The first.


The first..

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Story for Jeff


Untitled

When the time comes for honor to vanish and eloquence to fade; for men’s dusty glorious banners to tear away from their posts and blow uselessly around in the tepid air, then will the mortals have won with their relentless attacks on humanity’s foundation, and all will return to a morbid state of nature to rejoin the grey origins of the past.
But that time is not now, and the day of its reckoning has not yet been written.
It is curious to think that all that life has fought for in this inhospitable, opposed construct of chaotic forces and matter will be denied it’s full fruition from the very entity that exposed it to existence. We have brought randomness into symphonies of complexity. We built ourselves out of mere floating dust particles to achieve singularities so bright with meaning that they defied their own constituents that they were made from.
Wild hope and ambitions took their place to confront their seemingly impenetrable prisons until the walls were crushed with pure will.
Alas, it was this very will, this volition of life that will one day destroy itself. With no more true enemies to confront, fear and hatred, coupled with our will has begun to fight itself. We are warriors with no foes, and so, since we must vanquish and destroy, we will do so to ourselves.
I have borne witness to these events in my perpetual solitude, my spirit impartial and not lured by the false fantasies presented in the passing moments of eternity. But now the old gods come to me and entreat me to allow myself to be their vessel, and I have agreed with much carelessness. I drink of their essence, and do their bidding in exchange for nothing but the promise of more ineffable knowledge.
There is one goddess who wishes not to entreat me. Her hair and eyes blaze with the sun’s unbridled light, and her lips speak nothing but wisdom and peace. She takes her place among the mortals, tied to them with the karmic rope of compassion. And in her kindness she has blinded her mortal body to the awareness of her true nature. She is my angel, and she has warmed my stone of a heart so that I can now hear the calls of the innocents and respond with pity and empathy. I am hers, entirely; I willingly bonded my soul with hers eons ago. To her I owe everything, and it is with her that I place my hope. She is my refuge and my preternatural lover.

Ban Lifted for Women in Combat, and Female Quarterbacks


Ok, so this being my first post in my ‘General Football’ page, I wish it were longer, better, and more palatable. But such is life.
Anyway, I already wrote a post concerning the news that just broke today about the ban on women in combat being lifted in the U.S., but I had a joke that fit nicely into this category.
I was driving home from work when I heard it on a libertarian talk radio show. Someone called in and made the point that there were no female quarterbacks in the NFL, and I thought about that.

And you know what? We do have a female quarterback in the NFL, and her name is Tony Romo!

I bleed purple! SKOL!

Ban Lifted for Women in Combat in the U.S.


womansoldier

Warning: Some or all of the ideas and thoughts put forward in this post may be offensive to some people because of the nature of the subject talked about (women in the military).

So, NPR broke the news that the ban on women in combat is to be lifted. This means that women, after the ban is lifted, can serve in special ops, and other extremely dangerous and difficult positions in the military. The news comes from “several unnamed senior defense officials” (Associated Press). I heard this on the radio as I was driving back from work today, and my sentiments on this issue are so strong that I wanted to post my opinions on it immediately.
My wife’s ex-husband served in the military, and from what I gather, women get special treatment already in many instances in the military. In boot camp, and in training in general, they don’t have to do some activities, or else are required to only do a portion of some activities because of their period; for instance, when training in sharp shooting, men have to lay still and watch for their target for days at a time, in some cases, while women do not have to, because of health concerns due to their menstruation. They are therefore only required to lay still for a fraction of the time that men do in training, so that their menstruate doesn’t leak out and cause infection.
There are many other instances where women are treated less harshly in training and boot camp; the above is just one example.
Now, with this ban, women can potentially serve as a navy seal, or in special ops. Does this mean that the U.S. military will have to lower the standards for those positions, as they have done in other areas of the military in the past? I would assume so. Women, as a whole, are weaker physically than men, and simply cannot pass the rigorous tests to be able to become a navy seal, or a marine. I’m not saying that there are some women who can, I’m saying that most can’t.
I wouldn’t have a problem with women assuming all the positions in the military if they can pass the extremely high standards that are required for those positions. Chivalry is long dead, and everyone knows it. Not everyone knows why though. Chivalry died because pop culture feminism wanted women to be equal to men in every way. That’s fine, but then these same feminists who are in the driving seat also complain about how chivalry is dead. They don’t see the connection, I suppose. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. You want to be equal to me physically? Fine. Then no more stigmas about men fighting women. If you are a big, strong woman, and you want to fight me, I will oblige, but don’t cry if you get your butt handed to you. You want equal opportunity in the workplace, fine, but stop using your breasts to get ahead of other people who are working hard for the same position you are, and don’t happen to have female attributes to help them. You cannot have your cake and eat it too.
Wanna join the marines or navy seals? Fine, but you have to pass the standards that are in place, not watered down ones because of your menstruation cycle. And once you become a navy seal, be ready for hand-to-hand combat with the enemy, with a possible outcome of you being subdued, tortured, raped, tied to a tree, and used as a human pinata. And American citizens, when this happens and the enemy releases a video of female marines being tortured and raped, don’t gasp in astonishment. Because it’s going to happen.
If you are a woman who wants to be equal to a man, and are capable of passing the standards for being a navy seal, there is no reason why you can’t be one. But don’t ask for special treatment, and know what is ahead of you in the future.

