After Your Soul

"Perhaps I know why it is man alone who laughs: He alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter." - Nietzsche

The details surrounding Dr. Edwin Cunningham’s death remain a mystery to this day. Those who were with him upon his death, died in the lower levels of the bunker before any help was dispatched. Those who survived the ordeal in the upper levels were sworn to secrecy. And very little data and notes of Cunningham’s work made it out of the purging.

While not officially an military base, the presence of the US Military still haunts the small town of Gospel, TX. Those who have lived their whole lives there have left to escape the surveillance. However, just how far the sight of Big Brother reaches is still up to debate. It has been stated by those in charge that the people of Gospel are free to come and go as they please.

Gated Community

A few weeks after the incident at Gospel Medical Center in which several children lost their lives due to an unexplained fire, the small town was enclosed by a large fence. Because of its isolation, there has always been one entrance into Gospel.

The sole explanation for the fence is to keep out reporters looking to stir up bad memories. However, with the increase of military officials and scientists coming into the town, rumors of people picking up where Cunningham should’ve left off has spread like wildfire. Could Project: ALICE (the name Cunningham used himself) be up and running once more?  And if so, is the small town of Gospel ready for another outbreak?

The Baby Flu

Nicknamed the baby flu, the outbreak that took the lives of several children and hospitalized several more, was anything but. While predominately affecting children, adults who came into contact with an infected’s saliva also caught the bug. In all cases, the end resulted in death.

It was said that the military was responsible for the fire at Gospel Medical Center to contain and kill the virus that was already spreading throughout the hospital. No one – not even their own men and women – were spared from the blaze. However, all this is hearsay. There is no evidence on the matter.

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How to Sell Your Soul to the Devil

"You and I know what it's like with the Devil in our heart." - Elton John

In nature, the fungus known as Cordyceps acts as a natural pesticide. That is, in the insect world, Cordyceps can single-handedly destroy an entire ant colony by infected one victim. It works by entering the ant’s system, residing just under the exoskeleton. The first process is to infect the ant, followed by eating all the soft tissue beneath the exoskeleton, sparing the major organs. When the fungus is ready to sporulate it sends chemicals to the ant’s brain, taking the reins and controlling it. The ant climbs the highest plant it can find, clamps down on the stem and dies. The spores burst through the body, spilling down into the colony below to infect the others. The process can take as little as a few days to a couple of weeks.

Cordyceps can be used as a pesticide by farmers or as medicine for certain human ailments.

Legacy

Dr. Edwin Cunningham, with support from his government, worked on a new strain of Cordyceps with viral properties, rather than fungal. The first run through only made the specimens fatally ill without any spreading through the noninfected. However, Dr. Cunningham’s motivation behind the project were personal rather than political. While the government believe his work was purely for the sake of biological warfare, Cunningham planned on working on a cure for a fatal child-illness that was slowly taking the life of his young niece.

Cordyceps Comes to Gosepl, TX

The border town of Gospel, TX resembled the perfect test subject for the project. Flexing his military muscle, Cunningham recruited local Border Patrol agents to gather illegals in order to continue the project with human specimens rather than lab rats. Each immigrant was promised shelter and amnesty for partaking the research. Sadly, however, non-survive.

What happened in that bunker beneath Gospel never made it to the outside world. The little that is known leaves much to the imagination. It is said Cunningham died testing his cure on himself, but some rumors stated that he was killed by his own staff.

The government denied any knowledge about the project or that the Pentagon was involved. One thing is for certain, however, the aftermath has scarred Gospel and its residents.

Henry Fuseli

"Sleep, those little slices of death; Oh how I loathe them." —Edgar Allan Poe

What we call “death,” is but the painful metamorphosis. —Edgar Allan Poe

The diagnosis is fatal. Mortal. Sanguine coursing through the flesh, puddling on the floor. Possibly inaccurate to state that Mary Shelley wrote her famous novel because of her miscarriage and a nightmare. Anne Rice has invoked her personal tragedies into her vampire hero. What happens when the tragedies are only a dream?

Building the Causeway

I’m awaken three hours early. Even though the house is cold – possibly, colder than outdoors – I’m slicked with sweat. When I return to my bed, I drift back into the dreamworld. I’m not allowed in the happier parts these days. Most of my dreams are surreal. Odd. Never pretty, but never scary, either. Last night, the rules changed.

