Empty

(Originally written December 21, 2009 in the Journal)

Empty

The permafrost of my heart warmed a moment.
Just long enough to crack in two.
I reached out for my love and grasped the air.
Empty, my hand retreated back to its place.
Alone, lifeless at my side.

Unraveling

(Originally written December 17, 2009 in The Journal)

Oh Ashley, I'm sure you feel so neglected.

Unraveling

Don't weep for me
Not a single tear shall you shed.
The pain across my face will pass with time.
I am on the downward spiral.
But, this path for me is well trodden.
See look, I am unraveling.
But in the end I'm left with this pile of yarn -
Ready to recreate my world.

The Histories Finished

(Originally Written November 15, 2009 in The Journal)

So I finished The Histories by Herodotus awhile back. It was laborious to say the least. I would like to read it again but it will be a tough sell to my intellect.

Notes on The Histories

(Originally Written November 1, 2009 in The Journal)

The Histories
Herodotus

I'm not plowing through this month like I did in October. It doesn't read as smoothly as some of the other classics. It's good, very interesting but slower paced than other works I've read so far. It could be too that the I'm reading all of the footnotes as well as I go along.

Book 1 - The rise and fall of the Lydians
Book 2 - The history of Egypt
Book 3 - Good story of cruelty - cut each of the sons' throats and mix the blood with wine and drink. Then fight. Method of suicide - drinking bull's blood. "The Sacred sickness" - epilepsy.

Notes on Dreadful Freedom

(Originally Written October 22, 2009 in The Journal)

OK Ashley, you've heard my sob stories about loneliness and depression and this new unrequited love. You've heard of the destruction of my body, the breaking of my heart and the crushing of my soul. But now let's witness my glory - my mind. How about some philosophy.

Dreadful Freedom
Marjorie Grene

Chapter 1 - Why existentialism

Existentialists insist on their essential optimism that man makes himself.

Existentialism in a sense is a reaction against the speculative idealism of Hegel.

Existentialism comes from Kierkegaard's phrase "existential dialectic".

In existentialism, existence is prior to essence. This means that the consciousness of one's own soul comes before anything else becomes clear.

Existentialism revolts against system building and focuses on more pressing human concerns.

The relation of cause to effect is measured by the efficacy of an act.

The relation of cause and effect is indistinguishable from means and end.

Sartre and Dewey (pragmatists) criticize philosophies of the past for stabilizing the norms that kept ruling parties in power.

Pragmatism and existentialism are similar in aim at first glance.

Sartre resets values from past to future. The past value is an emphasis on the bourgeois privilege whereas if values are set with the future in mind it leads to revolution.

Pragmatism fails though because fact cannot produce value. Science cannot distinguish between good and evil.

Value for Sartre lies between the way things are and the way things ought to be. The success of man (and failure) lies between the thing as it is and the thing as it should be.

The perception between the way things are and the way they should be is the fundamental insight of existential philosophy.

Values are created solely by the acts of man. What they take as good or bad, beautiful or ugly in their quest to give meaning to a meaningless world.

Positivistic ethics aims at being descriptive not normative.

As in Kantian ethics, existentialists claim there is no good or evil apart from will and there is no will without freedom.

Existentialism does not derive values from mere facts.

Some existentialists demand a return to faith in the Christian God as a necessary way out of our present moral chaos (Marcel & Kierkegaard).

Atheistic existentialists however claim that the return to the Christian God is removing the freedom of man and basing values once again on facts, though these facts are not sense-data but cosmic in origin.

Chapter 2: Soren Kierkegaard: The self against the system

The aim of Kierkegaard, his one problem was: to find out where the misunderstanding lies between speculation and Christianity.

Kierkegaard believed that the misunderstanding had its roots in the nature of personal existence.

Kierkegaard's work has a slight anti-scientific tone but it is really a revolt against Hegelian speculation.

Camus had a very strong anti-scientific tone.

Kierkegaard worries that by focusing on physiology and explaining the whole man in its scope will cause man to lose sight of the important field of ethics.

Kierkegaard argues that the system in never capable of explaining existence until it is complete and thus becoming timeless. Existence as it is happening is never complete and thus, the system is incapable of explaining existence.

Kierkegaard criticizes the systematizers by claiming that they build a palace to live next door in the barn.

The system builders acquire far flung knowledge and ignore the simple understanding of one's self, which is the only important understand.

The system, in its grandeur is deceiving. It uses wordy logical fallacies to appear logical.

Kierkegaard does not propound an orthodox form of Christianity. He denies any "objective truth of Christianity", instead stating the whole problem for every serious Christian is their own path to faith.

Kierkegaard focuses on the inwardness of the subjective journey of the one real entity (the individual) to the infinite being, known by faith.

Kierkegaard turns from the impersonal and trivial truths (though consistent) to the passionate truth realized only subjectively and meaningful. This truth is meaningful because it is contradictory.

By embracing total subjectivity, Kierkegaard renounced all abstraction and left only contradiction and paradox. Since abstraction is gone one cannot transfer through words one's experience to another. paradox is the only way and this is indirect communication.

Philosophy for Kierkegaard, like Kant is focused on the question, what is man? It deals with human problems, not the essence of cosmic reality.

Kierkegaard relies heavily on Plato, not Neo-Platonism, but the Dialogues themselves.

Kierkegaard states we live, or ought to live, in the awareness that here and now may be our last moment.

Existentialism focuses on the contingency of life.

Existentialism pays close attention to the meaninglessness that continually underlies the significance in human life.

