Of Miles Rausch

Life has been amazingly exciting for me lately.

On Monday, while sitting in the office, Mark Spitzer came in to visit. He was looking for Sue Conover, and it seemed rather urgent. We chatted, the three of us (Mark, Myself, and Nancy), and we discussed the new lights he had gotten in for the playhouse. After a rousing Tech Theatre chat, he departed to find Sue.

I had lunch, and I returned. While Nancy was at lunch, Mark came by again. He dropped quite a bomb on us : Mark Spitzer is Leaving DSU. He will be the Technical Director at Augustana instead. We here at Awayken.com (being involved in theatre and having worked closely with Mark) wish him the best on his new job. He told me that I could not put this on the website until Tuesday.

So when Tuesday came, I was ready to tell the world. The site went down. Apparantly, someone in the long line of people that Lazydesert.net depends on had a problem and hadn’t fixed it yet. No post. Let me just say, “Good luck, Mark, and thank you for what you’ve done.”

On Tuesday night, Heather came home. She asked that Jeff and I pick her up from the Sioux Falls airport. He plane was set to land at 9:35pm so we decided to leave a bit before 8:30 while Brandon and Mel watched The Terminator. We cruised at high velocity (but within the bounds of the speed limit) to the fresh tunes of Radiohead, Hail to the Theif.

Road construction soon limited us to a two lane interstate instead of the four lane. In our driving, we came to an onramp where one of the two vehicles is supposed to make way for the other. This always makes me nervous. It made me especially nervous as there was a car trying to get into our lane at our exact spot. suddenly an object comes flying out at us; it’s a bird. With a loud thump, the bird smashed his chest into the top of the windshield and went tumbling behind us. This bird, out of nowhere, came flying towards the vehicle. I don’t believe that that has ever happened to me before. Then I noticed something else – that car. From freak out to freak out, with no one dying except the bird, we made it through into Sioux Falls where Jeff got turned around a couple times. We eventually made it to Ziggy’s (a friend of Jeff’s from Iowa who now lives in Sioux Falls about 2 1/2 blocks from where Jolene was standing) to give him his phone card.

We chatted with his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend (perhaps) and generally took in Downtown Sioux Falls. I don’t believe I’ve ever really walked downtown in Sioux Falls, and I think that I should do that. It seems to be that it would be a good photo session.

We finally got to the Airport (after more wrong turns) picked up Heather (after some ferocious hugs) and began our listening adventure of all the music she brought back. It seems that in the UK you are not allowed to have a bass guitar in your band for fear of making the music less boring. That was my biggest complaint of most of the music. There was a build up, but you never felt it.

You know that song “Hallelujah” that Rufus Wainwright plays on the Shrek album? I guess it was done by a guy who’s dead now. The original was much slower and featured guitar instead of piano. This song we were playing, and Heather was trying to impress the beauty of the song by saying “He’s dead, Miles. Dead.” I still like the Rufus Wainwright version better. I started singing along with the song in an Emo type of way (the song sounded pretty emo) and looked out into the night through the back driver’s side window. Then I hear Heather say, “Oh my God, Jeff, look out!”

This isn’t ordinary for Heather to scream during a good song. I look forward just in time to see and feel a deer smash into the front of the vehicle. Jeff slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a stop. He hit his ambers, and we sat there with the music still going. “Well,” I said, “let’s finish the song and then go check it out.” Jeff made some calls and the Highway Patrol showed up. Their vehicles have strobe lights affixed to the front so that no matter how sober you are, you can’t walk a straight line. They also do this so that if you have epilepsy, they can put you in a seizure and beat you without getting caught. If you want to see the damage (quoted by money hungry GED-flunk�d mechanics as $2500) click here.

We drove home and finally got to bed at around 3am. Wednesday was a glorious day. I have discovered what is known around the world as J-Pop. What is this? Japanese pop music. I hate American Pop Music (and British Pop music, too) but I love weird pop musics. This would include Indian Pop Music (Dahler Mendhi) and, more recently, J-Pop. J-Pop has several shades. They all seem to have an underlying Techno backbone; some of them go more in the 80’s Techno direction and others take the American Top 40 route.

Jeff got an album by a band called “Initial D” which is more the 80s route. Every one of their songs sounds like the exact same Anime hyper-dance music. So, if you love one of their songs, you’ll love all of their songs. I still have to go through it all. I must leave no eclectic rock unturned.

Jeff also got a collection of music videos. He got a large collection of them (and we haven’t watched all of them yet) by an artist known as Ayumi Hamasaki. She seems to be a rather demure type of girl. Her videos are more thoughtful than they are energetic and exciting. Some of the effects are cheesy, but a lot of the angles are artistic, and so they cancel in a weird way.

