New Update Schedule: The Title Makes Sense Now

Since it is a chore to choke out something I would find reasonable for people to read every day. I feel that writing something everyday and Publishing them all Friday would be better for (me to edit) everyone! From now on I will be writing something for everyday of the week and have them edited and posted Fridays. The important bit of discipline: writing everyday for a minimum of 30 minutes, will not be lost.  I want to create a reliable routine without causing myself any undue anxiety from updating with rushed works that I shat out for the sake of the blog and not for the sake of practice.  Thank you for those following me and watching me learn how to routinely run a blog.

New Update Schedule: The Title Makes Sense Now

Trying to press awake

My body feels slow and heavy, I hear a murmuring from my laptop and I assume it is playing what I fell asleep to. You assume a lot of things are normal when you feel strange, as the grasp on the world you can not truly process in a sickly state may be imagined back into your grasp to experience the bland safeness you once had.

I move sluggishly onto my side and reach for the space bar, a horror almost instantaneous and infinite washes over me as I open my eyes and hear nothing. I see a grey glowing and feel my sheets draped over me as if they are soaked in a thick, gelatinous sweat of a comatose pig. I try once again to restart some sound, to rouse my consciousness. My lips are dry, that awareness of my lack of power causes my body to strangle itself in confusion. I reach and the cycle occurs again.

I see gray and dark black eyes as I am aware my subconscious is sticking to a satirical approach to torturing me. The cliche aliens grab me, pulling me upward. I lunge forward attacking and fall once again into awakening.

I see the shelves on my wall I face as my eyes open are replaced with a sketch of charcoal that looks to span further than my wall could ever possibly hold. The lines look perfectly planned but chaotic. I see the simple build of an abstract of a round face with many scars, or perhaps a stripped orb. My guesses are cast off as the picture begins to bulge out a being calling out to me, as the symbols seemed to form the call of a god. A god of dreams, of nightmares. It calls out to me and as I see it my mind breaks as it tells me it will have my fear.

My voice is clenching back a scream of horror as I awake again. I turn and call out for help, for my grandmother to just wake me from this nightmare. I feel the strength to float, coldly, out of my room out to the path to my defunct bathroom. I hear dripping and my home is painted with darkness rather than having it fall onto in in the absence of light. I keep crying whispers of mercy, and then choke. Hard silence puncturing my body as I see my elder. Wordless, shriveled in dark water, staring with void in being ethereal. I feel my eyes watering looking at her. I close them.

I hear a scurrying as I reach for the laptop. I could have pressed the button but I see a grayish-white ferret looking creature trespassing my domain. I do not feel power, fear, or sense as I lunge to it and grab it by the neck and back. I do not feel pain as it scratches and bites at my flesh. I begin to try to rip it apart with my hands and teeth as rage courses through me. I succumb to the madness of this world and feel a humble, savage devotion to it. I feel weakness mix my rage, that the pattern was a format. I rip its neck and wake up clenching a pillow.

I press play on my laptop.

Trying to press awake

Di/ Beat

“The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, A misogynistic syphilitic mad philosopher broke down the cultural views of his time and de-constructing morality in comparison with reality. For what do we follow but mantras set by ourselves of self-doubt or self-aggrandizing, for what self-actualization achieves it unravels in most. What we look for in the world simplifies itself in the desperation of fulfillment. We grasp at what seems feasible, we deny structures and pain and hatred or we use them to fuel a maniac climb to the top of the shit stack. We devalue, oversaturate, and cycle through, for what do humans do? Plasticity works in many ways, it seems to be the word of the day for this round of 366 days, shaping, breaking, and taking its lay of your environment. Kipper up, simmer down, power through, or stay down and catch your breath. Is life a battle? Is it a test? Life is mostly emptiness, breaths of nothingness into subway windows, feelings of plastic, glass, metal and cats as time passes and you eat, drink, sleep, shit, and once in awhile communicate. For which to rate what you do and how you see, really it is quite dear to me. A bitter man I may be, but for the shit I eat, the grin suits me. I love you all, I must admit, but to take it out and polish it off, when is time for blast off? Where are we going on ‘spaceship earth’ as we soar into an 3-billion year plunge and are flung right back, seems a bit tight and we take a bit of flak. To get a bit abstract with this, I must recollect an absurd feeling of bliss from the comparison of nebulas to neurons as silly as it seems. We seem to be self-aware atoms forming mystic meat machines.

So don’t try to win; but to sharpen, don’t worry about the sin; but the sufferin, and the buffering of ideals and the squeaky wheels of overpriced shiny automobiles. Get real, take a feel, and steal an empty moment back. Track the tacks of pain to the source, while humming a soulful refrain, and remain in mind;open to the rain,wind,and sleet blowing through you, clear the dead leaves from your gutters kids, relax and shift. You can make your own waves, sure, but tsunamis are group efforts. Society is a hivemind. One for the better, it is something forming deeper than simple letters on census’ and land deeds, it is tied in the rings of our hearts as they beat. Do not dehumanize your kin as you see, our thoughts, actions, and voices are key. Answers are built from pacts of mutually beneficial action, research and passion, rational distraction to keep us sane. Bottle your rage into a fermented passion, drink deep with your kin within a small hut, old fashioned. Sticks and bones, forming glass domes. Your evil is forgotten inside your soul. Rest and rise out of your ideology fishbowl.

Good evening, to you all.