Notes on some poems

(Originally Written October 7, 2009 in the Journal)

For Sale A poem by Robert Lowell

I like this line:

"Read, afraid
of living alone till eighty
mother mooned in a window,
as if she had stayed on a train,
one stop past her destination"

The Bagel A poem by David Ignatow

This was funny, truly absurd and funny. I wonder if there was even a deeper meaning.

Roses and Revolutions A poem by Dudley Randall

The first line is excellent - "Musing on roses and revolutions"

With my crowbar key A poem by William Stafford

"Making my home in Vertigo
I pray with screams
And think with my hair
Prehensile in the dark with fear"

Three Untitled Poems

(Originally Written October 6, 2009)

(Originally written October 6, 2009 in the Journal)

1.

While some may lose themselves on land and other's may recklessly sail again,
Myself I shove off from shore to retest the tepid waters to see what fate has in store.
Those eyes are such a blue I find myself longing for nothing save only for you.
My darling, my sweet, my sole and cherished heart.
Twas love that chose you from before,
long before I even knew to start.

2.

While some may yet lost in another's eyes
A feat easily accomplished in such a blue,
My eyes rather than losing -
Methinks the thing has become a pleasure
Such is the cross of change

3

Yes, a night again lost
Fully in another's eyes
A feat easily achieved
When I gaze in such a blue
Such fates that destiny has in store
The downcast has become elated
Timidly retesting the seas after a wreck upon ashore

Notes on The Nibelungelied

(Originally Written October 5, 2009 in the Journal)

Notes on The Nibelungelied

Here we go again, smooth classic literature to Medieval folklore. I hope it is not as rough a transition from Aeneid to the Mabinogion.

The Nibelungenlied is an ancient German tale. Maybe I'll read Faust next to stay German...

I think I may be finding the most enjoyment in epic poetry

"If you are ever to know heartfelt happiness it can only come from a man's love. If God should assign to you a truly worthy knight you will grow to be a beautiful woman"

The Nibelungenlied was interesting. I enjoyed Siegrfried's character immensely but I wasn't a big fan of Hagen and the Fiddler. The plot was interesting, but slow at times. The ending was a bit unsatisfying. The fight between Dietrich and Gunther and Hagen was good, but Krienhild being chopped apart by Hildebrand I didn't like. I felt Brunhild was more to blame and she really didn't get much in the end.

Notes on The Art of Love & The Cures For Love

(Originally Written October 4, 2009 in The Journal)

I enjoyed The Amores immensely more than The Art of Love

The Cures for Love

"Yet to recover health demands much suffering"

212-245, sound familiar?

"Every old love's eclipsed by a new"

"Yet to hate the girl you once loved is a crime, an end befitting none but a savage: indifference will suffice"

I enjoyed The Erotic Poems by Ovid, though after all of it the conceit of Ovid became a bit wearing. But, The Amores were far better than The Art of Love or the Cures for Love

From Sosua

(Originally Written October 3, 2009 in the Journal)

I sit and admire the beauty of youth. A soft breeze blows from behind me while the waves gently caress the sand with a lover's touch. There are four girls, not yet women, dancing among the waves. Green and white fishing boats litter the horizon.

Excuse me a moment - cuba libre.

Behind me is the ancient of France, here for the last time I suppose. The stench of smoke and age and sea and bloated self pride permeates the air. But in front, four girls blossoming into women dance amongst the waves. So I sit here and admire the beauty of youth.

How is it at twenty-five I feel closer to these ancients behind? Am I not in my youth as well? I have an aging soul made older still by two years of utter torment. But I like the boats, something refreshing seems to be on the horizon. Will I ever reach that horizon, I don't know. But for now, I enjoy looking at it.

Notes on The Erotic Poems

(Originally Written October 2, 2009 in the Journal)

Notes on The Erotic Poems by Ovid

"He's so human he tears you apart"

The Amores: Book I

I. "His shafts - worse luck for me - never miss their target. I'm on fire now, love owns the free hold of my heart" (Ovid, 86)

II. "Heart skewered/by shafts of desire, the raging" (Ovid, 87)

"Play stubborn, you get a far more thorough going-over than those who admit they're hooked [on love]" (Ovid, 88)

III. "Fair's fair now, Venus. This girl's got me hooked. All I'm asking from her is love or at least some future hope for my own. Eternal devotion, no even that's too much - Hell, just let me love her" (Ovid, 88)

"Unswerving fidelity's my strong suit" (Ovid, 88)

VIII.

"Ah, that got a blush! Pale face needs color, but nature's method is so unpredictable, safer to stick to art" (Ovid, 98).

The Amores: Book II

II. "All we need is your consent to some quiet love-making. It's hard to imagine a more harmless request" (Ovid, 114).

IV. Compare this poem to Baudelaire or even the Marquis de Sade for unrivaled hedonism.

It is hysterical though - "My sex-life runs the entire mythological gamut" (Ovid, 116).

VI. Write a short story based on this.

VII. "How I wish I'd some genuine infidelity on my conscience - the guilty find punishment easier to take" (Ovid, 120).

IXb. "Girls are such exquisite hell when desire's slaked, when I'm sick of the whole business, some kink in my wretched nature drives me back.

XVII. I really like this poem.

"I shan't be an accusation you're glad to get rid of; our love won't ever require disowning".

XIX. This is savagely humorous

The Amores: Book III

I. "My subconscious is hatching a masterpiece" (Ovid, 139)

II.

"To sit at your side and talk with you is what I'm after - I want you to know the havoc you've wrought in my heart."

Poem II is my concept of dating in lines 2-8

"Help this new venture, Venus: soften my prospective mistress till she loves me or anyway till she let's me love her!"

