Cabin Fever V

Jacob and I grew up together, at least as much as I grew up with anyone. I guess he was my oldest friend, to put it in more straightforward terms, but we didn't see each other for a long time for awhile, as his family left when he was about twelve.

Before then we were great friends, and when the carnival passed through town we would try everything we could to get in without paying and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. One of the times Jacob got in and managed to get his fortune read, too, but after that he was convinced he was going to die in the street, right outside of the bank. I always made fun of him about that, but he avoided that place like a pox no matter what I said and when he came back into town, all grown up, the first place he went was the bank to deposit a whole lot of money I guess. He was a changed man, and I didn't talk to him, but Old Man James who ran the bank told me he opened the biggest account he'd ever seen that day. He'd said something to Old Man James about finally making his fortune out west.

I guess he was planning on staying, but a couple of weeks later he was walking to his hotel room with Joanne and she said he just dropped, stone dead, right there on the street, right in front of the saloon. I didn't think much of it until the saloon moved father east of town, and Old Man James took the opportunity of renovating the old one into a new bank.

Asher's illustrations for my as of yet untitled story.

Cabin Fever IV

He had a reputation for being quite fast, and I'm not sure if he started it himself or if the others who came with him on the stagecoach brought it with them from St. Louis, but that's what killed him. Looking back I doubt if he started it, or if he did it was something he did drunkenly or angrily and without thinking, because Sally said she saw him right before it happened and he was miserable and trying to get out of town. It would have been much better if there was someone who had seen him shoot, but it was all hearsay and so everyone was curious and it got bad. It was only a week after he'd come in and he had found a job and seemed like a decent person although I never talked to him only he had the reputation. Sally was there working the tables that night and he just quietly wanted a bottle to take home, that's how bad it had become, and asked her if she knew of anyone willing to part with a horse so he could get out of town. James Lankman saw him then and it was over pretty fast after that. Sally said the reputation was good, but it was James Lankman.

As of yet Untitled

The old man woke up thinking that he should have collected worms yesterday afternoon after it rained. He could have gone out and collected them from the pavement just outside his flat, but now he would have to dig for them. He slowly got out of bed and got dressed in the dark. He could not remember the last time he woke up after sunrise. He supposed that it was something he did when he was young, or before the nightmares maybe. That was a long time ago. He went into the bathroom and began to shave, lathering his face with soap and water and then scraping it away with a bare blade. It took him longer than it used to, he thought to himself, because of the scar on his neck and perhaps, as an afterthought, because his hands had become less steady. He liked the way that it felt to shave, and he always felt better afterwards. He felt cleaner, more organized, presentable. He stopped for a moment.

"I see you've been working. It's a fine web my friend, but I'm afraid you won't have much luck over there. It's a funny thing, how you choose where to build. Last week it was the opposite corner. Why do you think you will do any better there?"

He watched the spider for a few more minutes and then finished shaving and thoroughly rinsed his face. He briefly considered killing it before drying his face and moving into the kitchen.

He put on the kettle still regretting the worms. It would have taken all of five minutes, since they come out in droves when the rain begins, and he should know since he had done it a thousand times. Now it would take three times as long, if he was lucky, and he would feel it in his body by the time he could dig up enough. When he had finished his tea he carefully gathered together his fishing rod, basket, and a small trowel. He looked over his hooks carefully, and took two of them. Then he selected a small knife even more carefully, and ran the edge along his thumb, testing the sharpness of the blade. Unsatisfied, he sharpened it, then tested it again, this time faintly breaking the skin on his thumb. Finally, he took a small loaf of bread, put on his hat and a large officer's overcoat, and left his flat.

Still at this time the sun had not yet come up, although there were hints at some light on the horizon. The morning air was cold and dry, and the old man breathed short, quick breaths until his face and lungs adjusted to the change. After walking to the end of his street, he took a small path that lead to the river. He carefully maneuvered down the steep river valley, following a path that he had used for months, until he came to the bank. It was the solitary nature of the river, and it's proximity to his flat, that the old man came here on such a regular basis.

