Zveshi

My Blue Flower

2010-02-18T17:34:00.001-08:00

I see her,
oh, how I see her.
In a field of thorn filled roses,
she breaks out, she stands out.
The wind pressures her to hide,
the sun asks her to stand strong.
Being surrounded by fake flowers,
she feels compelled to be compared.
My blue flower glows bright,
even while hit with the darkest rain.
Brushed with the surrounding pollen,
she resists turning to the roses.
Petals now bruised with blush,
unable to appreciate her reflection.
Waiting for the morning dew,
removing red and turning blue.
My precious Violet smiles again,
she is, who she is meant to be.
I lend my hand from far away,
my blades of grass swear an oath.
If I can't protect your heart,
I promise to surround it.

Standing

2010-02-10T18:17:00.001-08:00

Looking at the dust on my feet watching it evaporate before my eyes holding close the memory of exotic blossoms that filled the air with eye watering aromas.
The open garden is now closed for all the world to not see.
Keep your hands away from the fence lest you be grasped by the corrupt open mind.
Many have fallen for the choice, many more will fall.
Blank boards holding nothing but lies, erased over petty feuds.
Standing in the middle with no way out.
All directions lead to something unbearable, something unwise to stand for.
Staying in the middle not for the beauty that was once there but for the beauty that needs to come back.
A beauty of voice, a beauty of opinion, a beauty of power.
In vain, in dust.
Standing in something that can't come back.

Zveshi

Nightfall story

2010-01-19T19:27:00.000-08:00

I have been absent from this blog for awhile. Sorry about that. For those of you who wonder if/when I will write anything on here again, the answer is yes. And even if it isn't anything new I will try to post previously unpublished materials that I have way back in the archives.