VII. Seven is an ode to impotency. Very funny!

XIa. This is how I feel about my ex

A Million Little Pieces

(Originally Written October 1, 2009 in the Journal)

A Million Little Pieces
By James Frey

It was a quick read. The style sometimes annoyed me but I was moved by the interaction between James and Lilly and when James' father said he was proud of him. The death of Lilly was totally unsatisfactory. Also Leonard, my favorite character, who killed Bobby - I wanted more. I wanted to feel the blood.

Notes on The Mabinogion (D)

(Originally Written September 14, 2009 in the Journal)

Culwch Won Olwen

Culwch, Arthur's first cousin, was the son of Kilydd, ruler of Kelyddon. Culwch's mother was dying and went to her husband giving him her blessing to remarry but only after a double sided thorn appeared on her grave. She went to her confessor and asked him to prune her grave so nothing grew there, which he did until he neglected it after seven years.

Kilydd then went for advice on a new wife. They killed Doged, stole his lands and Kilydd took his wife as his own. This woman had a daughter, Olwan. Olwan swore that Culwch had to win her as his bride.

The Dream of Rhonabwy

I want to use Kei as a character.

The Mabinogion was interesting for what it was. I enjoyed the classical prose much more however, but the characters of the Mabinogion will match more with my story.

Notes on The Mabinogion (C)

(Originally written September 13, 2009 in the Journal)

Notes on The Mabinogion

Math, Son of Mathonwy

Math was a lord of Northern Wales and used to rest his feet in virgin's laps except when he was at war. His virgin was named Goewin. Math had two nephews, Gilvaethwy and Gwydyon, who were sons of the goddess Don.

Gilvaethwy fell in love with Goewin and became sick in his love for her. When Gwydyon learned of this he devised a plan for Gilvaethwy to sleep with Goewin.

Gwydyon went to Math to get his permission to obtain Pyderi's pigs. Math gave his consent so Gwydyon headed south, disguised as a bard. After entertaining Pyderi, Gwydyon asked for a pig. Pyderi refused because he had sworn an oath not to give or sell a pig until the herd had doubled in size.

Gwydyon then devised a plan to transform objects into twelve horses with golden bits and saddles and twelve greyhounds to trade for the pigs. After council Pyderi accepted the offer. Gwydyon fled with the pigs and traveled from town to town, heading northwards. After a day the horses and greyhounds transformed back and Pyderi gave chase to Gwydyon. Gwydyon traveled slowly so that Pyderi could muster a large army so that Math would have to set out for war.

When Math gathered his forces and went to battle Gilvaethwy raped Goewin. When Math learned of this he made Goewin his wife to protect her honor. To punish Gilvaethwy and Gwydyon (he could not kill them as they were his sister's sons) he transformed them into deer, one male and one female. He gave them the nature of deer and told them to reproduce and come back one year later. They came back with a sow and were transformed into pigs and told to go out again. They came back with another son and were transformed into wolves and sent back out with the same task. They came back with a third son and were restored to their original state. Thus, Gilvaethwy and Gwydyon were punished for their crimes and gave birth to three sons; Bleiddwn, Hyddwn, and Hychdwn the Tall.

After they were restored Math asked them to advise him on choosing a new virgin. They offered Aranrhod, their sister, daughter of Don. Math asked Aronrhod if she was a virgin, to which she lied and said yes. Math tested her with his magic wand. A boy fell out of her and she ran away, but before she got out of the door another boy fell out.

Math named the first boy Dylan and had him baptized. He grew strong and became a master of the sea. He was killed by his uncle Govannon, the blacksmith of the gods.

Gwydyon found the other boy in a chest at the foot of his bed. The boy grew strong and tall. One day when he was four he went with Gwydyon to see Aranrhod, his mother. When Aronrhod learned that Gwydyon had saved the child and prolonged her shame she became enraged and cursed the child to be nameless until she gave him a name.

Gwydyon then made a ship out of seaweed with his magic and began to make shoes. He also had disguised himself and the boy. When Aronrhod learned that a cobbler of skill had landed on her shore she had herself measured and sent the measurements to have a shoe made. Gwydyon made a beautiful shoe that was too large. Aronrhod paid for it but asked for a smaller size. This time Gwydyon made it too small. Gwydyon then refused to make a shoe for her without measuring the foot himself.

Aranrhod went down to the ship to see the cobbler. When she came down the boy hit a wren and Aranrhod laughed saying, "God knows, the light haired one hit it with a skillful hand". Gwydyon agreed and cursed Aranrhod and revealed the deception because unwittingly Aranrhod had named the boy, Lleu (shining) Skillful Hand.

Aranrhod became angry and cursed the boy again stating the he shall have no weapons unless she herself armed him. Lleu and Gwydyon returned back to the estate of Math where Gwydyon taught Lleu how to become a skillful rider.

Gwydyon then took Lleu back to Aranrhod as they were both disguised as bards. They entertained Aranrhod and were given a room to sleep. When dawn was braking Gwydyon used his magic to make it seem as if Aranrhod's castle was being attacked. Aranrhod came to them for advise and Gwydon said to arm all the men. Gwydyon received help from two young girls while Aranrhod armed Lleu herself. Thus, Gwydyon had tricked Aranrhod yet again. Aranrhod cursed the boy, denying him a wife of this world.

When Lleu and Gwydyon returned to Math's estate Math and Gwydyon fashioned a wife for Lleu out of flowers and named her Blodeuedd. Lleu and Blodeuedd were married and Math gave Lleu the Contrev of Dinoding to lord over.

