I have added mobile to my blog so I can begin blogging from abroad...

Randy Hermsen

Randy Hermsen, 54, of College Place died Dec. 7, 2009, at Providence St. Mary Medical Center.
Arrangements are pending at Herring Groseclose Funeral Home, 315 W. Alder St.

Just this morning, I was told the news.
I couldn’t believe it and am a little confused.
How could a guy that makes me laugh all day,
Decide to just pick up and walk away?
I thought you would handle it longer than you did,
You never gave up and you never hid.
I watched you go through some hard times.
Whether you were innocent or convicted of your crimes.
You were the one person that would never stop,
And you always found a way to come out on top.
So, it surprises me that much more
That you were the one to walk out the door.
You were a beacon for many, a champion of hope,
And you were the rock people hung to when they just couldn’t cope.
When I felt I couldn’t take the hostility any longer,
You stepped up and made me stronger.
When I just wanted to lash out and fight,
You helped me find the path that was right.
I enjoyed your humor no matter how racy,
You kept me sane when all around us was crazy.
We all know that you left and aren’t coming back,
And we are hurt that you didn’t call us to help you pack.
But we know what happened and understand
That things don’t always go quite as planned.
We all hate the fact that you are no longer here
But no matter how far you went, you’ll always be near.
Because, in my heart and memories you always stay,
And I will think of you each and every day.
You were one of the rare people that made this world a better place
And I wish so bad that I could tell you to your face.
I will miss you Randy, you were truly a great friend.
But more than that, you were my brother by the end.
So rest now, as you deserve to do,
And know that your fight with cancer is through.
You have so much life that will go unsung
And I hate that it’s true that only the good die young.

I miss you chief and wish I could tell you that I have not met many people quite as important as you.

Temple of Terror

This Halloween, Walla Walla Washington will be the home of a new realm of fear as the Temple of Terror will be opening its ancient doors and unleashing its horrors onto the land! Step through the portals on October 29th, 30th, and 31st and be awed by the amazing, gawk at the gore, scream at the sights and sounds of the dead and deranged! Can you survive this unholy building of doom? Will you be able to keep your soul from the minions of darkness? Can you at least keep your heart beating in this maze of madness? We shall see.......

Temple of Terror
Oct. 29 - 31
Portals open at 7pm

Come in and enjoy the terror with two alternate routes!
Initial entry is $8 with alternate round re-entry of $4.

(There will be a free and safe event area to drop the little victims off around the side, complete with coloring activities and face painting.)

Happy re-Birthday

Image by another_finn via Flickr

Today marks the 20th anniversary of my rebirth. This is the day that a hot headed 13 year old and an impulsive 14 year old developed their own rite of passage without intention and forever changed both their lives. One will be forever haunted and one will be eternally grateful.

In celebration of this twisted birthday, I have decided to post something I wrote in 1995. It is a little rough but it sings the story. So, as though I were in an old movie, I am here to say, "Take it away Sam."

It was a glorious feeling now that I reflect. Death. The absence of feeling. My vision went black, not even black, there was nothing. No senses, nothing. It was wonderful.

I was shot by a gun, a .44 magnum to be exact. A beautiful, metallic, harbinger of death. The long, cold barrel stared me straight in the eyes, no not the eyes, the soul. The pistol screamed! I fell into nothingness. My face leaped towards the words the pistol shouted as the rest of my body attempted to jump awy. My unliving form fell forward in amazing speed but my chin caught us at the edge of the desk I was occupying. My senses were already on vacation by this time. Vacation nothing, they were half way to Mexico on a more permanent basis.

The depressing part was that my sight had returned. I was watching a set of stairs walking up and away from me. My feet weren't moving. "This must be the stairway to Hell," I thought. I was upset to find out that I was wrong...very upset.

The blood raced from my still unmoving form in ungodly amounts. If I had feeling, the sensation would be better than sex, I'm certain. Everything swiftly turned crimson and the sight alone made the tip of my mind tingle.

I was outside. The rest of my senses returned, unfortunately. They were as depressed as I am now. I found myself staring at the alley behind my shooter's home. Bored. Alone for another part of my life. I walked, slipping on my own type O all the way back up the stairs I was dragged down and into the executioner's room, the place I had the chance to greet Death. This is where I found the gunman dialing for help. At the time, I was pleased. I don't understand why. I sat on the bed, wasting space in the corner and began taking delight in the actual entry wound and the oral innards that were exiting my widened maw. The mouth stew seemed more like a witch's brew...a dozen teeth, freshly mulched gums, a pinch of gunpowder, a handful of ripped and burned flesh...and it was all annointing my person.

The angels charged into the room, wearing their customary white. Two had brought in a stretcher, two were equipped with towels and a red, plastic box. Strange equipment for angels. One supressed my bleeding crevice with a towel while another checked my heart rate. The other two loaded me onto their stretcher and hauled me off like groceries in a shopping cart.

Well, that's how I saw it six years after the event. I have had time to heal and grow since and have grown to love what I once loathed. I appreciate the life I fought for.

My life never returned to normal and there are many things I cannot do that I watch the rest of the world take for granted, things that I used to be hateful for not being able to do. The toughest part of the whole change was the deadened nerves in the left side of my face that cripple me in the sense that I no longer smile without looking like Quasimodo and that my facial expressions are so outlandish now that they cause a second glance from people around me, even people that are often in my presence. I know that my goofy expressions are enough to cause people to point and snicker, and it still stings every time someone does, but I know that if they were to try going through the ordeal that made me the joke I am today, they wouldn't have the willpower to survive the first week of my trials, let alone the years of physical and psychological torture and two decades of societal ridicule and when I feel the needles of shame or embarrassment piercing through my chest, I just think of the gun. No other pointing hurt quite like it and just like it, I will survive the pointing of others and become stronger for it.

Though my life isn't normal and I can't do some of the simplest of things, my life is great and I wouldn't trade in for any other. I am me, not because of the handicaps that hold me back, but because of the success I achieve in spit of them!

Happy birthday to me!

(Same event, different emotional perspective)

Writer's Challenge #5

Image via Wikipedia

This challenge was one that was posted to me by a friend of a friend (long story) and it was creative enough that I thought I would share it with you.

Go online or hit your local music store to grab a list of 20 Indie rock band names, at random (I recommend a top 20 list for 2008 or have a couple friends go with you and get them to split the task of gathering bands).

Take your 20 band names and create a story using the names. Use all 20 names, they don't have to be in order and you can use other words to enhance but get all 20 band names in.

writer's Challenge #4

Taking full advantage of my recent visit to the coast, I thought it might be interesting to see things from another creature's eyes. This thought came about while watching people flocking to tide pools and gawking at the various aquatic lifeforms.

So, this challenge: Pick a sea creature that can typically be found on the shoreline and write a story strictly from this creature's point of view.

Let's play some Brute!

Hey there, friends!

I was doing some random online browsing for internet excitement of an odd flavor and I ended up running across the craziest little game! (Okay, it probably isn't extremely crazy but it does seem like a lot of fun)!