The following is kinda of dark and relies heavily on imagery.

~~~
Nightfall story- 2008

Blood stains of a bowl cling to strings under the shadow of a chair. revolving. drip. revolving. drop. The shadow takes over the scent causing the maggots to dance. As the chair takes the last rotation of the night, a hand falls out of shadow. The pool of darkness consumes the hand much like it hides the maggots. The string has fallen and disappears. Sunlight pulls the dark curtain away revealing the tools of demise. The tools have become cold throughout the night and are no longer a threat. The dancing maggots have run off leaving marks from their feast. The chair has no more shadow, leaving the hand exposed for the flashing ink. The bowl has a story to tell.

Deleterious frog

2009-08-30T20:56:00.000-07:00

Old post, but I had to post something :)
~~
Our search tonight follows the deleterious frog. Hopping along his golden pads that can hold only one, lest they be taken under the crimson swamp. He is startled when a female crosses his path. The immortal deleterious frog cannot fall in love so he does not look for long. Reminded of course of the crimson swamp beneath his feet. The swamp takes all the ignorant deleterious frogs who beleive in love. The male deleterious frog hops away hunting for a reason to stay away from the female that caught his eye. After passing the mimicking flies, suitable as food for anytime, the deleterious frog turns back for the female. Ignoring the mimicking flies for a second time he returns to the female only to see another male, an older male, within one hop. Knowing he is no match for the older deleterious frog, he stands back and watches the older male jump to the females pad. The young male deleterious frog watches the two sink to the bottom of the swamp. He realizes again that love at first sight is not worth his youth.

The path of love

2009-07-30T18:37:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if this is something I should continue and expand, let me know what you think
~~
The statues cry. A fallen solider is dragging himself with one arm along a stone path. He leaves behind him a path of red and black blood. Holding his wound with one arm and dragging himself towards his lover with the other arm. Even the pain of coughing is unimaginable. Determination and love is the only thing that has kept him alive this long. The statues stand motionless, unable to help. They have seen the man walk down this path at night many times. They have seen him running away from them, in the morning, wearing only underwear with the rest of his clothes in his arms, many times. They are left to watch the mans agony. They watch the man become like them. Motionless.

My brain knows what I want to say. My body, does not

2009-07-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

Time makes fools of us all. Specifically, the required time needed for you to project a semi-understandable speech pattern. It may come to no surprise to some of you that my sleep pattern is not what most people would consider 'normal'. To be normal, I should be on Toronto/New York time, when in fact I seem to be on Vancouver/California time. My (out in the world) job allows me to have this sleep schedule. The pattern that I have developed, though trying to recalibrate, allows me to remain alert in the later hours of the day while some of my colleagues are resting their head in the hands. However, when I miss sleep altogether I am forced to focus beyond instincts.

Feet, walk. Lips and tongue, speak. Those, I can grasp. Not stumbling or stuttering is what my exhausted mind does not allow. It seems the effect that sleep deprivation has on me, is that of the same to the effect of alcohol on my system, excluding the vomiting and/or constant requirement to relieve the bladder. When my coherence is compromised I am almost always aware of this, even when mental exhaustion, alcoholic inebriation and sleep deprivation are combined. Messages on how to compensate are sent to the rest of the body but more often than not, they are not received. If I could say that Murphy's law didn't become the elephant in the room during these compromised moments, I would. *wow* I would be happy if it was true. Unfortunately, new female infatuations always seem to be introduced to the equation during my compromised moments. Of which I have been having far too many of lately. Compromised moments (due to sleep deprivation), not female infatuations.

It has been some time since I have had a normal (there is that word again) romantic relationship. I have had relationships, sleep overs and afternoon delight but the truly intimate part, still escapes my romantic entanglements. What my aging body and mind seem to long for, is what I can't seem to get. "There has got to be one face and one pair of eyes, that will light me on fire when they're looking in mine." I must now digress, if I don't, I will go further off topic.

Predictable behaviour patterns from my seemingly civilized peers indicates that I should be out having inebriated, drug induced 'fun' inspired and motivated by the libido, during the late hours that I am most awake. These escapades may serve their purpose for those who choose to live with no regrets but I can't change who I am. In the end, I would be lying to myself and those around me by faking the fun. Bouncing around from party to party and partner to partner, as if life is one of those inflatable fun houses, can be entertaining and stress free. All until someone pops the fun house and you have to leave. Most people that populate those fun houses are children whom have yet to grow up.

It is true that throwing caution to the wind to enjoy life and forget all the stresses around us has to be done from time to time. Just don't pop the fun house, and be sure to get enough sleep to be awake but not so much that you are no longer alive.

Making up for what?

2009-07-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

For the life of me I still do not fully understand why (a certain percentage of) women obsess over make-up products. I do have my theories though. "A little lipstick never hurt anyone" as long as you ignore the lipstick that Poison Ivy used. Though I am still trying to figure out why that same lipstick doesn't hurt her...ok, so ya, losing my train of thought here.

