Bitter Bite: China White

Poverty is a fucking thorn in my side. The unchanging fate of my life falls prey to the tragedy of being yet another commoner – even more so because I’m enveloped by it. I could be worse off, but there’s a cold knife in my gut serving as a reminder that the loss of a roof is closer than it feels. Even the best of us become victims of our environment in one way or another. That or they stick around to plague the rest of us like a sociopath with a magnifying glass. Funnily enough, I’m on the right side of the fence where I won’t be ushered out of town for being a vagrant. It’s waiting for me though, belly up in the shadows. I can already see it drooling as it waits to lick the flop sweat off me like it was Italian seasoning. A revolving door of scoring and loosing money to track marks between the webbing of my toes. Forced to endure smiles around me which erode even the insignificant and mundane details of my life, like being dyed and bleached to smooth out the fallacies they think they need to fix until the bright bits of my identity don’t shine as much as they used to. To make matters worse, all my friends and I are stuck in a smokey corner of a bar with low light and enough sauce to blind us from all the guilt that should be ripping our pathetic hearts to ribbons. It draws me only nearer to the sound of sirens, whom I know want to drown me in their whiskey. They need another hobby at this point. Since mine is to count how many bottle caps I’ve saved in a German stein in a single week, you can bet my sweet vanilla ass that the time between my binges will continue to become significantly fewer; driving me to the gutter I know that wants my backside to keep warm until the night I turn into a cold, blue popsicle for a jogger to find and Fox News to cover. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be lucky if I make it to 60. Until then, I’ll kiss each and every one of those harpies on their snaggle-toothed beak every time I knock one back. At the very least, I don’t smoke anymore – filthy habit. Saves me money too. A leg up to keep me from propping up a tent under a Portland freeway. Boy, do I miss it though. Not the headaches, you see, but the sweet brown oder that sticks to your clothes. The gritty-yellow stains that covered the tips of my fingers, underneath my nails; nicotine practically dripping like an acid trip out of the pores of my thumb. It was a filthy part of me to others, but she didn’t judge me, my mistress. She was the only love that held me without asking. There when I needed her, and as long as a had a pack of Lucy’s in my pocket, I knew that I’d be okay. Jesus, I’m considering having a cigarette just thinking about it.  
Staying on topics that might ruin my life – I should start pretending to be whatever closely resembles a functioning alcoholic/drug addict if I want to stay off the block and keep from selling this sweet peach of mine. I’m not an addict in the traditional sense of the term, not that I don’t wish I could be. Think back to the whole ‘cigarette’ thing from earlier. Trading one mistress for another. When the possibility of that day looks less bleak, hopefully I’ll still have the nuts to slap an eighteen gage needle up the left side of my arm, let the rubber tourniquet loose, and let all that China White sunshine I bought hit me in the ticker so hard I get a nod from the dragon before it even knew I was chasing it; still, it’s tempting to do while I’m young. Maybe all I need is a loyal person around whose a royal bad influence to get me hooked on the junk. Because, shit if If it isn’t true, I could use a friend right about now – lucky for me if I find one, they just better have tar on them. 

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Week 1 Blog Forum

Please don’t call me Ishmael, although I’m a huge fan of Moby Dick, friends and acquaintances like to call me Andy.  I’m a fan of all different types of stories, through all types of outlets. Movies, books, newspapers, fiction, nonfiction; and there are so many ways to tell them. I eventually wan to write stories for a living, and because I have such a thirst for new experiences and knowledge that I feel journalism is the right major to pursue if I want all the questions i have, answered. Although I don’t have much photo taking experience, I’ve used all different types of social media to upload videos and pictures, as well as minimal experience using a blog. Hopefully by the end of this term I’ll be more familiar with the technical end of blogging, but I’d also like to become a part of LBCC’s newspaper The Commuter, and immerse myself in the subject completely. I plan to graduate from the University of Oregon with a degree supporting my pursuit of the side of journalism I end up in. Until then, I’ll continue to focus on assignments that encourage me to learn about what to, and how to, report. I hope I end up shooting pictures of baseball games, something that has to do with the library, and the functionality of how LBCC opperates as an educational institution.

 

 

Burroughed In Grunge 

“They made signs in blood along the way that they went, and their folly taught them that the truth is proved by blood.

But blood is the worst of all testimonies to the truth; blood poisoneth even the purest teaching and turneth it into madness and hatred in the heart.

And when one goeth through fire for his teaching—what doth that prove? Verily, it is more when one’s teaching cometh out of one’s own burning!”

-Nietzsche 

Maybe you’re right, maybe people do idolize him because of his death; and death doesn’t make music, it ceases it. You’re right to think it’s clearly wrong for people to clammer en masse, fumbling over each other every which way and whatnot simply because of HIS death. Men die all the time and great men have always lived, conquered, came, and gone; why should we give two flying fucks about dead men? However, his music was brilliant and people recognized it by not booing him off stage the better he got. The reason his face is plastered all over magazines and news articles and television, still, to this day, wasn’t because he had the grunge rock goddess by the pussy; it was because people were truly saddened by the loss of a musician that was good enough to bring happiness to others and the people that dug his music wanted to see what HE and his music would’ve evolved to become. The shame is that, people can only speculate so much, but his life would have been the only thing that would’ve shown that truth; and therein lies the tragedy. His death halted the probability of his career and fellow artists to maximize their potential and strive towards getting an exhibition in the rock hall of fame. Also, you most certainly cannot deny that, not only did his death contribute to his fandom, but it projected it. How many tens of thousands of people have taken a chance to listen to him because of his story? Wake up, buddy. He lived the fastest life and ended, literally, like a fucking rock star. Take that into perspective for a moment; for what he had, just at his age – his story was fucking brilliant, but his death made him a legend.