The other artist he got only had one video, but I’m in love, folks. Maybe it’s just that I want to love J-Pop so much or that it was the first video we saw, but I may start learning Japanese. Her name is Hitomi Shimatani (or as I like to call her, Hottie Hitomi). She wowed me with her song “Ichiba ni Ikou” which appears to be a love song. There are lyrics here. Her official site doesn’t give me a whole lot to go on considering I have no concept of Japanese. Here’s what I’m hoping – she’s single, 20, and coming to South Dakota to find a boyfriend she can spend lots of money (USD, thank you) on.

So, until she answers my emails or comes to her senses, I’ll wait here patiently. I can wow her with my guitar skills. Actually playing music is something none of her Japanese beaus have on me. It’s like Jeff said, “He can’t be Japanese; he’s playing an instrument.” Nice one, Jeff. You just insulted an entire island nation, and you did a damn good job at it.

I love music. And I really like my music. I suppose that’s a good thing. If you don’t like the music you make, then it becomes this twisted masochistic relationship. That’s when you see people smashing guitars and screaming foul language and spitting on the crowd.

If that isn’t cool, I don’t know what is. Maybe Justin Timberlake.

Last night the four previously mentioned folk and myself gave my song another round. This time I had definate melodies, concrete lyrics, sheet music (sorta), and a time signature. Who knew the song was in 6/8?? That came as a shock to me that this song was actually in 6/8 time instead of 4/4 time like I had always assumed.

How did that get past me? I noticed it when I was trying to start the song and it hurt. I was trying to count so that Brandon would know when to come in, but doing the “One, two, three, four” felt horribly wrong. So I did “One, two” and that felt better then I said “One, two, three” and that felt closer to correct, but you need two of them. “One, two, three, four, five, six” was right on the money. Then we do 3/4 time later in the song and that turns out to be half time instead of the impossible time change we thought it was.

What kind of monster have I created? I got most of the lyrics right most of the time, but some of the timing is weird. I’m going to memorize these, though, so I don’t have a bloody sheet in front of me the whole time. I need to be able to walk around.

Poor Jeff. He has nothing the whole time. Really, what good is the music going to do him? I didn’t write timings on it. I guess the lyrics could help him know where we are, though, and where we’re going. Last night he looked bored stiff. I felt sorry for forcing him into this. Brandon’s part does well, but I don’t like his intro. I don’t think it sounds enough like the rest of the song. I may write something for him, or just talk to him about it. Chris tried his mandolin on this one and I liked the sound. The high mandolin voice compliments Bob’s high fret strumming very well. Bob did a great job. He’s always surprising me musically. For a guy who’s last band was called “Wall of Dildos”, he does well at ‘serious’ music.

Our next session is Thursday. Heather gets home today so she might be a part of this one. My original goal was to have female vocals, maybe female back vocals (or ‘vox’ as they say in the industry), but we’ll see how well she can follow me. The key to this band (I hesitate to use this word) is how well you follow me, in a manner of speaking.

I’m going to end this post by posting my lyrics to “I Lay Down” because I’m actually proud of these. You might not understand them. That’s okay, but I don’t wanna hear about you winny, idiotic fool. Now shut’tup and read.

“I Lay Down”

[V1]
It took me forever to walk up those steps
I already witnessed the specter that crept
The house that I share with the woman I loved
She lay down in the attic above.

[V2]
I passed by the door step, the dog was ‘asleep’
The family room glowed from the living TV
And there on the sofa my children I miss
They lay down with another’s fatal kiss.

[ refrain ]
such angels save sweet beauty eyes closed see God
my love made physical and taken away from me

[V3]
The rude player off there’s a quiet calm rush
I move up a level by praying too much
Up in the fear I discover my love
She lay down in the attic above.

[bridge]
1,2,3,1,2,3…
do i stay or do i run; is this over or now begun?

[V4]
‘Now lay down’ I heard him say
It was not the words, but thoughts that he made.
I didn’t know what he tried to convey.
I guess I’ll miss her.

[refrain]
such silence presses on me eyes closed see God
the fabric of being be taken away for now

[V5]
I lay down all by myself
I lay down when you stood up so straight
I lay down all by myself
I lay down when you stood up so straight
I lay down
I lay down
I lay down.

Right now there is so much to say, but I don’t feel like writing. I’ve been spending a lot of time writing at work, but the environment is dragging me down like shark food. Nancy is gone this week and that means I really have nothing to do. Hardly anyone’s been in the office (see July 4th) and Nancy usually gives me 2/3s of the jobs I have to do anyway.

