Drones

Lines created by the road give my eyes a sullen dream to follow and read.

The low drones of machines keep my lonely brain at bay.
These lines created by the road give my eyes a sullen dream to follow and read.

The stale air inside my cabin disguises the passage of time and day.

As the sun slowly kisses the earth, gentle reminders of cities past help my lungs to breath. Exhale now, good.

Exhale the exhaust of salivating specters tracking my every mistake. Maybe if I can go fast enough and far enough they might just leave.

Breath now they've fallen behind me now; or at least as far as I can see. Maybe if I can go fast enough and far enough they might just leave.

Yes, these lines created by the road give my eyes a sullen dream to follow and read.

Manhattan

This city, reckless and spinning out of control, with lights reminiscent of Christmas trees past.
As I step out my door; I am assaulted with life, This energy that surrounds me creates a high that can't last.

Still there is something so soothing swimming in this sea of anonymity.
As if this stage has been set with stand-in's who don't know me.

Kings and paupers rub elbows en route to their various destinations in cattle cars more populated then some European nations.

I am a thief stealing time to soak it all in. Every building I pass a window to this city's soul.
As made evident to the masses down below, looking up at the "corner office thugs" with their hearts as dark as coal.

Every nation is represented; every culture pours in to be tested.
While the tenements grow thicker with their dreams that are wasted.

However, light reflects beautifully off these canyon walls of industry, and every street I pass dulls this blade of nostalgic misery.

I never felt more peaceful than in this city of noise; I have never felt more confident than when surrounded by her poise.

written by- Aaron Gabrielsen

Overcast Reflections on Bristol Bay

The wind was pushing 30 knots from the east. That is never a pleasant reality when on a small boat bobbing just off the Bearing Sea. To the west lay the emerald ocean of tundra that meanders it's way quietly to the dramatic power of snow capped mountains, which stand as silent guardians to us mere mortals below. However this is difficult to see, as the wind sends the frigid, salt water waves crashing over our boat and directly into my face.
As I flex every muscle and tendon in my body to pull the net writhing with salmon over the stern of the boat, out of their safety and into ours, my mind for some reason wanders on this overcast Alaskan day. Off in the distant past; I see a young man like myself, working on a ship in weather not too unlike today. The pain in his face tells a story of his life.

In another instant, my mind is traveling over a rocky plateau in Wyoming on a blustery and cold autumn afternoon. I see a trail of hand carts and tears as bloody feet and hands push towards the repose only god and honest toil can give one's soul.

Next I see my grandfathers eyes as he leads a team of horses through a hot and dusty field, he wonders if this will be a better year for him, his family and crops. Yet, comfort like dew springs forth in the sweat of his brow knowing that god accepts his sacrifice.

There is a spiritual purity in the hard work of hands whether it be on land, mountain, or sea.

I am worried sometimes that this connection is lost in the desert of technology.
                  

written by- Aaron Gabrielsen

An Awkward Light

An Awkward Light
An awkward light shown from the stair well above me. It told me to sit still and believe what I am told.
But when you're in the cellar all you have is the people above you. The school teacher professed that I was too bold. The Drill Sergent said that I had to much dirt on my left shoe. "I didn't know my enemy was so afraid of cleanliness", I stated.
A round peg in a square hole is more than just a metaphor for me. It's a way of life.
Still though as I glide quietly across that sun soaked pond from my youth, my memory takes a breath.
I still run to keep myself in shape, but the dream of flying is dead. Why was flight so appealing to me in the first place? Maybe to me, stillness equaled death.
I watched as my grandfather struggled to get out of the car. Death is the last great mystery he said.
Maybe like my fathers from Norway who came before me all I have to cling on to is that one next paddle.
One can always be reassured that the answer to the question; What's over that horizon? lies in the shoes you wear on your feet.
Or the wind that is captured by your sails. Or the fuel that is in your jet. Or the courage one takes in life's next step.

