The Highlight of my Week

Srsly.

Look at this tangle of thorns.

Lightning Across Lake Harriet

I Am Not On a Team

I have been so stressful lately, putting my life into boxes.

I am no longer a NE homie. I have moved to my mother's house by Lake Harriet. So now I get to take my life out of boxes and into a beautiful new house by a beautiful lake.

Transition.

Nina's Cafe. In St. Paul. I'm drinking Chai. It is too nutty. I keep seeing postcards for BASSGASM 2. Are Nina's regulars Dubstep fans? Maybe I should get a sandwich. I won't though. I'll just think about it. My Chai is too nutty.

Transition.

I love Dr. McNinja. I used to think it was the most badass thing on the internets.

I was wrong.

I mean, he's a doctor, AND A NINJA! What's more BA than that?
Answer: AXECOP

I can only dream of the day when something I write is this awesome. And/or when I'm on an awesome crime-fighting team.

Transition.

Nina's Cafe. In St. Paul. What's left of my Chai is cold. I don't really care. It was too nutty anyway. There is a woman with lots of tattoos. There is a man listening to music and reading Shonen Jump. There is a woman wearing a t-shirt that says "St. Paul is the new Minneapolis". I don't know how I feel about that statement, but she is beautiful. Hey old man reading the New York Times. How are you doing? I like your beard. It makes you look like a grizzled sailor.

13 Words: Taarradhin

So, I wrote this ten minutes ago, then got a snack, played two rounds of Robot Unicorn Attack, and went to the bathroom. Upon my return I have no idea what is going on, or how it applies to the word. But it's kinda neat and I dunno what I would write for this word besides. Something about chess maybe? Regardless, ten minutes ago I thought this was meaningful. I think it's me having a conversation with my younger self. The Taarradhin seems to be "There are children in the moon" so make of that what you will.

Taarradhin (Arabic): a way of resolving a problem without anyone losing face

A tugging on my sleeve. I look down to see wide eyes (teary) asking me about the stars. They ask me about Martians, about clouds, about the man in the moon.


These eyes want to see the whole world as a blue dot.


I can’t show them that world. I can show them oceans, I can show them skies, I can show them earth- not the entire little planet.


But would you look at the moon? There are children in the moon.


But would you look into space? There are galaxies in space.


Don’t tell me there is no center. There are children in the moon.

13 Words: Ilunga

I saw Inception again. Sooooo good. Like Teen Girl Squad.

Anywho, don't tell Sheryl Crow what I'm about to do.

Ilunga (Tshiluba, Congo): a person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time

Lights up on a small coffee table in SISTER’S kitchen. SISTER and BROTHER sit on either side drinking coffee. She is drinking coffee, he is drinking tea. BROTHER is on his cell phone, ending a call. He hangs up and puts the phone on the table. He is distressed, but trying to hide it. He takes a sip of tea and acts nonchalant. SISTER isn’t having it.

SISTER: What’s up?

BROTHER: Nothing. She… No. Nothing.

He puts his tea back on the table and spits out a sigh

BROTHER: Her dog died.

SISTER: What?

BROTHER: Her dog, the fucking- Her dog died. It’s been sick, apparently. God damn it.

SISTER: God damn it…

BROTHER: God damn it! Every fucking time.

SISTER: Hey…

She reaches across the table and grasps his hand, giving it a loving squeeze

SISTER: That sucks. What-

BROTHER: What am I supposed to do? “Oh yeah, that sucks but I don’t want to talk to you”… She doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, what am I supposed to do? Dumb.

SISTER: Hey, you’re a good man.

BROTHER: Whatever. I’m working up some good fucking karma is all I’m saying.

SISTER: You’re a good man.

BROTHER: What am I supposed to do? Every time. “Oh, talk to me I just had sex with my boyfriend and feel bad about. Oh feel bad for me this guy is getting kicked out of his house love me. Oh my dog died I need your shoulder.” I’ve had it. I’ve fucking had it with her shit.

SISTER: You can’t let her get to you.

