How rude of me

I have been rude to you dear viewers.

And so I must say to all of the kind ladies, gentlefolk, and adorable woodland critters who follow this blog, I apologize for not stopping in to wish you all a Merry Holiday of your choosing. This apology is particularly aimed at the woodland creatures as they have bears amongst their ranks and I'd very much prefer my new year be mauling free, it is however an equal opportunity apology and can redeemed by any and all of our readership at this very URL.

As for an actual update I'd simply like to inform you all that I am toying with an idea of sorts; gamer as I am much of my free time is spent in front of some sort of illuminated screen. I recently came upon an old game of mine, a truly terrifying game, this idea of mine is to go and record a Let's Play of System Shock 2. I'm fond of this idea, while not fully certain it's something my meager laptop can manage, as this will give you all an opportunity to hear me scream like a little girl and frantically flee from all manner of beasties, particularly the monkeys. Goddamn terrifying monkeys. Of course with my imminent student teaching I'm not sure how far in I'll be able to get into should I manage to get it working at all. But for you my audience, I will see what I can do.

So for all of you, especially the bears,
A Happy New Year
With much love and seasonal cheer,
~Kal

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I'm Home

I got back last night. I considered writing here but damn I was tired. So I just went to bed. I had a great time though, if any of you really care. We spent a lot of time playing Kinect games, especially sports ones, because it was too cold to go outside and play them for real. I was dubious about Kinect because I really, really dislike the Nintendo Wii. And I've played many different games on it - still leaves a bad taste in my mouth and makes me feel dirty. But the Kinect is pretty cool. No controllers at all. And it has a surprisingly good user interface. It reads pretty well and it's just all around better than I was expecting. So that was cool.
The only draw back is now I'm sore from all the flailing. Oh well. I think I'm going to have some new bit of writing to put up kinda soon. We'll see. But right now, a brand new box of Raisin Bran is calling me.

-Michenab

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My Name is Christmas

And I'm going out of town with some friends of mine.
At least this way if I drink it won't be like the other night.
This isn't really much of a post.
I just really wanted to use that title.
I may or may not post while out.
Deal with the fact that you don't know.

I suppose I should clean up before I go. No sense leaving a mess behind.

-Michenab

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I'll be home for Christmas. Or rather I already am.

Do you know how amazing it feels to sleep in a decent bed for the first time in a month? I slept so hard that I am now experiencing a feeling of fatigue, I got 12 hours of sleep tonight, it was freaking wonderful. I should probably stop bragging about my eXtreme sleeping before it upsets my insomniac of my roommate, also my apparent boozehound of a roommate... Henry you do realize that I'm going to be gone like a month right? I didn't expect you to go through that entire bottle before I even landed.

Anyhow the plane ride was unpleasant, but I suppose that's what I get for trying to fly home 3 days before Christmas. I woke up at noon and took a cab to the airport, normally I'd have asked Hank for a ride but he was looking pretty ragged. Supposedly he's hardly slept in days, anyhow I figured it would be best to not put him anywhere near one of the 1.5 ton death machines we call cars in his condition. Got to the airport, checked my bag and stood in line for close to two hours before waiting for my plane to show up. Had a two hour flight to Houston Int Airport where I got to wait for the next flight into Austin. Unfortunately that flight was delayed. Significantly. After an hour and a half the plane finally landed to pick us up and I managed to get home. 40 minutes or so at a busy baggage claim and I was finally on my way home, only took 8 hours and a time change to get back to my place.

Waiting and dead batteries aside it wasn't a terrible trip. And damn does it feel good to be home.
~Kal

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I was going to just put this in a comment but I feel like it deserves its own post.

Thank you so much Kal for the vodka. Although you were right - it is pretty shitty. Started doing shots around three... or something. Or was it later? Either way you'd already gone Kal. I'm not sure how many I did or even how long I was at it for. I do know that I woke up on the floor with a glass in my hand and the smell of alcohol in my nose. Thank god I didn't puke in my sleep. Oh yeah. I slept. Mostly because of the booze but I slept! And no dreams that I remember! Maybe I should just sleep on the floor more often. It seemed pretty comfortable when I woke up. But that's probably because I hadn't moved yet. Motherfuck I've got a hangover like you wouldn't believe. The sound of the typing is like smashing my head into steel wall over and over and over. I don't know how much vodka is left - I haven't found the bottle yet - but I'm considering drinking a bit more so I can fall asleep again and hopefully wake up a little less fucked.
I should probably still go to the store or something. It'd be no good becoming an alcoholic or something just because I can't sleep. I think I've heard of some natural things or whatever that work pretty well..