I don’t brag about much, but I do like to boast about my ability to control my dreams. When something isn’t to my liking, I can segue into the next dream. The key is to always remember you’re dreaming. Never let the dream become to realistic, which I assume most men do – though, I don’t dream of well endowed lovers.

Last night’s dream, however, wouldn’t allow me to ignore it. The more I segued and reminded myself that I was asleep, that I was dreaming, the more it pushed itself on me. Erase the thought and go into another dream and there it was, just waiting for me.

“It’s just a dream,” I told myself. “It’s not real.” And the same news would hit me. The same words. I couldn’t even cry at the news. “It’s just a dream,” I said. “None of this is real.” And the people I loved would stare at me in wonder. I was taking the news hard, they said. I wasn’t in shock. It was normal. “No. None of this is truth.”

Reach for the Hand Brake

My mother always told me to reach for the hand brake. Just pull it up and the car will stop its descent.

As a child, my recurring dream involved Javier’s Dodge pickup truck. Left alone inside, the truck begins to move from its parking space. I’m panicking, calling out for help but the glass silences my voice.

“Reach for the hand brake,” she advised. “It’ll stop the truck.”

My mother trained me unwittingly to survive my nightmares. When sleep paralysis started, the rules changed. Logic helped – no such thing as demons outside the metaphorical; aliens don’t really abduct people.

But what of the realistic?

Then there were the dreams that hammered themselves into my mind, creating memories out of nothing. They felt and smelled and looked real. From searching for money that I remember I shoved into such and such novel to picking up a conversation that never happened. These dreams are the ones I don’t pay much mind because they’re harmless fun. And they make me feel stupid when I recall them as memory. It’s okay to laugh at  yourself.

Last night’s dream, however, imposed itself upon me.

You’ll Remember Me. For the Rest of Your Life.

“The doctors said it wasn’t worth their time,” she said.

“Fuck you!” I said. “Fuck them. How is it not worth their time?”

“Too far gone.”

“Not much they could do.”

“Heart was weak.”

“It’s real.”

“No.”

“It happened.”

“I can’t go into work today. I’ve a funeral to attend.”

“I can’t work. I can’t. This isn’t happening.”

But it is.

Occupy Life

The dream wouldn’t leave me. Like the monster in the Patrick Ness novel. Mine wasn’t a healing Yew tree. Mine was the one in Conor O’Malley’s nightmare.

In the fog of the day, I did my best to shake myself from its coil. Nothing work. There were points when the memory of the dream nearly brought me to tears. Another thing I can brag about is my ability to act as if I’m happy, not matter what’s eating me.

I wanted to miss work, but I forced myself. If life cannot crush me, a dream wouldn’t win this war. One things, for sure, I’m never speaking of this dream in full.

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It’s always the quiet ones

"I'm a very neat monster" -Dexter Morgan

I have a way with words, but I only speak when it’s necessary. It keeps me from getting boring, I suppose. Or maybe it’s a fail-safe in order to keep people from hating me. Because, even though I like to pretend that the world doesn’t matter to me, I do want people to accept me.

My Autobiography as Jesus H. Christ

Blasphemers aren’t born; they’re made by a strict Catholic upbringing. Early on, I thought I was Jesus reincarnated that caused me to do several embarrassing things like walk on water – I tested this out on puddles of water. When it didn’t work, I figured that the gift will come when the time was right. I pondered what holes in my hands would look like. Wondered if I would keep from crying out like Christ – that was the rumor, anyway.

I considered myself a good Catholic, even then. You might see it as deviant and insulting to your savior and messiah, but I see it as a child aspiring to be something better.

There was one thing I didn’t agree with the dogma. I didn’t like the idea of feeling guilty for every little thing we did. When I was told that I’d be going to hell for killing a mosquito by a CCD teacher, I decided it was going to be on my own terms.

Hey, hey, HEY…This is What Rock ‘n’ Roll Looks Like

I left the Catholic brainwashing machine – formerly known as CCD aka Bible Class – by junior high. I fell in the gutter with the devil’s music and living life in sin. And I gotta tell you – life was sweeter on the dark side. My faith in a higher power waned by mid high school and I profess Atheism before graduation.

Not all things are so black and white, though. As I studied philosophy, I came to terms that, while I don’t believe in god, I am not an atheist to the core. Atheist lite. Agnostic. Where I live, however, they’re pretty much the same.

