Untitled 05/08/10

and we sat together and watched the night burn until the flame fell, and in the morning we sat stared at the ash.

over the years the ash has blown away and left only a small mark in our memory, where, when we look back hard enough, we can see the spot of that night when the flames were so high and fire so bright it melted us into one.

Suicide Theives: The Alley

Smoke hung high in the air and drifted into my lungs. The smell of old carpet, old bowling shoes and angst was palpable. I strode through the entrance aside a confident, purposeful Samantha. At the lobby I paused to admire the dusty trophy case, in it were decades-past portraits of polyester-clad champions. Their prideful smiles couldn't have been further removed from the scene ahead of us. I turned to face the lanes. I moved through the smoke and inebriated laughter like a keen anthropologist. Being only among the faces, not a part of them. I stood beside and apart from Samantha.

I introduced myself to her friends then retired to the periphery. In dress and spirit I felt in absolute contrast to the bodies around me. Wearing faded shirts of their favorite local metal bands; wallet chains fastened to stained and shredded jeans; and tattoos of spiderwebs, hemp leaves and scorpions, the roughly half dozen of them stood loosely. Always one eye on the crowds around, they never appeared completely at ease -- for good reason too. It was common knowledge on weeknights this bowling alley was harbor to individuals described here. Their deprivation was smug; respect had to be earned. I respected myself enough not to try.

I sat without notice at a sticky table colored with neon pins and balls. Samantha was different. I knew she was, but I was naive. Surely, being alone around friends she would miss her boyfriend, Ben, not yet two weeks underground. She had deep disarmingly cold eyes. Almost common if one were to look at them for only a moment. However, a long gaze, the kind we presently shared from opposite sides the table of spilled drinks and pizza scraps, gave those cold eyes a quantifiable value. We held each others' gaze. Was what I saw sadness, fear or a mournful indifference? Could she see the insecurity and youth in my eyes, or were they, as I hoped, well masked by a supportive and concerned face?

A ball crashed into the pins. We looked down the lane. "Spare," shrieked one of the girls in our group. I looked back at Samantha. She was talking to the man next to her. I listened intently and waited to join the conversation. Wondering how, or when, she will introduce me. Am I the friend, the date or simply Adam. The conversation started with sympathetic apologies and condolences to the still somewhat grieving girl across from me. It quickly digressed.

"Dude got ten months for slammin' Nick face to glass," Matt said. He thought Nick deserved the 18 stitches from Dan. I couldn't keep the whole story together. Samantha looked at me knowingly.  "After all, fucker slashed his Honda after the split with that bitch sister of his," Matt justified. "I miss that car," Sam said. I looked at her and shrugged. I couldn't piece together the names and faces and criminal records of everyone I'd met since we arrived. I didn't know these people or their lives, and I didn't want to. I knew Sam, and they meant something to her.

Another crash of the pins.
Why did we come if we didn't intend to bowl? I must have been invited to meet her friends. If not, she felt bad leaving me at the ice cream shop. Haven't decided which. But was I being presumptuous allowing myself to fantasize of a place in her life. I looked over to Samantha, about to ask if we should go buy shoes to start a game. She was looking beyond me with warning.

My chest struck the table edge in front of me. Samantha gasped. I spun around. Fists up and head down, the man who was pushed into my chair charged toward his aggressor, a stocky Native American man with long dark hair and an aged jean jacket who belong to another larger group of people several lanes down. I jumped up and took several steps back until I was alongside Samantha.

We watched as the bald-headed man who crashed into me took a long-winded swing at the Native American. The dark haired man stepped back. The punch hit the air with force and Tim lost balance. He swiftly hit the wooden floor. His friends, or my friends by way of Sam, quickly stood him up and restrained him. Darin, the dark haired man, said they should go outside to finish. Matt suggested a parking lot in Bismarck. He led Tim out to his car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Sam and I jumped into her messy Saturn. We were now in a line of several cars en route back to Bismarck to watch a fight.

Suicide Theives

That was really the first time someone close to me died by self-harming. What happened after was another strange series of events. I was close to the dead. Close as friendly coworkers are. We spent limited time together out of work: He, his girlfriend Samantha, and I.
Tall with dark blonde hair, she walked confidently through the halls of our work. She knew her duties, and she was an exceptional worker. After work she was controlled chaos; planning and cancelling without hesitation or remorse. He was like her. They complemented each other like the blades of a scissor.