BROTHER: Come on, you know it’s not that easy. Christ. We’re gonna be eighty years old she’s gonna call me all like, “Oh, I can’t sleep because of life talk to me”

SISTER: You’re going to have to put your foot down eventually. She can’t have this power over you. She just calls you- You hear her voice and just shut down. That’s not okay. You are your own person, you have your own life, you can’t deal with hers every time she has a little breakdown.

BROTHER: It’s not even a breakdown… It’s… I don’t know. God damn it.

SISTER: God damn it.

BROTHER: God damn it.

The scene continues. It doesn’t matter too much what happens next, the two characters are just projections of my thoughts, helping me to sort through ideas that are keeping me from sleeping and they’ve done their job. The audience becomes slightly uncomfortable with the public catharsis that has just taken place, but hopefully find solace in the fact that they see something in the situation that can apply to their own life. Suddenly the character’s conflict (as well as mine) takes a back seat as the question is raised:

BROTHER: If I write a story that is just for me, and don’t let anyone else read it, does it make it less legitimate?

SISTER: I don’t follow you.

BROTHER: If I make art just for me as a form of catharsis, is it selfish if I don’t let anyone else see it?

SISTER: No. That’s ridiculous.

BROTHER: But if I share it... It becomes something more. It means more.

SISTER: I don’t think so. I see no difference, besides public catharsis running the risk of offending someone close to you.

BROTHER: But if I don’t share it, it’s just a journal. A diary, my own private whatever. The second another pair of eyes sees the piece it becomes art.

SISTER: Huh. I see what you’re saying, I will respectfully disagree, but I see what you’re saying.

BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.

SISTER: What?

BROTHER: Nothing.

SISTER: No, I didn’t hear you, what did you say?

BROTHER: Don’t worry about it.

SISTER: God damn it. I hate when you do that.

BROTHER: Do what?

SISTER: Mumble something I can’t hear and then be like, “Don’t worry about it” It’s obnoxious, I want to hear what you have to say.

BROTHER: I said, Emily Dickenson.

SISTER: What?

BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.

SISTER: No, I heard you this time. I don’t understand.

BROTHER: See? I told you. Nothing.

SISTER: I want to hear what you have to say, but it doesn’t matter if I don’t understand the context in which you’re saying it. Then it’s just your own thoughts kind of randomly falling out.

BROTHER: I think it’s interesting.

SISTER: I don’t.

BROTHER: It’s art.

SISTER: No, I’m just watching you process thoughts. It doesn’t apply to me. I don’t have context.

BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.

SISTER crosses her arms and glares at BROTHER. BROTHER sips his tea and stares back

BROTHER: What’s up?

SISTER: God damn it.

Tell Me What You Know About Dreams, Dreams

I'm sitting in a coffee shop by Hamline, (Ginko) drinking my hot Chai and people watching (creepin). It's a little too sweet than I usually like, but it's better than the Chai at Caribou. My favorite is the one from Dunn Brothers, but I can never find a Dunn Brothers when I need one. When I set out to find one I always get lost or can't find it or whatever. I can only get to one as an afterthought, like "I'm gonna go to a coffee shop" then a Dunn Brothers just appears magically, like out of the mystical coffee mists. Is this something that other people have trouble with, or is that just me?

Anywho, Inception is the greatest thing that ever happened to the world. I'm just gonna go ahead and say that right now.

Tell me what you know about night terrors

Nothin.

13 Words: Waldeinsamkeit

I stumbled upon this.

As I am struggles with stories recently any prompt is welcome. I thought, wouldn't it be fun to write on each of these? Let's play.

Waldeinsamkeit (German): The feeling of being alone in the woods

The girl looked bored. The lethargic rhythm of her stroll gave the impression of someone resigned to a less than ordinary life and when she smiled at the small child tugging at his mother’s hair, her face was lit by a longing usually reserved for newborn birds staring at the sky. The child yelped and buried his face in the mother’s neck, embarrassed and flirtatious the way only two year olds can manage. The girl lowered her gaze, the mole on her upper lip twitching and pulling her good-natured smile into a sassy smirk into a somber curl. She continued walking and shuffling her feet against the ground. Grey Chuck Taylors tattooed with pen doodles touched the floor as sleepy brushstrokes. From across the room I could just make out the word, “ABIDE”, scribbled on her heel.