Christ I hate throwing up. I don't think I've ever felt this much like death. Probably because I don't drink. I'd turn the lights on to help the glare on my eyes from this computer screen but I tried that and I thought for a moment that I might collapse. Not pass out, just collapse. You can bet those lights went back off pretty quick.

I think I'm going to go lay back down on the floor. Maybe I can even find the position my body was in before I moved. That'd be great. It was so comfortable. I've been editing this post as I go. Such a pain in the ass to try to type when you still can't quite see or think straight. I'll find the bottle in the morning. Maybe bury the son of a bitch outside. Fucking vodka. Never touching it again I think. But I got sleep. Damn straight I got sleep. Fucking exciting shit. Back to the carpet for me.

-Michenab

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Silver lining a dining table
Reclining patrons lost in fable
Never wanting
But ever able.


Is it odd that God should be as thus?
I mean, why shouldn't He make a fuss?
Well, p'raps he is,
But we're on the Inquisitor's bus...


Or maybe this is just the universe
Where nothing is true
Except the weight of a purse
And the urchin-boy just needs a toy to ease his ride in the hearse.


Another Karamazov reference. I haven't slept since the 20th. I tried to sleep, but it just wouldn't come. So I spent an hour outside staring up at the moon, until the orange went away. Then I went back in, rubbed warmth back into my face and stared at the darkness until it became morning.
If this keeps up I'm going to the store and getting something to help me sleep. Thank whatever god or gods for the end of semester. I think I was hallucinating for a little while in the dark.


-Michenab

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I've Come to Hate Sleeping

It's true. Not only am I now generally incapable of sleeping, I've begun to dread it. It started with dreams. Or perhaps, I'm simply remembering experiencing more dreams than I am used to. It isn't so much the content of the dreams, but the sheer amount of them. For a few delirious seconds after waking, all I can think of is the overload of fantastical stories that have been playing out in my head through the night. Speaking of waking. That may be the worst part of going to sleep. I know that, no matter how tired I am, I will wake up at most seven hours after laying down. I thought maybe it was the sun. So I covered the window. No change. And I wake up just as tired as I was when I went to sleep. But I think the worst part of waking up in the mornings is tied in with the dreams.


I'll have woken up in the middle of a dream, almost without fail. And then I try to get up. But it's like my dream refuses to let go of me and I'll either a) fall back into the dream, paralyzing while I am still conscious and slipping into the dream state while conscious that I am dreaming (though lacking the control conferred in lucid dreams) or b) manage to get out of my bed but still be held in the grasp of my dreams for up to five minutes or so. And if you haven't experienced such a feeling, let me tell you that having your brain trying to dream while you are trying to walk is extremely disorienting. This is nearly every morning for the last couple weeks.


More recently than that, merely laying in my bed gives me headaches. I don't know if it's the association I've begun to build with sleep, but I can't stand it. If I try to sleep longer in the mornings when I wake up unreasonably early, the headaches come. I tried to take a nap the other day - headache.


This is terrible. But I guess that's my bitch fit for the night.


-Michenab

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Unpleasant Dreams

The problem with dreams is the truth they contain. All the secrets that your subconscious holds, the things you don't want to admit. 

Lately I've been dreaming of my ex, I blame it on my natural inclination for nostalgia and on this feeling of loneliness. Also on the fact that I clearly miss cuddling. Anyhow the story behind the two of us is nice and long and I have no intention of getting into on here but suffice to say we broke up about a year ago. We broke up because she didn't know what she wanted and as result there was some serious strain on the relationship, eventually it led to me reluctantly calling for a change or an end. She ended up picking an end, and well that was pretty painful for me. Something that took too damn long for me to get over. Thing is that for the last year I've avoided admitting the strain was just as much my fault as hers, well maybe not just as much but I certainly contributed to it quite a bit. See, as you may have noticed I'm sorta immature, I'm also rather lazy, complacent, and dull. Turns out that's a bad mix for a relationship. 

Now the universe has my ex toying with the idea of us getting back together again, something I simply can't see working out. I haven't grown enough in the last year to make it work and I'm not sure she has either, and honestly I care too much about her to put either of us through that shit again. That might not make sense to you. I'm not afraid to put myself through it, pain is no stranger to me and its something I can reasonably endure. I'm afraid that if we give this what would now be a third shot I would finally become bitter about the whole deal and end up losing her as a friend, and making her lose me as a friend. And that would hurt her much more than I could stand. And well, maybe despite my feelings for her (and my apparent inability to keep my hands to myself) I just want to go and move on.

So while we might not talk much anymore, while I do plan to say no, I do miss her and I do care for her, and in some form or another I likely always will.

And to any mysterious interfolks out there giving this a read:
Thanks for listening
~Kal

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So That Post I've Been Talking About

This is it.