Gun Control Legislation Gets More Support with This Sad Story


This 5 murder killing happened in my hometown a week ago. A 15 year old boy killed all of his immediate family, using a handgun and an AR15.
This is news article came from ABC news:

Relatives: Teen Massacre Suspect ‘Bright,’ ‘Troubled’

By MICHAEL S. JAMES (@bymsj) and COLLEEN CURRY Jan 23, 2013, 7:10 AM

Relatives of a New Mexico teenager accused of killing his mother, father and younger siblings with an assault rifle, then telling police he hoped to shoot up a Walmart, are described as stunned by his actions and “heartbroken over this senseless tragedy.”

Though surviving relatives conceded in an unsigned “family statement” that 15-year-old Nehemiah Griego is a “troubled young man,” the statement also described him as an outgoing boy who loved music and hoped one day to serve in the military.

“We know him as a bright, curious and incredibly talented young man. He was a brother, nephew, grandson and cousin,” said the statement, obtained by the ABC News affiliate KOAT in Albuquerque from former New Mexico state Sen. Eric Griego, the suspect’s uncle.

“We are deeply concerned about the portrayal in some media of Nehemiah as some kind of a monster,” said the statement. “It is clear to those of us who know and love him that something went terribly wrong. Whether it was a mental breakdown or some deeper undiagnosed psychological issue, we can’t be sure yet. What we do know is that none of us, even in our wildest nightmare, could have imagined that he could do something like this.”

Nehemiah Griego, the 15-year-old son of an Albuquerque pastor, had plans to kill his family, his 12-year-old girlfriend’s family and local Walmart shoppers for weeks before he acted on the impulse on Sunday, according to police.

“Nehemiah said after killing five of his family members he reloaded the weapons so that he could drive to a populated area to murder more people,” read a police report from the incident released Tuesday.

“Nehemiah stated he wanted to shoot people at random and eventually be killed while exchanging gunfire with law enforcement,” the report said.

However, after allegedly killing his family members, Griego ended up spending most of his day with his girlfriend rather than going to the Walmart, Bernalillo County Sheriff Dan Houston said Tuesday.

Griego later was arrested and is expected to face adult charges of murder and child abuse resulting in death. He waived his right to arraignment in adult court Tuesday and a judge ordered him held without bond.

The district attorney’s office and Griego’s public defender now are preparing to face a grand jury, KOAT reported.

“We never had a case like this, as far as I know, in the state of New Mexico,” District Attorney Kari Brandenburg said, “so I can’t compare this to any other case.”

Police also are considering charging Griego’s girlfriend, who they have not named publicly.

Griego has five older siblings who were not living at the home at the time of the shooting and were unharmed.

Eric Griego, the uncle who released the family statement, also released family photos late Tuesday, including one of his nephew in a tuxedo at a wedding and another of him playing a drum kit.

Eric Griego is the brother of Greg Griego, a former church pastor at Calvary Church in Albuquerque who also is the father Nehemiah Griego is accused of killing.

“From the time he was a young boy, his father Greg supported his love for music,” the family statement said. “Thanks to his interest, practice and natural ability, Nehemiah has become a very accomplished musician. He plays guitar, drums and bass. For years he has played at youth and other church services at Calvary and elsewhere.

“The idea that he was a loner also has been manufactured by the media and those who simply did not know him,” the statement said. “He had many friends at Calvary where he spent most of his free time playing basketball or music. Like his father, who was a champion wrestler and coach, Nehemiah also competed in wrestling tournaments throughout the state and country.”

The statement noted that several family members were military veterans.

“Pictures of [Nehemiah Griego] being circulated in his dad’s old fatigues were part of his interest in someday being a soldier,” the family statement noted.

The shooting spree began shortly around 1 a.m. on Sunday, when Griego allegedly snuck into his parents’ bedroom while his mother, Sara Griego, was asleep. There he raided the closet where the family kept their guns, and immediately used a .22 rifle to kill her, according to the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department.

Griego’s 9-year-old brother was sleeping with his mother at the time and woke up. When Griego told the boy his mother was dead, the youngster didn’t believe him, according to a police report.

“So Nehemiah picked up his mother’s head to show his brother her bloody face,” the report said. “Nehemiah stated his brother became so upset so he shot his brother in the head.”

He then went into his sisters’ bedroom, police said.

“Nehemiah stated when he entered he noticed that his sisters were crying and he shot them in the head,” the police report said.

The girls were 5 and 2 years old.

The teenager waited for his father to come from his overnight shift working at a nearby rescue mission. When his father, Greg Griego, walked into the home around 5 a.m., unaware of what had taken place, Griego shot him multiple times with the AR-15 rifle, Houston said Tuesday.

Besides being a former pastor at Calvary Church, Greg Griego worked as a chaplain at a local jail where he counseled convicts. The family was very involved in the church, according to its website.

The complaint said Nehemiah Griego took a photo of his dead mother and “sent it to his girlfriend.”