The game is called My Brute and when you show up at the site, you get the chance to make your own little brute. By simply typing in your fighter's name, the site generates a cute little fighter for you. If you don't like the way he or she looks, click on the little button to the left of it, near th
e feet and the site will randomly generate a new character until you find something more appealing. You can even change the color scheme of your Brute with the button on the right.

Get your guy or gal started and throw it into the arena for some fighting fun! The site will ask you to set up a password but doesn't ask for anything else!

There is no real complicated game play, just a couple clicks gets you into a fight with another brute and the website A.I. does the rest! It may not be super involved but is an entertaining 3 minutes of the day, regardless!

Writing Challenge #3

Wow, it took some time get back 'round to this blog. My apologies. I would like to make some reason for not posting which fills your heart with pity which causes you to excuse it all away. Unfortunately, I ain't got one! Moving on:

I know today isn't Monday, but...
This week's writing challenge is a simple one. Pick a favorite musical band, favorite movie, video game, comic book, role playing....well, you get the point. Once you have it nestled securely into your forethought, write a haiku (or a series of haiku) discussing it. Heck, you could even write one for each of the various topics I displayed above (or more, if you choose).

Let's see what we can get done eight days from now (July 17th).

Infinite Inkweel Writer's Guild Update

Image via Wikipedia

As this blog has slowly formed from my own desire to write, into a small guild of writers, it seems only logical that multiple people be allowed to create posts on this site.

As of now, this blog site is a forum for all of the writers in the Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild so that, all of the writers have a platform of their works or thoughts. Each post is property of the individual guild member.

This action should open this blog into a multiverse of fiction and fantasy and can even act as a springboard to other blogs of each writer, just like my own blog about comic books.

Thanks for reading friends and don't just read, dip that pen!

Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild - Challenge #3

This piece of art is entitled, "Leashed Passion" and is by artist, Laurie Lipton.

The drive for this challenge is to pick any one aspect of this picture and to describe it in vivid detail, from the physical senses such as sight, sound, smell to the metaphysical senses including history or emotional connection. Get crazy and craft away!

Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild - Challenge #2

This post is the next challenge for the members of the Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild.
If you are not a member and would like to become a member, please e-mail me from blogspot and we can discuss entry into the guild.

Alright, fellow pensmiths, here is our second challenge! For this challenge, the main object of your short story must be the color blue. Whether it is the color itself or something that is that color. You are a writer, get creative. The criteria should range from three paragraphs to a single page of writing.

The main object is the color blue!

Post as a comment if you please.
Good luck! I will submit my own story on Friday.

A morning with Joe

On Wednesday, June 3^rd, Walla Walla Community College, with the assistance of Phi Beta Lambda, opened the doors of their theater in the Health And Science building for award winning local author and business entrepreneur, Mr. Joe Cooke, who spoke to an audience of students and Walla Walla residents on the topic of Creative Entrepeneurialsm, ‘The Road Less Traveled’. Here is a sample of what happened on this bright and pleasant morning for those unfortunate few that could not attend.

With an introduction of Mr. Cooke and his impressive accomplishments, including his college education, previous businesses, seats in office, and a mention of his publishing company, Cannon Publishing Group, Joe Cooke takes the stage and instantly captures his audience with a soft, welcome personality. His discussion on entrepreneurial success begins within Mr. Cooke’s own history and travels through his own ups and downs into the present.

Determining the message behind today’s discussion comes quickly as Joe not only talks about what one needs to succeed, but shows it in his speech, and that thing is passion. With an eloquent presence and skilled speech, Mr. Cooke brings the audience through a range of feelings from amused to inspired as his words find their way into each attendee’s ears and shoots to their motivation centers.

After his presentation, Mr. Cooke generously comes into the crowd and connects with many members of the audience, even staying well after the discussion to carry on community rich conversations with a few remaining people from the audience.

Through the day, the college was abuzz with the quality of this presentation and some individuals that attended were suddenly finding their passion again, rethinking their dreams and goals, and asking, “Why aren’t I getting my business started?”

Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild - Challenge #1

This post is intended for guild members but I also encourage every reader to give it a solid read and attempt to complete the challenge.

Here's the challenge, take the word at the end of this post in blue, say it aloud, then craft a story with the first thing that comes to mind (aside of the definition). Try to get at least one page written.

Whether you are in the guild or not, feel free to post your story as a comment on this thread. I will have mine posted by Friday, June 9th.

The word is:

INCITE

From the grotto!

I have burned an idea through my head for some time now (possibly a year) and, as the planets align or the fates spin (whichever great destiny you may subscribe to), I have determined that NOW is the time!

The foundation of the Infinite Inkwell Writer's Guild has been set and the structure which sits upon said foundation is being developed!
Currently, our membership sits at two individuals. If you live in the Walla Walla area, have a sincere passion for writing, and would like to gain membership, contact me here or on Facebook.

We will gather for regular or semi-regular meetings. The goals of these meetings will range from writing challenges to network enhancement or any other discussion topic which will enhance our writing or publishing agendas.

Thank you Joe

On Wednesday, June 3^rd, Walla Walla Community College, with the assistance of Phi Beta Lambda, opened the doors of their theater in the Health And Science building for award winning local author and business entrepreneur, Mr. Joe Cooke, who spoke to an audience of students and Walla Walla residents on the topic of Creative Entrepreneurialsm, ‘The Road Less Traveled’. Here is a sample of what happened on this bright and pleasant morning for those unfortunate few that could not attend.

With an introduction of Mr. Cooke and his impressive accomplishments, including his college education, previous businesses, seats in office, and a mention of his publishing company, Cannon Publishing Group, Joe Cooke takes the stage and instantly captures his audience with a soft, welcome personality. His discussion on entrepreneurial success begins within Mr. Cooke’s own history and travels through his own ups and downs into the present.

Determining the message behind today’s discussion comes quickly as Joe not only talks about what one needs to succeed, but shows it in his speech, and that thing is passion. With an eloquent presence and skilled speech, Mr. Cooke brings the audience through a range of feelings from amused to inspired as his words find their way into each attendee’s ears and shoots to their motivation centers.

After his presentation, Mr. Cooke generously comes into the crowd and connects with many members of the audience, even staying well after the discussion to carry on community rich conversations with a few remaining people from the audience.

Through the day, the college was abuzz with the quality of this presentation and some individuals that attended were suddenly finding their passion again, rethinking their dreams and goals, and asking, “Why aren’t I getting my business started?”

Directions to Creative Entrepeneurism

I have taken for granted that I am somewhat familiar with the WWCC campus and many outside folks are not. I have included here, a couple modified maps from the WWCC website that help provide basic directionsto Mr. Joe Cooke's event.

My apologies for not posting these sooner.

Click on photos to enlarge.

Writing

“Any person can work to be a blacksmith and create something from metal that was not there before, but being a blacksmith does not make a master craftsman. Just as the metal worker, I am a wordsmith. This does not make me an author.”

