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I have a problem

Rome-Titus Improving by Ancarett
I have moments in my life that I can't communicate. The words escape me. The words embarass me. Attempting to explain them makes me feel alien and disconnected, as much as the actual experiences themselves make me feel whole and human.

The facts are all there, figures and data are all in a row, laid out like an unlucky frog in a high school science lab. I can explain the particulars, but when it comes to the passion I feel behind those experiences, I note the glazing of eyes and the furitive sidelong glances, pleading for escape.

The paranoia creeps in. Am I unitelligible? I get that a lot. That I would understand. I speak too quickly, hoping not to waste your time with my latest ramblings. Am I that crazy person? Is my experience of morning light breaking through palm trees so plain as to be unremarkable? Or is that impression of transcendant beauty failing to come through? I can continute on with telling you, but I keep becoming afraid I'm losing you, or losing the important essentails of the story. Soon, I over think my telling, and the story is that frog again, lying there, broken apart, understood, but ultimately dead.

Or is this a matter of one-upmanship? That is also something with which I struggle. I don't want to be that guy. I want it to be part of a conversation with you, not at you. I want us to come away having shared something with each other. Too often I wonder if I'm listening, or if I'm waiting for my turn to speak. I'm hyper-sensitive about it, as well as being utterly unaware of when I might be doing it. A charming combination, to be sure.

I want you to understand my experiences, just as I love hearing your stories. No, seriously. I'm like a five year old. If it's a good one, repeat that story as often as you like. I once followed an EMT named Tank around as she told, and re-told a story about a bug crawling in someone's ear that started chewing. I watched that story magnify with each telling, and horrify each successive audience. It was brilliant.

I don't think I'm alone in this. I'd like to think I'm not alone in this, at least. The story of our private moments of connection, our solitary breakthroughs, are told to us as tastes, sights, smells and sounds that are unique to each of us alone. The almost spiritual rush I felt at the first VNV show I went to, the sight of a harvest moon from the King and Queen's Seat, and the hush of my theme park before opening are all things that people won't get unless they were there. And perhaps not even then.


Legion of the Damned
I was living as an adjunct professor at an unknown college, and I owned a small row home. And that row home's basement was a portal to hell. The stair were covered in viscera and blood soaked bodies, all writhing in torment, and a pale man with a beard and pupil-less eyes stood above them. He wanted the soul of childhood friend of mine, and would threaten and cajole me, and try to pull me down into the basement.

I simply moved a heavy dresser in front of the door and kept living there. I said to another person, or to myself, I forget: "The existence of Hell proves the existence of Heaven. Ironically, he's increasing my faith." I knew I couldn't show it to anyone, as he'd simply make it disappear, and make me look crazy. So, I lived over a hell hole, the dresser occasionally moved and shook, and that was about it.

I suppose it was a nightmare? Maybe?


Another dream

Legion of the Damned
Weird dream: I'm next door neighbors with Lady Gaga, who has taken to living in the suburbs as some sort of artisic experiment. I end up being her tour manager, and sleeping with her younger sister, who looks like Amy Adams. Gaga abandons me in Africa while fleeing a warlord she offended.

Conclusion: WTF?


Jun. 21st, 2010

Silent Hill Fog
We opened on a long slow dirge, talking us to the cemetary. And we close our season on the joyful march back. Along the way, we fell in love with a city down it it's luck like no other, except for perhaps Pompei.

Treme was a love song to a city that still suffers. A song that was low and sad, yet it still thrummed with life.

If you missed this season, you missed out.
Silent Hill Fog
Like many miniature wargamers, I've built up quite an extensive collection of toy soldiers. And like many gamers, I'm getting older. I'm not old, by any means, but man is mortal, and all shall come to dust.

I want them to go to someone who cares. Someone who'd give them a good home. The same with my games as well. I'd think that my brother Josh would be an appropriate choice. Still, no hiring a hitman to get an army, Josh.

Well, that was kind of a no brainer.


Legion of the Damned
Anyone remember the approximate time frame for me moving out of Brian Vogt's house?

Jul. 4th, 2009

I'm posting while drunk. That's never good.

But still, the sweet hum of inebriation fills my fingers, bidding me to post some small measure of myself.

I spell much better while drunk, which doesn't say much.

Tonight was Sasaki's birthday. She spent much of it horizontal, which is sad.
She didn't pace herself, a testament to the follies of youth. Still, she did well enough, considering. People were met, drinks were shared, a communal understanding was reached via Rock Band/Guitar Hero. All is good, and I am upright, though my speech is slurred. Thank goodness I had someone to bring me home.

I thus I send myself off to bed. Adieu.

Wierd Dream

Legion of the Damned
So, in the dream I was at a birthday party for one of my friend's toddler kids. Which friend it was I don't recall. I was supposed to get her a certain themed tinker bell, but they were out of the tinker bells, and they had a similar barbie doll, so I got that instead. I show up with it unwrapped, and the mother gives me crap the entire time. The kid doesn't care and is playing with the doll, but everyone judges me. She decides to put on the TV show Entourage, which she likes and she knows I hate as a form of punishment. I get up, declare that I hate this show, and leave. Apparently I drive an early 80's Monte Carlo, on which the door had been left open. I wasn't at the party long, because the car still started.

I'm going back to college.

Legion of the Damned
I start June 1st.

Much thanks to Paul and Heather for getting me motivated.

Want to feel old?

Legion of the Damned
The Matrix is a ten year old movie. Seems like just yesterday, doesn't it?

Thanks, xkcd.