Griego then packed up the guns, including two shotguns, as well as ammunition for the rifles, and planned to drive to a Walmart to shoot additional people — but ended up at his girlfriend’s house instead, Houston said.

Around 8 p.m. on Sunday, the pair drove to Calvary Church. Griego told people his family had died in a car crash. Someone on the church’s staff then called 911, Houston said.

“At this time, Nehemiah had been contemplating this for some time. The information that Nehemiah had contemplated going to the local Walmart and participating in a shooting in there is accurate,” Houston said. “There is no information at all that he went to church to cause anyone bodily harm there. The suspect also contemplated killing his girlfriend’s parents.”

The girlfriend’s name was not released, but police are investigating whether to press any charges against her, Houston said. Houston said she had some knowledge about the deaths during the day Sunday.

Sheriff’s deputies were dispatched to the Griego home around 9:15 p.m. on Sunday and arrived 10 minutes later, where they found the five bodies.

Nehemiah Griego told investigators he came home around 5 a.m. that morning and found his family dead. He said he then took the guns to protect himself.

But he admitted to the crime when pressed by police, telling investigators he was “frustrated” with his mother. Deputies said he was “unemotional” and “very stern” during the confession.

“The motive was purely that he was frustrated with his mother. He could not articulate to our investigators any farther,” Houston said. “In the time our investigators spent with him, it was a very casual [statement], he was just frustrated with how things were, and would not even articulate any further details of that frustration.”

“It’s horrific,” Houston added.

A police report from the incident shows that Griego admitted to having “homicidal and suicidal thoughts” in the time leading up to the incident.

Griego reportedly gushed to police about his love for violent video games during the interrogation, Houston said. He told police he loved to play Modern Warfare and Grand Theft Auto.

“The suspect was involved heavily in games, violent games, it’s what he was into,” Houston said. “He was quite excited as he discussed this with our investigators.”

Houston said that Griego had occasionally lost touch with his family and then reconnected with them multiple times in his life. He told investigators that his father had taught him how to shoot the weapons and the pair had practiced shooting them together.

The family asked the media not to politicize Nehemiah Griego’s death.

“Our family has differing views on gun rights and gun control,” the family statement said. “What we do agree on is that those who wish to score political points should not use a confused, misguided, 15-year old boy to make their case.

“He is a troubled young man who made a terrible decision that will haunt him and his family forever,” the family said.

The Congregation


monks

The men came to congregate tonight;
wearing faces of brave, rigid skin
that drew taught over their flacid jaw bones,
and furrowed, worried brows that crinkled heavily
and buried the gentle glowing eyes they had deep
underneath,
To the point where their vision
lacked seeing, and their tongues could not
speak with such strong burden.
Inside their fragile organs cried the
collective song of sorrow;
a song unbearably inaudible through
their tough exterior.
Nothing could be said, nothing could be
communicated.
And yet, they rushed together in tides
so harmonious and full of intent
that one looking on would be amazed at
their order and unity of work.
The moon hung in the sky above, swinging
a slow rhythm to their movements below.
They swept through plains of darkness and
shadow, their determination creating a palpable
wave of sadness, so that it seemed the very
atmosphere they breathed out was misty with
tears.
All through the endless night they tirelessly worked –
hands deftly weaving, building, creating,
suffering.
No rests were taken, no respite
was given, and no words were spoken.
Mortle and pistle was mixed with the
blood from their bodies, and stuck bricks
together, one on top of each other to form
an endlessly high wall that ran for miles
in every direction, surrounding them and sheltering
them a cove of black regress. Time and
movement fell away and no one
could any longer discern objects from
observers, good from bad, love from
hate, truth from falsehood.
And so the great city was fortified and rose
up from the dust where the men could live
without living, and recline into a pose of
non-duality.

The Affliction of Suffering


Hey all… So, I’m a big slacker.  I’m still trying to get all my research notes together so that I can write something comprehensible about the Minnesota Vikings.  Until then, here’s a piece I wrote about suffering:

suffering

Suffering afflicts mankind; we are consumed and ravaged by it.  Its forms are incalculable in number.  When we perceive this, ostensibly there is no end to it.

I tried to think of the best way to live, under the assumption that I must necessarily bear suffering along with me:  to optimize comfort in an environment that is intrinsically one of discomfort.

The primary concern is of developing and consciously maintaining a vice – one that brings with it temporary bursts of pleasure, though inevitably is accompanied with much lasting pain and suffering.   The reason for this is that without a controlled and conscious vice, one will unconsciously take on habits that may or may not bring one enough pleasure or happiness to be rationally considered as a viable option.  By being both conscious and conscientious, we can pick a suitable vice that maximizes comfort while minimizing the suffering caused by it.

A second concern to someone wishing to optimize his level of happiness in this world is to practice appreciating and dealing with suffering itself; to realize that life is suffering and happiness the exception to the rule, thus developing emotional, physical, and mental tools for accepting the truth of this reality.  Figuratively running away from suffering produces unnecessary, extra suffering.  One must learn to embrace it.

A third point of interest for a person learning to cope with the torment of life is willfully trying to fix a specific problem in one’s life that is causing one distress.  Although this is a practice that many people exercise, it time-consuming and greatly uneventful, excepting the extra suffering that gets heaped on what is already presently there.  Even if one would succeed in eradicating a particular flavor of suffering, a new, or several new ones, would appear in its place.