Chapter 2: The Gabrielsen Angel

I ask, "Hoy! pwede ba kami magsabay?" The driver of the giant 18 wheeler volvo rice truck replies"oh sige". "Wait! Elder Gabrielsen what did you say?" "I asked him if we could hitch a ride, so jump up there lets go!" "What?!" This is a diesel truck and there are already two in the cab?" "Right but there is plenty of room to ride with the rice, get on!" I less than gently push my trainee towards the intimidatingly large open air tractor trailer with giant bags of rice stacked on the back. As the trailer is already starting to move I run ahead of him and in one smooth movement grab on to one of the loading handles on the back, jump up and pull my chest on to one of the sacks of rice. I then swing my legs to the right and roll the rest of my body on to the back of the trailer. Of course, as I look back my newly arrived trainee from the safe and predictable states was still frozen in his tracks. I motion to him to start running, and then like a child finally realizing he needs to stay close to his parents in the mall, he starts to run after the truck full speed. The two Filipinos in the front cab are looking at us and laughing at the scene unfolding behind them, more importantly however they are not slowing down. This is a test, I am used to these tests by now. They want to see if I will turn into an American again and beg like a child for them to slow down for my friend or if we like all the rest of the Filipinos around us will deal with the situation and adapt. If you can do the latter you will always be respected and safe here. If you can't, get ready to be robbed and disrespected or worse. I grab onto the handle again firmly and lean over the back of the trailer stretching my hand out towards my young American counterpart. He kicks his legs into over drive realizing what he now must do to earn the respect of the nation he has been called to serve in for the next two years. In a scene right out of "Indiana Jones" we lock hands just before the truck has picked up too much speed, and then with all the strength I have I swing his entire body weight up and on to the back of the trailer. He is completely out of breath and I am completely relieved he didn't get run over or broke a leg in the entire process. While laying flat on my back I turn my head towards the two Filipino "comedians" and give a thumbs up. They erupt again with laughter but this time there is a silent approval on their faces as if they know we've past the test. They would not have slowed down for two filipinos, why should they for us?
As the ride continues we both take turns surfing on top of the rice sacks as the truck barrels through the Jungle at 45 miles per hour. We catch air with every bump in the road and occasionally have to duck the low hanging tree branches and palm leaves from the surrounding jungle. As we go around one of the many hair pin turns on the road, the trees clear before our eyes and the sun breaks through the clearing as a surreal, emerald, rice patty valley unfolds itself before our bewildered eyes. "Unreal" my friend next to me utters in disbelief. "Yeah you're not in Utah anymore, are you Elder Patterson?" As I lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed of rice below me and feel the warm and moist Philippine air surround and flow by me, I am content, happy and unaware of the tragic news I will receive later that day. I can't help but think that some angel must be on our side this wonderful morning.

I am four years old now and we have just moved from our little green house, with its goats and chickens in the backyard that my parents bought as some sort of Mormon, hippie self sustaining lifestyle experiment, to this large, sprawling gray house on the hill. My mother and sisters love the move, it's a much bigger and newer home next to a quiet little pond where a family of mallards live. However I am four and change is scary to me. I miss our little green home with the zen like stream in the backyard that leads to the fence that separated our yard from the horse pasture where I would stand and feed those gentle giants grass that I had picked. It is dark outside and it has been a busy stressful day of watching my mother shout out orders like a drill sergeant at my father and sisters as they unloaded boxes from the moving truck. The drill sergeant is gone now and my sweet mother is tucking my brother and me into bed. I let my mother know of my discomfort of the move to the new house. I ask her about ghosts and monsters and how I believe they have a lot more room to live and hide in such a big house as this. She gently tickles my forehead with her hand which smells of lavender. "Oh Aaron, do you see your brother over there?" I look towards him, my brother is already sleeping peacefully in his bed across from me. "Yeah, Mama". "You remember how we talked about how your brother is different and special?" Yeah, Mama". "Well part of him being special makes him sort of like an angel for us, so as long as your brother is around you never have to worry about ghosts and monsters. Bad things are scared of angels"
She kisses my forehead and pulls the covers tight around me. As she leaves our room she turns around. "Do you want me to leave the hallway light on for you?" "No Mama, I have Adam with me!" I say confidently and a little too loudly. My brother stirs, then turns and falls back asleep. As I hear my mother's footsteps fade down the hallway, my eyes grow heavy with sleep. I am now comforted at the presence of our Gabrielsen family angel.

My Line in the Sand

It could have been me drawing that line in the harsh desert sand.
As I watch the news I am reminded of those beautiful voices ringing from the Mosque long ago.
It was a typical Philippine night where the air is sweet and heavy from the residue of fallen rain, Palm Trees and heat from the Tropic of Cancers white, hot, glow.

