Perfectly Aligned

Happy New Years

Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore

Dear Chad and Tony,

Shame on both of you. I have been reading the growing tension between the chicken and the busblog, and you are both yelling at each other for having your hands in the cookie jar.

First off, Tony Pierce, shame on you. I lost a lot of respect when I read that nasty rebuttal to Chad's need to express his opinion to you. Blogging should never stoop so low as to slam the door in your compatriot's face. I have watched Chad support you through thick and thin, and there are many ways you can disagree with a friend without setting fire to the string that holds you two together.

Secondly, Chad, shame on you. You and I both know that blogging is a selfish addiction. You stopped blogging because you were no longer writing for yourself. Remember that? So to demand that another fellow keyboard slave caters to your whims is well, the most hypocritical statement a blogger could make. Also, look at your archives. The words you bleed now are a different color from those earlier in your life. People change. Priorities shuffle around in our head like a dance marathon. To expect someone to write the same way even though their lives have shifted course is ridiculous.

Time magazine named us the people of the year for what we strive towards. We are changing the world, and even though we light up every part of that Christmas tree we call life, we all have something in common. Writing runs through our veins, whether it is 5 times a day in several places, a few times a week with cute girl, or sporadically with random emotions (hem, me).

Every single one of us has changed. We each have found ourselves wrapped up in some project at certain times in our lives. Mine was the mad scientist, Tony was the laist, chad, you were everything else. However long it takes, we all find ourselves back to why we each pound out these words.

We're writers, no matter what the hell we write about. And the last thing we should do is try to strip that away from each other.


Love, respect, and spell check,

Amazing

Everything was Beautiful and Nothing Hurt

Congratulations, you have faded into the drunken backdrop of college life.

I could not help stammering. A voice from behind the black glasses, red hair, 2 inch plugs and coloring booked body asked for my id. I went and melted down into the outdated furniture and watched the receptionist go up to make copies. Seven months of pregnancy did not seem to affect her.

I turned towards the friend and breathed out heavily. I got a grin in return. An hour passed. Thumbtacks from the entire map had all come here for a permanent decision. Curiosity lit up the waiting room as each hero walked out with their respective bandage.

Another hour passed. The prospective artwork lining the walls seemed repetitively inspected. A large multicolored man lumbered out to us.

-Now what do you want exactly?

Treaties were argued over. Locations designated themselves as fights over size and direction of the territories rang through the air.

-Alright, follow me.

The friend and I headed towards the "step up" sign into a square room. Two retro plastic chairs rested against a wave of mirrors. The needle and ink waved their greetings from the metal tray.

Cold alcohol jolted every molecule as the territory was being prepared. The friend pulled a plastic chair up to the padded bed. I lay down and heard the intimidating buzz of a life decision come to life behind me.

I grabbed the friends hand and felt that chill of impending pain.

-Oh, wow, that's not that bad at all.

So

Darkness behind eyelids calmed my senses. Vonnegut would be proud.


it

My eardrums throbbed with the buzz of the needle. nerves woke up and told my brain that this was not the original pleasant experience.

I clenched my teeth and attempted to cut the circulation from the friend's hand.

goes.

Suddenly, the buzzing stopped as a thousand bees retreated back into the power cord.

Shaking arms propped myself up, I grabbed the hand mirror and spun away from the wall mirror.

-It's the perfect amount of curly.

the weight of the past two hours collapsed. I scared the burly multicolored man with a grin.

On the way home I thought about what I had just added to my body. All of my life I have held every harsh word and worry inside. Only recently have I learned to let things be.

Billy Pilgrim would be proud. So it goes.

Linger On

Upon pondering the string of dominoes between the present and the past, the teacher spoke of an assignment each year where she has her students write a letter to themselves which she will mail to them four seasons later.

While departing towards the rest of academia, she called my name. I turned and saw her holding up a letter.

"This guy killed himself before I got a chance to send it to him."

My jaw hit the floor. With an exhale of slight shock I backed up and accelerated to physics.

Suicide still grasps onto an ounce of me. The ghost of the wild red haired woman has long ago faded back into the old pictures. Yet the ghost of the floor falling out from under me remains.

Did that boy know he was never going to get that letter? Or did he honestly think the future did not curve to a dead end any time soon?

What would have happened if that letter was sent? My teacher still hasn't opened it. The stark simplicity of it's patience scares me. The stamp happily waits to meet its maker.

That letter held that boys hopes for the future. What if he had already planned on ending the seconds? If she had read it, where would they be?