Woo!


So this next piece of writing began as a dream.

                The sky above was dark, starless, and the moon was hiding behind thick clouds. At midnight, now, the only lumination came from a dim and flickering street lamp a hundred feet away. And so the front door remained in shadows. But that was no matter for William. He was used to these conditions – this scene was normal, mundane, routine. Tonight was just the same as a thousand others, coming home late from work to his empty, dark townhome on this empty, poorly-lit street.

                Pudgy hands fumbled with a keychain, making a faint jingle that could be heard even at the streetlamp that hundred feet away, over the dull hum of the electric generators that lined the sidewalks and the soft whoosh of rank wind carrying the stink of God only knows what – some beggar’s coat or a dead cat or baby. None of which would have been a surprise to this street. William finally got his fingers around the key to his door. He moved toward the lock as a rustling caught his attention. He paused and listened, hearing nothing but his own breath, the streetlamp, and the rusty squeak of an old chain-link fence as the wind raked it back and forth.

                He shook his head and the stuck the key into its lock, having to force the metal inside so that he could jiggle and wriggle the key and hope the tumblers fell into place just one more time, please, for him. Under the embarrassment of his dysfunctional lock, he gave silent thanks for the deep night that shrouded him. The lock finally turned and he stepped inside as he pushed in the door in one fluid movement, the let it slide lazily back to its place. He turned the lock, easy from this side, as if it were a defeated enemy yielding to the greater force of a conquering foe. But both knew that come tomorrow the tumblers would incite revolution and the war would be on again. So much the better, William supposed, shrugging broad shoulders; at least a small battle could be won at home even after all the largest had been lost abroad.

                William stretched and let his heavy, hot coat fall to the floor – he didn’t need it in the warmth of the house and he would be better served to have it ready and waiting there in the morning. He walked to the back door of his home – sliding glass – and checked that it was locked. It was. There was no reason it wouldn’t be, really, but William had learned there was no such thing as too careful. He ran his fingers over the lock to make sure and then unlocked and relocked it for good measure. He leaned a hand and forehead against the glass and looked out into the night, feeling the cool thick glass on his skin. Unending blackness presented itself before him. He felt himself falling into it as he closed his eyes; he could feel himself drawn into bleakness, losing himself and becoming one with the nothingness. His memory conjured up an image of the same backyard with sun shining over spindly trees and great clumps of dead and dying grass all surrounded by an ugly, coarse fence. The illusion broke and his eyes popped open. Sighing, he stepped away, sloughing off his shoes in the process. His briefcase found a not so gentle landing on the kitchen counter as he passed by on his way to the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Climbing them, his breath took on the labored sound of a man decades out of shape despite his only being a couple old himself. He was only halfway up when he remembered his phone, lying dead in his coat pocket by the front door.

                Agitated at his own forgetfulness, he turned back, allowing himself a flare of drama in the act, throwing his hands to the sky, and made his way back past the kitchen and his briefcase, through the living room and past the sliding glass back door. He almost stepped on his coat before he saw it. A moment of fumbling in the darkness later and he had a pocket in his hands. Wrong pocket. A quick flip of the jacket and he had the other pocket. Then the phone was in his hand and the coat back on the carpet; he figured the battery needed replacing – it had died quickly today.

He shivered and for a moment thought nothing of it – then he realized he had been sweating just a moment before. He turned and froze. Even in this grim absence of light, he could see his back door standing ajar, innocently letting the cold breeze in from the yard. His phone fell hard to the floor, making a muffled thump on the carpet, as he bolted toward the stairs, moving faster than he could remember ever having done. Heart racing, skin slick with sweat, he could feel the wrongness that permeated his house. He could smell the intruder in every breath that he took, taste him in every quick flick he made across his upper lip with his tongue. He kept focused on the heavy wooden baseball bat in his closet. His foot hit the first step as two heavy hands came down on his shoulders and yanked him down onto his back. He slammed into the floor, falling fast and sprawling across the tile of his kitchen, his back feeling cemented to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and tripped, succeeding only in introducing the floor to the skin of his face. He pushed himself up and to his knees with his hands, his eyes wide with a terror so complete that now he could think only of nothing.

A glove forced his chin up roughly, bruising the skin. A sharp bite flitted across his throat. He heard a wet gurgling sound. He realized it was coming from him. He prayed for God to wake him up, straining severed vocal chords to make any noise at all beyond the bubbling of air through a sluice of blood. A heavy boot shoved his back, forcing his face yet again to the hard linoleum of the kitchen. His eyes were glassy and his face contorted in a horror so pure, distilled as if from the river of fear itself. His sticky, red life pooled around him, free and chaotic as all sounds around him ceased. The back door was shut and locked again, with only the greasy marks of William’s hand and head to show any man had been there. The smell of loose bowels filled the house, mingling with the crimson copper, as the Tartarean darkness bled away into sunlight.