I imagine myself talking to her, teasing out giggles and joy from her stoic gaze with snap crackle pop wit. Wooing her is easy when I speak as well as I can dream. Through coffee dates and walks through art museums, picnics and electric hand holding, I could turn her ache for flight to mischievous grins of a woman with a satisfying life.

But who am I to dictate fate? After all, my fantasy is not to ease her loneliness but to sooth my sensitive ears.

The symphony of falling trees becomes deafening. The shock of fingertips would be a welcome respite.

Consider My Thoughts Provoked

Read these:

lose/lose

Prince of Persia

Who wants to be a Game designer now?
*raises hand*

BAM.

Summer Reading: It's a Depressing World, Gentlemen!

So I've woken up after sleeping for like, two hours and can't fall back into the sweet arms of slumber. And so I started Stumbling. And I found this picture:


This is distressing on multiple levels for me. Let me share my sleep deprived thoughts with you.

First of all, there is the assumption being made by this young woman's shirt, that the Twilight Saga isn't good literature. Which begs the question, what is good literature? And if we take the next step after that, what is "good" and how do we evaluate art? And what is art?

So maybe that last one is a step too far. I'm too sleepy for this I think.

Anywho, the second thing that stung me after stumbling upon this photo is as follows: The reason I was on my computer instead of reading like a normal person is that the book I'm reading isn't holding my attention. What is this book you ask? The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

Yeah. I'm a bad scholar. I would rather be reading about Edward and friends than Alyosha and the brothers K.

Dumb.

Dostoyevsky's novel is considered by many to be the greatest novel of all time. The man himself is often referred to as the world's greatest novelist. To which I reply: SNORE. Perhaps I just have my hands on an inferior translation, or perhaps haven't gotten to the "good" stuff yet, but this novel just reads like emo Charles Dickens. And I don't like Dickens very much at all. It begins:

"Alexey Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Karamasoz, a landowner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us because of his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place."

I repeat: SNORE.

I have been running around calling myself a lover of Russian literature because of Vladimir Nabokov's heartbreaking and gorgeous novel Lolita. I also recently dove into a few of Gogol's short stories and had a Hell of a good time. Now I have to specify and be all like, "I really enjoy the works of Nabokov and Gogol, but find Dostoyevsky to be long winded and too full of thick prose," and sound even more pretentious than I already do.

But come on. "And still remembered among us because of his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place." Just gonna be real, I already don't care. Is it any better than the opening line of Stephenie Meyer's magnum opus, "My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down"?

My point here is that neither of them can compare to this, which I consider to be the greatest opening line of anything in the history of forever: "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta." Nabokov wins literature.

And yeah, it's dumb to just compare the opening lines of novels to distinguish how "good" their prose is but I'm too tired to fish through books looking for quotes.

Listen, perhaps this is a modern thing, but the two biggest (and best) pieces of advice given out to writers are "write what you know" and "show don't tell" A short bio of Dostoyevsky will reveal that the first one isn't much of a problem for him. But the entire first section of this novel is him saying "this character is like this and was like that and this character doesn't like this because he is that" and then he throws them all into a church and they argue about God.

Cool story bro.

Compare this to Twilight. Regardless of Meyer's intent, the character of Bella tells us upfront she is plain and not attractive, but then all the boys at her new school want on her and all these mystical creatures want a piece of that Bella action. As critical readers we infer from this that she is unreliable as a narrator, self absorbed, and is actually a relatable and accurate depiction of the teenage angst "woe is me when nothing is actually wrong with my life" mindset. Meyer shows us her character traits through action and dialogue. She doesn't tell us, "Bella thinks she's ugly, but really she is smokin hot and also is kinda selfish and misled because she's been pampered by her mother her whole life and lacked positive male role models" The author is making us think.

For me, this offers a more enjoyable and engaging reading experience than, "First of all, I must explain that this young man Alexey, or Alyosha as we fondly call him, was not a fanatic and in my opinion, at least, was not even a mystic... He was simply a lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was because at that time it struck him as the ideal escape for his soul struggling from the worldly wickedness to the light of love" I don't have to work for this info and I am not as engaged.