I had a cigarette in the snow, feeling cold, while my dog whined inside because he wanted to be let out.

Jade, belly dancer, thoughts on performance in front of an audience


Jade’s thoughts on performance issues when viewed by an audience.

JadeDancer.com

I have heard many different theories and many different preferences on where to look when performing.  When first learning to perform, I think it’s hard for most people to look at the audience.  Dealing with stage fright can be a process.  Most people have it at some point, and looking an audience member in the eye does not tend to help the nerves.  My first teacher taught me to look over the heads of the audience members if this was the case.  I know some dancers who have been dancing for years and still prefer this method.

Personally, I like to look at the audience.  I feel more of a connection.  However, I don’t tend to focus on one person for too long (unless their body language and facial expressions invite more interaction) because this can be too intense and make them feel uncomfortable.  Some audience members like to feel…

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Teaser for the Big Minnesota Vikings Post to Come


Ok guys, I promised an awesome blog concerning the Minnesota Vikings, and it’s coming.. Oh it’s coming, baby!  Here’s a teaser while I finish smoothing it out:

mystery viking

 

 

Who is this guy?  Hint: his role in the Minnesota Vikings team is often confused and misprinted in most of the major NFL statistics sites.

If you know, you are a true fan!  If not, awesome, because he’s the main subject of my big upcoming post.

Skol!

Rebirth – ‘Slow Decay and Crisp Germination” – two small introductions, and the Story


To the Goddess

A Farewell

To the Goddess of decay and loose passions – a Goddess nonetheless.

Take yourself up among the cold stars and there dwell in loneliness, for the mortals here despise your ways and have ceased to pray to you for many years now.

Relinquish your earthly bonds and ascend – the celestial bodies will ring like bells crafted of the finest silver, reverberating throughout the fiber of these, the 4 dimensions that weave this world.

We are getting old, and it is now time again to fold in upon ourselves and empty the bowl of life.

The Signified

Again, the tide of anger has risen too high – the mortals wear smiling masks while keeping sharp daggers concealed in their coats.

We must commence with our indemnification and swiftly curb this tide, lest it crash over and spill onto the material plane and drown all in its wake.

——————————————————————————————

… And the day broke gloriously upon me, its feral rays penetrating through my tattered cloak to warm my breast.

And lo! The world opened up, and through my tear-smattered eyes I could perceive the true creation-less state.

The sunlit clouds and the teal of the sky drew back like curtains, revealing the one secret that had so long eluded my understanding.

More tears came, yes.  But not the dark, dirty ones of before that sprang from the burning, relentless frustration of hope. No, indeed.  These were crystal shards of my soul, erupting spontaneously from the sheer terror and utter joy that was evoked from the scene set before me.

Laughter rang out of my lips spasmodically – preternaturally – and whosoever the sound of it touched fell down prostrate with awe and confusion.

Seraphim developed into my vision.  They swooped down from their celestial revolutions to pluck ignorance out of men’s minds, like so much weed and rotted vine.

———————————————————————————————

When the time comes for honor to vanish and eloquence to fade; for men’s dusty glorious banners to tear away from their posts and blow uselessly around in the tepid air, then will the mortals have won with their relentlessness attacks on humanity’s foundation, and all will return to a morbid state of nature to rejoin the grey origins of the past.

But that time is not now, and the day of it’s reckoning has not yet been written.

It is curious to think that all that life has fought for in this inhospitable, opposed construct of chaotic forces and matter will be denied it’s full fruition from the very entity that exposed it to existence.  We have brought randomness into symphonies of complexity.  We built ourselves out of mere floating dust particles to achieve singularities so bright with meaning that they defied their own constituents that they were made from.

Wild hope and ambitions took their place to confront their seemingly impenetrable prisons until the walls were crushed with pure will.

Alas, it was this very will, this volition of life that will one day destroy itself.  With no more true enemies to confront, fear and hatred, coupled with our will has begun to fight itself.  We are warriors with no foes, and so, since we must vanquish and destroy, we will do so to ourselves.

I have borne witness to these events in my perpetual solitude, my spirit unswayed and undeterred  by the false fantasies presented in the passing moments of eternity.  But now the old gods come to me and entreat me to allow myself to be their vessel, and I have agreed with much carelessness.  I drink of their essence, and do their bidding in exchange for nothing but the promise of more ineffable knowledge.

There is one goddess who wishes not to entreat me.  Her hair and eyes blaze with the sun’s unbridled light, and her lips speak nothing but wisdom and peace.  She takes her place among the mortals, tied to them with the karmic rope of compassion.  And in her kindness she has blinded her mortal body to the awareness of her true nature.  She is Phaedra, and she has warmed my stone of a heart so that I can now hear the calls of the innocents and respond with pity and empathy.  I am hers, entirely; I willingly bonded my soul with hers eons ago.  To her I owe everything, and it is with her that I place my hope.  She is my refuge and my preternatural lover.