I was the youngest of us three, younger still considering life experiences. Less so after the events of that evening.

One week after he shot himself in the head with an old revolver, Samantha and I made plans to get together. Ice cream and a movie. Nothing romantic or stressful. Only an easy night with a friend.

Kids were everywhere around us. Their parents sitting peacefully outside eating their vanilla cones. Lines of Friday night teens ordering dessert for their dates. Us sitting at a high-top, one waiting for the other to break the silence -- this was not the atmosphere I wanted. I cannot remember who spoke first, but discussion lead to which film we would see. Nothing at the cineplex piqued her interest.

She raised a brow reading a message on her mobile, confirming what I feeling; the air around us was stale with forced conversation and platitudes. We needed to split and quick, before the uneasiness became suffocating. I asked what she had read. She said several of her other friends were at different location. I saw in her eyes she wanted to go. I didn't press the film idea further. We left that low-key Friday night suburban scene and took nothing from it; as when we arrived nothing was given to us.

The inside of Samantha's old Saturn smelled of cigarettes and take-out food -- the evidence of both was under my sneakers on the passenger side. From my seat, I looked and her empathetically, her eyes fixed on the road as we crossed over city lines on a steel bridge spanning the cold ice-packed Missouri River. In a vehicle, did she think about him in his vehicle with the barrel to his temple? Was she thinking about me next to her, trying to take his spot? Or was she not feeling anything at all, driving only from one point to the next.
"Keep moving!", I heard the voice inside her say. She was hopeful the anger and sorrow and loneliness would give up the chase if only she could keep moving.
To my knowledge she's still moving; living life in the moment after you leave but before you arrive.

We came to a stop in a sparsely used lot under a large half-lit blinking sign atop a building that read, BOWL.

Blessing

A sad state indeed when cyclists go through a blessing ritual each year in hopes to decrease their chances of an accident, according to this piece in the LA Times. Once a year cyclists gather outside Good Samaritain Hospital for a blessing from clergy. And to bring awareness to the thousands of bicycle related accidents Good Samaritain treats every year. Roughly 250 of more than two-thousand reported accidents are hit-and-run."Not for the faint of heart" are the roads of L.A.

Of late I've been quite proud of Fargo, ND. On my 10 mile round trip to work I've seen the city marking a handful of new roads as either shared or with specific bicycle lanes. Now the hard part is informing public how to react around cyclists, instead of acting like they've just seen an orange zebra.

Hopefully they'll get it together before september. Otherwise it'll all be foregotten for next year.

Ghetto Hikes, Yo!

Found this site by accident a few days ago. From what I understand, the writer takes at-risk inner-city youths on nature hikes. He posts some of the things they say on a Tumblr page. I could not stop laughing while reading some of the things these kids said. I had to stop myself from reading them all at once. Take a bit now and leave some for later kinda thing. He hasn't posted in a while, leading me to believe the fun is over. Treasure what you find, that's all there is.

Also, the kids in this photo are not the ones on the ghetto hike. If they were, it would be a miraculous coincident.

Againt me! singer Gabel comes out as transgender.

New issue of Rolling Stone dropped today featuring a story on Against Me!'s frontman's decision to begin procedures and identification as a transgender woman, Laura Jane Grace. In a follow-up interview, the contributor who wrote the story, Josh Eells was asked rather matter-of-factly why this is news. To paraphrase his response, he said it pertained primarily to the bands image of hard punk rock music being seen as very manly. Her voice is very gravely and raw, often screaming lyrics of revolution and anti-establishment to a vast yet tight following of fervent fans. It will come to a shock to many of them as it did to me.

I may never understand the feeling of gender dysphoria, being caught between two genders not knowing where to fit, but if Laura Jane has finally found her place then way to go. Be who you are, whoever you feel that is. And don't let anyone ever tell you different.

Skiba releases second solo album. Go buy it now.

The sport of Golf

Tomorrow I will golf. I am not a golfer. I do not golf. But tomorrow afternoon will will play the game of golf. I will attempt to hit a small white ball with my old vintage wooden club. I'm told golfing is similar to fishing; scoring matters little compared to the time enjoyed in nature with friends. In that respect, I am looking forward to golf. I haven't always been this optimistic about the game. For many years the thought of playing produced a sour feeling in my stomach.