Let's say that you are a not-so-attractive female, (I'm not saying you are. I am sure you are a lovely looking woman, even if you are actually a guy. I mean c'mon it's 2009 people are allowed to be whatever gender they want to be.... ok, wow, losing my train of thought again) with this in mind you decide that maybe a little make-up will hide those 'imperfections', so you use some make-up. A more attractive woman see's that you have 'improved' your outer appearance and she feels that you have become more attractive than her. Being threatened by this, she decides to get a different type of make-up to make her stand out better. An even more attractive looking woman sees that the attractive woman is standing out better and is in turn, threatened by this. So she decides to find even better make-up... Rinse, wash, repeat.

This circle continues for awhile and more than just you, the attractive woman, and the more attractive woman are involved. After the bar for beauty has been risen to an unreachable height, with the aid of make-up and photoshop, you *the not-so-attractive female* (only for this example remember) contemplate the idea of plastic surgery. DO NOT DO THIS.

The only time that I feel plastic surgery is EVER an option is when it is used to heal burn/other accident victims or when it improves your living conditions. "If I had the same nose as *insert hottest new starlet* my life would be better". That is not what I mean by improved living conditions and don't fool yourself into thinking that. Improved living conditions means that having the surgery will improve your sight, sense of smell/breathing ability, hearing etc.

Looking at that third yacht the plastic surgeon down the road bought, it's obvious that not all plastic surgeons have the same views I do. Although the view from a yacht, after you have sold your morals and ethics, could be nice. (I think I'm getting off track again)

Make-up companies and plastic surgeons don't care about how you feel about yourself or even how you look, they care about the money you give them. Yes, there are make-up companies and surgeons that say "if you use too much of this, it won't look pretty" but they are few and far between.

Beauty is you, not who you think you see in the mirror. That blemish, pimple, scar or wrinkle is not as bad as you think it is. Now if you do want to use a little bit of make-up because it gives you confidence and takes you mind off your 'imperfections', ok, fine, I can't argue with that. But please keep in mind that using a pound of make-up (not an over exaggeration) won't cover that void you think you are filling. Your face should not be treated like a painters canvas.

Taxi delivery

2009-07-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

This may get worked into the novel that I am working on. So, for you few lucky ones reading this, enjoy the sneak peek into some character background.
~~

I was born in a fog of darkness. The taxi driver reportedly said, that they couldn't even see my mothers face, the fog was so thick that night.

My mother had no car and my father left at the first sign of the bump that would later become me. The night I was born my mother was woken up by a taxi driver dropping off a slobbering drunk, our neighbor Vince, at 1am. My mothers' water had broken as the driver was turning off the 'taxi' light. She could only see two red glowing circles backing towards her but she knew that only a taxi would be able to bring Vince home. She stopped the driver and ask if they could manage one more trip. At first the request was turned down, partly because it didn't seem worth it with the weather conditions but mostly due to the irritable mood still lingering after dealing with Vince. Only when my mother turned toward the end of the street could the driver make out her silhouette. The nine month bump forced the mood to become a more sympathetic one.

Sam, the taxi driver, called in the pick up to the dispatcher and emphasized that the hospital was the destination. Apologizing to my mother for being somewhat belligerent earlier the taxi driver was back on the clock. My mother accepted and understood why Sam just wanted to go home. After all, Vince isn't easy to get along with even when he is sober. A post bar visit plus midnight trip with Vince is almost never worth the aggravation for anyone who decides to take him home. The only benefit to taxi drivers was that Vince's employer pays very well to make sure he gets home safe each night.

On a clear day, the hospital is no more than 10 minutes from where my mother lived. However, after about 30 minutes of driving through the thick fog, I was ready to greet the world. The first time my mother gave in to my demands was when she told Sam to stop the car. Sam had no choice but to stop the taxi and think back to any medical show where a child was being born.

Sam opened the door behind the drivers seat and my mother had already worked herself into what she thought would be the most comfortable birthing position. From what I have been told, there is no "comfortable" birthing position. After the 15th agonizingly painful push and loud scream, Sam was relieved to hear sirens getting closer. The dispatcher was notified that no taxi had arrived at the hospital and that they were sending an ambulance to find them. Street names and quick routes were what the dispatcher was meant to know and they provided the hospital with the most likely route.

It only took the ambulance one minute to reach the cab from the hospital. I was already making good progress with my escape before Sam switched out with a better suited professional. Moments later, I was born into the unlit fog. Except for the temperature change and voices, I bet I thought the outside was the same as the womb. I don't think I even knew light existed until my mother and I were put into the ambulance and taken to the hospital.

My mother didn't have to pay for the trip because Sam was unable to arrive at the specified destination. If she had not been persuaded that night by my determination to leave the womb, my name wouldn't be Sam.

My bouncy ball

2009-07-19T09:18:00.000-07:00

A twitter short story (TSS)

Bouncing was its heart. Bouncing was its soul. Bouncing 'till it could bounce no more. What is a ball with no heart and soul?

My Best-Friend

2009-07-18T08:36:00.000-07:00

This is something a wrote a few months ago. Some of you may have already read it. The reason I'm posting it now is that (at least at this very moment) I'm not really in the mood to do a blog entry. - enjoy.
~~