So it’s been a lot of writing, at first. I’ve been trying to do many things at once and all I end up doing is getting nothing done and wearing myself out. There are good things that have happened, though.

I’ve been acting – Bob Davidson has written a movie and asked me to star in it. It’s about a Librarian. That’s all I can tell you right now (non disclosure, you know) and we started filming on Monday. Once again I had my pants down for Bob Davidson. I don’t understand why everything I act in for him takes place in a bathroom…

I’ve been composing – Bob, Jeff, Brandon, Chris, and I had a jam session last night. It was an awesome experience. I don’t know if those guys feel the same way, but I was buzzing. We took a song I had written recently, called ‘I Lay Down’, and we got everyone on an instrument (some people more than one) and made music. It went like this :
Miles – Rhythm guitar, Lead vocals.
Bob – Lead guitar, Backup vocals (sorta).
Jeff – Drums.
Brandon – Organ (yes, we had an organ).
Chris – Rhythm guitar, Bongo, Shaker.
We made quite a thing out of it. The song took a much nicer shape and there were some good ideas produced. We’re doing it again on Monday night. There is a possibility of recording these songs in the future, but we’ll see.

I’ve been writing – the most recent thing I’ve written is quite the long story of a mute kid who kills some bullies. Of course there is more than that (I had to fill 1600 pixels by 1200 pixels up!), but you get the idea. I found the story intriguing and it is an offshoot of another idea I had. I may make the story larger and less macabre in the future, but I wrote this version for a wallpaper I made.

I’ve made a new wallpaper – the new wallpaper is, of course, on the wallpaper page, here, or at deviantART, here. The text I used is in the comment section of the wallpaper on deviantART, but I’ve also posted it on diPrest if you care to read it. It’s long, like I said.

I wrote a lot more than I thought. It is so hot up here. My title is a play on the title of a Moby song, When It’s Cold I’d Like To Die, but it’s true. So, I’m done with this heat. I’ll put the wallpaper up on a couple more sites, then I am outta here.

My weekend began on Thursday night. I only say that because I didn’t work on Friday. So, I lounged. Our phone was hooked up the next day (and I already told you about that) so now we have a land line. It’s been a touchy subject, but I really don’t like cell phones. It’s probably just a principles issue, but it’s my issue and I love it dearly.

On Friday I drove to Big Stone. They seem to be doing construction on the interstate. It’s the kind where they force four lanes of traffic into two lanes and to accent the fact that driving on the left side of the road is wrong now, they put these bright orange colored plastic poles down the center. Not only should you not vary more than 5 inches to the left or right, but you cannot or you’ll have your driver’s side paint replaced with orange streaks. What I find more insulting (other than this goes on for 30 minutes) is that they slow the speed limit to 55 miles an hour (Minnesota Highway speeds) and they put up signs that read “No Passing”. So, there must have been someone who’s had that idea. Someone thought, “Oh, it’ll be like Mission Impossible. I love that movie and I’m super cool, too,” and tried to pass and either died when they got smoked by a semi coming the other direction or they sued the state over the damage to their car due to the “negligent placement of orange thingies in the road.”

I got home (and realized later that I could have taken highway and completely bypassed the construction instead, but didn’t) and ate. No one was around at first, so it wasn’t until I had been home for about an hour that Brenna irritated me. I think that might be a record for her. I’ve decided to give the girls a timeline. At 12 they can hug me. At 18 they can kiss me. So, Brenna is effectively out of the loop for two years (please let her mature in those two years), but I plan on sticking to the line even after she is that age and still is annoying me. I’m such a nice guy.

I was able to hang out and semi-converse with Camille. Her favorite webpages, I think, are google.fr and babel fish. Bryce’s favorite saying is, “You want the translator?” but that is more for his sake. I think she is getting really sick of typing out “aidez-moi, quelqu’un” all the time. I haven’t gotten around to translating that.

Breakthroughs were made. She asked permission to kill Brenna. We offered to trade Brenna for her sister (an annoying girl who can’t speak English can’t be all bad), but she said that we would regret it. She is pretty sure that Americans are crazy (she should see the Japanese) and I guess she doesn’t like being made fun of.

The next day’s event was a wedding. It was for my friend Lavyne Wieting who I know from Milbank High School. Her and Zach Rada “tied the knot” (that means “got married” in clich�) in about 40 minutes. My mother, Bryce, Camille, and I attended the ceremony. When we were first seated, I noticed that Camille was trying very hard not to laugh out loud (something about it being “rude” or “banjo”). Then I noticed Bryce was saying “LOL LOL LOL” a lot, so I asked him what the hell his problem was and if he wanted to eat a knuckle sandwhich. He said, “It’s time for Chem lab.”