The voices crept through the sleeping rice patties and concrete poured streets and homes as if everything in this world was constructed to carry their prayer.
Erie and beautiful, grateful and sullen. Too similar to how I feel as I watch the events unfold on the screen before me.

Why did I quit? Did I quit? Could I have done it if I chose to follow through.
I throw punches at ghosts, while they dodge bullets in Kevlar suits. One is definitely worse than the other although that line is hard to see, and at times in the dark it seems equally fatal to me.

I tuck my son into bed thinking about all the specters he will have to face both seen and unseen and say two prayers; one of thanks, and the other a pleading appeal.

Carina and Adam. They are my line in the sand, please Lord help me to stand.

Envoy

We have crept upon this new year once more.
Yet Time has not forgotten the envoy at the door.
His time must be kept, as most fateful things are;
For if it weren't for him we should surely ask for more.

Yes, his blade is kept sharp from the subjects that he reaps.
However do not fear his presence for the company he keeps.
In the Evening its a sinner. On Sunday it's a saint.
Even kings are called to humility strong men are caused to faint.

Yes, all will be brought down to the humble earth worms home;
Through this silent, stalking, envoy and his ever soothing tone.
"Hush now, sleep now; you have nothing whatsoever to fear?”
Just as long as your works before this time were justified, clean, or clear.

I hear them now; these voices from the grave, "Please work now my child there is such little time to save!"

For when the envoy cometh there can be nothing left to say.
Let this envoys meeting be your great and not dreadful day.

-written by Aaron Gabrielsen

Chapter 1 (Continued): Green House

It is dark outside of our little green house. I have just completed phase two of my nightly ritual of dinner, bath, prayer, sleep. The house is quiet right now as if I am an only child. This is a rare moment in my world, between two older sisters who are very capable but every bit as demanding and my older brother's need for almost constant help and attention parental alone time is somewhat of a commodity for me. As I have just stated though it is quiet right now and my father has just returned from work. I was in my bath but could recognize the strong but somehow sullen footsteps of a man quietly holding up the weight of his family. My mom talks about how dad owns a store that sells pieces of cars to people when theirs aren't working anymore. I remember feeling a sense of a wakeless pressure, like how the sky looks and feels just before a heavy winter snow storm, when I would sit next to and talk with my dad during this time of the green house. I felt excited though that he was home. Surely we would play my favorite game "Sammy the spider" where my fathers hand would turn into a ravenous spider that seemed to feed only upon the soft ticklish flesh of my stomach. I would run and scream with laughter as an escaped mental patient every time I heard the phrase out of my fathers mouth of "Oh, now is that Sammy the spider swinging from the ceiling?". Or at least I could hear and make him laugh with one of my patented silly phrases or faces I loved to make. That's it I said to myself, "I will make him laugh". Somehow I communicated to my mother that I wanted to surprise my dad with a silly rainbow colored kite pillow that my mom got me that even a three year old realised the corny gaudiness of. Surely my dad would think it was funny as well. The thing was ridiculous I still remember its half witted grin of a clown sown onto his face that not even all of my faux boxing skills could wipe off. I grabbed the kite out of my moms hands and held it in front of my face like a mask, then silently slid down the carpeted basement stairs where my father was watching his baseball game in the rec/family room. My stomach bubbled with anticipation of the outrages laughter that would exude from my fathers face when I jumped out from underneath the couch and scared him with that ridiculous kite pillow on my face. With one fluid movement I turned the corner from under the couch and leaped into my fathers lap. "Ooof, Aaron! be careful don't jump on me while I'm watching my game." As he picked me up from off his lap I slowly brought the kite down from my face only to see my fathers face full of consternation at my attempt at being funny, but more heart wrenching to me; was seeing my indestructible dad's face full of worry lines and a quiet beaten desperation in his eyes that the memory of still stays with me to this day. And to this day I could not love him more for enduring that pain I saw in his eyes and finding a way beyond all the terrible odds of this world to support our family and that little green house.