In spite of the freshly citrused poker that rips through your heart valves when that three syllable vibration taps out upon your eardrums, reverence still takes it's seat.

We look at death as an unreachable chasm. Those passed knew something we didn't. Non existence deserves it's respect.


Call me petty, but that boy still has a letter waiting for him.

And I plan to make sure its delivered.

The Great Blink

Dear God,

You and I need to have a little talk. Driving home from amongst the bubble of the west this evening, the subject of church came up.

I honestly don't think its the best idea to let myself be dragged to church when I don't believe in Jesus.

Mom, apparently, does.

The thought of no religion scares the hell out of her. The fact that I am comfortable with no present religion scares her even more. Any faith will work for her as long as I have something to believe in.

Maybe not believing is the best part, though. Without a book to guide me, a pew to pray in, a host to eat, I finally feel free to dwell on my own thoughts.

Another thing. I understand you like dedicated Christians, but the theocratic feeling that seems to be enclosing around me sends lines to my face. Everyone seems to be a whore on Friday, trashed on Saturday, and saddle shoes and prayer books on Sunday.

What scares me about what humans have done with religion is how they have incorporated humanism into it. i may not stand on a cement block of faith, but the beliefs about life that I do carry around with me stay with me. I would do anything for anyone.

Not to say I'm not a hypocrite. The soul typing this words seems to be a walking contradiction even to itself on occasion. However, I care about others, and that's whats important.

Organized religion scares me because humans are in charge of it, and therefore bind it to be flawed. Perhaps by not calling myself a name, I am avoiding holy wars, vengeful editorial columns, and the honest belief that another is inferior according to what they pray to.

I have to thank you for Lovely on that part. He didn't turn me away from Catholicism. Instead, he simply planted a seed of realization that my faith was not the end all.

Without all the humans in the way, I think you are great.

Quite funny how this life works out, isn't it?

blasphemently yours,
Amazing

Anneliese Schmidt

After forcing out a mediocre post, I found myself at Chokey as I usually do these days. He has become more brilliant and more profound, in classic contradiction to the Conrad theory.

He reminded me how much I need to work at this. "anybody can write about something else. writing about yourself without being boring repetitive or pompous is one of the most difficult tasks as a writer."

Some mornings I wake up to the surge of letters running through my veins. Occasionally, calculus and physics books lie gathering dust in the corner as the words in my head commandeer the very essence of my being.


I wonder if I would appreciate the state that an entranced writer falls into if I stayed constantly under it's spell.

The university will not help those surges. The traits which make me a hypocrite will never fade away unless I force myself out of my surroundings.

I don't want to do it. However, I cannot keep on living like this. The useless scraps of life which I constantly worry over will break me down eventually.

Those power surged moments have become sparser over time. My greatest fear is that they will disappear altogether.

I fought with the mad scientist last night in my dreams. I woke up in a furious state of mind. I don't remember ever being so angry at him. I need to keep the space that we have settled on.

The last post with the scholar seems silly to me now. Maybe I am just over thinking it. I don't remember laughing so much as I have recently, however.

My inner Bukowski pines for Saturday with Chokey. I need the echo of a common soul who has also used up countless veins letting the sentences flow outward.

The secret really did unsettle me this afternoon. He made me feel cheap. Sarcasm and I don't always mesh, I am too tuned into emotion to sort out the decoys. Yet again, however, something that I can't quite pinpoint unsettled me. I am not sure if it was how he spoke, or why he spoke.

I guess secrets have a right to live up to their namesakes.

Anemic Letters

The university did not bite.

I can't say part of me didn't crumple. As much as I denied it, some inch of my being thought volunteering and clubs and books would be enough.

Luckily, the looming applications of more northern aspirations moved me along. Boston visions have swirled around of late.

And then, Saturday night, the scholar appeared. Sitting on the dock amongst the orange warmth of the cigar, something worked itself through the brain. Suddenly it was 70 degrees and he knew it as well as I did. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

I stomped home to the wife's abode and told her the story through smokey breath and closed eyes. Lying there on her bed in the sleep deprived hours, I did not think much of it.

I woke up laughing. Monday morning I laughed. and Monday evening I sat down to calculus and realised I had started something that I couldn't control.

Electricity is not supposed to run through me when I see him. I'm paralyzed by the thought of scaring him away, and confused as to what this will all end up as.

The secret asked me about it. He's right, he is old news. But what else would he have expected himself to be? The inconsistent companion does not care for any situation of this type. She has shown solely distaste. Other friends are whispering in the corners.

I think people are surprised because I was with the mad scientist for so long.

Maybe the university wasn't my biggest problem after all.