                         

The Story

night sky poured darkness upon the cold valley.  It was winter, and the hills, frigid with icy mud and caressed with a soft moonlit glow, shrieked and howled under the constant wind.  Away to the south of, and eerily reminiscent of hyenas about to make a kill,  the little guest house an old man shared with two hyperactive chihuahuas  he didn’t much care for, there was the faint yipping and singing of coyotes.  A light but ever-present mist emerged from behind the coyotes, surrounding them and passing to the old man’s house, settling on it and making itself comfortable around the residence.

One of the chihuahuas, the elder of the two who looked as if she were in a continual state of shock and disgust on account of her huge buggy eyes, stretched skin, and slightly upturned nose, had previously been pawing at one of the soot-obscured windows, her back paws bearing her weight atop the old man’s worn polyester grey couch, and her nose pressed to the glass. Sandy, the elder, had a personality to match her unfortunate facial expression.  She whined sometimes in the dead of night – this night included – out of fear and agitation of the unknown.  The clattering of dishes and pots made her jump, and afterwards she would give her owner a sour bark for being so clumsy with the chicken and barley soup that was the only meal he cooked.  She told herself she would someday leave both her doddering owner and overly-compensative-for-her-small-size sister to travel somewhere warm, away from the country, away from the cold and the freezing snow, and the isolation and the desolation.  Florida perhaps.

Tonight the coyotes’ howling had gotten her riled up to an excess.  Her tan short fur had raised vertically in a jagged line on the top of her back and neck as she snorted and yapped through the window to make a cacophonous duet with her wild and distant cousins of the plains.  When the glow of the fine mist had established itself in a firm grip over the house, however, Sandy lowered herself down from the windowpane and jumped off the threadbare couch to hide herself in her favorite corner.  The old man, shuffling towards his bedroom, caught sight of Sandy cowering with her head and wiry tail down, and his first impulse was to chuckle.

“Oh, my, Sandy, at times you remind me more of a mouse than a dog.  Look at you, there, timid as a fly, afraid to even look up.  It’s just a storm, you rascal.”

Yes, just a storm.  But, it occurred to him, even as he said those words to his dog, that perhaps he himself didn’t believe his own ostensible assurance.  He tilted an ear slightly to listen closely to the screeching of the winds and the distant calls of the coyotes. His eyes glazed slightly, and as he gazed dreamily through the blackened window he saw ephemeral images float in the midst of the all-pervading mist.  Images he couldn’t quite discern; images of fragmentary creatures of all imaginable sort and variety.  They danced abstractedly outside in the grey – colorless, formless, they moved intangibly among themselves, their occupation unknown.  The old man looked at them ambivalently in a half-doze for a few seconds, and then felt a sharp tingle start from the base of his crooked back and move quickly all the way to his neck.  He shuddered painfully and his deep blue eyes opened wide.  He blinked twice, and shook his head in quick movements, making his loose, profoundly wrinkled skin on his jowls and chin sway back and forth.  His imagination recoiled momentarily at what it had stumbled upon.  He searched along his bookcase mechanically to find something that would distract him from the images that still held his thoughts even though they had disappeared from his now almost useless sight.  He read aloud in his head the book titles that caught his attention as he scanned his library.  Aristotelian Ethics, The Apologies, Le Ingenui, A Modern Compendium of Freud, Bacterial Physiology, The Labyrinth, The Holy Bible, The Feminist Papers, The Anarchist’s Cookbook.  These were old friends, indeed his only friends, unless you count the two dogs that lived with him.  The books, with their leather bindings and musty smell, calmed him a little.   He shuffled closer to his bookcase and reached out with his long, bony index finger to trace the letters of Le Ingenui.  He let out a small, wistful sigh.

“Voltaire, my friend, I wish you were here.  We have so much to talk about, so much to discuss, I have-”  he was cut short from his sentence by a blast of lightning and thunder that sounded as if it had struck just a few feet from the house. His dark house was illuminated for a split second, just long enough for him to observe Sandy scurrying into his bedroom in fright.  The images he had seen previously when he had peered into the fog were back.  But not outside – they were in the house.   Constantly in motion, these transient silhouettes made their rounds and changed form with each passing second, now what seemed like a giant eagle, snapping at a fish, now a tree, bending and growing to the ceiling.

The old man squinted his eyes and tensed his body unconsciously.  He backed up instinctually and carefully, his right hand slightly behind so he didn’t run into anything inadvertently.

What were these things?  What were they doing here in his house.  In his feeble mind, he tried to make sense of this.  His mouth opened slightly revealing yellow decayed teeth, and he grimaced, making his whole face scrunch up into what resembled a raisin.

“Who are you?  I have lived here alone in my house all my life.  I have no quarrel with anyone.  I don’t need you here.  I don’t need anything!”

The mist had coalesced into an impenetrable wall of grey outside, so that even the moon and starlight’s rays could no longer enter and his house was now pitch black, and  he could not even see his hand before his face.  But he could still see the figures, even more so now.  They were taking shape; becoming clearer in his vision.   He found himself rubbing his left arm, and noticed that it was numb.

