Strange & Unusual--Branching Out from Words to Sounds

Okay I'm trying something new. We'll see how it goes. I have always been fanatically, semi-spiritually tied to music. My tastes cross genres and labels and all that, I just like stuff that sounds interesting. Stuff that makes me feel things I can't explain. I can't get enough organized noise. Lately I've really been into what people call electronic music and dubstep, things like Dj Shadow, Skream, and the like. I have tried my hand at putting together some beats. So I had the idea to share some with you other music lovers out there. After MUCH toil I believe I have successfully found a way to embed the player here to avoid having you go to another site or download the file. Im thinking of you guys,I know your time is valuable. So without any further ado, here is my song entitled Strange & Unusual...enjoy.

strange and unusua...


Fifty Pound Funk

From bad to worse, the day moved
unchecked, then in a moment,
I found the self respect I’d lost
and got smart, and tossed this
fifty pound funk.

It had made its home on my shoulder,
and made every day colder, suffocating
me with fears, till all I was aware of,
was that I was getting older,
and I was still just sitting here.

But that rapturous instant came,
brought on by polyphonic rhythms
and rain, by hues of purple against
asphalt black, and sharing stories
over the remains of a six pack.

O my! how these moments capture us,
and leave us floating in the ether
above, the portal lies concealed
from selective eyes, tucked beneath
our choice of fear or love.

Between being safe from harm
and strife, and risking it for the charm of life.



Sarah over at Writer in the Making tagged me, so I am supposed to say where I'd like to be in 10 years. This is really tough for me, but here goes.

In ten years I would like to be a debt free college graduate, teaching students to love math. On tuesday's I'd go to a writing club and mostly sit and listen to people's stuff, and try to help them make it just right. Then one day if I had the courage, maybe read something of mine. In ten years, I hope to have read many more books(especially Sarah's latest), learned many new ideas, but most importantly to have become more honest with myself and others.


I think it is very important to do this sort of thing often, and especially the way Sarah said she had,

"Fun fact: I actually wrote the 3 objectives of( being a nurse, publishing a book, and moving somewhere else) on a piece of paper that I keep in my wallet, to remind me of my dreams...always."

I read a book recently called Psycho-Cybernetics by Maxwell Maltz

check it out. I really enjoyed it. It was written in like 1960 or so. Maltz was a plastic surgeon, so it's easy to discount what he says, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

His book is ultimately about reaching goals, and that alot of times what inhibits our reaching our goals is not our lack of ability, but the self-imposed restrictions of a poor self image.

So I guess that's it, I'm done for now folks. FYI: I finally had time to post this because I am stuck at home with a semi-bad foot sprain. hoping it will be okay tomorrow with the RICE method.

I leave you with a quote from Sartre

"Everything has been figured out, except how to live."
Jean-Paul Sartre


Part 2

Part 1

He stood motionless, glass chips at his feet, the cork laying at the foot of the fridge with the corkscrew still threaded in it, and all around his feet a translucent puddle that he thought would be his company for the evening. But the night had quickly become more interesting. Suddenly, he knew he had only one option, to fight. He knew they wouldn’t fire on him inside the apartment, that the guns they wielded were just for show. He didn't know what exactly they wanted to do with him, but somehow he got the feeling that if he went with them....well he wasn't going, that's all.

They faced each other, them shuffling quickly through the doorway separating the living room and the kitchen and assembling opposite him across the little island-style counter which he stood behind. They held their aim on him, and the one in front broke the silence.

“Don’t move Jarnell, there’s nowhere to go. We don’t want to hurt you, just detain you for questioning. Mr. M is very interested in you, in the knowledge you posses.”

His eyes shot to the corkscrew, then back to the men. “Okay, guys, you’ve got me. I’ll come quietly.”

He raised his hands to ease their minds and slowly stepped sideways out from behind the counter and stood directly over the corkscrew. He counted the men, only eight? They had no idea who they were dealing with.

In a blur of motion, Jarnell brought his feet together around the tool he’d used so many times--though never in the way he intended to now--and jumped flinging it with his feet up into the air directly into the path of his hand, which snatched it from mid-air. In a fluid motion, he spun the cork off, and twisted the tool so that the screw was sticking out from between his fingers, while the handle was held within his fist, and assumed a defensive stance.

The men laughed.

Their laughter was interrupted by Jarnell jumping toward the counter that divided them, putting one hand down and pushing off into a front-flip, landing directly in front of the man who stood ahead of the rest, the one who had spoken.

The man let his gun, which was strapped to him, fall to his side and came at Jarnell while the rest of the men sat stunned at the sheer agility of this simple looking man. Jarnell caught the man’s arm as he attempted to bring it across his face, skillfully twisted him around, pinning his arm behind his back. He jabbed the corkscrew into the man’s carotid artery, then twisted as if he were opening a cheap bottle of merlot. His neck was gushing thick red life in pulses. Jarnell threw him aside, and again assumed a stance that said, “Come get some.” The crowd rushed him, and he caught the first one by the neck, twisted and heard the bones snap, and the man exhaled his last breath. He turned and brought the corkscrew hard into the chest of the next, just under the armpit where there was no body armor, finding the heart like a surgeon. The other four tried to seize him all at once, but he nimbly flipped backwards, reached down and procured a large piece of what was left of his wine bottle, dropping the corkscrew.

He sliced the throats of the would-be captors one by one while fending off the others with quick jabs to the face, and then stood for a second catching his breath. He surveyed his apartment which, only five minutes ago, had been quite normal, peaceful even. But now it resembled a battlefield, riddled with corpses and destruction. What could he do now? Where would he go? And who in the hell is Mr. M?

He ran out of the room and didn’t stop running until he reached the street, and realized how suspicious he looked. He slowed to a leisurely pace, and turned south into an alley that led to Boone Street, where the only man he ever trusted lived. Maybe he would know what to do. At least he could stay there until he figured it out.


Part 1

He scanned the street from his first story window, and couldn’t help but wonder what all the people were in such a hurry for. He shouted at no one in particular, “Wake up people! The American dream is consuming you!”

“Go to hell!” someone shouted back at him.

“If you only knew,” he said to himself.

This was his hell. This place where he didn’t belong. Where people all around him were busy zipping around like little choreographed robots, all the while shining fake smiles. They traveled in herds, all thinking alike, afraid to question the norm. Of course, he was often hustling around trying to make ends meet, and to an observer he may seem like one of these robots at times. But, and this is an important distinction, the scales have been lifted from his eyes, and he is now aware. He had stumbled upon something, and he didn't exactly know what the repercussions would be. But despite his disillusionment with the system, he couldn't bring himself to jump off the hamster-wheel. That is until he had no choice.

The air was getting chilly, and a breeze picked up. He pulled the window closed, flipped the latch, and drew the curtains. He went to his laptop and put on some ambient music, to fill the silence. He couldn’t stand there not being music playing when he did anything. He went to the kitchen, slid open the junk drawer, and pulled out his corkscrew. Opening the fridge, he saw his perfectly chilled bottle of Alice White, grabbed it and began cutting the foil.

He had the corkscrew halfway in the cork when a loud crash made him knock the bottle onto the floor where it smashed into pieces. His door lay in his living room floor in splinters, hinges dangling from the frame. Men in black tactical suits came rushing in. He knew they’d come for him. It had begun.