Today the old man walked slowly to the edge of the river and watched the surface for any signs of trout feeding. He noticed several slight disturbances on the surface that he supposed could be trout, but he could not be certain in the near light of predawn. After several moments he removed his jacket and began hunting under rocks and prying behind rotten bark for any kind of bait to use, working steadily with his trowel until he had gathered enough. The sunrise slowly illuminated the river and covered it in a slight mist, and the old man rested for a moment and tore off a piece of bread. He felt a chill as he ate, and he reached for his jacket and began to put it on.

When he heard them coming he was tempted to run. He could make it out of there, following the river until it almost intersected with the train station and just leave again. He could be in Paris in half an hour, and with his papers, disappearing had never been a problem before. He stood, listening, and thought about it for half a minute before slowly sitting back down. He finished eating the bread, chewing slowly, and when they arrived he was finished. They stood, awkwardly watching him from the path. The old man stood to face them. He recognized them immediately and was not surprised by the two on the left, but the third man was the local grocer. Gregory Brooks: wife, young, and two children, no older than five. Although all three men looked nervous and uncomfortable, it was Gregory Brooks who clearly did not belong. The old man almost would have smiled if it would have been appropriate. The other two men were not locals. They looked much older than when he had seen them last, more refined, or perhaps that was only because they were dressed much better and were cleaner now and not nearly as emaciated. No, there was a quiet dignity about them.

"Klaus Fischer?" asked the one in the middle. It was not a question, it was nearly a command. The old man snapped his heels together and stood at mock attention.

"Klaus Fischer, Oberstleutenant, 12th Volksgrenadier Division?"

"Ja."

The man in the centre moved his hand from his coat pocket to reveal a small handgun. He pointed it at the old man as they moved behind him and pushed him to his knees. The old man did not resist, but removed his officer's coat and cap and placed them in a folded pile beside him. He heard the sound of steel against steel as they attached a silencer to the gun, and the old man closed his eyes. So it was not as it had been in his nightmares. So he was at peace, after all. He spoke: "Denn Dein ist das Reich und die Kraft und die Herrlicheit, in Ewigkeit." Then the pistol sounded and he fell onto the damp ground.

Reality

Here it is at last. The inspiration for this blog; the seed of brilliance finally come to fruition.

2^nd regiment, medic

When the steel was placed in my hands it was the coldest metal I had felt, and I saw our reflection in the unscrewed cap of the flask. All was shades of grey. Somewhere, sometime we had lost our color. Or maybe we had only lost our perception, but there is no way of knowing any more. All we know now is colorless, like the steel in my hands, or the steel that we keep by our beds. The only metal save the flask that keeps us alive these days. Fortitude and fatality, the two no longer seem so far apart. They are more like my left and right arm; both are necessary. The entrance to our sanctuary is without light, pure darkness as if nothing lies beyond the door. I used to think it was due to it being night, but it has been dark for so long. The light of the room comes from the flask, our only compelling source of warmth. We take turns holding the light up to our faces for illumination.

Although the steel was cold as hell, the fire it held lit my head like a mortar. All I could hear was the buzz of war and in that flash I saw color again. We are men, yet nothing more than children. The line has crossed back on itself. We live like men but we die like children. No one else exists. We receive no mail and we write no one. My grey brothers are all I know or can remember. In our sanctuary there is only the truth. I have forgotten how to lie. I look across our circle and my brothers look back at me honestly. Their faces are dark and sunken but true. Their pupils shine like stars. My own eyes used to be blue. Now they look like photographs of the moon. We are like animals, all eyes facing the light. We wait in darkness, lie in contempt, until our moment is upon us and we make ourselves a beautiful spectacle of the night and paint the blue-green grass a violent shade of purple, until we fall asleep with our eyes facing the night. Oh, until we finally sleep…

My brother reaches for the steel. He speaks with his eyes. I close mine and yield; it is his turn to shine.

2^nd regiment, corporal

God, I love it here. Not that it's pleasant, because it isn't particularly. Everyone complains a lot. The food is pretty bad when we have it, but we haven't for awhile so that’s not so bad. The drink from the flask is good, and not only good but useful and perhaps even necessary.