The lady that sat in the pew (bench) in front of us had these googles over her glasses that looked very much like Chemistry safety goggles. They were huge. Why she had them, I can only surmise, but I think she was very confused. The fact that she was sitting directly in front of made me try very hard not to laugh. Camille was the color of tomato slices and Bryce had taken to drawing a picture of the lady. In the picture she held a test tube of bubbling chemicals and a large, proud smile. Camille took his pen and gave it to my mother and told him “No.” So we sat there. And waited. And waited.

Finally, Lavyne gets her act together and comes on down the aisle. I couldn’t tell if she was blushing, but she sure was grinning pretty hard. I guess that means she’s happy. She marched up to the front of the church and everything went as planned. I had hoped that things would NOT go as planned. Some variations I thought of would have made the ceremony much more entertaining.

Take the Baptist Minister. Paint him as a depressed alcoholic whose wife recently left him for a Methodist Minister. He stands at that moment where he lectures the young couple. “Take one string. It snaps easily. Two strings snap quickly as well, but three strings are not easily broken. So is it with us. A person alone is more prone to sadness. One person will more easily become depressed and broken. One person will more easily question why he ever loved in the first place.” The book falls to his side. He removes his glasses and wipes his brow. “He sits in his house, which he can’t afford anymore, and ponders what good drinking has done for him. Then he remembers how it made him forget, and he puts the bottle to his lips. One person doesn’t go to AA meetings anymore because, what’s the point? SHE’S the one who wanted me there in the first place. It’s not like I wanted to kick this habbit. You can’t drink alone anymore? When we that law?” He pauses. There is a long silence.

“God said it is not good for man to be alone. Go out and search your own. Men, leave your families. Women leave your parents and go to live with your husband. That’s right. Live with your husband,” book down, “Don’t come home in the middle of the night, a little flightier than usual, saying, ‘That Reverand Pierson is such a card’ like his very name was intoxicating. And then, after the battle, confronting me saying things like, ‘He is better off. He is stable. He doesn’t pass out every night.’ I can’t sleep, alright!? I have issues, I see that, but you made them so much worse!” He starts to cry and so does Lavyne. The minister makes his way out of the church and into the sunlight as the participants shrug at each other shake their heads.

Nothing like that happened. I stayed for the meal, but my family was getting together, so I didn’t go back to the dance. I saw Dan and David and the rest playing Bocci Ball (Camille included). Dan and David and I talked about school speeches (I don’t know why) and pretty soon everyone was leaving. Home was boring. I played guitar outside when Bryce and Lindsey got back. Then mom wanted to practice, so we did that while Bryce, Lindsey, and Camille watched a movie. I’m not going to mention the name of this movie, lest you feel the urge to check it out. It’s twisted.

It involves Jennifer Anistan with a southern accent (that’s bad enough, but her nickname is ‘Teeny’) who falls in love with a reject at the Wal-Mart (equivalent) where she works. Her husband and his best friend are house painting stoners. She’s having sex with her husband, having sex with the emo writer, and then ends up having sex with the best friend. In the end, the guy she loves kills himself after she tips the police to his location, her husband slaps her for cheating on him, the best friend starts dating a black women (a large one), and she has a love child with the ‘other’ guy. The guys at imdb.com have been torn in the comments section. Check it out.

I do want you all to know that Lindsey picked it out.

Sunday was uneventful. Mass, sitting around, a band concert (that my mom played in), Camille’s admission that she hates us, and, as the family was going to play golf, I went back to Madison. Before I went, though, I did get a hug from Camille (I’m so sly) and something to listen to. Since one purpose of my trip was to bring Bryce the Beatles CDs he let me borrow, that was what I listened to on the way to Big Stone. On the way back, however, I couldn’t do that. So I grabbed whatever I figured Bryce wouldn’t miss : his Disturbed CD. A brief review of the album : too many of the songs sounded the same with minor changes in power chords. I get bored with music like this. I basically listened to “Prayer” the entire way home. I would have listened to the last track, which features a lighter, guitar picked background sound, but Bryce didn’t like the CD, so there were a large number of scratches on that track, and it was unplayable.

For the last 30 minutes of the trip I had to listen to radio, and the oldies stations didn’t work…

I have a new wallpaper. You can see it here and download it from deviantART.

There’s not much to say right now. I’m going home for the weekend. I didn’t have work today. We have a landline now.