The door was wide open by the time I got there. Everything was gone, everything. The walls were bare, holding only silhouettes of shelves and paintings. They even took the throw carpets that my colleagues gave me for a house warming gift because I told them I didn't need anything. I heard a small noise coming from the bathroom. I opened the door and there she was, all 38 pounds of her. She was huddled against the wall guarding the last bottle of $4 shampoo. Her terror controlled body was telling her to be afraid, of me. The empty rooms behind me were no longer on my mind, she was my priority. I took a step forward and for the first time I heard a growl emerge from her. I had nothing really to be a afraid of but I didn't want to scare her anymore than she already was. I sat where I stood, right next to copper pipes that used to hold my pedestal sink. I talked to her in a soft voice, letting her know that it was over and she didn't have to be on guard anymore. Her muscles loosened a small amount and I lifted my hand to reach for her and she growled again, louder. I pulled back and reached into my pocket for my cell phone, finally deciding to call the police. I spent the next 15 minutes talking to my companion, hoping that at one point she would recognize my voice and snap out of her fear induced trance.

I heard a car pull into the drive-way. Amazing what you can hear when no material things are blocking your senses. My companion let out another drawn out growl. A knock came to the door immediately followed by an obnoxiously loud bark that made me jump back and probably hurt her vocal cords. I left my guard-dog, walked down the hallway and re-entered my living room, expecting to see a couch, bookshelf and a table. My eyes convinced me that the room was empty and I had no choice but to believe them. The emptiness of the room once again took over my thoughts and I couldn't do anything but take a deep breath. Another knock came to the door followed by another loud bark from the bathroom. The bark brought a smile to my face, she was letting me know that she was still on guard. I got to the wide open front door where the officer was patiently waiting. The very attractive officer might I add. I explained that the house was empty when I got home and that they took everything, well almost everything. I had a $4 bottle shampoo guarded by a very determined puppy.

I escorted the officer to the bathroom where my companion was. Still guarding the shampoo, still not giving an inch. The officer walked toward the canine giving their full officer title. I think that was for my amusement more than the guard-dog. Without any effort the officer was able to pat the puppy on her head and calm her down. The officer reached into a leather pouch connected to a belt the matched the rest of the uniform and pulled out a latex glove. Holding on the glove the officer reached for the bottle and was greeted with a growl. I laughed a bit, the officer looked back at me and I apologized for my outburst. The officer explained that the bottle of shampoo appeared to have a small amount a blood on it and could be a very important piece of information. My little guard-dog did a good job.

I imagined the thieves throwing my puppy into the bathroom while they took everything from the other rooms. She guarded what she could and when one of the thieves tried to take the last thing in the house, she bit them. Realizing the bottle wasn't worth the effort, they left. Not realizing that what they left behind was vital, in more ways than one.

Duck duck goose

2009-07-17T08:37:00.000-07:00

I recently starting wondering if the game "duck duck goose" was created and played by adults in the early 1900's. I can picture a group of well established, semi-drunk, 20 somethings standing in a circle. One person would be walking around that circle, similar to the way children play it now but with some small differences. As they pass each person they would pat them on the shoulder and say duck, when they say goose however, they grabbed the persons butt. The rest of the game plays out the same as our updated version but with far more drinking and far more tripping over your own feet. I also think that's where the phrase "goose"* came from.

*Goose means that you have grabbed someones butt, usually in a playful manner.

A little love and pixie dust.

2009-07-15T11:00:00.000-07:00

Her shadow is what I remember most. The way she always posed as Peter Pan any time she snuck up behind me.

We were both five and it was our first day of school. I was sitting in a sandbox when she first did the pose and when we met."I'm youth, I'm joy, I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg!" That was the first thing she ever said to me.

She had just seen Hook and begged her parents to tell her more about the man that was once a boy. Only days after seeing the movie, her parents stumbled upon a yard sale that had copy of Peter Pan that was published sometime in the 1920's. They thought it would keep her happy for a little while. They definitely underestimated the power of Pan. They also had no idea that she would teach herself how to read from it, after having memorized every word.

It quickly became a tradition for her to read Peter Pan the week before her birthday. I guess it was a way for her to remind herself that she was still young. Anytime she complained that she was growing up, I reminded her that I was two months older than her. Though that did seem to work every time, she still treated me like a younger brother.

She took me to almost every production of Peter Pan that she could find. The first one I saw was when I was eight. The two things I remember most from that night were that she didn't want her parents to sit near us and that she said every single line as they were being said on stage. That's when her shadow and greeting finally made sense to me.

As the years went on, less and less of our friends knew about her secret love for Peter Pan. Anytime someone was in a slump she would say "I'll teach you to jump on the wind's back, and away we go." I was the only that knew where she got it. She loved Pan, I loved her and was to afraid to say it out loud. I would always play the Wendy to her Peter, even though that did give me a little bit of a complex.

The day before her 18th birthday I was walking home from work and noticed a book sticking out of my mailbox. At first I didn't know what it was because she never let anyone see or touch it. When I pulled it out I read the title and instantly knew something was wrong.

The twenty minute walk by road took me two at the speed I was going and with all the shortcuts I took. I made my way through the last few trees that opened up into her back yard to see that sirens were flashing out front. I stopped dead in my tracks. I didn't want to think that she didn't want to grow up and that 18 was seen as an adult. My chest got tight, my throat was sore, tears were making their way up and I must have whispered 'no' fifty times in one breath. I dropped the book as she was walking out of her back door.