The only thing that bothers me about this place is the lies. Not the only thing, that's not true; just the thing that bothers me the most. The lies are what make all of this mess the most uncomfortable. Everything leading up to this moment was a lie. It started with the lies we were told to convince us to come to this place, to the lies that we're told to keep us here, to the lies that we tell each other to get what we want or to keep us from killing one another or ourselves, or for whatever other reason. I guess the lies are necessary. They serve a purpose and I'm not going to pretend to be the righteous one. I'm as full of wonderful, life-giving, euphoric lies as the happy fool who was lucky enough to remember to bring the flask.

With the flask we can be honest at last. The honesty seeps out, happily at first when something that is needed to be said is finally made blunt, but later seriously as it is revealed fully, and finally remorsefully as all of the hidden implications of honesty are revealed. Here, in this place, honesty is not a virtue. I'm only going to go so far as to say that I wish that the lies were not the solution. Everyone else seems to like it though.

Maybe like is too strong a word. Maybe need would be better, or they just find it amusing or allows them to keep some dignity. I guess everyone can have their reasons. Sitting here with all of them and the occasional noise and none of us possessing any kind of future except the kind we can imagine and only the kind of past that can be lied about, what is there not to like? I have raised the flask to my lips three times now, and in order to remain happy I will stop.

5^th regiment, private 1^st class

It is so god damn cold in here. It doesn’t matter what we do, or how many times I send home begging for socks, new boots, wool shirts, long-underwear, anything to kill this fuckin’ cold, I am still gonna freeze my ass off and it won’t mean a fucking thing to anybody. I guess that's why I stopped writing letters now. I guess that's why I quit writing them any more. Sometimes I feel bad, but there just isn't anything left to say any more. It's sad to realize that's why I ever wrote.

The only thing that has been keeping me warm the past couple days is the liquor I stole from the 3^rd regiment captain’s quarters. Two bottles of Knob Creek, not bad for the purpose it serves. Yet, even this is bull shit because I have to share with these helpless bastards just so they don’t get me into trouble. At least these cowboys have the good decency not to borrow cigarettes without some sort of payment in return. I got promised wool socks from the butcher yesterday for a pack of lucky strikes. Cigarettes are the best sort of currency ‘round here. The only good thing my sorry excuse for a step dad has done for me is to keep me stocked with more cigarettes than I have time to smoke. And I have an ungodly amount of time to kill.

Oh that’s fuckin’ brilliant, the flask is already running dry and it’s only a quarter past. Sons-of-bitches always linger with the flask, suckling it like it was their own mom’s godam tit. Clark says it helps him reflect and he’s a medic so I guess he knows what he’s talking about, and you need that in a place that’s as big a shit hole as this is. Growing up in Jersey I never saw anything so disgusting. I wish to god there was a way out.

The pathetic faces, they must need it more than I do. I can hardly drink this shit anymore anyways.

5^th regiment, sergeant

I've seen too much of this war. I've seen it fought on the ocean, I've seen it fought on the land, and I've seen it fought in the sky. None of it is half as glamorous as these kids make it out to be in their letters back home to their sweethearts, wives, whatever. They want to be big men. They want to own the world, and thought this damn war would be a good place to start. They're not half so keen now I'd wager. They're not half so idealistic sitting in this trench in the mud, freezing their asses off washing away their misery with stolen whiskey out of a flask. They're as pathetic as me.

I like to drink. I like the way it feels, and the way that it's always felt. I like that it's a crutch, and I don't mind saying so. We're all drinking for the same reason now. Now we're all sharing the same crutch. I bet only a handful of these pups ever drank for any real reason; only to make themselves look better, only to make themselves look like men who can do whatever they want. They want to be tough guys, and it's the same damn reason they're here, just plain macho egotism. They want to be men? They're welcome to it. They've got no stomach for this anymore; I can see it in their faces now that they've been drinking. It's as clear as if they wrote it down. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them wanted to end it all right now. Goodbye, "coward's way out", they call it. It's all right there on their faces. They might as well just say it because it's plain as anything that's what they want. Then there are the few who know what's going on. There are a few, but they're all drinking like it's their last drink, every mother's son of them.