I will probably consider this a primary phone for now. If you need to talk to me, call the cell, but if you want to actually talk to me, use the landline.

I hate cell phones.

I am also starting a new blog. It’s called diPrest and it’s not for everyone. If you have issues with the following topics :

abortion
bigotry
adultery
cursing
depression
pornography
anger
pride
brutality
self-mutilation
pedophilia
necrophilia
violence
homosexuality
sex
blood
deceit
hatred
self-absorption
sarcasm
or
suicide

: DO NOT go to this site. I’m going to use it as an outlet for all those feelings we’re not supposed to share. Some of the things on the site are fiction, some aren’t. You may very well walk away feeling disturbed and confused. That is largely the point. I urge not to go here if you have a weak constitution. I will not apologize for anything I say on it, and if you are offended, then just come on back to awayken.com | vistan instead. The site is as much an experiment as anything else.

I’ve found on my search on the internet that I absolutely love depressed weblogs. If they are hurt, sad, angry, or bitter I could read them all day. So, why not write one? Anyway – mom: do not go here. You will only get upset and I will not be yelled at for artistic expression.

Just a word of warning.

Be careful who you make friends with. If your mouth writes checks that your wallet can’t cash, there will be problems. You might anger the wrong people – people with connections. I’m pretty sure that this is the story behind last night’s unbridled fury.

It stormed like Noah was back. The weather started for me at around 8:00pm. You may read news reports of it starting at 5:30pm, but who are you going to believe? You’re at MY website, after all. I think that answers it. Okay. Jeff and Brandon and I were watching the keynote speaker at this year’s WWDC, which is “mac” for Major Geek Party.

I have to admit, though, that a lot of the things Apple unveiled in its new operating system are very very cool. The coolest, I believe, is the fast user switching that they have implemented. That Apple, always making PCs look stupid. At least this time PCs did it first.

We watched this and decided to take a break. A look outside told us that perhaps the weather was growing threatening. It looked fine, so we didn’t bother getting worried. I walked to the kitchen, got some Kool Aid (which we had just boughten), and walked back to the door. It was completely dark outside. I made up my mind; I was going to play guitar in this. I had to. I go to Jeff’s computer and start looking up tabs for a song by The*Ataris called “My Hotel Year” when I heard something. They mostly use it as a lunch bell, but I guess if it’s 8:00 at night they call it a “tornado alarm.”

Jeff wanted to go in the basement. “What??” I say. “No way. See? There – it stopped. The tornado went to Colman. We’re fine, now come outside and hold up this tab sheet for me.” Jeff was less than willing, but Brandon did it. My first song for the night was “Climbing Up The Walls” by Radiohead which happens to be one of my favorites. I do not, however, know the lyrics very well, nor does Jeff.

I played several other numbers as the night wore on. The children across the street were making suggestions but I hadn’t heard of those songs. It was hard to hear their danty voices over the lull of the storm, so I finally gave up and started playing “Butterfly” by Weezer, then “Black Star” by Radiohead. The rain came up. I was getting wet, and I played “Black Star” for a while. I love that song, but the lyrics escape me, too. Then I played “Out of Reach” by The Get Up Kids but Jeff had gone back inside (and so did Brandon) so that was a solo
number. My closing song, after getting very wet, was “Glycerine” by Bush. I found it very fitting. Bush had done a rendition of Glycerine at MTV Spring Break (was it 95?) while it started to storm. They continued playing despite the sparks, the cold rain, and the technical problems.

I went in, soaking and cold, and changed clothes. Then we got to watch the storm on TV. Those guys are funny. They sit in their studio in Sioux Falls and send the new kids out on the road. One girl, Amanda Spicer was standing in Howard. It was raining very hard, she had on her mac, but it didn’t help, and she was talking to two meteorologists (weather guys) who had been out filming storms. They got some hot Tornado on Tornado action, let me tell you.

The one guy had a suit and glasses. He looked like a geek (and a weather geek at that) and the other guy looked like the thought of rain touching his hair caused him to loose bladder control. He seemed way too jumpy when the lightening went off. He touched his hair a lot, because he had been standing in pouring rain for the entire afternoon and was sure the gel was washed away – another poisoned water source. The footage they showed was shot looking at a town called Manchester.

Manchester is a small town. There are about 20 people who live in this east central villiage. Last night they were visited by a tornado. This tornado touched down outside the metropolis and then waged it’s war over it. The tornado crossed over the entire town. Then, we you’d think the town had had enough, the tornado goes back. Back and forth the tornado went, crossing over and over the ravaged dwelling. “There was no stopping him,” said one witness. “He was a mad… man.” After throttling Manchester, the tornado apparently took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and said, “You got somethin’ to say?!” The tornado was thrown out of the game for unsportsmanlike conduct and faces fines of up to $2,000.