Selfishly, I was relieved to see her. I still knew that something was very, very wrong. Her face was blank and she was staring right at me but I knew she didn't even see me.

I made my way to her and she said "I can't be a kid anymore." I didn't want details, I knew I would get those later. She asked me to take her away. I told her "I'll teach you to jump on the wind's back, and away we go." Her legs collapsed beneath her and she fell into my arms.

We began to walk to my place using the short cuts and I finally caught my breath. I was sure to pick up the book as we passed it and I didn't notice that some paper fell out. Roughly half way home we had stopped and sat on a large tree stump. She explained to me what had happened as best she could threw the tears.

Her mother had dropped her off at my place before she knew if I was home or not. She wanted to give me her Peter Pan book and tell me something that she had just realized. After waiting for 10 min with no-one coming to the door, she reached into her purse and tore out a piece of paper from a notepad. She wrote something simple and to the point "You mean more to me than Peter Pan"

She then walked home taking the road and noticed the same flashing lights that I had seen moments later. She walked into the house to hear her mother crying and to see two EMT's using a defibrillator on her father. She didn't break stride and went all the way to her back door. A heart attack hit her father hard and fast, just as her mother was walking back into the house. Nothing could have been done.

She never celebrated her 18th birthday or any others after that. To me that meant that she never grew up.

A few very good years past and I finally mustered up the courage to ask her mother for her daughters hand in marriage. She said I could but only if I did it right.

On the opening night for Peter Pan I found her backstage getting ready for the show as the title character. I decided to hand her a card because I knew I wouldn't say the line right. She opened the card and was surprised to see pixie dust fall out on the table. The prop crew was more than willing to part with it after I told them what it was for. The card was simple and to the point, it read "All you need is trust and a little bit of pixie dust. Will you marry me?"

Connected relationships

2009-07-14T22:26:00.000-07:00

I adore so many types of women. I even prefer their company over the company of my own gender, lets get that out of the way right now. I will admit though, there are some situations where I don't want the opposite sex to be a part of (if you say otherwise, I won't believe you).

I have been told by more than I few women, that I am a nice guy. I was under the assumption that girls like nice guys(nice simply meaning that you care about someone). However, not too long ago I was talking to a female friend of mine and I made her cringe when I started talking about how guys should be caring and sympathetic to their partners needs and vice-versa. To be honest her reaction threw me off and confused me. She then proceeded to explain to me what she wanted from her boyfriend and what she was willing to do for him... to each their own I guess. Is the expression 'nice guys finish last' true in relationships as well?

I understand that each person has their own preferences and views on relationship and I'm not going to preach that my way is the only way that makes logical sense. - This is where I insert some very well suited song lyrics

~Sarah Slean : Looking For Someone
There’s got to be one face
And one pair of eyes
That will light me on fire
When their looking in mine
...
looking for someone
Who’s looking for me.

When I am looking for a romantic partner I do have certain criteria. Now most of them are based on personality, ideals, life style and general intelligence. The one thing that I will not accept is smoking. Before I get ripped out for not mentioning outer beauty, I won't lie and say that I don't look at physical appearance, if I like what I see, I like what I see. I am obligated to give an educated warning about people though, don't judge a book by its cover those looks can be deceiving. What matters in the end, is how compatible we are. If our ideals clash, the relationship will fail.

People continue to tell me that long-term relationship are all about compromise, I honestly want to ask them how much they have compromised. I will agree that relationships do involve a fair balance of give and take for the most part. I would never force my partner to give up or forget about something that they love just because I told them to and I expect my partner to extend that same courtesy. The only exception to that would be if my partners or my own health was in danger (for example, an allergy to peanuts or cats). Forcing someone to give something up for no other reason than the fact that you don't enjoy it, is not love.(*I feel obligated to add- continuing to do something that your partner has shown disdain for, isn't love either) If you want to point to the smoking line, I'll point you right back to the danger to health line.

When you get married and/or decide that you want to spend the rest of your lives together you should understand that you are now a couple, not 2 separate 1's. You are separate individuals but your life is together. You need to know and understand this before getting married. What you do or don't do may have a substantial impact on the one that you promised to be loyal to. That social contract should factor into decisions that are made. I'm not saying that every choice has to be made together, only the ones that effect both of you. If a confrontation arises due to a decision that was made, explain (calmly) why it was made and don't lie. Loyalty, honesty and communication are vital to all relationships, unless you have a mutual understanding that states otherwise.

Pussy appeal

2009-07-13T10:43:00.000-07:00

I have owned cats practically my entire life, I grew up with them. Listing all their names would rival the genealogy of Jesus Christ, located in the bible. Only twice in my life have I not had a cat by my side, those times combined only equal 4 months. So when I hear about studies that "discover" house cats know how to get attention*, I go, well duh. Other studies that make me roll my eyes are the ones that "discover", cats sleep a lot, I say to that, define a lot.