Birds chirped.

Certainly not the most cheerful thing I've ever written but with a title like "The Death of William" what can you expect.

-Michenab

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Finals Today

I'm so fucked it's almost funny.
Have I mentioned I'm a terrible student?
~Kal

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Update of my Own

I have a thing I wrote down. I still need to edit it but I have neither time nor energy for it at the moment so for now I'm just telling you all (if anyone even reads this) that I recorded a dream of mine and embellished it for the sake of the story.

Kal, how many times must I tell you not to call me Hank... Bah, I'm used to it at this point. The complaining is mostly out of habit now I think. I also think I smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen. My nose and stomach are begging to me investigate so hopefully it's something delicious.

Rambling.. Right, new post from me soon with a dream I wrote down.

-Michenab

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Quick update

A: You haven't heard from Ol' Hank or I because it's getting to be crunch time round here with finals and all, you can likely expect more posts in a week and a half or so.

B: This beard I've been growing for the past two months is finally starting to fill in, and it just so happens to make me look somewhat ironically militant with my awesome khaki jacket. So that's pretty cool, I'll probably end up shaving it soon though, I really look much nicer clean shaven.

C: Still sick but no longer in complete and total misery, I've reattained a reasonably normal sleep pattern.

Thanks for maybe possibly giving a damn

~Kal

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*Sigh*

I'd like to apologize to our dear veiwers, or lack there of, for my unpleasantness in past days. My own discomfort is no excuse to bitch and mope and whine over the internet, I hope you can forgive me.
Also I have a message for my school:

Dear Metro State Administrators and Office Staff,
Please go fuck yourselves, preferably with a rusty snow shovel.

With Love,
Kal Jameson

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Poem and a Dream

I wrote this between classes today:

A calm ripple of voice settles out among a rambunctious crowd.
Youth and elders alike clamor for the attention of someone - or anyone.
As the words nest in the ears of chaos, some semblance of order emerges.
This man is the living God, they say saviour in full, come to take his Holy Chosen!
But he is just a man who knows their hearts and still loves them, somehow.
And perhaps in the end, that is all that they wanted.
Someone, anyone, to look at their dark tragedies -
And embrace them all the more for it.
Pity and mercy they can do without.
But for love...


For pure and accepting Love,
They'd walk Ivan Fyodorovich's quadrillion quadrillions, and without hesitation.
For acceptance, they would take on the suffering of all the world.




If you aren't a fan of Dostoevsky, you might not have caught the reference about the quadrillion quadrillions. Ivan (a character in The Brothers Karamazov) had a theory about a man who walked a quadrillion quadrillion miles to receive the absolution of God and Heaven after he died.

Anyhow. I had an odd dream early this morning. I was a student at Texas A&M University (which is odd because I've never been to Texas, much less that school, but that's what the walls said so whatever) except the halls and everything else looked exactly like my old high school. So perhaps it was just my high school pretending to be a college. Either way, I kept being denied for all the classes I wanted to take. Each professor had a subject-related tryout for the class and only the few best were accepted into the class. In my dream (and mostly in real life as well) I was fully able to pass each test with flying colors and be accepted. However, things kept coming up and getting in the way. For example, for a creative writing class we had to come up with a story. Which I can do pretty regularly and I told myself this in the dream. But before the dissonance of not being able to come up with a story pretty quickly could wake me up, my mom came up to me and made me leave to get something at the store with her. Which is odd because I haven't seen her in a few weeks. So, because I left and was unable to finish the test, I wasn't accepted to the class. It was all very weird. Also, the professor was dressed like a cafeteria worker and actually based his class out of it too.

So that's what I woke with this morning.

-Michenab

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Grr (Subject to mild exaggeration)

I thought I was getting better, I'd barely coughed all day, suddenly it's 5 AM and I'm coughing card hard enough to jettison my precious Halls drops clear out my mouth and across the room.
Jesus Christ when will this fucking end?
~Kal

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Burgers and Gays

*Let me preface this post by stating that I have no ill feelings towards bisexual of homosexual people of either gender, that I believe they should be permitted the same rights including marriage and whatever else as heterosexual couples, and that I have friends (albeit ones I've lost contact with) of the homosexual persuasion.*

Apparently Henry was gone for most of the weekend... I hadn't noticed, it's sorta hard to notice just about anything when you're sleeping 18 hours a day and feeling foggy for the few hours you are awake. Only time I myself went out all weekend was when my dad stopped by. He drops in on occasion when his job brings him this way, we'll end up going skiing or something on weekends but as I've been ill it wasn't a good week for that, which was really too bad, I like skiing. Instead we ended up going down to see the Parade of Lights at the 16th street mall as was his request and went to grab a burger. The parade was as you would expect, loud, christmasy, filled with people; and as it was a winter parade in Denver (read: someplace cold) it was sadly lacking in scantily clad women. It also blocked off a large chunk of the mall area so we had to seek out a place other than Pat's cheese steak bar to eat.