-Joshua L. Conley I

Joe Cooke speaks to Walla Walla

Joe Cooke, not just an incredible, but also an award winning author. The man who penned the following books, Elysen, The Broken Leg Book, Shadow of the Raven, and the recently released Thorsen’s Law will be speaking at Walla Walla Community College on Creative Entrepreneurship as well as discussing the pros and cons of attempting to live your own life in these difficult economic times. This is very exciting for me as an aspiring author and I am very eager to attend this event! I have found that the event is FREE to the public so jump on in and get involved in this seminar! Here's the skinny:

Joe Cooke's Discussion on Creative Entreprenuerism

Hosted by: Walla Walla Community College's Phi Beta Lambda/FBLA club
Location: WWCC Campus, Health and Science Building. Room 1732
Walla Walla, WA
Date: Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009
Time: 8:30 - 9:20 am
Phone: 509 - 520 - 1005
E-mail: joecookecpa@yahoo.com

This will be a one hour seminar and it is FREE and open to the public!
HOW COOL IS THAT?

Society

I am desolutely stranded in this discordant for of blabbery and nonsensical ego puffery. I am ethereally tethered to my designated prison as the lashings of intellectual vapidity strike across my brain's back, ripping me open, forcing the plasma of knowledge to bubble and seep, pouring down my spine cooling and freezing as it spreads from vertebrae to contorded vertebrae. By the time it passes through my now frostbitten toes, any resemblance of worthwhile thought has since been transfigured into ghostly nothingness and fled, no longer bound to this concentration camp as my less fortunate husk which even now rots and decays into the dreary realm of the world of the conforming herd. Here I am, alone in the woolen crowd, causing myself to wonder; am I left to bleat my way through the remainder of my existence?

Glance

Carrie poses awkwardly in front of her standing mirror, questioning her satisfaction of the slightly thick woman peering back at her. She rotates her broad hips and runs a hand down her shapely silhouette, frowning. "Maybe if I cut my hair..." her thought trails to nowhere as she scoops a handful of blond curls and presses them to her scalp. The bangs still frame her dollish face, allowing her pink, pouty lips to give attitude. Her focus is stolen from her flaws as a large void of light momentarily slips across the background.
Instantly, Carrie tastes her heart as the roots of her cherry wood hair lights aflame. Her hazel eyes scour the mirror, trying to glimpse the shade but has no such luck. Fear and desperation wheel her at the speed of panic away from the reflective surface and toward reality in hopes of locating the distraction. Her gaze races from nook to corner, running under the pillowy couch, behind the matching recliner and screaches to a halt at the partially open closet door across the room.
Between her audible breaths, a whisper escapes, "Has that been open all night?" Her finger absently jabs an accusing point at the door that holds back the darkness. No one answers her. Trying to dismiss the blackness of her shut away, Carrie visually investigates the room again without moving, for fear of giving away her location. Nothing.
In an attempt to remain calm, Carrie hopes to convince herself that she is still alone by voicing confidence building remarks such as, "It was nothing..." and, "You're just imagining things." This helps, if only a little, and, sheepishly, she turns back to the mirror, trying to regain focus on the frustration of her appearance. The criticism comes half heartedly as her eyes scout the room on the other side of the glass. Eventually, Carrie's terror subsides and her self esteem takes control again as it decides the black slacks she is wearing should not be where they are. Resigning to the will of her abused ego, Carrie watches her alternate self deprive her sandy hued legs of covering, exposing both her blue pearl panties and her non-matching peach colored stocking socks. She throws her rejected pants to the bed and scoops up a long black skirt, all in one motion.
When she turns back to her mirror, the negative presence is caught for the briefest of seconds in Carrie's view. Again, she tastes her heart. Rust coats her tongue and electric shocks bolt to the center of her body, just below her belly button. Her wide eyes try homing in but the presence is no longer present. Again, she spins about, hoping to catch her watcher but finds herself just as deprived as her legs. "Hello?" She sounds out to try greeting her peeper. Her voice is full of quiver, betraying her projected courage and showing her truth. Fortunately, she thinks, nobody responds. Perhaps that isn't fortune.
No longer thinking of what outfit to wear to work in the morning and the feeling of Carrie feels compulsed to try locating her stalker. Before she moves her feet, her hand snakes down to the vanity next to her and feels for a weapon as her eyes continue to act as lookout. Her shaking fingers weave around the nail polish bottles and lipstick cases and other such feminine products before finding the solidity of her hairbrush. Her digits cling to this as a drowning swimmer would cling to a lifeguard and her feet begin the longest journey to the front door so Carrie can determine whether it is still locked or not, being very wary with each step to avoid furniture and doorways.
Millions of footsteps later and Carrie finds herself at her front door, one hand pressed against the painted wood and her porcelain cheek resting at the frame. Her eyes scrutinize the brass knobs and levers, tracing each mechanical device to its proper locked position. "Still locked." She sighs. A thud sounds from behind her, on the far side of her two bedroom living area, near the restroom and she breaks out in a sweat. "The windows..."
Chaos erupts. She hurdles end tables and damages blinds in an attempt to secure the perimeter at each glassy entry way and at each look out point, she peers out, searching for more optical intruders. The next painful minutes are filled with swinging latches and scraped knees. She races from window to window, causing her partially buttoned peach blouse to flap in the wind her speed creates, forgetting that her legs are bare and she could be exposing the neighbors to her flashy underwear. Midway through her kitchen, Carrie slides to a stop in front a counter and whips open the knife drawer. Care escapes her mind as she rifles through the drawer, creating thin red lines across her hand and knuckles until she finds the most monstrous blade in the small wooden compartment. Leaving the hair brush behind, she continues her pursuit for security. 
After all entry ways have been barred, Carrie begins the hunt for the invader inside her home. Like a tiger in the brush, she stalks slowly and deliberately, plotting each step before taking it. Her golden mane sways as her keen eyes survey the prairie for the hidden gazelle. A bump to her right. She jumps. An open door to her left. She swings her knife wildly as she crosses the threshold. Her void watcher is nowhere to be seen in this room and standing motionless in the room, too afraid to move are a pale washer and an equally white dryer, both waiting for the partially clad woman to strike. In rage, she grabs the front of the dryer and throws open the door, unknowingly knocking her mop into an off kilter balance as she stabs inside the dryer barrel. Carrie then moves over to the washer and begins gutting the sunshine scented metal beast until she is satisfied that there is nothing worth stabbing inside.
Carrie stands, her round hip nudging the dryer and the dryer, in turn, taps the ill stabilized mop, which finally takes a spill and skitters across the ground, bringing along with it a couple brooms, a precariously perched dustpan and two mostly empty bottles of cleaning fluid from the neighboring shelf. The smashing clatter causes quite the start in Carrie and she spins about, knife jutting out and foot sliding through an oily scented substance freshly covered the floor. No longer able to contain her balance, Carrie begins the panic dance as her arms begin flailing in all directions, looking in futility for an anchor. Her hand refuses to release the knife, following strictly to its first orders of survival. She lurches forward, trying to grab the side of the washer but connecting to the corner of the dryer instead and with her jaw rather than her fingers. The blow knocks her equillibrium off. She instinctively attempts to correct but finds herself in a timeless descent to the ground, stopping just inches past the blade of her north pointing kitchen blade. The void comes into the room and covers her vision but her fear is replaced with comfort as the body numbs. Carrie's blood mingles with the bleach and she welcomes the embrace of the shroud as he carries her softly into oblivion.