One day Lleu left Dinoding to visit Math when a hunting party passed by Lleu's fortress. When Blodeuedd learned that it was Goronwy, Lord of Penllyn she invited him in to stay for the night. Goronwy and Blodeuedd were overcome by passion for one another and slept together. They devised a plan to have Lleu tell Blodeuedd how he may die so that the two lovers could married.

When Lleu returned Blodeuedd enticed her husband to tell how he could be killed by proclaiming her worries over it. Lleu explained that he could only be killed by a spear crafted over a year's time and thrown at him while he was standing with one foot on the edge of a bath and one foot on a goat. After a year, Goronwy had crafted the spear.

Blodeuedd came to Lleu and tricked him into getting into the position he could be killed. Goronwy threw the spear and pierced Lleu in the side. Lleu transformed himself into an eagle and flew away. Goronwy took Blodeuedd as his wife and stole Lleu's lands.

Math and Gwydyon mourned the loss of Lleu and Gwydyon went out to search for him. He found an eagle being eaten by a pig so he transformed it back into Lleu's human form. Gwydyon took Lleu back to the castle where he recovered from his wound.

After healing Lleu sought out his revenge. He went after Goronwy while Gwydyon went after Blodeuedd. Gwydyon cursed Blodeuedd and turned her into an owl. Lleu refused any payment or bribe and took out his revenge on Goronwy. Lleu threw a spear at Goronwy and killed him, turning him into stone.

The four branches of the Mabinogi are Pwyll, Lord of Dyved; Branwen, Daughter of Llyr; Manawydan, Son of Llyr; and Math, son of Mathonwy.

The Dream of Maxen & Llud and Llevelys were fairly uneventful except for maybe the plagues in Llevelys. But, I should purchase Geoffrey's Historia.

Notes on The Mabinogion (B)

(Originally Written September 12, 2009 in the Journal)

Notes on The Mabinogion

Manawydan was grieved that his uncle had stolen the throne of England after Manawydan's brother Bran had died. Pryderi offered his friendship by offering his mother Rhiannon as wife for Manawydan.

Manawydan and Rhiannon were married. The newlyweds and Pryderi and his wife, Kigva went and set on a mound. A mist came over them and when it lifted the four were alone. They spent two years like this and then left for England.

They settled in Hereford and became saddle makers. Soons everyone bought their saddles from these four. The other saddle makers plotted to kill them so they set out for another city where they took up shield making. The same thing happened again and they went to another town where they took up shoemaking. They again became so successful that their lives became endangered. Then they returned home to Dyved.

In Dyved they went hunting again. On a hunt they spotted a white boar which ran into a strange fortress. Pryderi went after it to retrieve his dogs against the advice of Manawydan. In the fortress there was neither the boar nor his dogs but a marble fountain with a golden bowl. He walked up to it and touched it, becoming stuck to it and mute. After waiting Manawydan returned home and broke the news to Rhiannon. Rhiannon then went out to find her son. She entered the fortress and also became stuck to the fountain. A mist fell and the fortress disappeared.

Manawydan and Kigua, Pryderi's wife left for England where Manawydan took up shoemaking again. After a year's time Manawydan became so successful that all the other shoemakers became envious and plotted against his life. They left England to go back to Dyved but this time with wheat to plant.

Manawydan sowed three crofts of wheat. When it was time to harves the first two crofts appeared naked, only stalks. The third one Manawydan then guarded. A hoard of mice came upon the croft and made off with the wheat but Manawydan managed to catch one.

Manawydan set out to hang the mouse he had caught. A scholar came to the spot where Manawydan was to hang the mouse. This was the first person he had seen in Dyved in seven years other than his three companions, two of which were lost. The scholar attempted to buy the mouse to spare its life. Manawydan refused the offer. Then a priest came upon Manawydan. The priest tried to buy the mouse but was again rebuffed. Next a bishop came. The bishop offered to buy the mouse but was refused. Finally a deal was struck because the bishop was actually Llywd who was a friend to Wawl, who had been mistreated by Pwyll, the father of Pryderi. Eventually the mouse, who was actually Llywd's wife was released to Llywd in exchange for Pryderi and Rhiannon and no more mischief from Llywd.

Notes on the Mabinogion (A)

(Originally Written September 11, 2009 in the Journal)

I think it might have been a mistake to move from the language rich work of Virgil to a compiling of Welsh folklore in The Mabinogion. Jeffery Gantz, the translator, even mentions the rough around the edges stuff in the introduction. But, as it is mythology and of a pseudohistorical nature I'm sure I'll enjoy it - though maybe not as much as The Aeneid.

Pwyll Lord of Dyved

Further Reading for Comparison : The Wasting Sickness of Cu Chulaind

Pwyll, a king, is asked by Arawn, a king of the otherworld, to defeat another otherworld king in battle to secure friendship. He does so and forms an alliance.

Pwyll then meets a woman in a vision named Rhiannon. Rhiannon requests that Pwyll marry her so that she does not have to wed a man she does not wish to. During a feast Pwyll gives his word to Gwawl, son of Clud to grant him his wish. Unfortunately, Gwawl is the man Rhiannon is to marry and because of chivalry Pwyll agrees to the terms. Meanwhile Pwyll and Rhiannon devise a plan to trick Gwawl out of his marriage rite, which succeeds.