Chapter One: Flash Cards and Horse Pastures

The sun feels like how God's laughter must sound today. It overwhelms my eyes with colors fresh and vivid. It reminds me of how light does that funny, rainbow, reflection dance as it bounces through and around the prismatic surface of a clear blue pool on a hot summers day. As I struggle to keep my balance on the grass I am almost overwhelmed by the deep soothing tones of greens that surround my feet and spread a sense of cool refreshment through and up my stubby 2 1/2 year old legs. Behind me I can hear the soft trickle of water over rocks coming from the small creek that separates our yard from the horse pasture behind our house. I watch as my mother is showing flash cards to my older brother on a blanket under the shade of one of the many walnut trees in my parents back yard. "That's right Adam good job! That is a car!" Her voice has a wrinkle of half laughter, half high school football cheerleader enthusiasm to it, that makes me feel as good as if I had been the one to recognize the shape of the car on the card she is holding. She and Adam have been going over these flash cards quite often lately. She always makes it fun for him like a game but even in my young brain I can tell it's not a game. There is a secret mission behind it. A faint but frantic energy surrounds this activity; as if she and Adam have something to prove to the world and not much time to do it. At this point in my life however I did not know why this was so. Soon I would understand their mission and why it was so important to my mother. All that is important to me now though is that my mother is happy my brother finally got a card right and my brother is happy that my mother and I are with him. Somehow the sun is always warm and the air is always sweet when life is young and you live in front of a horse pasture in Idaho. (to be continued)

Let us not decieve.

Can love and anger exist in the same space?
The maker of man says, yes.

Let us not forget that the devils greatest lie is that he doesn't exist.
But his second is that god could never forgive us.

Oh, but it is easier to remove the sliver from my neighbor's eye than to see the two by four sticking out of mine.

So let us not pretend that what is wrong is right; and try to make the un-holy look somehow divine.

Yes, let us not create our own god who loves the sins that we make, but remember our maker loves the sinner despite our mistakes.

He hates our violence...

He hates our crudeness...

He hates racism and anger towards each other in all it's ugly forms...

He hates what we have done and what some are still trying to do to marriage...

He hates how we treat our children both the born and unborn...

And yet he loves us as individuals struggling through life with whatever pages of truth we have torn.

Help us to do better is all I ask of today, and help me to forgive my own self and those around me for the mistakes that we have made.

Pock Ridden Streets

Trust me it says as I run into a wall. To move forward sometimes you have to take a few steps back. However, why would I want to go back there the people are all the same.

Adults still wishing they were children clinging on to lost friends and clicks, never fully realizing they now are the brunt of all those cool teenagers jokes.

Still, though the prom queen puts on her make up and the jock still feels that he's got something to prove; except now for both it's shopping carts and used car sales that dominate their day.

The train still runs through the center of town past broken down buildings and pock ridden streets. If you squint your eyes tight enough you can still see the dreams and hopes that were once built there.

How did we get here? How do we go back? Is there a way we can take the open minded kindness of today and keep the order and discipline of our grandparents?

I'm afraid in this economy and culture we're going to lose both.

Bread crumbs for lunch

I am sitting on a park bench in Manhattan. Crumbs of bread fall out of my hand and on to the dirty streets below.

They say only four families control over 90% of the worlds banks.

As soon as the crumbs hit the ground and even before then, pigeons flutter, fly, fall and fight for the remnants of my ham sandwich.

I watch as fat business men return to work from their lunch breaks, cops writing parking tickets on the streets in the heat of the sun and pan-handlers begging for money.

With my new found power I then begin to cast my potato chip crumbs into the sea of feathers.

The big pigeons puff up, peck, and intimidate the other smaller pigeons from receiving their fair share.

I'm thinking about John Stewart yelling at a popular stock analyst as if he had something to do with the crash. His head bobs up and down in anger almost as if he's dancing.

I then notice some brave pigeons hopping up on the bench to the left of me. They're heads bobbing up and down for my attention as they start to turn around in their place almost as if they're dancing. I toss crumbs at them and they begin to fight over it.

I watch a young man with gaudy gold jewelry in the shape of a marijuana leaf and brand new expensive shoes strut up the street with attitude; borrowed confidence, I suppose, from either credit cards or somebody else's drug habit.

As I watch this young man I think of all the beautiful monuments and buildings built in Washington D.C. and how each one is a work of art, strutting the borrowed confidence of an 11 trillion dollar deficit.

I again watch the fat pigeons strutting around and intimidating the others with their borrowed bread crumbs from my lunch resting in their stomachs.

They say only four families control over 90% of the worlds banks... And the U.S. keeps borrowing from them.