ATTENTION PARENTS - Local Kidnapping Issue

The Beginner's Mind School just received a mass phone call from the Walla Walla police department that explains a predator in a white car is trying to pick up children walking home. If you have children in the WW area (including surrounding towns) BE AWARE of this situation! He is trying to lure them into his car with candy and gifts and has also tried to convince them that a parent requested he pick the children up.

This has caused mixed feelings of concern and anger.
I feel like I am pretty good at seeing the world through the eyes of others, but no matter how many times I try stepping into the shoes of someone like this to understand why they do it, I just don't get it. I can't even come close to getting it.

Whatever the thoughts are behind this deranged person, let's all work together to keep our children protected and informed! The first way to be certain your children learn is to explain the situation to them. Additionally, reassure them that they will NEVER get into trouble for NOT getting into a car with someone that claims mommy or daddy sent them!

Beyond that, here are some websites for you parents to visit in order to help you understand how to protect the one's you love the most!

Website #1

Website #2

Website #3
This site has additional links to organizations that deal in child abduction prevention.

Martial arts is a great defense for a child but it SHOULD NOT BE THE FIRST DEFENSE!

If you have any information on this problem, contact the local police department.

Walla Walla Police Department
15 N 3rd Ave
Walla Walla, WA 99362
(509) 527-4434

College Place Police Department
625 S College Ave
College Place, WA 99324
(800) 433-3243

My First Day of Teaching Martial Arts.

(Hopefully, if you are reading my blogs, you have an idea of who I am and what interests me.)
-INTRO-
As a youth, I pursued my interest in martial arts. Due to circumstances that were not entirely in my control, my ability to continue my training was halted, possibly forever. Upon returning to Walla Walla, I have found an incredible dojo and my entire family has been fortunate enough to gain wisdom from two intensely devoted instructors. Thank you Master Sensei Steve Smith, I look forward to every class with eager anticipation!
-END INTRO-
I have been on this road for a while now and, though the journey has barely just begun, the trip has been an exciting one and every day that I feel I know what lies ahead, another attraction appears over the horizon. When I set out on this road, I had an idea where the destination was and I was even able to plot out the course which would most efficiently get me to my goal.
Through my journey, I have been fortunate enough to experience the daunting chore of public performance; the pride of conquering entire choreographies of moves, strikes and blocks which we call forms; I managed to pour sweat and survive many tests of skill which mark a teacher's approvement and subsequently, a student's advancement; the will pushing loss of blood and stamina through training to improve solid fighting ability, both in the cage and on the street; and most importantly, I was able to stand as a teammate and assist (and gain assistance from) my wife, children and fellow students so they could rise closer to our ideal of perfection in the art.
My travel has taken me out of my realm of comfort, both emotionally and physically. We have even trained outside the dojo, deep in the mountains, in order to train in more natural environments and gain a stronger sense of self.
In just the last year, I have done some things that I never imagined but tonight's class was one that I was not even remotely prepared for.
Each class brings out my weakness which promptly streams from every pore and rolls to the mat and, even though I'm pushed differently and diligently every night, I feel the desire to continue training after class has ended, which is always too soon. I gain a thirty minute cool down while my youngest girl gets on the mat and explodes with a brilliance that most could only hope to witness, much less, become.
During my daughter's class, a young and lonely student of the following class asked if I would be watching him perform in his class just like I watch my own daughter in her own. I could tell he desperately wanted to connect with someone and there was no one to support him so I offered my attention but this was unneccesary as our Master Instructor approached me and asked if I would be willing to teach this young man's class.
Immediately, I began questioning my own ability and my confidence was taking blow after blow from the villanous monster known as doubt but we worked through it together and I gladly accepted the offer.
I was no longer the student and was now a teacher, even if only for thirty minutes. It was at that moment of realization that the wash of responsibility drenched me and my alertness level had been heightened to the stratosphere.
The next half hour, I worked very closely with this young man. We built strength and precision. I challenged him physically and he challenged me spiritually. We pushed through techniques and forms. My mind constantly traveled to memories of substitute teachers in middle school through the comparisons and my leniency level was challenged. This intelligent young man was emotionally checking boundaries and testing personality weaknesses to encourage the physical ease of his training and I knew that, as an initiate instructor, I would be a failure if I allowed this to happen but if I was forceful and stern that I would lose my first pupil forever. I was holding the future in my hands, not just mine but this boy's devotion as well. What was I to do? I took a chance and searched for closer connection to this child by digging for his interests that might motivate him to excell of his own accord so we took a moment and talked.
Once we built a solid relationship, our class motored on with freight train intensity and we no longer needed to struggle for control which encouraged his full support and even offered up some genuine smiles through the class from more than just the two of us but also the bystanders that I suddenly realized were very interested in our progress. By the end of the class, I felt confident that he took some valuable lessons home with him and I could tell that he no longer felt that sense of isolation that filled him before class. He got what he was after, the chance to show his skill to an interested peer and to feel accomplished in a field he enjoyed but has not gotten much support in.
We all left the school and his glow was possibly the brightest today. I was proud of him and told him as much as I thanked him for teaching me today in what has been my most valuable lesson thus far.
Experiences like this are the exact reason I purusued a future in teaching and my school, Beginner's Mind Dojo, would not even exist without the valuable experiences I learned from this young man.

Icon Poetry

Alright, this was written because a good friend of mine (hi Erin) challenged me to come up with something called an ICON POEM in which you write poetry focused on a famous icon (I.E. a celebrity). I couldn't think of any one person I could gush over for more than a sentence or two so I did this little beauty instead.
Enjoy-

There is something that has bothered me through my life.
That, regardless of the current turmoil and strife;
from serial killers, kidnappings or war in the Middle East
to crooked politics, immigration or "the rise of the Beast".
None of this is given a fraction of a care
as what's happening in the life of a millionaire.

The names and faces change every year
but the constant that stands glaringly clear
is that we are blinded by the unending sermon of Mtv
and our insugnificant lives are guided by the trends we see.
The sad truth is, regardless of break-throughs scientists can boast,
it is the relationships that celebrity icons are in that matter most.

If you grab the National Enquirer, you can clearly see
that the once innocent Britney Spears has gone completely crazy.
If her drama over her kids isn't enough to make you sick,
how about her little sister that has become a pregnant teen statistic.
Making these types of role models is Hollywood's main goal
which is painfully more evident with every season of American Idol.