My aversion to golf no doubt stems from my dislike of perpetuating the male stereotype. In this case embodied by comedian/sitcom actor Ray Romano, who, instead of helping his wife at home or spending time with his young children, was always humorously "playing golf". I know the point was to have Raymond in a funny situation when he is gone. Or make his wife Debra funnily deal with home life alone. I suppose in looking for an identity all men can relate to they went chose golf, the hallmark of the male wasted weekend. A sport almost designed to exclude the family.

Clearly, I'm resisting a sport to not imply I am ignoring family or friends, something of which my family would never accuse me. So I find then imperative I am doing for the right reasons -- it's fun.

One could also say I'm suggesting a woman in incapable of operating a home without a male. Obviously not my opinion if you know me. I just don't like guys, as defined by popular culture. The football watching, mother-in-law hating, emotion resisting guy's guy advertisers make men think they should be... a discussion for another time.

So that's me and golf.

Similarities of French and American election promises

I understand the realities of compromise in politics. But I feel some people are still surprised when their elected candidate conceeds or schemes with the opposition.
For example, the EU decisions do not depend on one country. Mr Sarkozy had to negotiate with a many different countries, with different economic goal and a variety of other priorities. For the French populice to believe Mr Hollande will simply arrive at the soonest summit and have his countries demands met first is unrealistic.

Really? Because every other country is expecting the exact same thing from their newly elected candidate. So the best any one individual can do, and this is in any multi-party representative government mind you, is make policy closely resembling what their constituents want with the fewest concessions to the opponents.

Think Hungry-Hungry Hippo on an international level. Except instead of tiny plastic balls, they are grabbing political clout and policy.

And the candidates play into it, promising to raise taxes on the wealthy to 75% (Hollande) or dismantle social healthcare benefits (Mitt Romney, US presidential candidate). So we the voters place our bets on the dream, thinking if we get enough support the candidate of our choice will be able to meet his promises.
The reality is he or she is just another hippo grabbing at the same amount of pellets. Who are you sending in? And what do you expect them to grab?

Jeans and Cyclists... and logic bullets!

Admittedly my physical self-=perception maybe already be a little off, but here's the problem as I've heard it from cyclists other than myself. Straight leg and some regular fit jeans or dress pants do not fit. The waist and length are always fine. It's the hip area that's tight. A lot of cyclists have large quadricep muscles in their legs, making for a tighter than normal fit.

Now, I'm probably the only one who cares this much. I'm certain other bikers just deal with it (I don't know how), but it's terrible to comfortably wear only baggy pants. I'm not some punk teeneager skating about disrupting the establishment.

For me, in the past though less recently, it's a matter of contention with my eating disorder. When I wear a pair of jeans that don't fit my theighs I fear I'm getting fat. Then I start pinching what I believe (falsely) to be excess fat on my legs wondering how the hell it got there and how much I have to workout to lose it.

Reality eventually kicks in and I smirk at the thought of cycling to lose size, as it is muscle not fat, on my legs. It irrational that I would expect to lose leg size when I'm in love with biking everywhere -- to work, shopping, recreation -- and in the process make my muscles more effective. Meaning noticably more defined and slightly larger. I try not to call myself an idiot, but with such a glaring example of body distortion and false reasoning it is difficult.

I fight with reason. Firing logic bullets at fallacies. Boom! Suck it up and tell myself how helpful my legs are. Shit, I've earned these. Cycling to and from work 12 months a year for the last four years. I'm thankful for my biker legs. haha that does sond kinda goofy... but it's true.

If you're reding this and have the same issue as me; or maybe your arms don't fit sleeves well; or there is another physical definition you have from work or activities. Next time, before you complain about fit or look, join me in acceptance.
Jeans don't fit? Whatever, I'd rather be thankful I have muscle and skill to continue on of my great passions in life.

On days when I feel vulnerable to my eating disorder I look down at my legs and say, "Hell yeah I made it to work with my own two legs, fueled by an adequate breakfast."

Characters are still when I'm gone.