As I finish throwing away the cellophane remnants of my lunch and prepare to head back to my office building to bob and weave for my daily bread crumbs; I notice a lone pigeon on a grassy knoll under the shade of a tree pulling up a worm, for his lunch, from the ground.

No dancing needed,

just lunch.

Somehow I envied that...

President Andrew Jackson, the only one of our presidents whose administration totally abolished the National Debt, condemned the international bankers as a "den of vipers" which he was determined to "rout out" of the fabric of American life. Jackson claimed that if only the American people understood how these vipers operated on the American scene "there would be a revolution before morning."

Witten by Aaron Gabrielsen

It's all Re-runs

Church bells ring from a forgotten hill.

The wind's sting sloppily sums up this towns existence.

As the grave-yard shift employee's language attempts to compensate for a glaring lack of self worth, ink ridden arms scan the energy drink that summarizes the sad, unrealistic dreams of this generation.

Rock stars, actors, and NBA superstars.

Sesame street and after school specials told us that if we believed in ourselves we could be anything we wanted.

However when the welfare check replaces the father and MTV becomes the babysitter of choice for mother, things like work ethic and God become a punchline.

Even now as TV. feeds the chip on all of our shoulder's we pass on the sickness to the next generation.

Maybe some day we'll get it? But when rapstars are revered as prophets and cage-fighters are our new hero's the only people we can blame for our violent and stupid culture is ourselves.

I want to leave this town, but Ive checked the other channels and it's all re-runs

work in progress, trying to write lyrics to "suo ghan" melody

To my savior my sins surrender.

Calm and perfect is thy rest.

With thy love and power surrounding,

I crush my tempter through thy holiness.

Let no thoughts this night upset me,

yes, through thy name I have no fear.

As my soul slips slowy to slumber, I can feel thy presence near.

(still working on more verses and cadence)

Captive

Laying.



Waiting.



Watching.



Lurking; This acid bubbles and boils with anticipation.

It churns... then turns... and eventually burns its way up my esophagus and out of my body, spewing a hateful soliloquy of pain in every direction.


I am bound captive.


If only I could take a hot white ember of truth and cauterize the cavernous, cancerous acid within me. I would at once be free!

However, no; that would be too easy.
And as we all know, that which is easy rarely ever is of worth or permanence.

So I will let it burn, bubble, bleed and ooze; yet, at the same time, I will never allow myself to succumb completely or loose.

Yes, it is better to know and fight the evil of today, than succumb to the consequence of ignorance and cowardice.

So with this knowledge of weakness, what then is left for me to do... besides pray?

Yes, the acid is still there, but it is continually held at bay through the simple and silent power of a man's humble prayer.

The Nothing

As twilight begins to set in, I can taste the lack of interest in the air around me.

Still it fills a void.

As planes begin to take off and my rambling turns to scoff; The humidity creeps through my window as a physical manifestation of the boring phantasm I have created, through my vapid chatting.

Still it feels a void, as I try to fill the void of silence around me.

Why now am I scared of silence?

Because silence is the microphone of the minds conscience.

I've done nothing wrong though, leave me alone.

That's a lie, in wrong things done we humans are always one.

Talking for me? Well it fills the void, and it helps me feel the void.

So, some drink, some smoke, some laugh with and at others to cover up and and make numb. However as long as we try, the souls stinging silence will always come.

I talk.

Does it fill the void?

Still it feels the void.

Embrace

Horns honking people pushing.

Lights flash and so do minds.

The smell of stress and humanity overpowers my senses.

Yet as eyes slowly embrace lips are not far behind.

At once all is lost but somehow 'one'.

She is the energy of a thousand winds rushing;
but with the wisper of a pine trees first breath.

Around us though are horns honking, people pushing.

lights flashing...

lights flashing...

Happy Birthday at the Hospital

As the chair smashes my face I am amazed at the lack of pain I feel. Did it really just happen? Did he really just slam the protruding metal legs of a chair into my face? As the chair leg strikes just above my left eye, inches away from my temple but thankfully towards the more resilient part of the human skull (the forehead) a flash of pure white light streams across my eyes that lasts the duration of the impact.

That's it I think we have been chasing this patient around the hospital for the better part of two hours, hopping fences running in and out of buildings, making sure he doesn't leave the campus or harm any other patients; and offcourse listening to all sourts of verbal abuse and name calling. It's a silly game and although he's crazy he knows the rules better than any of us. He can punch, kick bite, hit you over the head with a chair once and as long as he stops and attempts to go to his room the staff can not restrain him and the game can go on.