Di/ Beat

Just chills


As a child I found

The hidden pleasures

Of a cold pressure against my pain

Pain wrought from the times of unwanted growth

Metal so sweet to the touch

Plaster cooled by a night wind

As blurry lights twinkled in my strained eyes

Cursed by a nearsightedness

The just feeling, the earned relief

I took to the wall learned of the ways

The sweat gained in the dead of night

My body burning and my fear tight

I gained my ground with my thighs

In the air as I pressed my body to prepare

The hidden fears

Which flail at first light

As a child I found could be

A fight

No just chills exist today

It is a wonder that takes the pain away

Just chills


‘-13 Celsius’ Maria thought while walking through the forest. ‘Negative thirteen fucking Celsius and I have to get the sled he forgot!’ the crunching of the snow left Maria in a partial-trance as she followed the tracks of her family. ‘Harlem is 10 now, he should be old enough to walk back to the hill without any issue. I had to do way more shit when I was his age and I got half the credit, just because he’s epileptic doesn’t mean he’ll die any second he’s alone.’ a couple sticks are mercilessly kicked into other sticks, trees slashed by mighty blades wielded until their nubs are successfully whipped off in boredom against dark trunks and nettle rain. Maria wipes her nose and licks her lips, trying not to bite on the loose dry skin. She tastes the soft, blood tasting fresh skin underneath and shudders, a mix of the unpleasant taste and the tinge of the pain washing over her.

Maria after a couple minutes reflexively reaches to pull out her iPod, she frantically pats along her coat. ‘Well fuck, just fuck me with an icicle, mom’. To major criticism, Justine Carvalho decided family outings should have the full connection with their environment and each other. This was enforced with a strict ban on books and electronics, except for one emergency flip phone kept by the proud matriarch. Maria at this point begun to start to become uncomfortably keen to her surroundings. The wind, her pulse, snaps, scratches, the squeaking of her over-sized parka. The path began to steepen a bit when it gets close to the hill slopes, pines and solid water were all she could smell. There was something else, Maria took in more uncomfortably fresh air to try to decode the scent. It was sweet and familiar and if she kept sniffing this deeply she’d freeze her sinuses. Maria grunts lightly in defeat as she continues grabbing branches to keep her upward momentum. She feels a thick substance that feels more vulnerable than snow on her glove. A thick, gelatinous substance is found to be loitering on her palm, partially staining the thick wool already. It looked to be a dark red and purplish chunky, slurry that was the source of the sweet smell.

Her family owned this property since the early seventies.

It is a 2 hour commute to the closest neighbor.

Dad is allergic to blackberries.

For the first time in her life, outside of the deepest of childhood fevers, Maria felt a cold sweat. The sun was setting a setting and water droplets filtered a dark orange that was a further displacement from the atmosphere. Maria got to the top of the hill and looked at the tracks she was following.

There was a trail of prints leading away from the path. Maria was hit with an overpowering stench of berries and musk as she turned around following the tracks.

Maria stumbled back as she saw a creature with dark matted fur and huge eyes looking at her, it had what looked to be a bad leaking jam made out of dried skin. It made a low groaning noise. Maria choked on a scream, coughing and quickly tried to now squirm up hill.

She felt her parka grasped as she was then forcefully flung into a tree. The breath forced out in a powerful wheeze, she heard loud crunching several feet away and her vision was blurring widely as she felt the snow melt from the heat of her face. She heard a low howl fade away as she slowly began to get up and then dash home.

All Maria has to show today from that story is a mild concussion and a few fractured ribs.


Mission Statement and Apology

This writing blog is a commitment and challenge I wished to not break: to publish a work everyday, through thick or thin. The issue with this is I do not have an internet connection in my home which leads to scheduling problems. I have decided to circumvent any future issues by setting up works ahead of time and setting up an update schedule and releasing stories a day or two after I write them. I apologize for the lack of an update yesterday and will make up for it by posting two stories today.  Thank you to everyone following my practice (I hesitate to call it work at the moment) and I greatly appreciate your support.

Mission Statement and Apology

Refusal of Weakness

11 cycles. I was given the mark of subservience to the eyes of Ry’nr.

At 13 cycles I remember not feeling pain after the regular training. The only pain wrought  against me was in the thick.

14 cycles. I slit Drif the Elk’s throat and dragged him into  the plains by the river. I brush the path with rainleaf and stab myself with his antler club in the leg. I slash his tendons. I replace his spread with mine. I became the new head hunter by defending myself from his fury head on.

26 cycles. I take the oath of refusal in front of my slain care. I drink his blood and infuse my spirit with his. My bones vibrate as I feel sound and taste power. The ground shakes with their devotion as I know this land is mine as beast and kin fear and love me alike.


I feel a sharp prick as two needles prick my neck and I reach out to grab a serpent and find the thin arms of a small one.

I walked through the life not beyond but before.

It holds a thick viper in it’s hands and smiles at me as I feel the skin of my neck already splitting from swelling as the liquid death squeezes through compressing meat. I try to hold onto the one who fell me. I feel a change of touch, and a crack as the viper is snapped in my hands but not by my force.

In eyes I see kin and death. I see the blood of hatred. A gentle touch wipes the tears and blood from my face and leads it to a beautiful innocent mouth.

A protection from my vengeance. I hear words thinning like the call of flight.

A humming noise, the sound of life beating furiously away.

“Refusal of the thick, brings death deeper than spirit”.

Refusal of Weakness