In conclusion, Stephenie Meyer is a better novelist than Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

Just kidding.

But for real. I'm not gonna lie to you. When I read Twilight I was more engaged and had more fun than now when I'm trudging my way through Dostoyevsky's masterpiece. Does that mean I'm not a "good" judge of literature and am immature? I don't think so. Does that mean Twilight is "better" than The Brothers Karamazov? Hell no. Does that mean we throw around phrases like "good literature/art" and "bad literature/art" without evaluating what the purpose of art is in the first place or taking personal taste and subjectivity into account? I'm gonna go ahead and say yeah.

And Hell, I'm gonna keep reading this book and maybe in a few weeks or whenever I finish I'll post something about how I take it all back and Dostoyevsky is actually brilliant and better than Meyer and sparkly vamps are stupid.

Whatever.

I gotta go bed now.

Overkill is Underrated

I went and saw the A-Team movie with two thirds of my family. The EPM (explosions per minute) was incredible. At one point, Patrick Wilson yells at the screen, "WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!" and I liked it because that was how I felt. But in the best possible way.

God I love Liam Neeson.

Also quick aside just for you little sister, Jon Hamm makes a cameo appearance at the end of the movie as a CIA guy. We gotta watch the rest of that show...

In a totally unrelated story I started running in the morning. And by morning I mean early afternoon when I wake up. And by started running I mean I did it twice this past week.

Baby steps.
I'm a get so fit.

ps check it:



I am now officially a Pokemon master. And it feels good.

Champion vs Master

I've been playing a lot of Pokemon recently.

The story goes like this:
I got sick, and bored and depressed and wanted something to do. So I fired up the Game Boy emulator on my computer and started a new game of Fire Red. It was fun and fine, of course as always happens when I play the game I got oddly attached to my team of Pokemon. Of course since I was literally just sitting around by myself those little guys were my only companions as I rested away the mononucleosis.
Raised with love.

I started with Squirtle and named him Leonardo, after the Ninja Turtle because as we all know Leonardo leads and this guy was going to be the figurehead of my team. As time progressed however, that role slowly got taken up by the much more versatile Nidoking.

The next Pokemon I collected was Weedle, quickly raising it to a Beedrill. This was a throwback to my old team from the original Red version when I Missingno/Rare Candy'd my Beedrill up to level 100 and beat the entire Elite Four with just him. I wanted to relive the glory days. In Fire Red though, Beedrill doesn't learn Pin Missile? WTF. Anyways, nicknamed Hank Pym as a tribute to Yellowjacket my Beedrill was nice, but it never really lived up to my hopes and memories.

The third Pokemon on my list was of course the male Nidoran. I called him Elvis, for he truly was the king, and waited until Leonardo evolved into Blastoise to give him the Moon Stone. I had forgotten the raw power of Nidoking, but he quickly took his rightful place as my favorite.

After hijinks involving an Ekans and about twenty minutes trying to get back into Mt. Moon to try and get a Clefairy (which didn't work BTW), I obtained an Abra outside of Bill's house. Our relationship never reached its full potential though. As a Kadabra the Pokemon was powerful, but something was just off. Perhaps I never took him seriously enough. After all, I named him Uri as a joke. Uri Gellar was the magician that tried to sue Nintendo for Kadabra because apparently bending spoons was his thing. This just set us onto an awkward path and we could never get ahold of true intimacy.

Another of my favorite Pokemon is Haunter. The first episode of the show I ever saw was the one with Sabrina and the Haunter that made her laugh. Because of this I feel me and Haunters have a special bond akin to the psychic master and her companion. So I named him Casper and continued on my journey, anxious as he learned Dream Eater but not Hypnosis. Concerned, I scoured the internets for information and came to the sickening realization. The Gastly I caught was at a high enough level that it had already learned Hypnosis and ALREADY HAD FORGOTTEN THE MOVE. I had to wait to get to the move tutor on Two Island (and catch like, three Paras's to get Tiny Mushrooms. DUMB) in order to get him to re-learn Hypnosis. Why didn't I just go back and get another Gastly that knew Hypnosis? Because of that weird bond I had formed with the Pokemon. This was my Haunter and his name was Casper and we were friends. I didn't want to let go and so I spent the extra time to go out of my way and teach him Hypnosis.