Give me one month with a cat and I will learn pretty much all there is to learn about that cat. Animals don't have emotions, they only have instincts. That is a load of bull. I am surprised when I hear about how many people actually believe that ONLY humans have emotion. I guarantee that none of these people have had a house pet for a long time and actually cared enough to pay attention to their companion. Animals get jealous, territorial, angry, depressed and exited just like humans do. Now I can't say for certain that animals have the same range of emotions that people can experience but at times it is more than obvious that emotions are there.

This is almost a debate of evolution vs. creationism. Every mammal is an animal, humans are mammals, humans are animals, humans have emotions... so do animals. Now even if you do believe in creationism you can't ignore that Jack Russell terrier jumping at the door when you get home because he is 'happy' to see you or that 'angry' Siamese cat hissing because the newborn baby is getting all the attention. If you still want to say that those responses are just instincts, what makes you think that human emotion isn't just instinct?

Pets are our companions, they give of company, comfort and even confirmation that we aren't the only ones with a heart.

*http://www.boingboing.net/2009/07/13/how-cats-manipulate.html

Body image and self-worth

2009-07-12T15:45:00.000-07:00

I will have to mention that being male, I am sometimes 'shushed' when it comes to this subject (though it does not make my opinions invalid). It's simple to say and prove that our school yard days shape how we see ourselves. How people saw you, what they said to you and what tone they used, plays a huge role when we look in the mirror or at that candid picture from a party. Being happy with who you are is easier said than done.

We all have our insecurities, the question is do our insecurities have us. Diet commercials, products, books etc. are all over the place and they are making a fortune off of the insecurities that most of us have had at one point of our lives.

Now I can't mention insecurities without mentioning celebrities. Botox, tanning booths, implants (hair, dental or silicon variety) are just a few of the measures that celebrities take to look as good as they are "supposed" to look. Trust me when I say that it doesn't stop with those treatments alone. Most of us do realize that even the most attractive models(male and female) have extra work done (some have more than others) after their pictures are taken. Trust me again when I say, the right photographer and right photoshop tools and anyone(!!) can look gorgeous. The question I have to ask, when are we looking at real people?

I could easily list a handful of people who have gone way too far with "cosmetic improvements", with the irony coming in when they look worse than how they started. This obsession with looking 21 again or having perfect features doesn't make logical sense to me.

People associate their looks with how good they felt at a certain age or how much attention their younger rival gets. THAT part makes sense, the responsibilities for most 20 year olds are no-where near the same as their 35 year old counterpart. With that in mind it makes perfect sense to link ease of mind with self-attractiveness. "Oh, life was so much easier when I was 20" turns into "I was so much happier with how I looked back then". This example doesn't exactly work for the 14 year old who is crying into their pillow after being rejected and insulted for the umpteenth time but that 14 year old does help enforce that, self-worth never leaves the schoolyard.

Not all of us can afford personal trainers, tanning booths or photoshop artists. What we can afford is to give a smile out every once and awhile. Inner beauty does become outer beauty. We all need to learn to understand and accept our "flaws" for what they are, something that sets us apart from everyone else. They don't make us ugly, they don't make us undesirably to the ones we desire, they make us who we are.

Does my puffy red hair (which I am never happy with btw) or the muffin-top making its way over my belt line define who I am? only if I obsess over it to the point that people think I have a problem with it. Will I shave off my red hair so I don't have to worry about it? hmm I can't say no here because I actually shaved it all of once(to support a friend with leukemia) and wouldn't you know it, I wanted it all back only days after it was all gone. Will I be more attractive when my muffin-top is gone? that all depends on if I keep my inner beauty.

Ok, I will admit, that last line was kind of, ok very, cheesy but it doesn't make it untrue. The best advice I can give to everyone is to be happy with who you are, even if it takes awhile to find out who you truly are.

You're wrong because I don't like you

2009-07-11T13:55:00.000-07:00

I am so tired of this way of thinking. Politics and Religion are the two main offenders of this. I am not saying that other groups don't do it, as I am sure this mind frame goes much deeper than just two groups. (ie sports, video games, movies etc.)

Statements are said and decisions are made, one side is going to be upset. "The greeting sign this year is going to be green" "WHAT!! WE DEMAND BLUE". This isn't too much of a stretch, trust me. Arguments like this happen all the time, worse yet, arguments happen over even smaller issues. What I have to ask people is "would you respond this way if your group did this". Their response is normally "of course I would" or something along that line (they are of course lying, most of the time) . We do have the instances where almost everyone disagrees with what was said. Unfortunately even in those times we do still get people who support their side so much and believe that they have the best of intentions that they blindly agree.

Blind submission is never (NEVER) a good idea. Now I will admit that at times I have been beyond frustrated with someone and wanted to give them a good stern talking to, tell them what's what and all that jazz but the moment they asked me to do something I cave. Those moments are few and far between and only a (very) small number of people have the affect on me. A few moments pass and eventually I realize that the aggressive conversation wasn't worth the time or frustration (see: spilled milk).

If you lose your head over small issues, what will you lose when a gigantic issue arrives? Do green or blue lights even matter? Should the age of the planet ruin a friendship? Now I do understand that frustration is bound to happen when the group that you don't support promises you something and fails to deliver but ask yourself, would my reaction be the same if 'my' group did this?

Lilac scented hair

2009-07-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

This is something I wrote many months back. I will have something new for this blog tomorrow.