The second girl on patrole was Anna Peters, but I don’t remember where she was at. She might have had to call in her report, so she could have been making everything up. She could have been having coffee at Barns and Noble going, “Everyone – quiet down. I have to pretend I’m in the storm,” and she’d have someone next to her making wind noises. To further the illusion, she says that a local resident got her these photos of the damage. Nice story, Anna. I don’t believe it, though.

The last girl was Jolene Loetscher and despite her hard-to-spell name and picture, she’s actually really cute. The anchors inside the studio were trying to find her.

“Jolene, are you there? She might be talking to us by phone. Jolene, where are you?”

“I’m here. Don, I’m here.”

“Where are you?”

“Uh, right outside the studio.”

“Oh. Well, what’s going on there.”

“Well, it’s raining. There’s water and lightening and I’m cold. Can I come in?”

“What is that behind you?”

“What? The buildings? Or the Keloland sign? This is ridiculous. Why don’t you come out here and report? Too lazy to walk to the door?”

“Don’t back sass me, girl. You’re a rookie. We have to break you in.”

There was a pause. “The weather outside the Keloland studio is relatively calm… for now.”

“Excellent. We’ll check back with you later.”

The night had begun to wind down, though. Anna had less wind noise. Amanda was still soaking and miserable, hanging with the weather geeks. Jolene was looking pretty sexy being all wet, but I’m glad that she was near the door. All in all, no one was hurt (except one guy) and nothing was damaged (except Manchester, Mt. Vernon, Centerville, and Woonsocket). I learned something this night; I will probably watch Keloland TV more often.

It’s been two years since tragedy rocked the world. For many people, the horror still lives with them. It follows them through everything they do and everyone they meet and nothing but the most unexpected happiness can unrock their world.

I’m talking about George Harrison’s death. It’s been since December 1st, 2001, that he passed away from complications due to gunshot wounds he sustained while raiding a Hindu palace as a dare by Ringo Star, a former bandmate of his.

George has had a lot to think about in those two years. He was in purgatory, because he did drugs. If not for the wonderful music he made, he’d be where John is. Instead, as a measure of precaution, whenever someone graduates purgatory, they are made to interview with God, who questions them on their life. The following is an entrance interview between God and George Harrison.

God : [getting up to shake his hand] Welcome George. How are you?
GH : [shrugs] I have to admit it’s getting better… [quietly : I hate Paul so much]
God : [laughs] I hope you don’t answer all my questions with Beatles lyrics. How was your stay in Purgatory?
GH : It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great, but it could have been worse. It was “so-so”.
God : Yeah, I get that a lot. Let’s see. It says here that you were in the Beatles. Is that a band or something?
GH : Yes, it was. A lot of people loved our music and still do.
God : I’m sure. Oh, right. The Beatles! [sings] Can’t buy me loooooove. I know that John wrote great songs, and I know that Paul wrote great songs, but What did YOU do?
GH : Well, I played solo guitar for pretty much all the tracks. I sang, backup mostly, and I wrote a couple of our hits, too.
God : What songs?
GH : Taxman.
God : Never heard it.
GH : Here Comes The Sun.
God : Never heard it.
GH : While My Guitar Gently Weeps.
God : Never heard it, sounds stupid.
GH : Something.
God : Never – how’s that one go?
GH : [singing] Something in the way she moves…
God : Was that the one described by Frank Sinatra as the greatest love song of all time?
GH : Yes, I think so.
God : Oh, man. I HATE that song. It’s so whiny. I heard you wrote that to win you wife over, but Eric Clapton did a better job of writing a love song for her, and she left you. Is that true?
GH : [pauses] Yes.
God : Oooooooooooooooooo, burn!!
GH : [impatient] Yes, thanks for not rubbing it in.
God : Sorry. What kind of band are the Beatles?
GH : Rock and Roll.
God : [winces. makes checkmark on paper] Ouch.
GH : [quickly] But I was a big fan of sitar music.
God : Well, that’s a little better. I have a quote here, from an interview you gave VH1 in 1997 that was called “George Harrison & Ravi Shankar : Yin & Yang”, where you said, “I believe in the thing I read years ago, which I think was in the bible, it said, ‘knock and the door will be opened’, and it�s true.”
GH : [pauses] And?
God : You THINK it was in the bible? What the Hades is going on with you people?? I give you a perfectly good guide book to Heaven and you THINK you remember half a sentence from it?
GH : Well-
God : No, I’m sick of this crap. If I didn’t promise No-Duh that I wouldn’t flood the world again… I’d flood the world again.
GH : [quietly] John said we were bigger than Jesus.
God : I know. He’s paying for it. Don’t worry. So, a planet was named after you.
GH : I heard that, too. It was named in 1984, I guess.
God : [quietly] Nothing gets named after ME. It says that you were attacked in your house.
GH : Yes. It happened in 1999. I was sitting with my wife talking about how little Paul has actually DONE as a musician, when an intruder came into the house and began stabbing me. I grabbed my sitar and managed to beat him sorry but not before he punctured one of my lungs.
God : Must be tough. I was crucified, you know.
GH : I know. I love you, God! I wrote a song, a good song, called “My Sweet Lord”, and it’s all about you.
God : It says here that you were involved in a lawsuit over that song for “subconscious plagurism”, is that true?
GH : [silence]
God : Gary, I’ve looked over the stretch of your life. I know all this stuff already. I’m God. I just do this to see if people give me straight answers, and you have. I deem you fit to enter heaven. Hey, do you think that you guys, the Beatles I mean, would ever do a concert up here?
GH : Sure. That would be fun, and we probably wouldn’t bicker as much.
God : come talk to me when Paul and Ringo die. I’ll see if I can’t get John a little vacation time.
GH : Where is John? Is he in Hell?
God : Well, kinda. Have you ever heard of South Dakota?