The last addition to my team was Aerodactyl. The only female Pokemon on my team was hard work to train. When I finally got to teach her Fire Blast it was not as powerful a fire move than I needed. The weird combination of rock and flying types was too complicated for me to take full advantage of and poor Kimberly (Because of the Pink Pterodactyl Power Ranger) was left the weakest spot on my team. Even Hank Pym's Solorbeam could destroy, I don't understand why Fire Blast was so weak. Even so, I loved her. She was part of my team, and I spent the time and effort training her up from level five. I cared about her. I cared about all my Pokemon.

So after much training and battling it finally came time to face the Elite Four. I stocked up on potions and revives and full heals... And couldn't go through with it. After all the time and effort and love I put into my team, it all suddenly seemed so meaningless.

An odd sort of nostalgia took hold of me. I fired up my dusty GBA and popped in my Yellow Version cartridge from Christmas 1999. The number on my Pokedex stared back at me. 142. It was a scar from my childhood, a reminder of one of my greatest failures as a young nerd.

I never caught 'em all.

The blank spaces on the list haunted me even after I switched the device off. I closed my eyes and there they were.
Slowbro
Hitmonchan
Chansey
Dragonite
Jolteon
Kabuto
I hadn't even seen Omastar or Kabutops and their names were taken up by the most frustrating dashed lines I have ever seen.

I returned to my loves on my emulator, determined to make myself feel better by beating the Elite Four one last time. But once again, I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Leonardo, Elvis, Hank Pym, Uri, Casper, Kimberly, I love you all, and wish I could bring you the honor of being champion Pokemon but I just can't. My heart just isn't in it anymore.

I've been the Pokemon Champion countless times before. It has gotten so much that it is totally meaningless now. So I beat them again. Big whup. Before my Silver Version data got corrupt I had pounded them over forty times in that game.

I tired of just beating the Elite Four and my rival and going off to catch the elusive Mewtwo. I want something more. I want it to be meaningful again. I can't just create that loving bond with these creatures, turn them into unstoppable battling machines and then abandon them once I am crowned Champion.

I want to be a Pokemon Master. I want to catch 'em all. I want to be the very best, that no one ever was. To catch them is my real test. To train them is my cause.

So I am toying with the idea of investing in an old Gameboy color, link cable, and Blue Version and completing the three original Pokedex's. It's a ridiculous time commitment and there are so many things I should be doing instead, but I just can't get those eight Pokemon out of my head...

Maybe I'm being absurd, but the more I think about it, the more important this is to me and I might just waste an hour or two every day until I've become a true Pokemon Master. Pokemon is about believing in yourself and your friends and the loving bonds that you create on your quest to become the best. You shouldn't look at it and see yourself as a failure. The completed Pokedex is a symbol of this, that you believe in yourself so much that you won't let anything stop you.

Because really, it's the Pokemon that teach me to understand the power that's inside.

Franconia

A little while ago I went on a spirit journey.


I was never much of a photographer. Somehow twisted garbage becomes a playground.

I always preferred the number 3 to the number 5. Holy trinities and storytelling and Jack White aside, five does do something to me.
(But what is so special about 7?)
Something there is that doesn't slug.

Leaves of grass don't do much for me anymore. Open fields seem alien.
City boy.
City boy. I have to confess, I think Walden is stupid.


I remember reading The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in elementary school.
Henry Gale, from Minnesota.
City boy.


I feel like this sometimes.

Part of me wants L. Frank Baum's masterpiece to be an allegory. Part of me really enjoys Party in the U.S.A. by Miley Cyrus. Part of me really hates Broccoli.
City boy.

You can't really tell for the fog and the mist and the camera on my phone, but there is a city on the other side of the lake.
And it is beautiful.

I forgot about this

It happened.

I'm 20 years old.

And I've realized I've neglected to tell the internet what's what.

It's springtime.
Time for love.
Time for new beginnings.
Time for mischief.
I've got some ideas to spice things up.
Some projects I've got planned and would like to share.
Some adventures I'd like to document.

Be back soon with some good news.