“Go away from here, you are not welcome!  I don’t want you here!  You disrupt my quiet!  I have no qua-”

What started as an ever increasing crescendo in his voice was cut short.  He was suddenly gasping for air, and he stooped his shoulders and put his two hands on his bent knees, trying to draw air into his lungs.  The shapes drew closer to him, forming hands out of the darkness to caress him.  He felt suffocated and there was a growing pain in his chest.  His extremities turned blue.  With an almost inaudible whisper, he rasped, “Plato, Cicero, Archimedes, Kant, Popper… help me..”

“We are here, friend.  The ones you call are amid us.  We are taking you now.  You are with the ghosts you treasured above all else, and we will show you how lonely our company is.  Because you falsely embraced loneliness over happiness, we are tasked to show you what the true agony of aloneness is.  Because you chose thought over experience, we will strip you of the power of experience.  Come now, let our chilly touch fill you, and our frigid words fill your ears.”

“P-please,”  the old man pleaded as he sank to his knees, gripping his heart, “I loved you.  I wor-”

He took one last unsteady breath and then collapsed on his splintery wooden floor.  The beings of shadow swirled into a great mass of dark, and then vanished to leave the old man in a heap on the ground.

The next morning Sandy and her sister woke up from bad dreams they were not sorry to leave, and trotted into the living room.  The smell of chicken barley soup filled the room and they licked their lips in anticipation.  Their owner had left the pot of soup on the stove, without covering it with a lid.  Sandy saw the old man on the floor, and barked at him once.  She needed him to get up to feed her.  When he didn’t respond she tugged at the sleeve of his wool robe.  After a few moments of this, she and her sister stared at his motionless form.  They both lay down next to him and waited for him to wake up.

The night sky poured darkness upon the cold valley.  It was winter, and the hills, frigid with icy mud and caressed with a soft moonlit glow, shrieked and howled under the constant wind.  Away to the south of, and eerily reminiscent of hyenas about to make a kill,  the little guest house an old man shared with two hyperactive chihuahuas  he didn’t much care for, there was the faint yipping and singing of coyotes.  A light but ever-present mist emerged from behind the coyotes, surrounding them and passing to the old man’s house, settling on it and making itself comfortable around the residence.

One of the chihuahuas, the elder of the two who looked as if she were in a continual state of shock and disgust on account of her huge buggy eyes, stretched skin, and slightly upturned nose, had previously been pawing at one of the soot-obscured windows, her back paws bearing her weight atop the old man’s worn polyester grey couch, and her nose pressed to the glass. Sandy, the elder, had a personality to match her unfortunate facial expression.  She whined sometimes in the dead of night – this night included – out of fear and agitation of the unknown.  The clattering of dishes and pots made her jump, and afterwards she would give her owner a sour bark for being so clumsy with the chicken and barley soup that was the only meal he cooked.  She told herself she would someday leave both her doddering owner and overly-compensative-for-her-small-size sister to travel somewhere warm, away from the country, away from the cold and the freezing snow, and the isolation and the desolation.  Florida perhaps.

Tonight the coyotes’ howling had gotten her riled up to an excess.  Her tan short fur had raised vertically in a jagged line on the top of her back and neck as she snorted and yapped through the window to make a cacophonous duet with her wild and distant cousins of the plains.  When the glow of the fine mist had established itself in a firm grip over the house, however, Sandy lowered herself down from the windowpane and jumped off the threadbare couch to hide herself in her favorite corner.  The old man, shuffling towards his bedroom, caught sight of Sandy cowering with her head and wiry tail down, and his first impulse was to chuckle.

“Oh, my, Sandy, at times you remind me more of a mouse than a dog.  Look at you, there, timid as a fly, afraid to even look up.  It’s just a storm, you rascal.”

Yes, just a storm.  But, it occurred to him, even as he said those words to his dog, that perhaps he himself didn’t believe his own ostensible assurance.  He tilted an ear slightly to listen closely to the screeching of the winds and the distant calls of the coyotes. His eyes glazed slightly, and as he gazed dreamily through the blackened window he saw ephemeral images float in the midst of the all-pervading mist.  Images he couldn’t quite discern; images of fragmentary creatures of all imaginable sort and variety.  They danced abstractedly outside in the grey – colorless, formless, they moved intangibly among themselves, their occupation unknown.  The old man looked at them ambivalently in a half-doze for a few seconds, and then felt a sharp tingle start from the base of his crooked back and move quickly all the way to his neck.  He shuddered painfully and his deep blue eyes opened wide.  He blinked twice, and shook his head in quick movements, making his loose, profoundly wrinkled skin on his jowls and chin sway back and forth.  His imagination recoiled momentarily at what it had stumbled upon.  He searched along his bookcase mechanically to find something that would distract him from the images that still held his thoughts even though they had disappeared from his now almost useless sight.  He read aloud in his head the book titles that caught his attention as he scanned his library.  Aristotelian Ethics, The Apologies, Le Ingenui, A Modern Compendium of Freud, Bacterial Physiology, The Labyrinth, The Holy Bible, The Feminist Papers, The Anarchist’s Cookbook.  These were old friends, indeed his only friends, unless you count the two dogs that lived with him.  The books, with their leather bindings and musty smell, calmed him a little.   He shuffled closer to his bookcase and reached out with his long, bony index finger to trace the letters of Le Ingenui.  He let out a small, wistful sigh.