Pwyll and Rhiannon are married but produce no heir. Pwyll's friends call Pwyll to take another wife but he asks for one more year's time. Rhiannon bears a son within the year but the child mysteriously disappears. The maidens to Rhiannon devise a scheme to kill a foal and put it in the room and blame Rhiannon for killing her own son. Rhiannon is punished. Meanwhile, Teirnon, a former man of Pwyll, has a great horse. But every time the horse gives birth its foal disappears. This time Teirnon watches over the foal and a giant eagle claw comes and smothers it up.

Tiernon cuts off the claw and saves the foal. Tiernon then finds a boy and gives it to his wife. They name the boy Gwri Golden Hair. They raise him and he grows up to be supernaturally strong. One day Tiernon hears of the punishment of Rhiannon and looks at Gwri and realizes it is the son of his friend Pwyll. They take Gwri to Pwyll and Rhiannon where they rename him Pryderi. Pwyll dies and Pryderi becomes king and rules justly and expands the territory.

Branwen, Daughter of Llyr

Lord Mallolwch, King of Ireland, came to Wales to seek an alliance with Bran, King of the Island of the Mighty. Mallolwch sought the hand of Branwen, daughter of Llyr. Bran agreed and there was a feast.

Evnissyens, the brother of Branwen was outraged at his sister being married off without his permission so he disfigured Mallolwch's horses, thus insulting him. Mallolwch set out for vengeance but Bran appeased him with gifts, including a magic cauldron. This magic cauldron was a gift from a giant to Bran. When a man died he could be placed in the cauldron and boiled. The next day he would be alive again, but could not speak.

Mallolwch left with his bride for Ireland. She bore him a son named Gwern. After a year Mallolwch's men mocked him for the insult on the horses until he could take no more and disgraced Branwen, sister of Evnissyen. Branwen trained a bird to carry a letter to her other brother Bran, the king of the Island of the Mighty telling of her disgrace.

Bran armed his men and went to Ireland. Bran was a giant and laid across a river so his men could pass. When the Irish saw this they tried to appease the army.

The built Bran a house, which because of his size, he had never had a house big enough for him. In the house hid 200 Irish warriors, but Evnissyen squeezed their heads until they died. There was a feast where Gwern, son of Mallolwch and Branwen met Bran. Bran received the boy well, but Evnissyen through the boy in the fire.

A battle began and the Irish kept respawning every night until Evnissyen, saddened by the grief he caused sacrificed himself and destroyed the cauldron. At the end of the battle all the Irish had been killed except for five pregnant women. Only seven of the Island of the Mighty survived.

Bran, as he was dying, prophesied to his men, ordering them to cut off his head and bury it in London. When the men returned to England, Branwen died of a broken heart at the grief she had caused both islands. The men eventually came to London where they learned another king had taken rule. They buried the head of Bran and so long as it was buried there, there were no plagues in England.

Notes on The Aeneid

(Originally Written September 10, 2009 in the Journal)

This was my first time reading The Aeneid. I loved this book. I found the story incredibly fascinating. The use of the term godhead in the David West translation struck me as interesting because I had never seen it outside of a Trinitarian Christian context. I wonder if the Latin word is the same.

Book 1 - Storm and Banquet

Compare Aeneas & Job?
Aeneas suffers at the hands of Juno despite having committed no sin.

Book 2 - The Fall of Troy

This was one of my favorite parts of the book.

The chief virtue of Aeneas, a man known for his piety, is his courage, which he had to forsake for the destiny of the will of the gods.

Book 3 - The Wanderings

Book 4 - Dido

An interesting myth on the origin of enmity between Rome & Carthage.

Book 5 - Funeral Games

The origin of the rites of Parentalia - the festival of the dead. This was a major part of the Roman Religion.

Compare Aeneas to Solomon in diffusing the squabble between Nisus and Salius - wisdom.

Book 6 - The Underworld

This has philosophical and political undertones. It gives the origin of life explanation and praises the Julian family.

Book 7 - War in Latium

A good read for battle scenes.

Book 8 - Aeneas in Rome

The prophetic shield of Vulcan is made for Aeneas in this book. In this book Virgil ties Hercules to Aeneas and Aeneas to Caesar Augustus. This is the legitimization of Aeneas and thus, of Rome and Augustus.

Book 9 - Nisus and Euryalus

War scenes

Book 10 - Pallas and Mezeutius

War scenes, the use of dueling

Book 11 - Drances and Camilla

Camilla the Amazon - write a myth of Camilla

Book 12 - Truce and Duel

Great ending in the death of Turnus

Kingdom Triangle - JP Moreland

(Originally Written August 15, 2009 in the Journal)

Kingdom Triangle
JP Moreland
Zondervan Publishing, 2007

Religion cannot be a hobby.

Moreland pushes for Christians to have a deeper understanding of Christianity so that we can speak of it intelligently.

A secular worldview is thin, lacking the framework to make sense of value. An ethical monotheistic worldview is thick. In ethical monotheistic views the value of human beings is intrinsic. When we hear of "people of the week" in naturalistic settings they are borrowing from a thick worldview to comprehend it. They have to abandon their worldview to understand what they are showing.

Scientific Naturalism:
1. A theory of limited knowledge
2. A creation story based on the atomic theory of matter and evolutionary biology.
3. A physical view of reality, all that exists is physical or depends upon physical existence.

These three work together. A limited theory of knowledge justifies a creation story based on the atomic theory of matter and biology. And, the biology creation story justifies the physical view of reality.

What is real in a naturalist worldview depends on three things.
1. It is knowable in their theory of knowledge.
2. Its origin can be accounted for in evolution
3. It can be described by the language of chemistry and physics

Two forms of scienticism:
Strong - scientific knowledge exhausts what can be known
Weak - other knowledge can be had (i.e. ethics) but scientific knowledge is vastly superior

This is self-defeating as the definition does not meet its own standards

The natural view of reality is reductionism. It reduces things to identify with it and eliminates what it cannot reduce.