Too many people are concerned with Brad Pitt's marital state,
No wonder this nation has such a high divorce rate.
Maybe the press is trying to correct these separation trends.
by amalgamating names to use when addressing these special friends
but it sounds awkward and I would honestly prefer
not to use names like Brangelina and Bennifer.

You know our obsession with drama has brought us to a new low
when even Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne get their own reality show.
The rest of the music world is afflicted by this celebrity worship crap
and there are more than a million signs seen by the success of rap.
The hypocrisy is most evident right now with the newest tracks from Kid Rock
who blesses dirty sex then claims even filth at church puts him in shock.

Will Ferrel's comedy style is on a level with a grade schooler's wit
its no surprise that every pile of garbage he makes is a big hit.
Hollywood has to cater down to the intellect of the herd,
even the cable programming makes me want to shout a four letter word.
Its a sad day for man when nothing sets the internet bloggers alight
quite like a multi-million dollar waste of film like Napolean Dynamite.

Unfortunately, you don't have to possess a double digit I.Q. to be a celebrity
which Paris Hilton gladly demonstrates with her constant display of stupidity
and as far as being an air headed little princess goes,
just how many drugs can Lindsay Lohan fit up her nose?
Sadly, all of this just begins to tell
that the land of celebrity worship really is Hell!

God's Tears

"Why God?!" My hands thrust toward the sky and dropping on my knees to the muddied earth below me, I cried out louder, "Why have you done this? What have I done to deserve this hell?"
But no answer came. No remarkable sign or wash of feelings, just me, firmly in my place within the same soil from which I was supposedly created. Why then does the ground not bleed as I pour red from my engraved wrists which joins the rain and runs toward the grass like lightning looking for ground.
"I'm done with you! I'm not calling out to you for forgiveness, I've done that too often. I don't want your damn help anymore, I defy you! I deny you! Come on you wicked bastard, strike me down! I'm a sinner! Stop making me suffer and just punish me!"
I thrust my chest out, arms back; offering a target to the clouds and with clenched fists, I scream, "Strike me down! Punish me for my sins! My suicide is my last act of treachery and still you do nothing! I dare you, cast me down to Lucifer's infernal pit for my actions! You are nothing!"
Yet, there was no lightning. No earthquake. He didn't even send a runaway semi truck to plow me down. Nothing struck me but the weeping of God's tears streaking through the skies, striking my face and intermingling with my own pain, though, by this time I could no longer feel their thousands of little assaults.
I stewed in my own emotional Armageddon with silence and stillness as I bled out from the ends of my arms for an eternity. Suddenly, I noticed a sensation that had been with me for a while as my face gained a utopic warmth and a chaotic pulse of pin prickling brought my awareness to my gashed and gaping wrists, though my sight was dimming and I couldn't witness the crimson waterfalls. My ears caught the movement of dozens of invisible bees. It was no sooner than this point that God had finally decided to answer my challenge as his voice cut through the swarm, "I'm here to help you poor child."
By this time, my eyes have gone and my mind was following, so I couldn't glare into God's face. To double my rage, the dirt below me pulled all of my strength from my body so I was too weak to throw my fist but I intentionally radiated my immeasurable hate. Not even this deterred the almighty one from attempting to saving me by offering.....to call for paramedics?
My ears were the last to fail me and I was finally fully cloaked in the warm void.

Barnacle

Thanks to good living and semi-regular exercise, illness seldom befalls on me and mine. The need for a pharmacist still does not escape my family, however; and I occasionally find myself lined up for a fix from my local pill pusher. With that said, like the rest of the cattle waiting slaughter, I am standing in the rope chute, being herded to the front of the line. This line is not completely unpleasant as most of the cattle are minding their own business and are very content with their role in the universe.
We are all lulled into a zone of content boredom by the never too invasive elevator music showering down from the serenely painted ceiling and I am standing at the end of the herd, amusing myself with fantastical stories for each person ahead of me when my safety bubble is abruptly and callously invaded by a static presence behind me. The attack was unnoticed initially until it welled into a vocal mosquito buzzing across the back of my head and irritating my ear.
The voice of a pretty young woman became consistently more present as I realized she was engaged in a dramatic conversation with, by the direction of the conversation, was a newly acquired lover or at least very close friend that seemed to offer physical benefits.
"So I just found out that my monthly check has been cut," says the voice.
Filled with concern, the male object questions, "You aren't going to be kicked out are you? Do you have somewhere to go?" sweet.
The gears had not yet clicked into place for me by this time and I was still occupying my time by filling the void in the lives of the people ahead of me when the feminine voice reassures her partner, "I don't have to worry about getting kicked out. All they will do is lower my rent. Its based on what I make and because I'm not working, they will base rent from that. Its pretty cool because they don't count my welfare check or the child support so I can pretty much live there for free."
WHAT?! I don't care to eavesdrop but I couldn't believe what this girl just blurted out and, more importantly, I was astounded by what seemed to be a sense of pride in her cleverness at scamming the system and her lack of guilt of basically robbing from everyone around her!
The sickening part is that she went on; bragging about making no money, not working for a living, getting hand outs from every angle and not having to worry about paying any of it back! Her male companion also seemed to get more impressed as she continued, like the secrets of the universe were being set out at his feet and neither of the two were very quiet with their elation over this momentous discovery! The holy grail was a yard sale trinket compared to the inexhaustible source of funds that one could carve from the government money tree and these gold diggers were carving through the bark like termites!
My veins were lava tubes, aching to erupt. I could feel the pressure building in my head and was slightly nervous that steam might be rolling from my ear vents. How could these people?! There are families that could honestly use the resources these two are squandering away! Honest people with legitimate problems were suffering because they didn't want to sink so low as to take such sympathetic hand-outs and these two are chewing through the government green faster than locusts in a field!
With blinding speed, their conversation went from free money to partying and drugs...DRUGS! These imbeciles were using my tax dollars to pay for their dope! The man, knowing that his new partner was easier catch than goldfish at the pet store began to suggest plans for later where the two of them could be alone to explore the boundaries of illicit chemicals and each other's body, even jokingly asking if the pharmacy handed out free samples!
At some point, he invaded her territory and she took an offish stance in the conversation, using her assumedly newborn child as an excuse by not having a babysitter. This offended the primitive male and with slight chest pounding, he protested to her plights by insisting, "...just have your mom watch the kid."
To this, her response was simply, "You don't know how hard it is to be a single parent." This coming from a parasite that just openly and proudly admitted that she has been given every hand out known to the system; a rodent who is in line to get free medication that would cost any of the rest of us a good chunk of money; a barnacle that, because of the lack of employment, has nothing but FREE time on her hands to consume as much illegal drugs as she can obtain...and she is complaining about the difficulties of responsibility? Will someone please pinch me? This cannot be real!
I have made it to the front of the line, amazingly without invoking violence. I can't take it anymore, I have to know what a tax sucking vampire truly looks like so I turn my head slightly while her boyfriend is off rummaging through the donut case, eating whatever he can touch and there before me stands a young girl, possibly in her early twenties. Her radiant blond hair is up and well taken care of, just off the shoulders that help hold her elegant sweater. Even her magnificently manicured nails hint at high class and well-to-do. Her face was framed like a portrait with glorious hues of dazzle and sparkle. From head to toe, this creature was covered in money and posh. In fact, the fashion was nearly enough to hide the flabby gut that stuck out over the pants from a lack of exercise or motivation and crude stance and mannerisms that seemed to crawl straight out of the sewers and make a home inside a worthless pile of flesh.
I was brimming with a sense of outrage and to pound the final nail into the coffin was the enormous tattoo that was emblazoned across the entire right hemisphere of her neck meat! Don't get me wrong, I love tattoos. I have many myself and would love to get more but for this worm to not even try being a productive member of society and then have the audacity to adorn herself in a cultural branding that used to rely on pride and self worth and therefore prove the stereotype that most of society has of tattooed people as scum? To say this was an outrage would be akin to saying a couple people died in World War II. My instinct was strangulation.
This is one of those moments in a life that will affect the entire future. Murder or silence. Which is more rewarding?
I walked out of the store without wearing handcuffs for three reasons and three reasons only; my children.
As I was ready to lunge at her and her drug induced male tumor, I thought about what put these cretins where they are and I wondered if killing these two, though beneficial to society, would be detrimental to the positive life of my children. Maybe if my children had to visit Daddy in jail every other Tuesday, they would also place themselves in the position of filth and my actions which could have rid the world of two more life consuming bacteria would have inadvertantly created three more. This couldn't be allowed to happen so, with shaking fists, I summoned my willpower and left...before I could take no more.