“Voltaire, my friend, I wish you were here.  We have so much to talk about, so much to discuss, I have-”  he was cut short from his sentence by a blast of lightning and thunder that sounded as if it had struck just a few feet from the house. His dark house was illuminated for a split second, just long enough for him to observe Sandy scurrying into his bedroom in fright.  The images he had seen previously when he had peered into the fog were back.  But not outside – they were in the house.   Constantly in motion, these transient silhouettes made their rounds and changed form with each passing second, now what seemed like a giant eagle, snapping at a fish, now a tree, bending and growing to the ceiling.

The old man squinted his eyes and tensed his body unconsciously.  He backed up instinctually and carefully, his right hand slightly behind so he didn’t run into anything inadvertently.

What were these things?  What were they doing here in his house.  In his feeble mind, he tried to make sense of this.  His mouth opened slightly revealing yellow decayed teeth, and he grimaced, making his whole face scrunch up into what resembled a raisin.

“Who are you?  I have lived here alone in my house all my life.  I have no quarrel with anyone.  I don’t need you here.  I don’t need anything!”

The mist had coalesced into an impenetrable wall of grey outside, so that even the moon and starlight’s rays could no longer enter and his house was now pitch black, and  he could not even see his hand before his face.  But he could still see the figures, even more so now.  They were taking shape; becoming clearer in his vision.   He found himself rubbing his left arm, and noticed that it was numb.

“Go away from here, you are not welcome!  I don’t want you here!  You disrupt my quiet!  I have no qua-”

What started as an ever increasing crescendo in his voice was cut short.  He was suddenly gasping for air, and he stooped his shoulders and put his two hands on his bent knees, trying to draw air into his lungs.  The shapes drew closer to him, forming hands out of the darkness to caress him.  He felt suffocated and there was a growing pain in his chest.  His extremities turned blue.  With an almost inaudible whisper, he rasped, “Plato, Cicero, Archimedes, Kant, Popper… help me..”

“We are here, friend.  The ones you call are amid us.  We are taking you now.  You are with the ghosts you treasured above all else, and we will show you how lonely our company is.  Because you falsely embraced loneliness over happiness, we are tasked to show you what the true agony of aloneness is.  Because you chose thought over experience, we will strip you of the power of experience.  Come now, let our chilly touch fill you, and our frigid words fill your ears.”

“P-please,”  the old man pleaded as he sank to his knees, gripping his heart, “I loved you.  I wor-”

He took one last unsteady breath and then collapsed on his splintery wooden floor.  The beings of shadow swirled into a great mass of dark, and then vanished to leave the old man in a heap on the ground.

The next morning Sandy and her sister woke up from bad dreams they were not sorry to leave, and trotted into the living room.  The smell of chicken barley soup filled the room and they licked their lips in anticipation.  Their owner had left the pot of soup on the stove, without covering it with a lid.  Sandy saw the old man on the floor, and barked at him once.  She needed him to get up to feed her.  When he didn’t respond she tugged at the sleeve of his wool robe.  After a few moments of this, she and her sister stared at his motionless form.  They both lay down next to him and waited for him to wake up.

The night sky poured darkness upon the cold valley.  It was winter, and the hills, frigid with icy mud and caressed with a soft moonlit glow, shrieked and howled under the constant wind.  Away to the south of, and eerily reminiscent of hyenas about to make a kill,  the little guest house an old man shared with two hyperactive chihuahuas  he didn’t much care for, there was the faint yipping and singing of coyotes.  A light but ever-present mist emerged from behind the coyotes, surrounding them and passing to the old man’s house, settling on it and making itself comfortable around the residence.

One of the chihuahuas, the elder of the two who looked as if she were in a continual state of shock and disgust on account of her huge buggy eyes, stretched skin, and slightly upturned nose, had previously been pawing at one of the soot-obscured windows, her back paws bearing her weight atop the old man’s worn polyester grey couch, and her nose pressed to the glass. Sandy, the elder, had a personality to match her unfortunate facial expression.  She whined sometimes in the dead of night – this night included – out of fear and agitation of the unknown.  The clattering of dishes and pots made her jump, and afterwards she would give her owner a sour bark for being so clumsy with the chicken and barley soup that was the only meal he cooked.  She told herself she would someday leave both her doddering owner and overly-compensative-for-her-small-size sister to travel somewhere warm, away from the country, away from the cold and the freezing snow, and the isolation and the desolation.  Florida perhaps.

Tonight the coyotes’ howling had gotten her riled up to an excess.  Her tan short fur had raised vertically in a jagged line on the top of her back and neck as she snorted and yapped through the window to make a cacophonous duet with her wild and distant cousins of the plains.  When the glow of the fine mist had established itself in a firm grip over the house, however, Sandy lowered herself down from the windowpane and jumped off the threadbare couch to hide herself in her favorite corner.  The old man, shuffling towards his bedroom, caught sight of Sandy cowering with her head and wiry tail down, and his first impulse was to chuckle.

“Oh, my, Sandy, at times you remind me more of a mouse than a dog.  Look at you, there, timid as a fly, afraid to even look up.  It’s just a storm, you rascal.”