Physicalism (the reduction of everything to physical) however fails to account for what the world is as it is now, consider consciousness, secondary qualities, normative properties and the entire evolutionary framework (the Big Bang and natural laws are taken as brute fact).

Naturalism is doubly determined, the state of the universe is fixed by laws and the actions of things are set by their atomic and subatomic parts.

Life loses all meaning in this view of reality.

To explain the meaning of life a naturalist approaches it in three flawed ways:
1. Superficially: life is meaningless
2. Circular: the meaning of life is to find the meaning of life
3. Repugnant: hedonistic, life is meaningful so long as it is enjoyed

Six keys to a rich, objective meaning of life:

1. Free Will to ground responsibility, creativity, praise and blame
-William Provine stated, "Free will as traditionally conceived... simply does not exist. There is no way the evolutionary process as correctly conceived can produce a being that is truly free to make choices." Many times naturalism employs utilitarian justification in ethics that can lead to horrific moral implications.

2. Real intrinsic value that can be known and factored into our lives.
-In order for objective meaning to exist value must have three things true of it: There are things that are intrinsically good, things that must be ends of themselves. Two, human beings must be capable of knowing what is intrinsically valuable and what is not. Three, human beings, their products, actions and relationships must be intrinsically valuable. The naturalist view denies, necessarily, any intrinsic value. But they call morals and ethics either subjective or another simple evolutionary event.

3. The ability to acknowledge the reality of evil, provide an explanation of its origin and offer hope that it is ultimately redeemed and defeated.
-Naturalism fails to explain the reality of evil and is hopeless in offering hope in the midst of it.

4. Human beings must have equally intrinsic value simply as such.

5. There must be teleology and purpose in the cosmos relevant to human life.
-The Aristotelian notion of final cause is obsolete in naturalism. Living without teleology is utterly existentially repugnant. Nothing makes sense without teleology. Language itself implies teleology.

6. There must be a satisfying answer to the question, "Why should I be moral?"

The boy who cried wolf

(Originally Written June 9, 2009 in the Journal)

The boy who cried wolf.

There was a boy who shepherded many flocks for the prominent men. One day out of the sheer tedium he blasted his horn alerting the townsfolk of an invading wolf. For three days he blasted but no one came. They had remembered the boy who cried wolf and yet there was no wolf. They felt no remorse when the wolf devoured the boy but were quite upset that their flocks had been ravaged.

Then the new boy, who differed from the elite politically, as he was from old power and they were the nouveau riche bugled his horn. There were all the signs of a wolf but he couldn't find it. Nevertheless he called out on his horn for safety. Nobody came.

Then one day two packs of wolves ravaged the fields of sheep. The boy was rallied around by the villagers and surrounding villages. For awhile the whole of the country seemed sympathetic to the boy.

Then the village attacked another village who hadn't stopped the wolves in the first place. The other villages supported the attacking village for awhile. The bugle boy became powerful. His power increased and for the good of his village he waged another war against another village. But, the other villages despaired of the boy's new power and cast him out like a leper. They elected a new shepherd, one of the elite of the nouveau riche.

A Reading List

(Originally Written April 1, 2009 in the Journal)

Books to Explore

Viking History
Heimskringla (History of the Kings of Norway) - Snorri Sturluson

Voltaire
The Fables of Reason: A study of Voltaire's contes philosophiques - Roger Pearson
La Religion de Voltaire - Rene Pomeau
D'Arouet a Voltaire- Rene Pomeau
Voltaire & English Literature, Studies on Voltaire and the 18th Century
Voltaire en toutes lettres
Voltaire: A biography - Haydn Mason
Voltaire - Haydn Mason
Voltaire dans ses Contes - Jacques Van den Heuvel
Disabled Powers: A Reading of Voltaire's Contes - Robin Howells
Complete Works (Oxford: Voltaire Foundation) - Voltaire

Existentialism

Soren Kierkegaard
Jean-Paul Sartre
Martin Heidegger
Karl Jaspers
Paul Tillich

Other Books

Personal Knowledge - Michael Polanyi
Lectures on the Religious Thought of S. Kierkegaard - E.O. Geisman
Kierkegaard - Walter Lowrie
A Short Life of Kierkegaard - Walter Lowrie
Something about Kierkegaard - David Swanson
What is Existentialism - William Barrett
An Introduction to contemporary German Philosophy - Werner Brock
Existentialism - Guido Ruggiero
The Future of Mankind - Karl Jaspers

Am I falling in love?

(Originally Written March 22, 2009 in the Journal)

I feel the compulsive necessity to write at this point. You'll never read this (even if we are to be).  This is too private for anyone else. Only you my dearest Ashley can know my secrets.

Emotions stir in me I thought were too damaged to ever thrive again. I can't say I love you. I can't say anything so strong. My mind is weak but my heart is palpable. Who shall be its molder? I can be the clay yet I search for the artist. Ever searching, ever on.

I don't know why I write. I have no reason to, yet no reason not to. I move too quickly for my own good. She has no interest in me and I am unsure if I even have interest in her. She simply is - simply is beautiful.

Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?

Where are these words coming from?

You stir something in me. I wish you didn't but I long for you to stir deeper still. I have been asleep for months. You have awoken me, or have you? Is this just another delicious dream? A mere phantasm or fantasy? The world exists but reality only exists in my head. My reality hinges on my ability to discern real reality (that is existence in my head) and REALITY (that is existence outside of there). Which is more real? To me my dreams seem more real, but that also seems to be the problem. My narcissism rages and my pride fills up my chest. Humility has taught me some great wisdom at great cost, but I'm weak in the presence of kind eyes and a warm smile. I'm weak in your presence.

