Lunatic Fringe

'Time leans on us all, old friend.'I remember saying to him, as he leaned in against me instinctively, reflexively. As if I could protect him against the attack of years. I wonder if he knows this, and I thought some more in the silence that followed what I had said. 'They'll find me too, and then I'll follow you.' The best I could say to the truth of what he may have been thinking. I guess I just hope I was listening too. And still the thoughts of a young man persist. I imagine they'll carry me to a certain point some time from now. And then one fine day...They'll act on strict orders, and leave me as I found them: Confused. And indifferent, if I'm lucky. I too can remember being innocent. But that was only because of a dearth of instinct, and a lack of desires. I don't have these problems anymore.

All the day long, on paper I endeavor to make the world connect. It seems like all the letters and numbers and figures are, like my life somehow, in the shape of a heart, or some distant star. A straight line is the closest thing I’ve seen that can successfully draw together two distant things. Just as a straight line is the easiest way to say that some things should not be, that two people never were . It’s something like a bullet, something like erasing with ink. But it’s nothing like trying, crossing things out is nothing like forgetting, because it’s all still there. I try to make everything connect, a lifetime of related revelations, stretched across a lifeline of gray and memories and ink. A stained page full of blank translations of mental pictures of what a thought ought to sound like. In this way you’ve written on my soul, that’s your straight line to my heart, that’s what connects me to you. I guess I don’t get the heart thing though, at least on paper, but it’s all in how y...

Some days it all seems so close, like the right words would lead me right to where you are. Most days though I feel every single mile between us, and you for your distance, remain unmoved. Indifference between two people is the most difficult sort of pain for the person who isn’t, and there’s nothing that can be done when nothing is wrong. But if words were the stuff of bridges, I’d build one to span the miles, and traverse the years, to bring me to where you are now, in the flesh I love, and in the mind I cannot reach, the easy part would be to carry you across. I’d deal with the kicking and screaming later. Admittedly these are easy decisions for one of us, as a broken record does not change it’s tune. I believe I’d serenade you every night if you wanted me to, but I trust we both know singing would never advance my case. But changing your mind is as simple a thing as building a bridge with nothing but words, or raising the dead, or changing the past on a whim, or pretending to know ...

When the blood on my hands has been washed and cleansed: the time in my life I will begin again. When the ink is dry on all my sins - there will be time enough to begin again. When my thoughts are clear of the things I've been, will there be time in my life to begin again?

The Saint Anthony Falls Bridge took me over the Mississippi once, I looked out to see where the 35W lay, not too long after it took it's bow into that big river. And I spent a few days of a winter blowing around Iowa, I ran up and down a highway of the same number, near a different river, though, the Des Moines. The one that gave that city it's name. I don't know how much I liked those places, maybe one a little more than the other, but that could've just been because of the sunshine, and how one was a little bit nicer than the other. Or at least warmer, anyways. I bet it's still windy on the run down from Ames. I fell in love on 35, too. Somewhere outside of Waco, it was a hot night, and I had a feeling like something was there, just out in front of me, the kind of thing headlights don't pick up on. Maybe it was coming in through the windows, or maybe it was that song on the radio. I guess it just could've been that Texas weather they're always talking ...

Perhaps the strangest truth of life is that even a million years from now is still closer than yesterday. For time will never come again. We remember, but we cannot return.

I can see you are like me, most morose friend. These are not words of comfort, these thoughts between you and I, are not a safe harbor, nor a place to find shelter from the things that some day may be. This is common ground we tread now, your furtive glances see the same as mine. Our misgivings are born of the same realities. When did you come to this secret? Where did you first walk that you realized the thorns which held strong were lacking for the rose? This thing is true, a sad truth that is held for much longer than the rose, though the bards do not espouse it, such a thing does not make it any less true. But be certain, such things should not harden the heart, and you should not shrink from the joys which life will assuredly afford you, quite the opposite. You would be well served to lose yourself, as earnestly, and wholly as you can, in whatever it is that breaks against the odds, and runs for sunshine. For this is not the rule, these things are neither promised, nor certain, de...