5^th regiment, private

It's alright. Everything is alright. It's going to be alright. They've stopped the big guns now, so it's not as loud, but I can hear rifle fire. I think that's rifle fire from the front. My god, if they come in it'll be man to man. I have to remember training. I have to remember everything if it comes down to man to man. I wonder if Sarge will shout like we're doing drills. I wonder if he'll be just as scared as me if they break the lines. It sure doesn't look like it now, he's steady alright. It makes me angry just to look at him, or any of them for that matter. How can they all just sit there and act like everything is okay? Like we aren't all going to be dead in a matter of moments. If some one would just say something, or anything to take my mind off the damn war. At least someone has a flask, thank god for the flask.

Sometimes I try to think about home. That used to help but I don't remember it right any more. Nothing is the same as it was back at home. I wish to Christ I was back at home. If they could see me now wouldn't they be proud. Never touched a drop in my life. Just look at me now, it's wonderful. No one else seems to care. Look at their faces. Sunken, pale, blood shot, stupid faces, I hate when they look at me. They always stare at me as if to say, "Oh yeah, he'll be dead real soon." The rifle fire keeps up and they don't even look interested. Then of course, they're all drinking too. I wonder sometimes if they like the war. I think some of them do, how else would they stay so calm? Sick bastards.

I wonder what they think when they see me shaking. I have to hold the flask with both hands just to keep it steady. I hold it close to my chest and each swallow hurts. I don't want to give it up. I want to keep it. I want to keep it. If I'm going to die tonight I need it.

2^nd regiment, private 1^st class

This is everything. Every breath, every thought, every moment another opportunity. I think Clark at least understands the importance of what we are doing here. It’s strange to me to see the morale of the men so fickle. It is as if they have forgotten. They’re happy if they’re given a good meal. They’re happy if they’re given a weekend leave. The problem is that they believe they deserve it, and as soon as it’s back to their real duty they piss all over themselves.

I am not a hero, I’ll bleed just as red and fall just as hard as any one of these men. But I won’t fall pointlessly like a poor old bastard dying in his wheel chair. The thought of finishing it, whatever that entails, is what keeps me motivated, keeps my blood course, keeps my fingers from going numb, and my mind sharp and alert. Nothing can ever take that from me, no one can. If I go home it will be finished, no other way about it.

It’s sad that the flask is such a necessity here. I liked it much better when we didn’t have it. It breaks everyone’s focus. We have to be ready, we must stay vigilant. I will take a swallow and leave the rest to the others, hopefully it helps them remember.

5^th regiment, corporal

I've shared everything with these men, and now the flask. I wish I could say I was one of them. I'd be proud of that honor. I wish I was but I'm not.

Some would say what separates us is our ideology, and that must be true at least partially. It has to be, otherwise what's the point? It has to be a struggle for ideas that are bigger than any of us and all of this. And yet part of me thinks that it is just a matter of circumstance. I shouldn't think like that. This kind of thinking won't help anything.

This isn't something I want to think about at all. I'd rather forget about it until it's all over tomorrow, but the flask helps. I feel the most badly for Jeremy. The others have seen enough death to accept it, but Jeremy is like a scared puppy. There's something about that pathetic raw fear, the rejection of the rules of war in favor of self interest that makes it harder for me to follow through. He doesn't want any of this, and he clearly doesn't believe in anything anymore. It isn't that he won't get there eventually. I've seen the cycle over and over, and even in myself. With me it was different I guess, living with the enemy for so long. When the optimism vanishes, all you have is fear for awhile. Then if you survive that, you begin to build again. With everyone the building is different. Some make it a poetic experience, while others embrace the reality of it. Sometimes the only thing you have is the camaraderie of your fellow man. Jeremy doesn't know any of this, but I guess I can't help that.

Tomorrow my German comrades will have the maps and details of each regiment that crouches huddling and freezing in these trenches on the front lines. It isn't likely these men will survive.

Epiphany (in which the child realizes that enormity of the world that exists behond his own limited experiences)

He walks through the library, past the halls and halls of books everywhere. He can only reach to the fifth shelf, and only if he stretches, but he doesn't think about that much. He is primarily concerned with finding something interesting to show his older brother instead of looking for comic books, and he isn't paying any attention to what section he is in, he just looks for something that will catch his eye. Finally on the bottom shelf he spots a large book on some sort of anthropological studies of some jungle-inhabiting tribe, but the point is that there are lots of pictures everywhere and he quickly finds his brother and yes! He is impressed after all. He is looking through the book and talking about each picture and he thinks it's all very interesting, and it's wonderful.