This blog is 100% true. I included only the exact dialogue that I remembered in order to preserve the intelligence level of these despicable people. Sadly, these two are not exceptions to the rule of welfare recipients and, though many use these benefits properly (for which, I harbor no ill will) a great deal of the people on welfare today are "career" welfare recipients. Is this what we have turned into as a 'proud' country? Is this something you want to allow to happen? This cycle not only continues with your inaction but it grows...just like the plague it is! Get active in your community or in local politics! These are YOUR dollars these people are spending on drugs and irresponsibility! YOU are supporting drug abuse, child neglect and broken homes if you stand idly by and watch this travesty continue!
I believe it was Andrew Jackson that said, "One man with courage makes a majority."

Charlie

The surrealism of dusk has passed and the infinite empty of night is becoming painfully present. Uneasiness is rocking me to my feet in my would-be antique store I call a living room. I know this cannot continue and I have to take action before the claustrophobia crushes my body. I give another shake of the matchbox in my hands to hear the rattle of a dozen skinny little pyromaniacs, which serves to confirm my growing resolve. It is time to ask my uninvited guest to leave.

From the thick mustiness of my front room I make my way past the mantle to the doorway, which leads to where I have eaten so many meals with my family. The dining area is easily twice the size of the living room but it has afforded no space as my own reality has pressed in on me from all sides. I take pause before entering this room, struck to a standstill by the only light in the house, which is coming from the kitchen entry across from where I stand hidden by the evening's darkness. My eyes swim in their sockets. There he is! Just sitting there, in my home! Resting his filthy elbows on the small table in my kitchen, taking in the infernal cancer from his cigarette. I don't know this stranger but I'll be damned if he isn't Charlie Manson! I have to remember to breathe again.

I shake my matchbox.

Taking the first step into the dining hall seems to be the most difficult decision ever but I manage to put into motion the concrete poles I had once called legs. My steps don't take me closer to the kitchen but deeper into the dining room. Now is not his time, not yet. Each step I take does brings me closer to the moment of truth and further from the warm comfort of what I used to consider the safety of my comfortable life but my body is following the plans of a secret mission my mind knows but will not tell me. Finally, I make it to the edge of my dining table. This is the corner where my two boys would sit, constantly playing the game of one-upmanship. "I'm already to level twelve."

"Oh yeah? Well I rode a wheelie for half a block today"

Gone. That game will never be played here again.

The table as my guide, I walk silently and deliberately from the only light in the house to the darker corner of this room. Why does there never seem to be any colors of life in the bleak grays of darkness? These next two chairs often sat empty with only each other as company but always hoping for the company of others. My trek across the room is taking an eternity and there suddenly seems to be thousands of chairs in my way, scattered ever so gently about the perimeter of the table. I shake my matchbox. The rattling pyro sticks sparked not flame but fear from under the table. With a slight bend, I can see directly underneath to a pair of desperate, cornered eyes. Inhuman eyes, eager for freedom and I know they belong to one of the two German Shepherds the stranger brought with him. This poor beast, like his brother at the end of the table is worn and dirty with patches of hair missing and signs of life missing. These frightened dogs could easily be mistaken as homeless people reincarnate. I continue walking.

Across from me now is where my girl would sit, next to her Grammy, not my mother but my wife's. I didn't care for her much then and I don't suppose I miss her now but my daughter loved her so much.

I shake my matchbox.

It feels as though a lifetime has come and gone but I make it to the end of the table. In some way, I guess a lifetime has come and gone. I guess a few have. I sat here with my wife, the king of the castle and his queen. This is where I would often sit proud, knowing that it was due to my protection and care that the evils of the world would not, could not permeate and defile the sacred sanctuary that we called home. It was here that fate was so often waiting to prove me wrong.

I shake my matchbox and look down. The two pathetic excuses of life look up at me from scarred and beaten faces. I kneel down and hold out the matchbox. Their quivers work to push the fear off their seemingly sandblasted coats as it comes to me in pulsating waves, nearly knocking me off my perch. Suddenly, it comes clear that our captor has his own matchbox, the one he carries to keep his habit ablaze. Maybe he shakes it before he beats his dogs. Maybe he holds it as he swings the hammers at the end of his arms.

"I'm sorry," I plead as I set the box down in front of these two chained slaves and slowly wrap them only in compassion. These poor animals don't even feel alive. My arms are telling me, as I hold them, that this must be what it feels like to pick up animal carcasses from the highway and for the longest minute in my life, I just hold them. I talk to them quietly, soothe them, and swear to give them freedom.

For these two, I regain my resolve and stand. This is it. I tell my self repeatedly, this is it. Our Charlie must die. On the back wall of this dining area, near the entry to the living room, there is an inset cubby where my wife and I felt placing a stereo was a spectacular idea so that we could play music while the family ate. That is where my gun is. That is where retribution is. The fear of death will give even the clumsiest oaf a military class stealth level and I find that I am no exception as I steal my way to the cubby. From here, I can catch glimpse of Charlie. Still he sits there, enjoying the calm before the storm and I know that time is nearly gone as he puffs away on the time bomb in his mouth.

Wait. What about the neighbors? What will they hear? I can't bring my drama to their doorstep. Will they call the police? Is prison in my cards? NO! This is self-defense. This is survival. I know that's a lie. The burn in the back of my throat doesn't taste like survival but of hatred. Pure and rancid hatred.