Yes, Denver has authentic Philly Cheese Steak places... it's like the best thing ever.

Anyhow, we wind up at this place called Burger Mary's. Now Burger Mary's is a sort of place that is hard to accurately describe, but we walked in looking for a bite to to eat and came to discover it was a bar/restaurant  deal and it was blaring what I think may have been some Beyonce or Rhianna song simply because there were accompanying music videos on the television and I know of no other blackish pop singers. Anyhow this particular detail isn't so important beyond a possible warning sign. Second thing I noticed was the abundance of gay couples, they made up something like 60% of the store's customers. And then I looked at the menu and realized that I could not with good conscience read off any off the items. Our waiter walked up, he was in tight fitting black clothes, one diamond studded ear, and with a lisp and a flourish asked me what I'd like to drink. Sprite I said as I'm not so keen on alcohol, to which he replied "Oh good for you." I can only imagine from the waiters actions that he saw my dad as some sort of male cougar... weird stuff right there.

Now as I said in my little disclaimer at the top of the page I has no ill will against gays folks or bisexuals or anything like that. The way I figure it is I never consciously decided to heterosexual so how can I rightly judge another person for their sexual preference? My issue... well not even issue, my question is why do so many homosexual men feel the need to intentionally alter their behavior and speech to broadcast that they are indeed gay? The little flourishes, and diamond studs, and sudden lisps from people who didn't possess them prior, the clothing that clings so tight or is emblazoned with rainbows and all other such manner of stereotypical gay garbage. This is what I don't understand, changing your behavior and style and speech and mannerisms is not pride in who you are as a gay man, it's a loud shrill cry of "oh oh look at me, I like men and everyone must know it!" Pride in yourself, gay or straight, is acting how you want, dressing how you want, moving how you want and not putting on a damn show for anyone but yourself. I'm not trying to bash gay culture here, I simply don't understand the seemingly strict adherence to the style and mannerisms when so much of the time it's so obviously a show. But whatever, it's not so important in the long run, I simply can't stand this sheeple thing that people do, maybe I'm just weird. The thing I'm most proud of in high school is not bending for popularity, not giving a damn who was cool or what was in. Being fine with climbing up and walking on handrails for no reason other than my amusement, the things I still do today. 

Anyhow Main Point: People. Don't fold to your stereotypes, stand proud as the individual you are. If you like the diamond earring, male or female, gay or straight, then get it and don't let anyone give you shit for it.

Myself? I'm a goof dressed in collared shirts and a pseudo-military jacket wandering the streets of Denver singing Goth Rock along with my iPod as I jump off of thing I don't belong on. I race buses down the mall in my favorite purple shirt and the jeans I wear regardless of the weather. If I had any money I'd likely by myself some nice vests and a pocket watch because they are so damn dapper.

Anyhow. Goodnight.
~Kal


P.S. Oh yes, in case you are into such things, Burger Mary's has a Drag Queen Tuesday thing apparently.

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I had planned to be a bit more busy as far as posting here, especially in the very beginning (strong start and whatnot), but my life became suddenly busy this weekend (apart from school). A couple friends of mine who opted not to go to college this semester came and visited and I've been spending the days with them (sorry for the neglect Kal) and then coming home late and doing homework until I felt like I might simply pass out. But they're gone now and the weekend is over anyhow. But it was a fun-filled two days of movie theatres (and yes I will always spell the word like that) and restaurants and just walking around the area seeing what we can find to do.

Anyhow, seeing as my life is likely not going to be so packed with activity in the near future (except maybe during the Christmas-y time and stuff), I should be able to get some more writing done and posted up in my free time.

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Science! Wait no... Magic!

To our likely nonexistent viewers, should you really truly exist, head over to my buddy Damien's blog for posts with actual content. He writes about magic and music and all sorts of interesting stuff that you won't find over here, anyhow yeah, give him a look at Vox 93. It'll be fun, you know you want to.
~ Kal

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Ugh.

It's been a rough week. I've barely slept. And, I know it isn't his fault, but Kal's coughing all night long doesn't help. Maybe if I get sick though I can pass out or something. The good news is, the lack of sleep has given me tons of time to work on school and to write whatever I want. So I suppose I'll share some of that with you now. The recreational writing, that is.