Wait, wasn’t this post about acceptance?

Despite all the confidence I transpire on the interwebz, I am somewhat of a social outcast – go figure! Even into my ripe old age, I’m still socially inept which makes me feel awkward when people talk to me. I never know how to stand, how long to make eye contact, how to behave, what’s the proper thing to respond, what they expect from me, etc. This, in turn, makes me quite the quiet person. If I’m to learn anything from history, it’s that no good comes from me saying anything. One time I pissed off a lesbian mother because – even though I’m pro-gay – I felt that we wouldn’t see homo-acceptance in this country in our lifetime. It looks like I may be wrong on that, by the way. Hopefully.

It’s why I never worked well with others in high school

But my inability to communicate with others that keeps me from partaking in  social situations. There’s an underlining layer of paranoia. Namely, people taking credit for things I said. For example, in high school, there was this girl that sat in front of me – let’s call her Bitch Who Sat in Front of Me. In class, Mrs. Obvious Man Hater, made us pair up. Bitch Who Sat in Front of Me and I were the only ones without partners so we were paired with each other. The class assignment was to write a poem about something or other. Bitch Who Sat in Front of Me wasn’t the brightest person in the world, so I wound up writing the entire poem. She wrote ONE line. ONE. Single. Line. And she had the nerve to call it our poem. OUR poem. As in a team effort.

Now most people thing high school ends when they graduate, but it doesn’t. Not really, anyway. The rules still apply because high school – not college – creates the habits we have. So when I heard a higher-upper repeat my ideas and words verbatim, I was angered. There wasn’t a single nod in my direction.

Let’s not forget being picked last – or in my case, being looked over completely. In sports, I don’t blame people. I wouldn’t even want to pick myself. But it hurts when people don’t even offer or approach me for something I can do.

A word or two (perhaps more) on college

I hated my first two years. I didn’t make many friends, nothing lasting. When I returned to Sigma Tau Delta after a year of ditching meetings, I found a group of people I still consider friends.

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“I’m living for the drought “

"I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot. I guess not."

It’s a motor vehicle that sound buzzing in my ear when I finally come to. There’s a lot of motor vehicles cruising by, honking. A traffic jam on Lake Shore. I don’t even know what that means. Where that is. A cigarette burns on the ashtray. Somewhere in the distance, a trumpet plays.

I can smell Carlo’s vomit. The bastard drank so much last night, he just let loose once he got into the room. Leaned up against the wall and just let it spill. I told him the bourbon might be too strong for him, but those types of people never listen. They’re artists. Writers. People who need the life experiences just write about them. So what if their work makes you tear up in the end, doesn’t make it good. Just means they know things. And those tears spilling? Well, that’s just you wishing you knew them as well.

I had that dream again. 

The world fell around them. And I just looked up and saw the mouth of god open wide. And a hand reached down not to comfort the earth, but to smash it.

All Along the Watchtower

She arranged the saints one by one on the pedestal. Each one no higher than the other. She lit her crucifix candles and held slightly prayer. She prayed to them, the angels, jesus, mary, joseph, and god. And not one of them heard her words. Like the phone was left off the hook. Or, more permanent, disconnected.

In the bathtub, she held the razor to her wrist. She laughed as she died. She’d become a cliché.

Inconclusive

A man. A flaming bottle. A window.

And I want to wake up in your white, white sun

Dear god, the sky is as blue as a gunshot wound

The fireworks explode in the sky, sending their flares to smolder out another year. People drink their drinks and embrace their wicked passions should old acquaintance be forgot. On TV, the ratings skyrocketed as the militia moved into the country. People forget who they are sometimes.

The hopeless have their gods and fictions to order their lives. “Here’s to the new year,” they raise their glasses and drink in the spirit of the age. “Let it be better than the last.” Yet, every year they curl up in fetal position and bitch about how the year was horrible. “But this coming year looks promising.”

In the country of misleading constitutional propaganda, apes were ushered into the capital to make the rules for the less fortunate. Streets were condemned as undriveable. Our schools were shut down. The money stopped funneling. “We thought we were fixing the world, but instead we’ve enslaved ourselves to mix media stupidity.”