I need music. I need loud distraction. I must have the ending spelled out like the climax of a movie. Mostly, I need something to drown out the ability for witnesses to clarify how many shots emitted from within this Hell. My hand closes around the cold comfort of steel as I slip my favorite Monster Magnet CD into the changer and demand it play.

The bony chill hand of Death slides up my spine and my peripheral senses tell me that Charlie has disappeared from the kitchen and materialized directly behind me! Possessed by a cyclone, I turn and fire. The burst of noise from my weapon beats the beat of drums to any nearby ears but the bullet sails into the void of nothing. Oh god. I was wrong! My eyes slice the room apart, ripping through the gray of darkness. Nothing.

I have to swallow my heart before I can move again but once I do, my eyes like homing missiles zero in on the yellow wash of the kitchen doorway, being blocked by his silhouette. I didn't realize anyone could be so evil that he could even imprison light! His presence invades this room just as he did the very first minute he walked into what I used to call a life and by sheer will, he thrusts invasion upon me. My chest is on fire with the pain of pressure. I can't take this eternal instant of panic and stumble backward. I realize my feet want to run the other way and I find myself falling. I may never stand again! With blind hope, I fire a shot at the kitchen doorway. The pistol's kick burns in my elbow just as lightning strikes the back of my head from landing where my feet used to be.

My senses all assault me at once! Oh god! He's right on top of me! How did he move so fast without making any moves at all? His silhouette blocks out any light the kitchen would give as comfort. He has become a specter of the underworld, a shade that descends mercilessly upon my throat, nicotine stained nails excavating my collar bone as his dirt caked hands feel for my throat. The drums and guitars from the CD player suddenly get as frantic as my pulse and I feel his ruthlessness shaking my neck and taste his acrid breath spill out onto me! My arms are pinned to the ground by his knees from behind torn and crusted jeans. The pain shoots like my gun should but never gets to the receptors in my brain as it gets backed up just like my blood, waiting for his hand made dam to break from my throat but it never does.

As my vision and the hauntingly frenzied whirl of Monster Magnet fade, a half groan and half scream escapes my captive throat which is muted only by the haziness of an impossible distance. This instantaneous, yet endless primal cry carries me into black oblivion. Through this, the only image that tattoos my mind is that of Charlie's two broken dogs, yet, even in the last fleeting moments of consciousness, even those two poor beasts slowly leave.

Friendship

I was recently offered a quote by poet and essayist, Samuel Johnson in which he stated, "There can be no friendship without confidence, and no confidence without integrity." In addition, I was asked what my views on this comment and friendship are. In regard to the quote, I would be inclined to see wisdom with this statement.
It is my opinion that confidence is a key element of friendships, or any relationship (as well as loyalty, communication, care and willingness among many factors). Confidence, by the Oxford dictionary definition is: 1. Firm trust. 2. A- feeling of reliance or certainty. B- sense of self reliance; boldness. This characteristic is two sided and, in order to be true to itself, must display both sides equally and harmoniously in order to succeed. First; and possibly the least recognized side of confidence is the ability to be true to one's self. If a person cannot be honest with the self and instead, uses self deceit, honesty with others will be impossible. Self deceit is the worst form of deceit. The second side of confidence is the ability to offer your loyalty to others as a form of communicating your own worthiness. A person that is true to himself will often be recognized as a person that will be true to others. If confidence emanates from all involved individuals, the relationship's success will be likely.
To return to Samuel Johnson's statement; one would see the friendship line being drawn to integrity by way of confidence. Pulling definition again from the Oxford dictionary, integrity's definition is given: 1. moral uprightness; honesty. 2. wholeness; soundness. -1. rectitude, decency, honor; probity. 2. entirety, totality. Honesty; this is one of the most important aspects of life and is sadly, too often overlooked.
If one were so inclined (as I am about to be) to paraphrase Mister Johnson's quote in an attempt to simplify the meaning, one might say: Friendship is not possible without the firm trust in the honesty of one's self and that of another. In an effort to try bringing this discussion to a close; I would like to reflect on one of my own relationships in order to convey the importance of integrity and confidence.
Eleven years ago I met a person that was soon to become the closest friend I have ever known. When we began our friendship, I was up front and honest with what I was looking for in friendships and also what I was willing to give in return. Since then, we've had disagreements, arguments and even fights. At times, truth has felt more like a deadly blade than a productive tool and at times things were grim. Fortunately; two children, a new home and surroundings, and a truckload of communication has come to pass and my dearest friend (and wife) is still as close to me as my own skin. We are successful because we both firmly trust each other's honor.
This is not an isolated occurrence. I attempt to offer the same relationship pattern to most people I encounter in some way; to a childhood friend I have known since middle school; to a fellow employee I might spend hours working along side; to an instructor that offers time and knowledge; even to the stranger I hold a door for. The feeling isn't always returned but when it is, the new relationship has a solid foundation in which a strong friendship can be built.

Stranded

I am desolately stranded in this discordant fog of blabbery and nonsensical ego puffery. I am ethereally tethered to my designated prison as the lashings of intellectual vapidity strike across my brain's back, ripping me open, forcing the plasma of knowledge to bubble and seep, pouring down my spine cooling and then freezing as it spreads from vertebrae to contorted vertebrae. By the time it passes through my now frostbitten toes, any resemblance of worthwhile thought has since been transfigured into ghostly nothingness and fled, no longer bound to this concentration camp as my less fortunate husk which, even now rots and decays into the dreary realm of the world of the conforming herd. Here I am, alone in the woolen crowd, causing wonder, am I left to bleat my way through the remainder of my existence?