Soft whispers into an eager ear, hoping for more than sweet nothings, bring a moment of overwhelming joy as a promise is confirmed that was once merely unspoken and uncertain. Nipping lips send ripples ecstasy down a trembling body. Sensing impending fulfillment, that body turns, expecting the embrace of a lover, but falls into the arms of ashes. The body of Love sits wasted in the ruins of what never was and frail hands cover the face of Fantasy, hoping to stop the sting of tears that are, ultimately, inevitable and inexorable. The ash turns to sooty mud as the tears stream ever more and more down the face of Mourning, washing away the memories of lies as the morning light falls into the empty twilight of broken promises. It was all sweet nothings after all.
The ash swept away, leaving only stained and hard and cold granite beneath, the body of Hope rises with the moon and looks beneath the stars. There is no longer room in the mind of Reality to consider the sky. Eyes follow the ground, a trail to mundanity. Disgusted, but broken, feet begin to walk.

Cheery, no? Inspired by a weird commercial that I can't even remember the details of anymore. All I know is there was a hill in the background. I know it wasn't very long, but when something ends, it ends, y'know? There's more I could share, but Kal is sleeping and I feel very much like a nap is coming on right now. I have to take advantage of these when I can.


-Michenab

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Illness Report

So yeah remember yesterday when I said I'd go on a whole big spiel about who I am and whatnot? Yeah... that's not happening. Ya see I've been awake for all of I dunno maybe 8 hours since I wrote that, and honestly because I really hate doing that kind of thing. I'm far too paradoxical and admittedly hypocritical to really define in anything less than a 30 page dissertation, and fuck that noise. No way I'm typing up 30 pages so some folks on the internet can get me when I often times can't even get myself.

Ugg, I really really hate being sick though. Did I mention that? Hell, I'm not even all that fond of sleeping yet this damn cough and fever has had me out cold like all day, seriously I cannot even remember where this bag of cough drops came from. I think Henry may have thrown them at me last night, but that could easily have just been a dream.

Anyhow, yeah sorry, maybe some other time... I'm gonna go back to sleep now.
~Kal

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I hate being sick.

I really don't normally get sick, possibly because I self-immunize by exposing myself to sick people. Possibly because I just have a strong Immune system, but regardless of the reasoning I tend to stay rather healthy, so I'm really really miserable when I'm sick. There is really nothing like hacking up a lung when you try to go to sleep, nothing like the feeling of your throat constricting with every swallow of food or spit. Anyhow thats all I wanted to say for now, I'll be back later to post an actual introduction dealie after grabbing an Orange Juice and yelling at my school administrators until they get it through their thick skulls that I'm already insured and will not be paying the $665 for their mandatory health insurance bullshit. And you know, dealing with this school's Goddamn bureaucracy is much less fun than being sick.
~ Kal

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He Would

That's pretty much Kal for you. Wandering into places he doesn't belong, showing people up. I suppose I could kick him out (I could kick him out of this apartment too because I pretty much pay the rent and maybe he should remember that), but this little piece of Internet property could probably use a little devil worship every now and again. Yeah, you're never living that down Kal, even if it was only just the one concert. Especially when you want to student teach. Good god that's way too funny. I can see it now: Kal earning the trust of scores of small children and then turning them into miniature legions of hell. His empire will start with a school and end with the world! And, being the best friend (or something), I'll get first dibs on all the action so my journalism career will really take off. Perhaps that's not such a bad idea.


But in all seriousness, Kal's not a bad guy. Sure, he may need  to have labels on the food in the fridge to know what's his and what isn't, but hey. At least he isn't plotting to kill me in my sleep. I've known people like that. My youngest sister, for instance. A nice girl overall, but don't dare piss her off and try to sleep in the same house. I woke up with water being poured on my face in the middle of the night once.


Right. Anyhow, I wrote this last night while I was failing at sleeping:

                The wind snaked its way around and through the trees, bringing with it the smell of air kissed by the plains and dosed with the barest touch of pale sunlight. The badger rose to greet the wind and drink in the fragrance that signaled the changing seasons. Birds and squirrels and cats all mimicked him. The time to stockpile and share had come. The trees were alive with hurried activity, though to the unpracticed eye the woods looked and sounded much as they ever did. But should more attention be paid, soon rabbits would be seen fleshing out and widening burrows, chipmunks hiding food and the trees swaying in graceful preparation to doff their leaves. But the single Hound stood still, a sad look on his old face. He knew what that wind really meant. He had tasted the hidden scent upon it.