~~~
Passion at the end of my lips displace this disdain for unhappy memories. A silver thread of hair brushes my face as you lean in closer. Time is to blame for misplacing the memories of our dance. The smell of lilacs from your hair take me back to a time.

Laying in a distraught basement bed, we are both struck by the sound of a 57 Buick century pulling in. Your father coming home from a service meeting. He has connections, connections that I don't want to think about while I am with you, unsupervised. The clunk of his military bag and boots hitting the floor destroyed what little courage I had when I was around him. The sunlight was smiling on me and reminds me of the basement window. You have time to get dressed and I have time to escape. I feel the pain of what I can only imagine is a heart attack far to early for my 18 year old body. You have to distract him at the basement entrance while I squeeze through the window. I faintly hear voices as I make my way to the closest cover, lilacs, to get the rest of my clothes on. The next thing I hear is what took me from you. The jingle from a bell. A very old and curious beagle made his way to me, catching the attention of the owner. "Little cold to be half naked out here, Johnathon Bridger". If he didn't say my last name. Why did he have to say my last name? The hope that your father didn't hear that was naive. The man could hear the snap of a twig 100 yards away. Why would I have thought he couldn't hear my name being spoken. He made his way through the door like he was chasing a Vietnamese soldier. Although, he did see me as a much worse enemy. You his only child and me the son of a well known activist. I was glad that the only drink I had was a glass of orange juice for breakfast. The fear would have been much easier to see. The conversation we had was short. Either he would take me through a training exercise and kill me "accidentally" or send me to Nam. The choice was not hard.