At this time however I have drawn the line since he is raising the chair above his head again to strike me with it. As I lower my body and then spring up and forward lunging towards my assailant like a defensive lineman I remember what he said when I arrived to this party a few hours ago responding to the red alert call I heard over the radio. "I think we can take them Satan theres only three of them". I almost laugh at this thought as I with one hand knock the chair out of his hands and and with my other grab his right leg, good thing I am 6'1 and he's short or I wouldn't be able to do both. With adrenaline and pure, white-hot rage pumping through me, I drive my shoulder into his gut. A satisfying "ugh" of pain and loss of air exits the patients mouth. I usually have a higher tolerance for the clients negative behavior but this patient is what we call at the hospital a "tourist". A tourist is a client who is melingering or exagerating his disorder in order to be placed in a Mental Hospital rather than a prison. We know it, he knows it, but the psychologists in charge are clueless. So I am mad, I have a kid and a wife waiting for me at home and this punk was trying to stop all of that by ending me.

Now that the chair is out of his hands and falling towards the ground I bring my other hand down to his other leg. With the momentum of my forward running movement and the springing upward of my back I pick him off the ground. Only one place to go now and that's towards the wall. Before the impact I move my head to the left now to make sure the only impact with the wall is his body. This is a good thing as I hear the cabinet walls shatter and sharp, shards of glass spill around me like a tipped bucket of ice hitting the ground. Oh yea I forgot the glass case was there. This startles me as well as the fact that the impact did little to slow my attacker down. He is on his feet and throwing sloppy punches at me now as I am trying to tie him up again with my arms. A few make contact with me but they're too wild and off balance to cause any harm or even faze me.

I am determined now that he is going to the ground. In the back of my mind however I am wondering why the other two staff behind me haven't backed me up yet then I realize that it has only been about a second and a half since this live wire hit me over the head with the chair. This time I catch him off balance put one of my legs in front of him and half trip half throw him to the ground. He falls face forward but when he hits the ground he spins onto his back, as I try to lunge on top of him he kicks me square in the face with his sketcher boots. He caught me good, right on the eye. I lunge forward again and again I am really pissed off now. With each lunge he kicks me in the same spot, over my left eye. I am laughing at myself on the inside I look ridiculous getting hit three time by two different feet on the same eye. On the fourth time I wise up a little and fake a lunge forward doge the two kicks and catch his right leg.

I push his legs over and move to what I think they call a half guard in wrestling. Now he is punching me in the face again, he catches my right eye now pretty well and then catches my chin, another flash of light over my eyes but as soon as I see it I am back. More white hot anger for me to feed on. With one movement I flip him on his back and with every bit of energy pull his struggling arms to the side of his body. At the mental hospital this is what we call a prone restraint. I learned how to do it in training and in the past three months working out here I have become quite good at it.

He doesn't stop squirming he really does fight like he has the devil in him, this feeling is amplified by the non-stop stream of profanity and ferrel like gasps, screams and gnashing of teeth that exits his mouth. Now the other two staff finally jump on his back a legs as I try to maintain his arms. One arm breaks free and tries to claw me through my sweat shirt, then he grabs my right arm and attempts to bite my forearm, I am used to it and can see it coming before he even thinks it. Even more adrenaline flows, with every bit of energy left I pull his arm back down and to the side of his body. It's hard though he feels like he has the strength of three men. There's no way I could even compete with this kid without the aid of my adrenaline and rage.

Even more staff arrive one comes over to me, "Man are you alright your bleeding pretty bad?"

"Ya I'm fine."

"No really your bleeding pretty bad let me take over and you go get some help."

I look down at the back of the patients head and wonder why he would choose his birthday to dump a scalding pot of coffee over another patients head. That's what started this whole incident anyway. He was having his birthday cake and everything and then just decides to dump some boiling coffee on another persons head. Needless to say she is over in the medical wing of the hospital receiving attention.

Happy birthday Saul, Happy birthday to you.

Alaskan Fishing Boat

Rich blues and pure whites smoothly slip past my eyes.

These eyes which are heavy and sleep laden seem like two metallic ball bearings pushing down into my skull, threatening the sponge soaked brain tissue within.