And then he turns the page and there is a picture of a pile of skulls, just skulls in a giant heap in the middle of the jungle. The pile is higher than his brother, or the fifth shelf on the book case, or even the top shelf. The child looks and looks and his brother doesn't matter for a minute and he can't look away, it's too much. Every one of those skulls was a person, just like me, and felt pain and love and had relationships and connections to other people like family and friends and they must have been missed when they were gone and it isn't just the skulls he can see in the photograph, the whole pile must be full of skulls, hundreds of thousands of them, more people than he had ever met before and it makes him a little dizzy but he can't look away.

Now his brother is trying to turn the page, but the child still doesn't want to look away and he pulls the book out of his brother's hands and sits down by himself to look through the rest of it, quietly, by himself.

Cabin Fever III (edits)

When the Spaniard wasn’t hired out he spent his days by the brothel or watching the gambling tables. He never actually played but he would always sit there watching the tables and keeping a close eye on every card dealt. More than once the loser of a hand tried cursing him out of the gambling room yelling about how “that fuckin spick’s bad luck, every time he sits watchin all my paint an’ makin eyes at all y’alls, it’s no wonder I been losin.'” The Spaniard would watch emotionlessly, continuing as he had been. No one ever defended him, because no one really cared much. Everyone seemed to feel the same as I did about him. To tell the truth he was a bit of a spook. His eyes were constantly dilated until you couldn't see any color in them except for the murky yellow sea his dark black eyes sank into. Still, Maggie was convinced he had a good heart. And he wasn’t all bad, he out-drank me anyways.

One day I was sitting watching the boys playing cards and the Spaniard was sitting across from me taking slow pulls on a bottle of what I assumed was tequila. When I got myself a Tennessee Bourbon he stared at me for a moment and then set down his bottle and motioned for Joseph to bring him what I had. He took up the glass and showed the bottoms of his yellow teeth as he glanced over at me to see if I was watching, then drank the glass down. I typically took my whiskey slow when I was drinking it neat and I don’t know why but I picked up my glass and put it down in two harsh swallows, I continued to watch the game without looking back at the Spaniard for a minute to appear unconscious of my actions. When I looked back over to him, his glass was full again and he was holding it with both hands while blankly watching the cards. Joseph came over silently and whispered if I’d like another, and that's how it began. He even left our glasses on the table so he could keep count. Occasionally I would glance over and catch the Spaniard checking to see what number I was at. I wish I remembered more from that night and had seen more of that poker game because I was later told that the boys from the mountain had done quite well. I had drank at least 11 glasses of whiskey which is more whiskey than I ever remember having had in the space of two hours. When I went to pay my tab that next night, Joseph told me it had already been taken care of and that was the last I saw of the Spaniard for some time.

Cabin Fever III

When the Spaniard wasn’t hired out he spent his days by the brothel or watching the gambling tables. He never played but he would always sit there watching the tables keeping a close eye on every card dealt. More than once a loser tried cursing him out of the gambling room yelling, “That fuckin spick’s bad luck, every time he sits watchin all my paint an’ makin eyes at all y’alls, it’s no wonder I been losin.’” The Spaniard would just sit there emotionless, continuing as he had been. No one ever defended him, cause no one really cared much. Everyone seemed to feel the same as I did about him. And to tell the truth he was a bit of a spook. His eyes were constantly dilated until you couldn't see any color in them except for the murky yellow sea his dark black eyes sank into. Still, Maggie was convinced he had a good heart. And he wasn’t all bad, he out drank me anyways.