Infatuation? Love? Interest? Love? Desire? LOVE? Lust? LOVE? Passion? LOVE?

I write these words, do I know their meaning?

I write infatuation. The start of all relationships. Your eyes meet mine. Eye to eye and nose to nose. You turn left while I turn right? Lip to lip? Yes my joy, yes, a kiss. Love?

Interest, I scrawl on my wrist though it can be read in every line and wrinkle of my body. When infatuation can survive its infancy, though a treacherous time, it grows stronger and less awkward. A baby flails its limbs in wayward circles as it waddles across the room. So it is as infatuation swings left to right yet forward towards interest. Love?

Desire my love, my Ashley. Your pages are filled with this - you know it well! You see my hopes, my fears, my joys and my pains, understanding them better than I. Desire grows from interest - that state of heart that flutters at your beckoning. You see it in my eyes. At times I think I see it in yours, but always accompanied by uncertainty (a feeling that plagues me deeper than God himself can fathom). Yet desire stands as a deep-rooted tree in an open field - exposed to changing winds. Will it stand strong? Love only knows. Love is omniscient right? Love?

Lust, the sex of life, you know that act so forbidden, so bemoaned, so wrong, so lovely. This, one branch of that tree so easily can be swayed by the changing winds. If I had any control of my self I would cut this son of a bitch off. I'd prune it down, so many problems arise from this branch. I have thee yet I need you. Lust, a single branch that dominates the whole damn tree if you let it. At times I forget I am said tree, losing myself as only a branch. If I let it, as I have before this tree will die. I will die. Love will die. Lust will conquer, but love conquers all? Love never fails? Could this be love?

If lust is not checked love is choked.
If lust is not checked love is choked.

How many times can I write this? It matters not - I know it. My experience teaches my mind. I know this stage - I married it. She had infatuation, interest, desire and lust. No love. I was dropped for her lust of another (and four more that she told me about). My branch cut right out from her tree. I died until I realized I was a tree myself.

The lust has subsided has it not? You and I still exist. Are we for real? Am I for real? Is this reality or is it in my mind? Is it my mind or is it existence?

Love - love can't be written. It can only be experienced. It can only be lived. It must be reality & REALITY. It must be truth and TRUTH. Do I? Do I not? Am I experiencing this or not?

On Being Happy

(Originally Written March 21, 2009 in the Journal)

On Being Happy

The Ocean is enormous. Its vastness is actually quite terrifying. The islands I see dotted give me comfort. So does the almost fluorescent blue of the more shallow parts. It is as if someone spilled giant paint cans on a deep blue canvas. The light blue is less horrific than the deep blue.

I'm not a poet, just a fraud. A mouth with words spewing out of it. I vomit feelings and spit out thoughts sloppily thrown together. I wish I could paint or draw to express myself. There is little satisfaction in filling a page with characters in a futile yet endless aim of expelling the nonsense in my head.

What is in me anyway? Don't go there, it's not fun. Besides it's all a jumble of poignant pointlessness. This would be so much more meaningful as a black line on a white canvas rather than a mishmash of ink dots on lined paper. What am I worrying about though? Who will ever read this?

Why do I go to dark places when I'm happy? Why can't I be inspired by beauty? Why must tragedy always occur befor3e I choose to write? This is my existential crisis! I can't be happy about my happiness.

Fred was an average guy. He liked stuff. he was optimistic and cheery. When things would go awry he would roll them off as if nothing happened. Minor setbacks or major flaws, it mattered not. It wouldn't stick to him.

He questioned this trait often enough though. It was unsatisfactory. How can one be so happy in an unhappy time? It was selfishness he told himself. Or maybe he was just shallow. Maybe nothing was important enough to him.

Fred and Sara dated for three years before Sara left him. She had been threatening to do it for the last year of (in his mind) healthy, normal relationship. It was a dramatic break-up, dividing groups of friends and all of that. Fred gave up the apartment, all the stuff and most of the friends and the cat. Sara gave up Fred.

The day after Sara left him he felt relieved. There was nothing she could hang over him anymore and Fred felt relief from this. Amazingly enough what he had been dreading for a year had happened and instead of being miserable, he was ecstatic.

With time now in major abundance in his life and nothing to hold him back he moved from Washington DC (where he loved to live) to Los Angeles (where he hated to visit). But his buddy was in Los Angeles and in need of a roommate.

As a salesman, Fred was marketable pretty much anywhere. He took a job as a retail manager in a fashion mall. It wasn't a dream job or anything but it paid well and gave him the opportunity to network. One has to have a job in order to find one. His dad had preached this to him since he was fifteen and it was engrained in him like some Confucian mantra.

Months went by and he grew closer to his buddy like they were in high school again. His brother was doing what he loved (graphic design) and Fred realized that surprisingly still, he was miserable. But Fred was himself quite content with a stable, albeit unfulfilling job. The irony of the situation burned in his mind for weeks until it finally forced its way out of his lips.

"Drew, you know I love you man. Why are you so unhappy? I just don't understand it. You've got an awesome set up here. You're doing what you said you wanted to do when we were kids, you have a great girlfriend, a cool apartment, everything seems to be going well but I can just see in the way you carry yourself that something's not right. You're unhappy."

Drew looked him square in the eye and said, "life is shit. What can you do?"