As I lay with my back against the deck of the boat waiting for the net to fill once more with fish. My eyes lazily track patterns the mast makes as it impotently throws wild punches at the sky.

Somewhere in the distance a glorious existence awaits, but for now white capped waves treat my inner ear to a symphony of soothing embryonic motion.

Rich blues and pure whites smoothly slip past my eyes and reflect the joy I feel towards the ocean.

Human Vs. Hunter

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdUT0z_elWI

In this song that I've posted the link to above and in the video bar on the right side of the screen. Brandon Flowers of the Killers poses the question "Are we human? or are we dancer?" (intentionally using a grammatical error as a poetic tool, wherein you can find the meaning).

The question above, like most prose of song, can be interpreted many different ways depending on what "paradigmical glasses" are worn. However, as stated in a recent interview Brandon claims that his inspiration for this line derives from a Hunter S. Thompson quote where Hunter claimed that, "We are raising a generation of dancers".

Implying that we are raising a generation of self absorbed, Britney idolizing, night clubbing, socialite wannabees; instead of people who care about humanity and the purpose of their existence.

This choice of inspiration is both interesting to me as well as ironic. Interesting in the fact that the band, "The Killers", was formed in Las Vegas. Rather apropos don't you think considering that Hunter S. Thompson is most famous for his best selling novel "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas".

Was that intentional on Brandon's part I don't know. But what was intentional was to use Hunter S. Thompson's quote as inspiration. Here is where it becomes Ironic.

The question "are we human or are we dancer?" is beautiful. He states in his song that he is, "on his knees looking for the answer". Are we here for true learning, growth and the betterment of mankind? Or are we simply here to gain self absorbed, worldly, pleasure until our knees give out from following the rest of the puppet like dancers around us.

Great thought no doubt, but Hunter S. Thompson it turns out was a bit of a "Dancer" himself. His style of writing and journalism is known as Gonzo journalism, where the writer becomes so absorbed in what he is reporting, that he becomes a central figure in the story. A little self absorbed don't you think?

On top of this Hunter S. Thompson committed, in what is in my mind, the most self absorbed act anyone can commit. Suicide. It's not just that he committed suicide but he did it while he was on the phone with his wife, child, and grandchild. It is reported by his wife that they could clearly hear the cock of the gun and the ensuing fatal shot through his skull over the phone. Talk about leaving an inheritance of emotional baggage.

Choice of inspiration aside. I love this song and I love the question it is asking us to take. The fact of the matter is we are all self absorbed, and I am sure there were many tragic and difficult crosses that Hunter S. Thompson bore in his life leading up to his tragic mistake.

In closing I will leave you with the note Hunter S. Thompson left the world after his self imposed death. I find it both interesting and devastatingly shallow. His note was entitled, "Football Season is Over" (before you think that's deep, realize that he really did just like football. He was an avid sports gambler")

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

I sit, surrounded now

Belly of a thougt

I sit in the Belly of a thought the smell is rancid and cool.

The Dark veil of sleep begins to envelope me.

The sound of water lapping up and down rocks me slowly to a state of completeness.

Absence of Light

I sit in the absence of light in a state between dreams and thoughts of a new day.

As the water warm and clean breaks off chunks of dirt and sleep;

a pool of anxieties form around me.

Carina

I sit across from earthy tones of a golden brown.

A spark of light breaks through the forest of silken strands of bark.

I stare into a thousand streams of possibilities.

It is dark outside but warm within.

Adam

I sit with a ball of happiness swimming in my lap.

The smell is sweet and new.

Ray's of light reflect off a pool of greens and shades of blue.

I am surrounded now.

Drones

Low drones of machines keep my lonely brain at bay.

Lines created by the road give my eyes a sullen dream to follow and read.

The stale air inside my cabin disguise the passage of time and day.

As the sun slowly kisses the earth, gentle reminders of cities past help my lungs to breath.

Exhale now, good. Exhale the exhaust of salivating specters tracking my every mistake.

Maybe if I can go fast enough and far enough they just might leave.

Breath now they've fallen behind me now; or at least as far as I can see.

Maybe if I can go fast enough and far enough they might just leave.

"My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always contrasted oddly with my pronounced lack of need for direct contact with other human beings and human communities."

-Einstein said it but I've thought it.

