i will be either the bee or the flower..either way, there will be more like who i am now.


and such a realization makes me wonder if i myself am comfortable with the concept of more like me, the concept of a mirror image world pressed against my face,is there anything here that tells me that i am not alone, there is nothing that screams sollitude more than your own reflection, and when all the world is practically your own reflection, then you are practically alone.

but then again,in contrast to such thoughts, the idea of many like us only unlike us in enough details for it to seem like individuality may exist is something that may keep us entertained,something that will prevent us from jumping off of a bridge,into some swirling abysmal blackness,to see what would lie next, something in me says it would only be more disappointment..

For Gertrude (part one)

walking to nowhere in particular i was walking in the direction that i was going when i went a little farther that way i realized i may not be aware of the direction and may be following only a whimsey and that whimsey may have no roots in reality, as reality has often pulled its roots from my soil,and in these moments,i try feeling something and i do feel something, but all that i feel is the pulled apart gaps in the soil which were the areas in which the roots of this reality which is gone now, but when i t wasnt it was right here, where these holes were,where these holes are is where my sweet reality was.but not now,now it is not there now is it anywhere that i know of at the moment,but at this moment i can convince myself, or at least try that the moment that is now is one in which i know much less than i will later,later i will know much more and be embaressed
by the holes in the ground which are not even whole holes, they are merely the areas of departure from whre reality was,after it securely fastend itself to me and then exited;it pulled itself away from me,pulled itself out bu the roots.
i wonder whatever could i have done.


the sun is shining to today, this sunny day today, not a cloud in the sky,which is good because a cloud or something such as it would have made this sunny day less so, and then i would have fewer moments to contemplate with the sun on my face of what it is like to have the sun on my face,if it were not on my face at this moment it would only be imagining for the sake of contemplation.it would be myself wondering what if,what if the sun were out, what if when the sun were out a few hot beams hit my face and i was calm and things felt good and i felt more relaxed and better able to focus on things at hand, opening up my hands seeing they are empty,so ask myself what is on my mind and what is most on my mind is why i let such small trivial things rest on my mind such as they do...


but there is little to do for the mind, other than to do dwell i realize, and if one does not, all the mind does is grows slow and therefore, weak in a sad,limp way,so perhaps it is best to simply walk into the clouds than to not be able to go anywhere at all, the times like this that i go here and there but not really ro anywhere at all are the times when such thoughts are most justified by my own mentality that spinning ones wheels even without destination is better than sinking into the ground, i am not ready for death, i may not be ready to further my llife,but for death i am even less prepared, for death is ones last move, and i have no idea how i could add some kind of brief glory to this..i would however want the last thing that i do to have some kind of lasting worth, even if not long lasting,i would want it to last longer than the fading sensations of neurons and the prayers that most people would say at that time,drifting off into space, these words herded into prayer,looking for some kind of god to latch themselves onto. is that the purpose of prayer,or even words in general?to drift from our mouths like moths hoping to find an audience like a flame of light-bulb that we confuse for the moon?

The pheasant hunters

the most annoying damn bird in the world is the pheasant
and vale was infested with them ; pheasants have a tendancy to fly into the windshields of oncoming cars, we never said"i hit a pheasant with my car" we said"a cocksucking pheasant hit my car"
every windshield in vale had cracks in it due to one of those funny looking bastards,their black necks and multi-colored bodies made them look like the transvestite priests of the animal kingdom.even cooks dont like them,pheasant under glass is really pigeon.


i was never really a hunter type
but was happy to join my friends tim and chance to go turn a bunch of those damn things into heaps of scattered feathers before they had the chance to do so themselves with our windshields.
the three of us were all 16 at the time, and had been familiar with rifles for about 8years by that point i remeber when i was 10, my mom made sure i had daily practice,just in case i had to shoot my dad;i became a really good shot, but by the time i actually had to,we were out of bullets.
i was writing in the back of chances pick up,tim in the passenger seat with the barrel of his 12 gauge sticking out the window as we cruised the back roads,waiting for some to come out of the corn fields...
soon, we see three of four of them coming our way,
tim finding no reason for us to stop the truck,sticking his body half way out the window with rifle in hand yelling "WELCOME TO VALE,YA STUPID SONS A BITCHES!"
he fired,got one,another rammed into the grill of chances pick-up,
and another went in a different direction


another time the three of us were doing the same on foot with tims birddog, budweiser.
budweiser went to get a fallen bird,but instead of bringing it back,we ran into another feild with it in his mouth to bury it,
we all ran calling him, tim shouting his name, me and chance yelling :C;MERE YA PILE A SHIT!"
tim saying it was no use,his dumb dog dont speak american.


it was really the last time the three of us hung out
afterwards,we didnt see each other as much,and a couple years later chance was killed when pulling a rifle from his dads gunrack the safety was on and the barrel was pointed his way,it went off.
i finally got out a while later
tim,on the other hand
stayed in vale, still a hunter,got married and has 3kids
works as a minimum wage box boy in the grocery
and is quickley becoming a drunk like his old man
he says he is happy,but i cant help but think that 2 of the three of us escaped...

Sorry...

I KNOW I HAVE BEEN NEGLECTING THIS BLOG FOR SOME TIME, THE TWO OR THREE PEOPLE WHO READ THIS,TO YOU I GIVE MY SINCERE APOLOGIES.
THE MAIN REASON FOR MY DELAY IS THAT I HAVE A PUBLISHER FOR MY NOVEL AND I HAVE BEEN PERFECTING IT,HENCE,NOT DOING ANYTHING WITH THE BLOG THAT WAS SPECIFICALLY FOR SAID NOVEL. I WILL POST SOMETHING UP AT SOME POINT THOUGH, MORE PLAYS, MORE ESSAYS,
I WILL RETURN TO HERE....