I was away from you for 9 years before I "luckily" got shot in the shoulder. My commanding officer thought I was brave for saving his life. Bravery had nothing to do with it. I tripped and fell into him as a sniper was taking a shot. A fools medal is how I see it. The war was almost over and I got shot because I tripped over my own boots. Nonetheless, it got me home early. Early enough to see that you had married someone that your father approved of. I wished that shot had killed me. Finding out that you had a son named John made the pain much worse. I had earned your fathers respect but the price was far to high for me to appreciate it. I couldn't let you know that I was home. We had both aged but you were even more beautiful than I remembered. I couldn't let you see the man I have become. So I left.

On my 53rd birthday I received a letter stating that a very well respected military officer died in a car accident. A 57 Buick century.The odds of it belonging to your father were slim but I still had to go to that funeral. If not out of respect than for hope. Naive again. I found out that your father traded that car to a good friend of his. The funeral was long and full of people I never wanted to see again. However I did run into a well established 27 year old fighter pilot named John. He knew my name before I introduced myself. And for some reason that didn't surprise me.

John told me about your father and asked me why I didn't wear my medals. Two topics that I did not want to talk about. After about 10 minutes of him talking about his career and the respect he has for the people that made his path possible, your name was finally brought up. I think it was out of desperation for saving the conversation. John caught my interest and I wanted to hear everything he could tell me. He told me about his own son, your grandson, named Johnathon. He also told me that you were the one who encouraged him to pick that name. That made me smile. He gave me details about his teen years and how he would often hear your father apologizing to you, for what he had done to me. Your husband was abusive and your father blamed himself for making you go through that. As much as I wanted to hear about your father being wrong, I just wanted to know where you were. Although John knew more about me than I did, he still hesitated to tell me. He didn't want you to get hurt. After I told him "You know me well enough to know that hurting your mother is the last thing I would ever do" he mentioned a park. A park with lilacs, where I once sought cover, from a 57 Buick century, from the man who drove it. John told me the best way to get there from the base. It did surprise me that he thought I did not know the way already. Before John could say goodbye I was already driving away.

That is how I found you and your lilac scented silver hair.

Just like a good ego driven person

2009-07-10T08:47:00.000-07:00

This is an intro btw

For a little over a year now I have been involved in social media. This involvement has spanned over many sites, mostly video. It only makes sense, that after all this time I've spent Vlogging, that I should start blogging. Before you get the wrong idea, I doubt I will actually be sharing what is going on in my life. I am, in almost every sense of the word, a private person.

That being said, yes, yes I do put myself out 'there' all the time. It should come to no surprise that a person that is a self proclaimed sociable-hermit doesn't get away from the computer too often. I have a job that pays the bills and gives me the benefits that I enjoy but when I'm not working, most of my time is spent in front of a computer. I do vlogs (as I mentioned earlier), I write short stories and I am writing a novel. I do other things on the computer but most of my time is consumed with typing and editing.

Anyways... like I said I won't really be sharing my life here but I will share some of what I type out. ^_^
Happy hunting.