                Somewhere, beyond the peaceful trees and across the plains, the Hunters were getting ready, and Loggers and the Trappers. The smell of Man was unmistakable. And Man getting set to march released a scent so acrid – but too subtle from so far for those who do not know it to catch it. Tongue lolling slightly in the fading remnants of summer’s heat, the Hound looked all around him, that he might remember these woods as they were now. For he knew what they would become. Rows of stumps, surrounded by short grass. Black patches of char. Rotting bodies and great fire pits. And eventually, freshly tilled rows of the softest dirt, with pretty little houses to keep the Men away from nature. The Hound had seen this all before, over and over. Man was inexorable. Is inexorable, he corrected himself. The Hound took his last glances of those trees and those animals that called these woods home. And then he left, silently, without even a grunt of warning. Let them have their last days of peace, he thought. No amount of preparation could stop the inevitable at this point. The Hound mourned for weeks.

                And he found another home. He settled in. He let himself forget, and he made friends. He established a routine. And one day, as those around him readied themselves for autumn, a foul taste came to him on the wind. Faint, but meaning only death. Only loss. The Hound’s grief returned to him as he drank in his last glances of this place, still so new to him for all that he’d spent the better part of a year there. He left, wondering if he was ever missed at the end. Then he thought that if he was, he was surely only counted one among many who had perished or been forced to flee. Just another casualty. And, he thought, perhaps he was that.

                He wandered long before he found another place to rest. Another place to name home. He realized that each new haven was slowly decreasing in size. Becoming less trusting, less inviting. More wild, more vicious. He wondered what there was that man could not ruin. The Hound shook off the thought and adapted himself to this new place, just as he had with all those before. He made himself fit in. And he let himself forget again, for a time, the endless march of Man. But the smell, that haunting and taunting smell, came once more. Did they never rest? Did they always move, at every summer’s end? But the smell did not spark recognition immediately in the Hound. At first he could only wonder at the oddness of its bitter quality in this remote wood. And memory came back in a rush as tears came to the Hound. He fought them back as a careless rodent let a rock fall from the dark canopy down to the ground. Man loomed, terrifying, in the Hound’s mind.

                Without even a parting glance the Hound fled, eager to put as much distance between himself and Man’s frontier. He was so tired of this never-ending chase, but he could do naught else but flee. What simple Hound could withstand the legions of Man, that faceless and formless beast? The Hound ran for years, stopping in the ever wilder havens that he could find, resting and relaxing. Fitting in, molding himself to the place around him. And each autumn, smelling the foul scent on the air that betrayed the march of man, the Hound would flee once more. But each time, the memories came back slower. The urgency of his flight grew less and less with each passing year. So it came to pass that one day the Hound did not remember at all.

                He wrestled with a fox, playfully and happily breathing in the fresh air, the sweet air, as others around him gathered food to hide away and strengthened homes against the coming weather. A wisp of smoke floated in the sky. The Hound did not see it. He did not smell it. Not until it was too late. The scent of flames burst upon the woods and the shouts of Men and the hard, sharp report of their axes thrust themselves onto and into the trees. The animals, confused and panicked, did nothing. They merely stood and listened, watching for anything, questing for some signal. And then the first Man appeared before them, tall and grand and new. The Hound felt none of his old fear, his well-earned terror of this figure. He only possessed the instinctual fear of noise and flame, of the presence of a potential hunter. More Men appeared. Gunshots rang out. The exodus and slaughter began in earnest. Deer and bears fell in vast numbers. However valiantly they fought, the bullets of Man were no trifling pain. The Hound knew not what to do until one of the Men approached him. Seeing the destruction all around, he bared his teeth at the Man. He snarled and growled and did his best to look scary. But the Man was unconcerned. He hefted his axe with both hands and brought it up, high above his head. As the Hound leaped in attack, the axe fell and caught the Hound across the top of his head, driving him into the dirt.

                Blood spilled from the Hound as the Man moved on, bringing his axe to bear on any other threat. The Hound died slowly, in agony, as he remembered all that he had forgotten in the years past. The cruelty of man. The baseness of their march. With a bitter mental laugh, for he had not the strength to truly manifest it, the Hound cursed his own complacency, his own willingness to leave his past behind. His desire to forget. He died, broken in all ways and finally defeated, able to flee no longer. He was not remembered, as Man was. He was left to become dust. He was nothing.

I know, I know. It's a bit of an anvil. It could definitely use some work, but that's what you get from insomniac writing.

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Mwahahahahaha

Before I go and explain how exactly I have managed to go and hijack this blog from my roommate (Worry not dear readers, for I am a kind and benevolent overlord... mostly anyhow.) I would like to tell you all about my wonderful Thanksgiving break.