Anonymous (A): so awesome quote in [a] book i thought you would like A: Personal affection is a luxury you can have only after all your enemies are eliminated. Until then, everyone you love is a hostage, sappng your courage and corrupting your judgment. -Orson Scott Card Me: And who/what does he propose these enemies are? A: well i don't kno who his were the author just quotes him cause it's relevant to her story line Me: Yes, but whats the story line? its meaningless for sure outside of context. A: really? i always put things into my own context anyway, but in the story bella wasn't supposed to have a baby and people will be coming to try n kill it. A: without that part i thought the everyone you love being hostage was meaningful to me anyway Me: I dont think it makes any sense. A: i guess i can't explain it Me: I'm sure you could explain it as it relates to the story, but as a stand alone idea its supposition at best. A: well, not entirely, like when ...

Cleaning grave sites is perhaps the most contemplative activity there is. It was, I suppose, what one would call unseasonably cold today. Compounding this being so was an intermittent breeze, not strong enough to be noticed, but vital enough to be real. And with the late afternoon soon peering in beneath the brim of my hat there is no room for immediate, or familiar thoughts. Just the sort that linger. To think that there will be someone I've not yet met, or as yet has not been created who will care enough for my remains after I have left this place is mind-boggling. But I do my best not to press this issue, to those before me, or the phantoms after. There is no room for thought here, though there is plenty of time enough to think. More succinctly it is not recommended, I cannot. The confrontation with finality is all too intimate here, and all too abrupt. To be certain. It troubles me to think I struggle with the thoughts of an old man, then again there are just as many dead whose...

I lead inside a girl I knew twice in two different past lives, this is all past tense now, so read it as such. Arm in arm you might say, determined to forge ahead, away from what we both lacked. I’m not sure if I ever really took a shot, if I did I half suspect we never would’ve kept formalities intact this long. Love or hate, love or hate for and from them all, is the rule of engagement as far as she’s ever known. The rule this night was indifference, however, and she chased a name as soon as we hit the door, I was left alone, to face the world, and a crowded floor. To my left a name I myself knew, an old friend calling my own, and I joined their party. One true friend and a bunch of false ones, for they were not known. But that is an old friend’s worth, you will accept his lot, if for no other fact greater than the one that he was willing to accept you. We ate meals that had no name, from dishes that had no shape. And all about silence abounded, lest the lights should flicker and fin...

H1N1 will be back, in the fall. And I'd guess in a much more formidable incarnation, much like the outbreak in 1918. You heard it here first.

Most afternoons the old man would take his walk through town. He would stroll idly, though with a gait and pace which readily betrayed his age to those he would pass before. The hours would winnow away in this same idle fashion, some days with a breeze blowing through the trees which had grown here, their years mirroring this man’s. Other days rain, other days a hard sun, and still other days nothing, or more truthfully those other days were too perfect to ever be worth writing about. Perfect days are full of incomplete, and half thoughts. And if nothing ever comes of them but happiness, then all the better. But the breezy days, they were always the most pensive. The wind whistled down the same streets as this man, sometimes through familiar haunts, sometimes breathing change. The casual observer would be unable to match the elderly man’s thoughts though, on days like this. A vacant lot would elicit a frown, for a house- and a family it once sheltered within- long gone. The large trees...

Aliens come to get you when you're dying. The stars are moving against us. Can be seen in the sky, flying around, like fireflies. I try to shoot them down, blow them up, try to run them away. Someone close figures it out. Figures out he’s dying. These aliens are coming for him. These aliens are coming for me, too. Tonight we fight like brothers, for the light. The light of tomorrow, the light of the dawn to come. We’re fading away, we’re fading away. We’re sparkling, but we’re fading away. So we fight them off, we chase them away. We’ve won. We’ve won. Will it last?

From the Washington Post: "I have decided to run for re-election in 2010 in the Democratic primary," said Specter in a statement. "I am ready, willing and anxious to take on all comers and have my candidacy for re-election determined in a general election." He added: "Since my election in 1980, as part of the Reagan Big Tent, the Republican Party has moved far to the right. Last year, more than 200,000 Republicans in Pennsylvania changed their registration to become Democrats. I now find my political philosophy more in line with Democrats than Republicans." President Obama was informed of Specter's decision at around 10:25 a.m., according to White House officials, and reached out to the senator minutes later to tell him "you have my full support," and we are "thrilled to have you." Specter as a Democrat would also fundamentally alter the 2010 calculus in Pennsylvania as he was expected to face a difficult primary challenge next year...