I left Emma and Michael on the Penn Farm for 16hrs yesterday. Normally not a big deal, but it was only recently that the bodies of the dead, strewn across the streets and yardsof this small english town, started moving. Dead, and moving. First we tried to gather a large group of folks in a near community center, but clashing personalities divided the group. Myself and several others split and left for the city. Hoping for supplies and food we stopped at the farm outside the limits. Been living there for a few days. The walking corpses became more aggressive. Carl, who had been with us since the beginning, returned to the community center late wednesday riding a motorcycle he found on our lst trip to the city. We barricaded the farmstead with whatever waste we could find around the out-building. It was last night they came. Staggering and stumbling toward the make-shift fence, rapping a the gate with their bleeding raw boney hands. And that's when I had to go to work...

I left Michael and Emma standing there in the hallway of that aged home which may soon become their final resting place. Wearily looking out the picture window at a field of the undead advancing slowly and stubbornly across the unkempt yard, ever more aware of their short future, they wept.

Tonight when after work I'll finish the book and follow Emma and Michael to the finish. Because if I don't they will be forever in limbo. Paused in time. Waiting for the story to continue. I will help them.

... said the sailor to the tattoo

Ask and I'll gladly show you. There's no reason to lift up my shirt sleeve, rub my arm like my tattoos are going to come off. Yes, they're real. And some have significant personal meaning, but I don't feel like telling any stranger that asks.

It's great that people are curious and enjoy looking at my arm. I think it looks cool too, but I the idea wasn't to entertain. Sometimes I prefer to wear longsleeves. Not because I'm embarassed, but because I want to keep them to myself for a while.

Ideas of identity, purpose and motivation keep traveling to the front of my mind, they take up residence there, set up camp, light a fire and sing songs. Unfortunately I need that room for other things like short term recall and quick reference. So I give them physical form. An image, applied to the skin, which frees room in my conscious mind. An expression that cannot be continually held, but can be forever displayed.

That's why I have tattoos.
They free me. They clear my mind. They make life easier. Like a to-do list of thoughts I can ruminate upon and examine at my leisure without worry they will disappear if I let them go. There always to never be forgotten. I love it.

Boys of Summer '12

It started when I woke. Had scrambled eggs, pancakes, good coffee.
Grabbed my bicycle and sprinted to a doctor's appointment. Five miles later I arrived somewhat achey and sweaty. The first thing I had to get over biking everywhere was, Yes, I'll be wet when I arrive. some folks may look, but whatever I moved here with my legs. And with many things in life, excluding death, that salt-caked sweaty feeling will not last forever. In fact, with practice the body will rebound much faster.

By the time I was done filling out forms and the nurse came to check me in I was completely dryand my heart rate and breating had recovered. Easy Peasy.

Couple checks -- bend here, cough there -- and i was on way way home facing the wind that so kindly helped me there. Oh! The great equality of nature.

Finished reading Mile Markers by Kristin Armstrong then it was time for Thursday tennis with my friend Tom. First game of the year. Yes! First golf game of the year next week.

There was time for video games and more reading before I went to bed. Couldn't have asked for a better summer day. Which is awesome because I'm certain I'll have many days like this until the snow falls. I was smiling the whole day! What sun and activity and friends does for the spirit medication cannot replicate. It's pure joy and light and laughter. God, I love summer.
I must only remember to eat. That's it.

Hooah!

Decided to join the Army. I want to be a combat medic. Go in with my unit, keep 'em all in one piece if I can. Incredible experience.

I have been thinking about joining the army for some time. In 2003 I met with a communications seargent to consider journalism and broadcast jobs. And again in 2006 when I was going to college in Missoula, MT. Every couple years I get the idea. This time it's holding strong.

The paramedic trainging I'm going to get will be some of the best in the country, and nationally certified. I would be able to do things in a combat zone that even a nurse wouldn't be able to do as a civilian. I can think of no better way to train in trauma medicine.

Quite excited about this plan. Had a meeting yesterday with a seargent Miller, exchanged some information so we can start the process of enlistment. I wasn't sure how to go about it at first. What if they asked about the prescriptions I was on? Or psychological history including my inpatient hospitalisations for an eating disorder? Do I answer questions straight or lie and probably increase my chances of becoming accepted?

Hopefully, I made the correct choice. I didn't want to start a new chapter in my life with dishonesty. He said the only thing that may be an issue are my scheduled medications, because if i were deployed into a dangerous environment they could not assure i would receive them. Also, withdrawal without gradual reduction could have some negative side effects.

Step 2: I have to contact the hospital in Bismarck where I had knee surgeries and request documents be sent to the US Army doctors for review.
Here we go.