Don’t Fucking Die

This is an old Cavalry poem from the civil war era:

I put it before the main body as a means to serve as support for the ending of my letter… 

Halfway down the trail to Hell,In a shady meadow green

Are the souls of all dead troopers camped,

Near a good old-time canteen

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddler’s Green.

Marching past, straight through to hell

The Infantry are seen.

Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery, and Marines,

For none but the shades of Cavalrymen

Dismount at Fiddler’s Green.

Though some go curving down the trail

To seek a warmer scene,

No trooper ever gets to Hell

Ere he’s emptied his canteen,

And so rides back to drink again

With friends at Fiddler’s Green.

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles comes to take your scalp, 

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddler’s Green.

Puke, blood, sand, and pussy; all reflect the embodiment of the limited rotation of what was once our strict regime. If it were blended into bourbon, we’d drink to fill the gap that separates beasts from men leaving our nauseating repugnance to swallow our thoughts and memories into a sweet, black abyss – patiently waiting until mere consciousness robs us of the quality of our lives. Bravado; machismo. All of what they drilled…philistine garbage. We fuck ourselves into greater turmoil the more we remember; fear not, Brother. We will not meet our end by the hand that made us hollow. We will fight to see the beauty and color of our lives returned to us. No longer will the sadness of knowing  we voluntarily shanghaied ourselves into slavery, reinforced by lethal militant dogma, be the deformity which prompts our nation’s leaders to assume the role of ashamed, elitist fathers that hide their errant sons from society. And know that if ever we fall, be it saber or pistol, Engineers aren’t invited to Fiddler’s Green.

“Wild men who caught and sang the sun in
Flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its
Way,
Do not go gentle into that good night”

– Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”

Conductor of Reticence

To me, writing is describing and opening up your deepest and most passionate feelings. I write what my words could never voice. At times, I fall short of being able to project an articulate clarity. I happen to think this is because I can’t place what I speak on the edge of someone’s neck to cradle them. I can’t travel into the canal of their ear and weave from a spindle profound and euphoric thoughts. I can’t soothe the tension of their shoulders by lullaby or even whisper sweet nothings giving comfort in their most delicate or trying times. Maybe not with a voice. But I’ll be damned if I couldn’t overcome my inhibition with words never spoken – only felt when eyes are shut and a symphony of orchestrated elaboration emerges; conducted by my heart, the conduit. It’s my heart that reins me, my passion which drives me, and my body the vessel carrying my indefinite desperation for expression. It’s exactly that which allows me to employ my most cherished gift: Finding the use of my hands over the use of my speech to both feel the world around me and mold it into limitless imaginations. Or to shape it into something more familiar to me. A woman perhaps; personifying my expressions as the paramour she most closely resembles. This, woman; the first time I ran my fingers deeply through her hair, a cloud billowed up a hollow inside my chest and a deluge of ecstasy wound its way through my veins. Even when brushing over the jagged deformities left from tears in my flesh and even when strands from the crown of her head wiggled in and snapped half off inside the cracked calluses of my hands, she felt delicate to me. Healed, but bitter reminders of struggle and pain. Writing nurses the burning I feel every time I catch a glimpse of the shining skin stretched over my broken hands. If there be any end to my voice from here on and after, I’d be comforted still in knowing that my words would never relinquish justice to the ones that are so delicately swayed on paper.

Closed for Repair: Spirit, Heart, Mind

One of these days I’ll quit punishing myself. The river of booze I float down will eventually lower to rock bottom and I’ll begin to walk again. Because walking takes effort, and through the strides of my endeavors I will grow strong again. Lately, it seems I’ve lost the spirit to endure even the slightest of steps. That doesn’t mean it can’t be found. Somewhere inside me is the will to become a better man. Where I left my mind, I surely cannot recollect. But I do know in which direction to search. The thing is, I don’t very much like people, and people don’t very much like me. That’s how things have worked out. Because the trials of my life thus far, I can say that with confidence. Aristotle once said that to endure loneliness, one must be either a beast or a god. Since I fit in neither category I find that I am unfortunately going to live the rest of my life in a place without solitude and continue to be burdened by the compulsion to express myself or face insanity. I’m not naive, I know damn well everyone has their own cross to bear. I carry mine through every strife. Waiting. Wanting.

Fiddler’s Green to Perdition

A pun, a joke 

The filth of folk
He frolics in his folly.

A tear, how queer 

Induced by beer
And shaped by melancholy. 

A lunatic, a maniac 

Death by laugh attack 

Or maybe it was Molly. 

A buzz, a clown 

Turned-up, side down 

 Carried by a dolly. 

Tragic yet simplistic 

 Labeled as sadistic 

No next of kin, no volley.

Fighting Phantasma

All that surrounds me is a black and empty void where I’m free of joy and melancholy alike; suspended somewhere in the recesses of my mind where time is irrelevant and I could just float on forever. More or less a gentle purgatory to contemplate the sins of my past that weigh too heavy on my soul when I’m awake. Here, in the nothingness, I can’t be burdened by the gravity of my transgressions. So far removed from my consciousness that even dreams can’t reach me. If I somehow am unable to make it to this sanctuary at night when I lay my head, terror will come to me in my sleep. The horrors of what once were would haunt me and I would be helpless to fight them off. What a foul malfunction of the brain; eclipsing beyond physical exhaustion and the tearing of muscle tissue only to be worked over by an enemy I can’t put my mitts on. If there’s a way to combat an illness of the mind, I am unaware of how to kill it. So I come back here, to my pit, every night to escape from the affliction of my depraved dreams.