One day I was sitting watching the boys playing cards and the Spaniard was sitting across from me taking slow pulls on a bottle of what I assumed was tequila. When I got myself a Tennessee Bourbon he stared at me for a moment and then set down his bottle and motioned for Joseph to bring him what I had. He took up the glass and showed the bottoms of his yellow teeth as he glanced over at me to see if I was watching, then drank the glass down. I typically took my whiskey slow when I was drinking it clean and I don’t know why but I picked up my glass and put it down in two harsh swallows, I continued to watch the game without looking back at the Spaniard for a minute to appear unconscious of my actions. When I looked back over to him, his glass was full again and he was holding it with both hands while blankly watching the cards. Joseph came over silently and whispered if I’d like another, and that's how it began. He even left our glasses on the table so he could keep count. Occasionally I would glance over and catch the Spaniard checking to see what number I was at. I wish I remembered more from that night and had seen more of that poker game because I was later told that the boys from the mountain had done quite well. I had drank at least 11 glasses of whiskey which is more whiskey than I had ever had in the space of two hours. When I went to pay my tab that next night, Joseph told me it had already been taken care of and that was the last I saw of the Spaniard for some time.

Part one in what might be something as long as two parts! Stay tuned!

I

She felt rested and ready to go out at last. After being in the hotel room for the first two days in Chiang Mai, Sarah finally felt ready to go out. Her new husband Jeremy had already been out, and on the first day he brought her back some trinkets from the night bazaar. He had tried to convince her to go out by telling her about the sights he had seen, how it felt so different to be there, and how polite everyone was. The travel channel didn't do it justice, he said. He said it wasn't the same without her there though, and he wished she would go out, just for a little while. "I have jet lag," she lied, and stayed indoors and watched Thai TV which she didn't understand. There was a lot about the king, which she recognized from the 1,000 Baht bill, and some amusing advertisements that she didn't understand at all, but she didn't want to go outside. 

On the second day she slept until the afternoon sometime. Jeremy had woken her up with some food from a street vendor outside. It was some kind of sweet pastry that was surprisingly good. After they had eaten, he told her that he heard of a casino in the centre of the town and wanted to check it out, and wondered if she wanted to come along. He understood that the bazaar was a lot to take in all at once, and maybe this would be a little easier. They could take a cab, the hotel manager had written down the address in Thai, so it would be easy. The manager said it was one of the best casinos in the city. He said they would enjoy it very much, both of them, whether they gambled or not, and there was a shopping mall quite close as well. It would be highly enjoyable for both of them. "You go ahead," she said. "You'll enjoy yourself. I'm going to stay in for one more day. Maybe tomorrow." He was disappointed, she could tell, and he sat down on the bed and put his hand on her arm and told her they were going to have a talk later tonight when he got back and she didn't say anything and then it was awkward, but he left. After that she showered and felt ready to go out.

She walked carefully downstairs and nodded to the friendly hotel manager, who told her that her husband had just left. "Thank you, yes," she said, and walked outside. She felt the heat and the humidity immediately in stark contrast to the air conditioned hotel. The bazaar was right in front of her, and it was just setting up. Locals arrived on scooters or bicycles and began unlocking the metal storage containers that transformed into booths full of merchandise. It stretched for blocks in every direction, according to her husband, and she felt suddenly out of place. She walked slowly across the street and along the main road. The sun was beginning to go down, and that was when the bazaar exploded with activity. As she walked, more and more of the cubes began opening to display trinkets and novelty items ranging from lighters to jewelery. 

Everything around her seemed so miniature; the vehicles, the food, even the people. She felt enchanted, and as the sun began to set and the market continued to grow around her, the feeling grew. There were lights everywhere, and smiling faces trying to sell her anything and everything. She smiled back, and said "No, thank you," to everything, until she found a small jewelery stand, and she stopped to look at everything. She picked out a small ring with three tiny rubies in the centre. The woman swore it was 62.5% pure silver, and the ruby was real. She didn't care though, and she paid the two thousand Baht for it. The lady was disappointed when she didn't barter, but she left back to the bustle of the market with her new ring on. She wanted to get lost suddenly, she thought it would be wonderful to lose herself in this world of friendly, carefree faces, and not go back to the hotel room at all. As soon as she thought that though, she began retracing her steps. She was feeling tired. 

She arrived back at the hotel room and no one was in the lobby and she went to her room and quietly opened the door, but it was empty. She felt a little relieved, thinking how disappointed Jeremy would have been, but also a little upset. She felt like the trip was a little meaningless, until she looked back down at her silver ring.