Thoughts from A Sacred Grove

I locked my door one too many times and for a second the car horn broke the stained glass vision before me.

I am now tranquilized by the quiet newness the rain creates.

The smell of fresh rain and cold bark seems to penetrate my mind and cleanse the assaulting memory of work the day before.

Somehow this grove is made that much more sacred by the lack of leaves not found on the trees this cold fall day.

Rain always reminds me of the atonement.

As I walk through these naked trees longing for spring, I feel at home. Sometimes it takes time to see time and right now I see time.

My imagination is carried away to thoughts larger than me. Could it have been there where he proved that the, "same yesterday today and forever" isn't just a clever sales gimmick?

As I watch each drop explode into a thousand questions of how, I am filled with a thousand tears of gratitude as to the reasons of why.

I am told it was like a wine press, I am told it was for us all; I was told a lot of things but as I sit on the rain soaked ground feeling is all I need to know.

Even those who don't believe still connect at moments with the King of the king-less and the Father of the lonely and oppressed.

He carried it well. I was there we all were, shouting and crying unabashedly as the painting of truth was found in the brush strokes of each foot as he climbed that hill.

For too long those acidic, electric sirens have torn down mansions built from the cardboard walls of insecurity and broken promises.

Oh to be like these trees strong and clean with the backbone of simplicity, a farm boy saw god.

A farm boy saw god here! I believe.

And I will continue to believe until the first tick of time has been found and the last tock of eternity has been counted.

Faces In the Ceiling

I just saw the ceiling move! That's impossible. I stare at the white, popcorn textured, ceiling in my bedroom that my parents gave my brother and I. I look towards Adam but he's gone for some reason that night.

More movement. It's a face and it's screaming at me. Although I can't hear anything. It looks like a face trying to push itself out of a barell full of black tar while gasping for air at the same time.

Scientist's say only believe what you see, and right now as a seven year old boy I am seeing many, angry, snarling tar faces screaming silently at me from a void unknown in my ceiling.

Cover up! hurry! shut your eyes tight. If you can't see them their anger won't be felt. After all they're silent.

But I can still feel them staring at me, laughing at me as they mouth silently a name I've never heard before but which seems eerily familiar.

O please make it stop... They are morphing now into one great face. Moving and pushing and clawing forward with the urgency of a drowning man swimming toward the surface of a frozen lake.

Now it's K-9 like mouth is opening up it's black tar teeth; I can feel the heat radiating from the evils hungry breath.

Just as a serpentine tongue makes it's way through the cover of darkness to the top of my blanket I hear a voice. "Aaron?"

The beast is startled now and it's darkness is being called back into the ceiling by whatever owner.

"It's Ami"; I think to myself. A wave of relief cools the pools of acid that were forming in my anxiety laden guts.

Just then my door opens and a river of righteous light fills the room melting the wax faces from my ceiling.

"Ami where were you?" I asked angrily. "Well when you fell asleep I went over to Jen's house for like five minutes to say hi".

I could've gone on with my being angry at her but it is never wise to feel contempt towards your only source of salvation. Only adults would do something stupid like that. But when your seven years old and afraid of the dark your grateful for the prayer that was answered by the light of a sisters voice.

I'm sorry I got scared Ami.

It's ok Aaron I still get a little scared when I am by myself.

Good night Ami, I love you.

Good night Aaron I love you too.

Ami could you leave the door open with the bathroom light on...

An Awkward Light

An awkward light shown from the stair well above me.

It told me to sit still and believe what I am told.

But when you're in the cellar all you have is the people above you.

The school teacher professed that I was too bold.

The Drill Sergent said that I had to much dirt on my left shoe.

"I didn't know my enemy was so afraid of cleanliness", I stated.

A round peg in a square hole is more than just a metaphor for me.

It's a way of life.

Still though as I glide quietly across that sun soaked pond from my youth, my memory takes a breath.

I still run to keep myself in shape, but the dream of flying is dead.

Why was flight so appealing to me in the first place? Maybe to me, stillness equaled death.

I watched as my grandfather struggled to get out of the car. Death is the last great mystery he said.

Maybe like my fathers from Norway who came before me all I have to cling on to is that one next paddle.

One can always be reassured that the answer to the question; What's over that next horizon? lies in the shoes you wear on your feet.

Or the wind that is captured by your sails

Or the fuel that is in your jet.

Or the courage one takes in life's next step.