Disconnected

My shirt pulls to the right. My pants want to wear to the left. One sock is on right but the other seems to have an invisible wad of discomfort invading on my little toe. I am watching my life from a third person view, not really inside my head but maybe just behind and all the sounds are muted, not silenced but suppressed. I have combed my hair a few times but can't stop the lanate rebellion no matter how hard I assault the counter with my brush. My shoelace is a python, constricting against the top of my foot and I can't sit comfortably in my clothes. All fabrics want to be anywhere but with me and I can't blame them, I am feeling the same way. The wad in my sock is backing my toe into a corner I didn't know my shoe even had. I'm not ready to start the day, I want to return to my awkward but reliable slumber. My keys seem to be hiding, my coat conflicts with my shirt, everything is just out of reach.
Now I have to go out, immerse myself in the swamp of humanity. Walking in crowds, suffocating, and the tar of interaction nearly brings me to a stop. Why am I being overwhelmed by this negativity? I analyze my life, my relationships, my self, my work, my habits, my dog, my analyzations. In each environment, I know there is good but I can't see past the small things. People are talking at me but I don't hear what they say. Focus is a lie. I'm sure these people tire of repeating themselves but I can't quite hold my thoughts on their blabbering. Nothing they say is important. I think my heart is beating a skip too late, maybe too early. Nothing really fits.
I think there is cotton under my upper eyelids and I feel as though I am deep under water. I move as though hindered and the constant pressure from all directions makes me want to implode. What does an imploder look like? I swim through my day, my feet constantly entangling in the gritty, oily seaweed. How long have I been under and why can't I keep my head above water? This lethargy is trying to kill me and that pisses me off. Everything pisses me off and THAT pisses me off. If I was actually in my own life, I might do something about it but I'm just watching me on TV and so I wait and hope that all these problems resolve themselves by the end of the hour.
I keep everyone at arm's distance. I am afraid to infect you, to poison you with my irrational negativity. Colors are askewed and distance is debatable. I know you, maybe care for you...if you are close in my life, then I love you but no matter who you are, I can't stand you. Your annoying little habits, your patterns that don't sit within my logic. You aren't funny. You aren't clever. You aren't witty. You aren't cute. I know that's a lie and when I can finally stay afloat, I will see your energy in a different light but right now, while I'm so detached; you bother me. You piss me off. Am I just projecting? Do I see my own flaws in your actions? These feelings are all subjective and when my mind becomes mine again, the subject won't change but the view will.
The buzzing doesn't end and I ask if it ever will? I look at life again and analyze it. I see great things here that should cause my joy. I see my success and the rewards of my efforts. Today, they don't feel much like my rewards or my efforts. I am out of place. I am one step behind my body, following the automaton that pretends to live through my life. I can't catch up but I can't stop following. Where is he going? Where am I going? I guess I will find out when I get there. Perhaps, when I am there, I might fit again. I might be alive again and not just watching. I might be me.

About Me

Welcome to my blog. This is where I plan on releasing my creative insanity from time to time. I love to write and can't always control what comes out of my pen so the shorts and random ones will come here for your reading enjoyment or displeasure.

I don't plan to bore you with a lot of self elevating BS that I think makes me some superb writer, instead; I will share with you one of the most vital turning points in my life.Read on------

I am very introverted and blunt. I learned most of my moral lessons in one big flash.

It was the summertime of my thirteenth year. I was a metal head troublemaker heading down the rocky path of hostile stupidity and self destruction. I lived to hate and could not care less as to why.

The evening was creeping across the horizon as my friend and I finally reached his house from a long day of trampling the town. I took control of the phone immediately, calling other friends to fill their ears with inane banality.

Without getting too involved, he ended up pointing a 44 magnum revolver at me (not maliciously - if you can understand that). The trigger was pulled and I was eating lead and gunpowder in my sleep. I awoke from my bullet induced nap being dragged backward, down a flight of stairs. My vision was red and obscured as in a dream. I was lucid at best and knew that I was falling down the stairs to Hell. My friend (and would-be assassin) found that I was very much alive and called 911 for help. The next couple hours flew by as I discovered many truths about life.

Paramedics are pushy, ambulance rides are exciting, don't flip off a friend to reassure him you are fine, you WILL get naked in front of women in the emergency room, and going into shock is better than any drug around!

I woke up a week later in a Seattle hospital bed, still not sure whether I dreamt the situation or lived it. I saw a lot of family and got to share my hospital room (after the Intensive Care Unit stay) with the most fowl mouthed torture victim I have ever met (he fell asleep in a fire and had to have his foot pinned to his knee for three months). I finally understood what happened! I got shot in the head! The only thing I could think of was the image of the teen that shot himself in the head with a shotgun (the parents blamed his failed suicide on the metal band Judas Priest)...shit I was ugly! My face was swollen three or four times its original size. I had new frankensteinesque slices on my face and neck, I was a freak...a monster!

I couldn't stop the wash of self loathing and pity that suddenly was drowning me! Worse, I didn't want to stop it. I was the most hideous thing alive! My only future was a sideshow freak in a carnival. Why didn't I just die? The pity that filled my hospital room suddenly became my sustenance and I was gluttonous! I gorged myself on the sympathy and negativity, not leaving a scrap in my wake. The tubes. Blood tests. Monitors and wires. I was a prisoner, bound to my bed and enduring the most humiliating thing a teenager could endure...bedpans. I was crushed. I had a beautiful nurse tending to me and all I could do to satisfy her was urinate to a specified line within a bottle.

My strength was gone, physically and emotionally. The staff was realizing that I was slipping into the void and devotedly tried to pull me out (except the fat nurse cow, Diane...you know who you are bitch) of my hole. To no avail. I would not leave my room and hid my face from even my mother. In their last ditch effort to pull me from my blackness, I was forced physically to get out of bed and into the recreational room for an evening with pottery.

This was the catalyst, more unsettling than the actual near death incident.

I hesitantly entered this room, apprehensive and full of hate. I sat at the table nearest the door in case the other patients began their barrage of laughter and finger pointing. What I was unaware of immediately was that I was sitting next to a living, breathing, mummified midget. My mother asked this child's mom (who was sporting an arm cast) what happened.

This woman was on vacation with her husband and two children. They rented a boat and were going to set out to see the coasts. Before they shoved off, the boat literally exploded...with her husband and two children still aboard. She was not nearly on board and was (as she put it) 'thankfully' slammed free. Her husband and daughter were taken from her. Her two year old son was now this walking band-aid.

I took the time to watch this boy draw pictures and try pounding clay with blistered stubs. He was happy. In fact, he was having the time of his life!

What fucking right did I have? I was not nearly as damaged or cosmetically challenged as boy Tut. I had a very good chance at living an almost normal life.

I gained new resolve right there. I again had an ego, even if it was little. My six month recovery time turned into twelve days. I fought. I had developed a strong will! This was tested almost immediately. Feeling good about your disfigurement is an easy accomplishment in a hospital full of freaks, but is an entirely different measure of failure in the Seattle airport FULL of eyes! I could have been a witch in Salem and felt less burning! Not one head was unturned as the amazing balloon head boy was wheeled along in my cripple chariot (my muscles had long since fell into entropy and I couldn't walk great distances). Every man, woman, and child reminded me why freaks shouldn't be let out in public and that society automatically condemns that which they do not understand. The thing that kept me going was boy Tut and his mother. She made the best of possibly the worst situation a person can encounter and she propelled her son into recovery with a positive, no-pity attitude.

I came out on top with many new outlooks and beliefs, some of which follow. I know now that with enough willpower and personal energy, ANYTHING can be accomplished. Desires drive you to unseen places. Nurses are VERY tolerant. Life is too important to screw off with non-directional hate (if you are going to hate, know what it is and direct your emotions). You are what makes you strong. Stupid people are best found in large groups as herd mentality possesses the mind of the individual.

Most importantly, pity has no place in man's world. Without pity, you have a strength to rival any one's. I will not ask for, or give pity. It is only a setback to the evolution of you. To live a vital existence, discard this parasitic feeling when it attacks you. The only way to truly find sympathy is to look in the dictionary between SHIT and SYPHILIS!

Be strong, survive, evolve!