Cabin Fever I

Written many moons ago.

The old man came down from the mountains every spring to buy flour and whiskey and whatever other supplies he needed. The storekeeper's daughter once told me that he'd come into town and stop first at the store, smelling of the forest and sweat and urine, and place an order for so much whiskey that they'd make a special order just for that. Then he'd stay in town until it came, two weeks or four or however long. He wouldn't go back to the mountains without it. The spring he didn't come back it was joked in the taverns that it was the whiskey that finally killed him. Neither the storekeeper's daughter nor I laughed though, because only we knew how much whiskey it was, and that it was probably true.

It's all for you.

I've been spending a lot less time doing actual writing, and a lot more working on the title picture (above). Now that it's absolutely, unconscionably perfect, maybe I can crank something out.

Cabin Fever II

Sometimes the brothers would finish the season early, they loved the mountain but the one thing they couldn’t stand was having nothing to keep them occupied. On such occasions they would take the narrow path down to town, the fast route only taking what they needed to live off of. They would stay until they remembered why they loved the mountains again, a week at the most, and then leave, and it never caused any trouble, except they liked to gamble. They were good at it, being smart and able, they were willing to take the occasional chance, and unlike everyone else they bet within their limits and usually broke even. If they won anything they were inclined to buy drinks for everyone, which helped to soothe some losers and aggravate others. The bottom line, they gambled because they enjoyed it and I guess when the younger brother hit that royal flush he could have said anything, or nothing at all, but he looked at the old man straight in the eye as he laid down his cards and said "Either this isn't your day, or it very much is mine," and according to Sally, who was on her way past their table with a few drinks, it was definitely his day. But Sally was always partial to the boys, secretly waiting for them to crawl back down off the mountain every year.

We are less than published (we are un-published)

We are the bridge, the generation before.
We are not dissatisfied because we strive for not.
We are the gap, the hollowed-out hole
We live and conspire in the trenches waiting for another to bury us there
Warfare is child’s play but politics is a vicious game
We are less than philosophers since our sight has been muddied
Our philosophy will build the canal, someone else will open the flood gates
We are the foundation the others finish.

journal entry I from theodore

They take quick, short breaths because they don’t live long.  Not that they know it, I am sure they think they live a long time and considering the fact that they are aware of little less then being alive it’s hardly a surprise.  They exhale all at once to refill their lungs like they are reluctant to give it up: oxygen, water, nitrogen; anything that is a contributor.  Curiously they need little to nothing to really maintain existence and yet they are so motivated to preserve life.  I have heard of one or two of them actually self destructing with an overdose of adrenaline.  Their blood pumping too fast for their poor little veins and their quick beating little hearts exploding inside their chest.  Every time I think about them it reminds me of how meaningless their sad little lives are.  I envy the simplicity, the closure when they fall asleep and don’t wake up.  They live short little lives but they don’t know it.

-theo

The Trenches Explained

It could be argued that trench warfare birthed modernity. It took everything that was thought about war; the valour and romance and glory, and reduced it to the grim and grimy and gut-shot shit that it was; like reality. Nevertheless, the propaganda machines back home kept printing colourful, eye-catching, necessary posters to keep the faith and romance of war alive. If that wasn't what they intended, at least that's what happened.

I say that it birthed modernity because of the dissilusionment that people seemed to feel for the first time. Darwin had recently committed deicide, but that was just a snowflake in the cultural avalanche. Everywhere the lines between good and evil were being reconsidered, blurred, or redrawn and in the middle of all of that came hopelessness and the fear that it didn't mean anything.

Eliot, Yeats, Hemingway, all saw it firsthand and relayed the sense of impending nothingness to the world, who taciturnly agreed with them. The result over the past one hundred years has been a semi-curious, often apathetic investigation of hopelessness and despair. Most of the time we try to ignore it, but when it surfaces it's hideous and powerful.

We're still in the trenches, but we aren't sure who the enemy is any more. Sometimes we wonder if it even matters. We spend a lot of time trying to pretend that nothing is very important any more, and media has made that very easy. We're our own propoganda. We're entertaining ourselves to death.