“Nothing’s gonna change the world,” the old beggar states on his soapbox. “Not a seventy-seven-year-old with backward views. Not a half-African-American with hope in his pockets.” The sniper cross hairs line him up. He’s taken down. No one watched. No one saw. He was forgotten.

We drink wine. We drink the blood of christ. We nurture ourselves into thinking we’re something important. Something significant. We play our games, created our mythologies and condemn those who do not follow or believe in what we do. We are too stupid to realize we are enslaved to our own stupidity.

“Come to bed,” Angel says. “What’s the point of wondering?”

Somewhere, in the depths, a plane crashed into the ocean, killing the savior and the antichrist in one blink. As the plane plummeted, the messiah turned to the demon and said, “You’re the only one I could love in this dying world.”

Sometimes life is full of disappointment. Other times, it’s just banal.

“Been Talking to Jesus, He’s Not Talking to Me”

"Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spent the rest of the day putting the pieces together." —Ray Bradbury

There are moments when I question my lack of faith. Logic and reason keep me at bay from ever fully letting go. I’m allowed to dream, but I’m not allowed to live in  fantasy. Truth is, I don’t believe in a higher power outside of logic and reason and science. Without empirical data, I find things tough to chew. Would my life be better if I were religious or held a belief in a higher being? Probably not. But I would be so sedated by my god, I wouldn’t even think twice about things.

Writing

Maybe working in the library hasn’t introduced me to a plethora of people like working at the stadium has. I think it’s better that way. I love the people I’m working with. I know every says that about their job publicly, but these people are fun and fantastic.

The artist in particular. There are points where he comes off a little new age-y. Nothing annoying. One of the things I confessed to him was the death of my writing. It was just in passing. Outside of blogs and little memos, I haven’t written anything for a while. I just stopped. “You shouldn’t just stop,” he suggested the other day.

I told him about the blog. Nothing worthwhile, but I’ll never fully stop writing. It’s in my blood, my system. But lately, even these little posts have lost their depth. I’m just writing thoughts. Granted, I’ve always written thoughts. It’s different now. I’m not even putting much into them. Has it become a chore?

Thinking it all through, working on my Letters to Shaun project, I decided to stop and write a story. Well, the beginning of a story. A revision. An idea that I’ve written for a while but never completed anything outside of a rough draft.

It’s like I’ve become an atheist of myself. It’s easy to stop believing in yourself. And if I can’t believe in myself, how can the creations have faith in me? Damn the answers. Most of all, damn the questions.

Post title taken from “Empire State” by Guster.

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“Elevator to the moon”

"Always the first star that I find..."

I’ve been bad. I’ve purposely ignored this blog and Letters to Shaun because of work and studying. I need better time management. What have I been up to? For the last week, I’ve worked at the local library and loving it. Okay, maybe I’m not as outgoing as I should be, but I’m breaking in to the new environment. I’m getting comfortable. The co-workers are great. The place is also great. I mean, I love the library so it only makes sense that I’d love working there.

My plans for tomorrow, during down time, I’m gonna sneak off into the supply room and practice with Judy – who, despite my earlier belief, isn’t a real person – the puppet. If I’m to um… man(?), operate(?) her, I should at least aim for as realistic as possible.

I also want to be a little more creative. I work in the children’s department, so this allows me to flex my creative muscle. Sadly, it’s been dormant for so long that I’m sure it’s atrophied.

That’s beside the point. Anyway, I promise I’ll write more when I have more time – which shall be soon because I’m almost finished with my comp time – gotta make up for the days I’m going to miss soon. I also need to start thinking about collecting some comp time in March and April for obvious reasons.

My goodness. It doesn’t even feel like it was that long ago when I found out about little Shaun. I’m in bliss, people. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

Note: Title and caption are lyrics from Guster, but not from the song above.

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Great Things Are Expected

"...upon his heads the name of blasphemy."

I let Jyg talk me into eating WingStop last night. And by talk me into it, I mean the following – “Wing Stop?” “Sure.” Long story short, I stay up until three in the morning fighting heartburn. At eight-forty-five, the library called asking if I could report into work by ten. Sure. I mean, I’ve accomplished much more with less sleep.

Consilience 

After a nine-hour-shift, I roamed the library for Consilience by Edward O. Wilson. I purchased the book off Better World Books the other night, but thought I’d get a head start in reading it. The only draw back is, I don’t get to write in the margins (as if I would anyway) with a copy from the library. However, I’m way too tired to read now.