To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour. -William Blake, Auguries of Innocence. I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame And every time I pass that way I always hear my name Then onward in my journey I come to understand That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand. -Bob Dylan, Every Grain of Sand. Each grain of sand a tiny work of art. Absolutely one of my favorite ideas, a wonderful visual representation of the idea I've always tried to convey.

When I think about how you leave me hanging, it all really falls away until I'm left to lie about where it all went wrong. Just about ever right now you're my re-occurring daydream. On good days I bet against banks of morality where I have no account. I wager I'm soon to write all my sins away, a vice of a bid pitting all I may imagine against all the wicked things I've done. I'm certain I'll balance the books a second before I reach hell. Irony: burning eternally a moment after I cease to burn for you. And on bad days payments are called to interest, and I'm left with just my thoughts- for the devil takes his due in the things I might have said to make this all better- and they're all made of gasoline. My brain becomes as much a funeral pyre as a drowning place for well intentioned thoughts. Laboriously, I stoke the embers of memory which smolder here. I wonder incessantly why your father ever bid you carry a flame for me. It is in that instant before i...

I'll lay on the couch in a silk bathrobe, dazing in and out of consciousness... you can write me wonderful stories... ... A muse with a missive. Muses inspire creation. I have thought of words to match these visions in the morning. At the midday I rested and pondered not except what was before me. In the afternoon I sought reason in distraction, in time I pondered words to convey these visions. In odd intervals I would speak, in odd moments I would not. In the evening I go to places where men seek happiness, and find a semblance of reason in the plaintiff woes of the day. My problems steal away, I am soothed by the solace of the implacable task before me: Chronicling these silken visions. I think in a vibrant blue, thought-streams patterned after places I've never been. In the night I scheme on words to accompany your suggestions, I can think of none but what you have said most succinctly. These days are wrought with conspiracy to bring to fruition the promise of "lost day...

Was there time yesterday love? When last we laid down? The night progressed until everything went backward. But the past cannot be revisited, just remembered. Was it a game in the hallway, when we came together? You smoking just like you swore you never would, me on fire like I swore I’d never be again. Here beside me, the silence is disquieting, everything is calm, I’m writing my thoughts onto the small of your back. You are asleep, and I know no one will ever read these words, least of all you. I have no paper, I have no pen, just flesh on flesh, fingers whispering lithely of mortality on pages the world will never read. I half-think the great bards would weep, could they read the thoughts written here. Quaintly, I saved them all this time, for a day I knew would come, to share them only with you. Quickly, these emotions steal away from me, if only they could find your heart, speak to the places where my words fail. My time is short, all things are that way between you and I. I cry h...

I’ve been distracted lately. More busy than distracted, but the two relate. Quite simply I’m torn between what I should share and what is best kept inside. To be certain there are thoughts so morose that I’d never share them, out of consideration for anybody I care about enough to share with. I wonder if I’m doing anyone a favor in these instances, just like I hope there’ll be a time for these stories to tell themselves. For better or worse this is what life’s about. I acknowledge I’m in a coping stage of course, coming to grips with certain things, entertaining certain ideas, letting certain things go. Hemingway said what we win in Boston, we lose in Chicago. I relate that to people. Certain things end, and others begin. We lose old friends; we make new ones, or regain old ones. I had a brilliant conversation last night with my prodigal son, only he is a she, and a one-time love interest. Once we had dispensed with the how has your life been’s to rehash the last year or so we got to t...

All these roads going nowhere. My eyes on everything except what’s in front of us, we’ll get there soon enough though, I know. Hundreds of different streets, they were somedays once too. Just like me, I could’ve been any one of them. But not today, for me, maybe someday. Hundreds of streets. Millions of different houses, unique to each all are questions they beg. Special to all are their outlooks on the world. I wonder what they could’ve told me- maybe shown something different- if they were mine. Maybe too if I knew something different I’d be there now- in the instant just passed- intent on seeing for the first time something I’ve missed for just this long. There is so much left to know in each and every one of them, and really, to me, that makes them all the same. I suppose they’ve shown me something already. Or maybe I’d be half a world away from here, had I known that something sooner, indifferent to these possibilities though, these ideas and places just passed, pass me by. They’v...