TRainey

We have no real milk, or cream, or even half and half anymore, only the mysterious powder called “non-dairy creamer” in that tubular cardboard container. And when the coffee is really hot, floaties are born.

I need to learn to drink it black.

www.beedogs.com

I ask you, is this randomness in its most pure form? I don’t think so. It has purpose, somewhere, for someone. And because of this, I’ve questioned my own existence. I came up with one answer only to the question of why:

Because it can. And should be no other way.

Who next, will be unleashed upon the world? What new location, sometimes so familiar, but still so very strange, will emerge? Without more than a passing thought, a new universe is borne from nothing, pulled from the ether again, tapped into, drained out and left to ferment. Does it all exist already? Is there an ethos - a perfect form never matched but always strived for, so often measured against? That probably depends on who you ask.

trainey.bluepear.org has been re-launched - though this re-launch may appear seamless, we would still like to take this time to dedicate this momentous occasion to “him”

you know it.

Glimmerings, beginnings, watches, catches of time, a notice, a chance, a glance. Seeds of interruption into normal everyday life — a view into the ether of imagination, a kaleidoscopic picture – when you’re allowed in, granted permission, is it permission? Or is it simpler, so much easier, something within everyone — that ability to see that beautiful (deadly) stream that courses (rages) by all of us, unnoticed, avoided, fearful of What If? Truly, absolutely, afraid to begin.

Dream: there is a child, boy, newborn. Hold him, talk to him, he talks back, odd… understands everything I say, completely–he grows. Better understanding builds, he gets bigger. Flash forward, days at a time, he continues to grow, to age. Something is not right…

He is committed to the hospital, his skin begins to sag, he is only 3 years old. But then he changes again, grows more, his body stops, but his head expands, become grotesque, a monster, but with a child’s eyes. An exoskeleton forms, tentacles reach out, dry-spaghetti like from it’s mouth, the body dries up, is cast off, replaced with more spaghetti-stalk legs.

He is isolated in a room, they hook him up to machines, tubes, wires hang from the walls and ceilings and disappear into the reddish mass of the creature. The legs break off, but grow again–he can no longer communicate, not audibly anyway, but you can feel him when you are near.

He never loses those child-eyes. They do not reveal pain, though. Only understanding. It is pure.

Is someone a writer if they just WANT to write? What if they can’t think of anything to say, or simply don’t care enough to take the time to put a complete thought down, into a stream of words some moderately intelligent reader might be able to decipher and infer from some sort of meaning?

Does anything even really require meeaning? Probably does, else, why bother in the first place–or is it the point of doing it, the journey, in which lies the meaning–blah, blah, blah, etc., etc.

I’ve spent too much timing trying to force meaning into eveything, trying to find find a reason to need meaning in EVERYTHING, that, it’s become, well, meaningless. To me, at least, to everyone else, at most.

So I sit by, idly, watching it all drift, no, cruise, past at near-light speed–taking no time to reflect, wasting too much time remembering what was and not using enough time now to even begin an attempt at “getting somewhere,” because there is nowhere to get, right? According to me anyway, because there’s no point in getting somewhere you have no idea exists.

‘Round and ’round we go. Again.

Ron crouched over a pile of twigs, a few feet off the road. His thumb flicked a dead lighter furiously, trying to make a spark, rushing to beat the impending dark.

Flat, sand stretched out away from the road, away from Ron’s car where steam drifted out from beneath the open hood. He could just see the top of Phil’s baseball cap where his friend slept across the back seat. The orange sun began to burn a reddish glow, a final attempt to outlive the night. Ron flicked at the lighter faster, his thumb ached. Soon, it would be dark.

He looked up from his pile–he’d heard, or thought he’d heard, the scrape of footsteps on sand-washed road. But when he looked first north, then south, he saw nothing–only endless road edged with dry-dying shrubbery disappeared in either direction.

He focused his attention again to the pile and cursed silently. Then, everything before him burst apart into a million white dots and the ground rushed to meet him. Read the rest of this entry »