the sun beam seeks its rest
the rays now travel not
they find an earthen cot
and forge a darkened nest

the shadows stretching out
upheave the solar beds
destroy the sleepy heads
and thrash the light about

creatures stir at night
their will is fraught with ill
teeth shine with evil still
sweet moon wanes at the sight

too far to flee for fear
the sunlit child shakes
at sounds this hour makes
two eyes are watching near

‘come quickly’ prays the beam
a prayer to reach the sun
the creature’s willing run
comes faster yet it seems

this night orchid of lore
not wilting with due speed
the victim loathes the deed
but hates the creature more

as creature leaps at prey
there leaps a solar yawn
the creature shrinks to gone
And so another day

/rant against things I love

If buses ran in this part of the country, I’d be on them. I’d bring a camera and a sketch pad. I’d pick out the freaks (as buses tend to attract them) and I’d sketch them or film them as I say things like, “How could you let yourself go THAT FAR?” or “I’m sure glad I didn’t look like that when I was getting treatment” or “I hope you can’t have children. So does God.”

I’d get looks, stares, and furrowed brows of disgust, but I’d laugh. What do these people know? Ugliness as a coping mechanism. Smelliness, dirtiness, unemployment as a coping mechanism. Mine, I guess, is insults. Loud insults, at that.

I start to get off the bus when “Dashboard Confessional” comes on the air. “Oh, MAN!” I yell to everyone who until recently had no reason to hate me. “Can you believe this cry baby??” I get off the bus, but I start to talk to myself. What is the deal with this kid? He’s obviously a suburban, big-city, well-off, rich, whiny-pants republican who spends too much time writing poetry and playing his six string sympathy attractor. Nothing worse than a white, spoiled brat with a nail’s head full of talent and plenty of backing funds from Mum and Pop. “Oh, I’m so sad. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Maybe that’s because you’re real love needs tuning when you leave her over night in your volkwagen beetle. Who buys it in bright red anyway? Red like the blood from your bleeding heart, pansy. I bet you pick flowers and give them to your mom. Looks like you should get friendly with your strumming hand there, Bra.

How about girls? I think about this as I near home, being dropped off an UnGodly distance from my actual location. Everyone complains about how badly the Jews and Pals are fighting, but the battle between Male and Female has been going on a whole lot longer. I can guarentee it’s bloodier, too. Girls, with their lipstick, lip gloss, lip highlighter, lip this and that. Who the hell cares. Lips get chapped and scarred and they are the most worthless piece of flesh on a human boday. Find me a good reason for them, besides spreading disease and heartache, and I’ll cut mine off gladly.

Girls, they sit in their groups, going to the bathroom, chatting about how evil boys are when what they are really doing is setting the bait. If you hate fishing so much, why buy the boat, girls? Perfumes, nail polish, clothing the Dutch would blush at and all so you’ll have more war stories when that same group of you sit around and watch “You’ve Got Mail” for the 90th time. I can’t believe you still cry for that movie.

I get home and pull out a Chuck Palaniuk book. Doesn’t matter which one, because they’re all the same. They all have some over intellectual main character with too many psychosis or neurosis to be one piece. This main character’s life starts to (or has been) falling apart. Go figure – none of Chuck’s characters are “normal.” Could this be because Chuck himself is more broken than a fat girl’s mirror?

