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| The Misadventures of Andy Fennelberg
Like any other Wednesday afternoon, Andy set off from his flat in midtown to his favorite spot for a drink. He'd order a pint of Adams and sit around waiting for his buds to arrive and chat. Most of his friends worked until early evening so he spent a great deal of time waiting on nobody in particular until 6 or 7 o'clock. He didn't mind this, being alone was comfortable and enjoyable sometimes, and even then he always had the company of The Who to move him into rhythmic thought and introspection, and occasionally, deep remorse and drunken rambles.
He was especially good at drunken rambles. He'd become known as the Pilot around the bar due in part to his amazing mid-air acrobatics and the way he always seemed to fly himself right into silliness. Andy wasn't completely oblivious to this fact, either, and even began to announce his downward fall into drunkenness with a memorable phrase, "bar, this is kamikaze!" to signify his committal to irreparable liver damage and probable social inadequacies.
His friends never did anything to stop him, it was always a good laugh. By the time they'd all arrive, Andy would be slurring his words, feeling less of his joints, and seeing double; it's almost as if this was the only Mr. Fennelberg they'd ever known. Mike Schoemacher and Deryl Valens had actually known Andy for almost 6 years, and Sam Didier for 4. To them, Andy was a good guy, funny, whimsical, almost dream-like, barely even touching the Earth: one had to consciously recall Andy to even remember he existed in reality. He was ghostlike in more ways than one: his eyes were dark, almost but not quite sunken, his skin pale as death, he was skinny and his joints creaked like hinges on coffins, but mostly it was his words. They were haunting, disturbing, cold, yet uncannily humorous, friendly, occasionally sharp-witted, and prescient. It was more than one time Andy pierced the hearts of his patrons, the visitors to his slurry, hanging reality.
More (maybe) later... | | |
| sometimes i fail to see
the shardlings inside of me
my mine a splintery, spiraling grave
magnificent if only for chaotic
yet ordered
violence and fear.
sometimes i see
the green and red and orange and purple
the sharp the soft
what's far and near
and that thing that looms
so dear so near.
minds wander and cross roads
to meet, make inroads
on conflicting subjects and hurtful thoughts
what i'd like to say and what she'd rather not.
triangles and squares reflect the lairs
or expose the rare mind within that fucked up skull —
a rotting victim to their own device.
we shouted across fields in order to whisper our sentiments,
blather, really.
vomitting insults and lathering praise
all served one purpose
to get fucking laid.
but conflicts burst, shatter ones mind:
conflicts create what we all want to find;
comfort in hate, love in fear,
a wonderous journey through tears and smirks
and fists and jabs
and words with sharp edges
and blunt meanings
that all tear and destroy.
we like it.
but it didn't help us get fucking laid.
so we rebuilt reality once more;
fashioned it to a model of something a bit more eclectic:
love everywhere.
but it was, of course, shallow, and cheapened.
we soon hated love, honestly.
it hated us, anyhow, right?
and still sometimes i fail to see
what it all meant to me.
what did it all mean to be
loved and hated, disgraced and distrusting.
filthy, no, atrohphied minds shatter in the end,
and i still fail to see. | | |
| I was reading an article about Atheism and immortality and I had some thoughts that I wanted to record, if for nothing else but my own benefit. (I hear writing while thinking can be productive, sometimes.)
I am under the impression that when we die, our bodies are gone and that we cease to exist. That's my reality, and I think that is everyone's reality.
In reading the article, though, I'm surprised (or alarmed) at how many Atheists believe that there is some form of life after life, or some form of soul. I kind of like the idea of a sea of consciousness that we all share, and that we continue to exist only in that our collective consciousness continues existing after our instance of life is finished, but I don't actually think that it's true.
What I do find compelling about immortality is that it can be portrayed or executed in a number of ways: through living forever on earth in human bodies, or possibly in simply having our memory carry on through whatever means. I'm acutely inclined to believe that the only way we can assure ourselves immortality is to produce information, knowledge, or impacting innovation that attracts or compels others in some or fashion, such as written language, song, and possibly even memory.
Inspiration is one form of immortality, to some degree: to be inspiring or to be inspired requires influence from an outside source to change ones ideas or to create new ideas, potentially creating or associating something lasting... potentially immortal.
A black man was able to gather a group of millions and give his thoughts to them in front of the White House, compelling them to push forward for their rights as a people... that created his own immortality by a special day we celebrate for him, by changing humanity in the general, changing how lives are lived, how society treats its members, etc. Immortality means change.
Creativity and inspiration are two of the most awkward, rewarding, beautiful, ugly, exhausting, maddening forces in all of existence, and to become creativity for someone or to be inspiration, in their own creation and inspiration, allows us to become immortal.
At least, that is how I believe immortality works.
I hope that what I say, how I think, how I lived (parts) of my life will compel and inspire some, and will last until they're found to be completely and ultimately destructive, and maybe even after that. I hope to have inspired someone to create in some fashion, be it through a web application, a book, a picture, a painting, a word, a number, a view, a philosophy, a frame of mind, or even a way to talk. I hope my creativity in my life will extend forever, or at least until it doesn't matter anymore.
Because, you know, things will eventually stop mattering, and then immortality just becomes a burden.
M.T.
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| darkness / darkness
blackess,
engulfing my eyes.
not that they mattered anyways —
but the tingling
in the tips of my fingers
has faded... drained out slowly.
a head crash,
distorting reality
into reality,
bending what i see
with what should be
and back to what is —
it scares me.
and fucking synapses are
shaking and jerking violently
at the inputs / stimuli wreaking havoc
on my mind —
and how i feel not making sense of sense.
yet darkness
continues
(consuming),
now at will... willingly... almost exerting myself into destruction —
such quiet, sedated destruction.
— yet darkness
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plain, white sheet
a canvas for my thoughts
with lines dancing and entangling themselves
in a sort of sexual exploration,
erect with excitement.
the sheet becomes glass
and lines become cracks —
fractures beginning subtly
but erupting into
violent clashes
with word
and thought
and (literary) device
a musical interlude into the (soul)
and random pauses dotting where
thoughts could've
exploded
but where meaningless creates its home.
the focal point
a
single
point of reference,
my fist meeting glass
(and the splinters finding paths to the edges from this point)
i find to be most entertaining
'cause it fucks your mind up
to look at it —
my words piercing through the next
as if to create meaning
void of meaning
but eyes leave pages
grasping for self and familiar things
only to find alien experiences —
words becoming experiences
each vein cutting through the glass
becoming yet another
fucking
thought to throw our minds around
which makes us more alive
— fracture
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