I got the opportunity to head back to Austin for the break to have Turkey Day with my family, while I was there though I ended up spending a fair chunk of my time with this old friend of mine from High School. Dude's name is Damien, and he's one of my best friends these days, anywho Damien is basically the guy who singlehandedly got me into music (not that that's terribly relevant to this story). In all honesty most would consider him a pretty strange guy, he's into tomes on magic and occultism and such, but he's a great resource on any number of subjects and makes for great company. So while I was down for my visit he hauled me off to this black metal concert, which is coincidentally the first kind of music he tried to get me into.

Now I'm not the sort these bands attract as I am very certainly not a metalhead, and the last concert I went to was a Weird Al concert when I was like 12 (Don't judge me Internet, I know what sort of things you're into.) so imagine my surprise when I throughly enjoyed myself. It all started off pretty dull, the first three bands were shit, Damien leaned up against a support beam looking bored in his ripped band shirt, black jeans, and skull crushing boots, I on the other hand stood there slowly head bobbing and hoping that the concert would end in my casual everyday clothes looking extremely out of place. But then... oh but then GoatWhore took the stage, and god were they awesome.The music was hard and fast and powerful, and they fucking knew it, a wild mosh pit appeared and wanted to fight, so idiotically we two scrawny little bastards jumped into the pit before our brains could point out what a horrendously terrible idea this was.

Now I have never gotten into an actual fight before but i was a god in that chaotic mass of violence and bodies, Damien and I were at a severe disadvantage as everyone else was roughly twice our size, me being 140 and Damien slightly smaller just to give you all a mental image.We kicked ass, not relative ass but actual full blown ass, I sent the biggest fuck in the mosh down with a series of well timed shoves, Damien and I never fell. And when I felt content with my display of superiority and some asshole tried to shove me back into the pit, I grabbed that bastard and hurled him into the fray, and then made sure he didn't escape nearly as hastily as he would have preferred.

And then when GoatWhore finished their piece it was time for the main attraction... Watain.Setting the stage took what felt to be an hour of grim anticipation, there was an alter, and banners, and great candelabras adorned with the rotting skulls of animals. A stench of death passed over the crowd like a wave and I was forced to breathe through my mouth to prevent vomiting. And then the band... the band strode onto the stage. The band so covered in blood and filth and shit and sweat, in tattered rags, they stank worse than the rotting flesh. I held back vomit a second time and started to headbang to the music, knowing nothing else I could do, just headbanging and staring up at the vocalist more ragged and filthy than any of his fellows... he danced about the platform like some kind of goblin on trollkin of a man. And as the blood and shit rained from the band I could do nothing at all but stare up at the vocalist as if he were some shit stained god. I could simply stare in horrified fascination.

When the concert ended we went to IHOP, bloody, stinking of death, exhausted from exertion, and flowing with adrenaline. As we ate a small girl approached our table and spied the blood caked on Damien's arm, she fled behind me blissfully unaware that I too had blood contracting my flesh.The night ended as any good night should, with Damien whining holding down blueberry vomit and zombie killing sprees via PS3. It was my greatest night in recent days.

As for this blog however, I came home from my delayed flight and adventures back home to find it open and logged in. It seems in my absence that Mr. Michael Henry Abner AKA Henry AKA Hank AKA this roommate of mine set it up for some reason more trivial than my own amusement, and it seems that he was foolish enough to leave it up for my vandalization. But of course kind man as I am, I decided that rather than defacing it with forged admissions of homosexuality and various other means of malicious tomfoolery I should invite myself as an author onto his blog.

It seems now that I failed to introduce myself so much earlier on, so hello dear readers and the internet full, I'm Kalvin Jameson but you can call me Kal. I'll see you folks around.

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So I Say Hello, Right?

I suppose that's how these things work on the first post. I say hello and introduce myself to the Internet. I guess I can do a little bit of that. The name is Michael Henry Abner (hence, Michenab - creative right?) and I am  majoring in journalism at Metro State University of Denver. I go by Henry. The break for Thanksgiving has just ended which means classes are starting back up soon. And of course I'm still procrastinating by writing on this blog instead of finishing my work. Sometimes I swear I don't know how I get everything done. But enough whining about problems I cause. For now.

So why create a blog? That's usually what I wonder when I stumble across one: why did this person make it? So I figure I'll answer that question straight out in the first post. Y'see, I like to write. But not everything I write is applicable to my classes and some of it is just too good (in my opinion) to let it rot in some dusty notebook or rarely used computer drive. So I figure, why not let it out to the public, right? And maybe I'll get the motivation I need to publish myself. Who knows. But for now, I'll say this:

tl;dr I'm Michenab and I like to write so this is where I'm going to foist myself upon the Internet.

-Michenab

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