It seems that whenever someone talks in a Chuck book, it’s like hearing Tyler Durden. You thought Tyler was a unique character? He’s not. He’s Chuck’s character. They all spew out these pretty little sound bites about God or the government or society in general. Everyone has a complaint and a solution, and the solution is never a logical one.

The only way to make these books more obvious is if he had a disclaimer on the back that said, “All these characters represent how I feel about myself. I need hugs now.” Someone hugs his brains out so he quits writing. He’s like gritty Dashboard in a book form.

I put the book down. I look around the house. It might be only 6:30 pm, but suddenly sleep is the only answer. Good night folks. I sleep on into the mist.

Color me stupid. I fell for it again. A girl walks into your life. She’s dazzling: intelligent, funny, and beautiful. You become fast friends (perhaps against your every instinct), and you never regret it. You come to realize that you love her. Not this kissy-kissy love, but a deeper, more intimate love that physical affection could never match so you don’t even bother. Plus, she’s married, so she’s physically out of bounds.

Everyone thinks that you two are dating, but you fight more like brother and sister, making a dating relationship sound sick and depraved, which actually would make sense for you two. You always end up alone. Not because you duck out the back, but because when you sit down in the middle of everyone, everyone finds a new middle. Perpetually alone, all you have are each other and that’s enough.

You make friends with her family. You fall in love with her three daughters. You make friends with her husband. You picture having your own family and having get-togethers at some unnamed, insect-infested park in Madison. You buy into all this.

Then she leaves. No word or warning. Just gone. The word “devastated” comes to mind. When you ponder the situation, it’s comparable to a death. It’s not that she’s on holiday. She’s gone and perhaps not coming back. It’s not an uncalled for reaction. This is a bold-faced rejection, a slap and a half, a kick to the throat.

Cryptic words come to mind. The music she played. All the songs seemed to be about leaving. You’d watch her mouth only part of the words, like you do when you only know the chorus, except she knows the whole album front and back. It seems eerie and fitting that on your way to work you heard a song by “All-American Rejects” which happen to be her band of the moment. When you think about it, it’s possible that you saw this coming.

You get word of the news at work, when your roommate comes to tell you that her husband borrowed his car, to get his kids, because she wasn’t at work, she was much further than that. You feel your stomach flatten and your neck close off. You sit to write, to get it out, way before you talk to anyone besides yourself. You use your words to heal you before you start hurting for real.

You worry for her children. What will they think? How will this affect them? One will remember this. Another might remember this. The last will probably not remember this, but it will still be as real for her, if not worse. You have to say something. They won’t understand. He probably won’t be able to tell them what needs to be told. You have made yourself the band-aid.

You think back to those tears she shed. You remember how she’d come over to your house, crying or angry, and talk to you until early. You two would sit on the couch, and you came to realize just how badly her life was going. The word “harboring” comes to mind. If not for your understanding of her pain, you’d hate her for this. If not for your understanding of his pain, you’d hate him, too. If you weren’t so damn understanding you wouldn’t be in this mess.

You have to be very understanding now. You have to be there for them, as they wait. What can you do? It seems so pointless, the part you play. You don’t feel up to it – keeping it up for how long? A month? Six months? This may be one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, and that gives you no comfort. You’ve failed before.

You think about how she hugged you tighter last night than usual. You think about how she stayed longer, and how she insisted on watching her favorite movie. You think about how she didn’t look you in the eye when she told you she was going to be at work. The word “foreshadow” comes to mind.

“I guess this is best for her,” you think, but you don’t entirely think that. You know that if she had told you, you would have stopped her. You don’t necessarily find the answer to be “run away” when you think of the problem. You think “stay and fight” as the answer. On the other hand, you think about what other options did she have?

She said she was suffocating in her house. You weren’t going to help hold the pillow. Her happiness means too much to you. You have to trust her, now. You hope this works, whatever plan she has. If it doesn’t, things will be so much more painful. You wonder if things will ever go back to normal, and you hope that they do.

For now, you mourn, but for a second. Then you put on your brave face and look normal for the world. Chin up, as they say. You glance across the street, and you say to yourself, “She’ll be back, and when she is, you’re going to chew her out for not telling you.”

I have a new wallpaper up. It’s called “Until They Mattered” and I have it in the wallpaper section.

They loved me, but I didn’t love them.
I cut them out of my life and scribbled over them.

It was only me, only the boys, that counted. I hated my family Until They Mattered.

But then it was too late.

See it at deviantart here or in the walls section here.