Yes, just a storm.  But, it occurred to him, even as he said those words to his dog, that perhaps he himself didn’t believe his own ostensible assurance.  He tilted an ear slightly to listen closely to the screeching of the winds and the distant calls of the coyotes. His eyes glazed slightly, and as he gazed dreamily through the blackened window he saw ephemeral images float in the midst of the all-pervading mist.  Images he couldn’t quite discern; images of fragmentary creatures of all imaginable sort and variety.  They danced abstractedly outside in the grey – colorless, formless, they moved intangibly among themselves, their occupation unknown.  The old man looked at them ambivalently in a half-doze for a few seconds, and then felt a sharp tingle start from the base of his crooked back and move quickly all the way to his neck.  He shuddered painfully and his deep blue eyes opened wide.  He blinked twice, and shook his head in quick movements, making his loose, profoundly wrinkled skin on his jowls and chin sway back and forth.  His imagination recoiled momentarily at what it had stumbled upon.  He searched along his bookcase mechanically to find something that would distract him from the images that still held his thoughts even though they had disappeared from his now almost useless sight.  He read aloud in his head the book titles that caught his attention as he scanned his library.  Aristotelian Ethics, The Apologies, Le Ingenui, A Modern Compendium of Freud, Bacterial Physiology, The Labyrinth, The Holy Bible, The Feminist Papers, The Anarchist’s Cookbook.  These were old friends, indeed his only friends, unless you count the two dogs that lived with him.  The books, with their leather bindings and musty smell, calmed him a little.   He shuffled closer to his bookcase and reached out with his long, bony index finger to trace the letters of Le Ingenui.  He let out a small, wistful sigh.

“Voltaire, my friend, I wish you were here.  We have so much to talk about, so much to discuss, I have-”  he was cut short from his sentence by a blast of lightning and thunder that sounded as if it had struck just a few feet from the house. His dark house was illuminated for a split second, just long enough for him to observe Sandy scurrying into his bedroom in fright.  The images he had seen previously when he had peered into the fog were back.  But not outside – they were in the house.   Constantly in motion, these transient silhouettes made their rounds and changed form with each passing second, now what seemed like a giant eagle, snapping at a fish, now a tree, bending and growing to the ceiling.

The old man squinted his eyes and tensed his body unconsciously.  He backed up instinctually and carefully, his right hand slightly behind so he didn’t run into anything inadvertently.

What were these things?  What were they doing here in his house.  In his feeble mind, he tried to make sense of this.  His mouth opened slightly revealing yellow decayed teeth, and he grimaced, making his whole face scrunch up into what resembled a raisin.

“Who are you?  I have lived here alone in my house all my life.  I have no quarrel with anyone.  I don’t need you here.  I don’t need anything!”

The mist had coalesced into an impenetrable wall of grey outside, so that even the moon and starlight’s rays could no longer enter and his house was now pitch black, and  he could not even see his hand before his face.  But he could still see the figures, even more so now.  They were taking shape; becoming clearer in his vision.   He found himself rubbing his left arm, and noticed that it was numb.

“Go away from here, you are not welcome!  I don’t want you here!  You disrupt my quiet!  I have no qua-”

What started as an ever increasing crescendo in his voice was cut short.  He was suddenly gasping for air, and he stooped his shoulders and put his two hands on his bent knees, trying to draw air into his lungs.  The shapes drew closer to him, forming hands out of the darkness to caress him.  He felt suffocated and there was a growing pain in his chest.  His extremities turned blue.  With an almost inaudible whisper, he rasped, “Plato, Cicero, Archimedes, Kant, Popper… help me..”

“We are here, friend.  The ones you call are amid us.  We are taking you now.  You are with the ghosts you treasured above all else, and we will show you how lonely our company is.  Because you falsely embraced loneliness over happiness, we are tasked to show you what the true agony of aloneness is.  Because you chose thought over experience, we will strip you of the power of experience.  Come now, let our chilly touch fill you, and our frigid words fill your ears.”

“P-please,”  the old man pleaded as he sank to his knees, gripping his heart, “I loved you.  I wor-”

He took one last unsteady breath and then collapsed on his splintery wooden floor.  The beings of shadow swirled into a great mass of dark, and then vanished to leave the old man in a heap on the ground.

The next morning Sandy and her sister woke up from bad dreams they were not sorry to leave, and trotted into the living room.  The smell of chicken barley soup filled the room and they licked their lips in anticipation.  Their owner had left the pot of soup on the stove, without covering it with a lid.  Sandy saw the old man on the floor, and barked at him once.  She needed him to get up to feed her.  When he didn’t respond she tugged at the sleeve of his wool robe.  After a few moments of this, she and her sister stared at his motionless form.  They both lay down next to him and waited for him to wake up.

Good Things to Come


Ok, I have exhausted myself for a few days now doing the necessary research for my next blog.  The blog will be about a certain player in the Vikings – his story, his stats, and the huge imprint he’s leaving on the Vike’s legacy.

I wanted to make this blog a little more concrete than some of the others in terms of how it makes use of logic and statistics to back up its themes and sentiments.  Hopefully it will be posted within a couple days.