Man, I remember when I used to run a student organization with only two hours of sleep. What a difference four years makes, hu?

Familial?

A library job, haven’t I been dreaming about this since I was a little kid? What I would give to work in a library. Luckily for me, I’m used to doing busy work. I did volunteer for half a year at an elementary – I failed to mention that in the interview – where all I did was cut things for the teacher. Still, I feel like I’ve joined an exclusive club that I’ve only heard about and – perhaps – glimpsed once or twice growing up. It fuels my want – need? – to pursue my library science degree.

Still, it’s no baseball stadium. Granted that it took me a year to fall in the swing of things – I was family before the third season with the Roadrunners, after all – I seem to have slipped my way into this world with much ease. Sure, I’m quite. But it’s been months since I’ve worked with someone followed by months of working on landing a job, any job. Luckily for me, I landed one I’m in love with.

Oh Willie, but that’s just the new job high. No, seriously. You people don’t know how much I love books.

Anymore Things?

It’s a small step, but I’ve managed to reconnect with an estrange friend on Facebook. Again, I’m not expecting things to go back to the way they were – I’m not naive and this is not television – but I’m sure glad that she’s there.

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Crestfallen & a Few of My Other Friends

Caption This Contest

It’s nothing amazing, really. It’s blatantly clear – Ron Paul is the Lady Gaga of politics, stealing things and ideas and making people believe he’s original. Like Gaga did with the gay community, Paul is working the disenfranchised. He’s one “born that way” comment away from wearing a meat suit. And it’s not surprising that the backlash of insulting the lush politician comes in threefold - after all, it was  vegan group at my alma mater that stated that “People don’t like it when they’re told they’re living the wrong way.” It’s almost as if the Paul-bots (as oppose to the GOP term, Obama Zombies)  have put their common sense and decency in abeyance. Because Paul is money. He’s the guy who’ll figure out how to fix this broken economy and country. He’s the solution to our war problem. We’ll ignore his (allegedly) racist remarks. We’ll ignore his total disregard to civil rights.

I’m not saying that Ron Paul’s ideas for fixing our economy are bad – they’re actually pretty enlightening if far-fetched. However, we cannot ignore all the damage he’ll do in the long-term. Still Paul-bots will tut-tut, call themselves better educated and follow the false prophet down the wrong side. It’s okay. That’s America. But for every Paul-bot who shouted “Ron Paul 2012″ after Rick Perry released his ”Strong” campaign ad, there’s a guy like me in the sidelines that’ll correct them – “Ron Paul hates homosexuals just as much Perry. He’s just better at speaking.”

Decadence

Finished reading my reviewer’s copy of Rachel Kramer Bussel‘s Best Bondage Erotica 2012. Sadly, it took me so damn long to get through it because of my lack of time-management when it comes to studying for the GRE. As stated before, I’m a sex-crazed erotica freak (okay, maybe not in those terms). Found the book quite the read, however, just the sort of thing to read before drifting off into dreamland every night.

Again, Bussel manages to collect the stories that yank at our lusts. Each story is beautifully crafted by some of the best writers in the erotic genre. I’m yearning to see what the 2013 edition will contain – the patience is killing me.

Unemployment

It’s been a week since I’ve heard back from the library. It’s not the best feeling in the world, this anticipation. The last I heard, they were working on a background check. That shouldn’t take took long – I have no driving record. I’m still looking for other places and positions, but that job was just something that I needed and wanted. I can’t think of a better candidate for the job, then again, I think really highly of myself.

Studying

The last few weeks has been extensive studying the GRE manual. GRE, by the way, stands for Graduate Record Examinations. It’s essential if I’m to continue with my education – I mentioned I’m seeking my Masters in Library Science, right? Algebra was/is killing me, but what else is new? Geometry is fairly easy, most of what I learned in the past is coming to me gradually. As for the verbal, well, I need to start using the terms in my writing if I’m ever going to remember their definitions.

Shaun

The kid is still growing and moving around in Jyg’s tummy. I can’t wait to meet him come April. The letters project is coming along okay, but not as well as I expected – best laid plans, am I right? I should start writing more when my mind clears up a bit. With all the things going around me – the election, debates, studying, worrying, etc. – my words fail me. Here’s looking to better days!

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