"I don't understand. Everything seems to be going so well with you right now."

"Appearances, life is all appearances. Sure, there is some beauty in this world, but beneath that veneer of glamour the world is one ugly motherfucker". Drew sighed, laughed to himself and took a big sip of pretentiously expensive red wine. "That's why I do my design. Beauty is vision and vision is shallow. Shallow pays big money."

That night Fred realized how different he and Drew were in the way they saw the world. Drew saw the beauty, counted it as plastic, shallow, formulaic and somehow sinister. Drew knew that behind all that plastic was an ugliness so appalling that it ruined everything. On the other hand, Fred saw only the ugly. He felt the beauty though. To him, beauty wasn't perception - it wasn't vision. It was beyond that. It was the experience. Life is full of experience he thought to himself, and thus, life is full of beauty.

This thought made him happy. But when he realized he was happy he felt guilty that he felt so happy and Drew was not. "I'm such a shallow person" was the last thing he said before drifting off to sleep.

A Little Memory To Pick Up The Pieces

(Originally written March 20, 2009 in the Journal)

To her:

A date? Was it? We had fun - there was definitely flirting. At the movies your arms were crossed most of the time, guarding your had from mine. But when you opened we got close. I told you my flirting techniques which is actually my best one. See the charm in this approach is you know what I'm doing and why, but it's safe. You can explore your feelings: search if there is anything there. Slowly, I'll grow on you; slowly, but steadily I'll win your heart. When it comes you'll neither know how it happened nor why it took so long to realize that these feelings you have for me are so encompassing. How could I have missed that? Ask yourself however many times you like, you'll never answer it.

To me:

A date? Overconfidence. Bafoonery. Your lies fool no one but yourself. There is no attraction, you are merely a safety net. See the time is coming, she will cry on your should, tell you how lonely she is, how what's his name has broken her heart- you know, that guy you warned her about for this very reason. But alas, you are no saint - you had ulterior motives. You wanted her for yourself.

Was it a date? At times it felt so, but others not so much. What is she thinking right now? Actually that doesn't matter because it's not about you. Do you think you've made the impression on her that lasts while you're not there? Nothing you've don would cause a lingering of you in her mind. My friend you are a mess. Set your sights lower.

I say to my soul, "be still my soul - be quiet my mind. Allow me to think!"

It answers back, "think not, simply be"

I am so many people in here. The divorce shattered me to pieces and now each fragment thinks for itself. Thousands of voices in my head vie for my undivided attention. How can I give it when I am so divided?

When she speaks to me the fragments speak not. They listen. When she touches my hand or arm or fixes my collar (which I leave messed up occasionally for her to fix - a confession) the pieces that constitute me form together. (A cliché - she completes me!)

No, that's not what I'm saying... How to put into words a felling I can't quite comprehend. The pieces offer their opinions: "love, excitement, lust, enticement, desire, ecstasy, enflaming, passion, teasing, agape, amore, mi amo! the sex! No, she's far too innocent!"

So I answer them back, "yes!"

They break into confusion, just noise.

Tell me about it. I am my parts. My parts are me. The one in the back you sit quietly. How can you be still at a time like this? All of us here are wrecked with a lack of understanding yet you sit stoic - unmoved, untouched.

I think this must be my reason, my logic. Hence, it is a small part of me. I call out to him, "logic, what say you?"

I am neither logic nor reason. I am simply a memory of a past era. I do not clamor about for I am neither confused nor frightened nor in need of panic", it retorts.

The room (that is, my mind) fell silent. All the fragments surrounded this tiny memory - pale, nearly see through but that somehow seemed to glow. Actually aside from fragments of me similar to this guy there were no other lights in the room. Everything had gone back when we spun into this chaotic state of mass confusion.

"You have a crush" the memory continued. "She excites you. Your heart races and your stomach flutters when she's near. It's that simple. Don't be so deep. This isn't philosophy".

Screams came from one side of the room while sighs of ease came from the other. The room became brighter in this instant as this simple memory seemed to collect a lot of pieces of me and fused them to his self. The pieces in the back of the room did not join this simple memory though. They were in fact fighting this unification. They were arguing with the simple memory and getting more frantic as it grew in size. They seemed more complex and I recognized their voices easier now. Countless warnings and alternative theories spewed from their lips. One of them suggested that they fuse together as a counter measure but they couldn't agree on anything except disagreeing with now large yet simple feeling.

I realized these voices were what kept me from sleeping at night. These were my doubts, my fears, my sense of inferiority, my pain, my shame, my skewed and slanted sense of logic. Their cries echoed in the room keeping me off balance. The glowing feeling then walked over to me. It smiled and whispered in my ear. "They will never be quiet, so go and live and enjoy.

The phone rings. Panic - it's her. The glowing feeling smiles while the scattered portion of me speak all at once. But me, as a near-whole for the first time in ages is calm, happy, free and really just myself again.

"Hello"

"Hi Fin, how are you?"

"I'm good and you?"

"Good. Hey I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner tonight. They just opened a new Greek place around the corner and I have nobody to go with".

"Sure, I'd love to. When should I pick you up?"

"Seven will be good."

"Great see you at seven".

"Alright, it's a date"

(It's a date!)

I could feel the glowing feeling smiling. The echoes of doubt still clamored in my mind begging to be heard, but I ignored them. I smiled with feeling.

A prayer from Haiti

(Originally Written February 25, 2009 in the Journal)

Today was awesome. We putzed around Port-au-Prince, Pétionville, and went to the Baptist Mission, and played with the children at the orphanage. This orphanage, if I understand correctly needs about $36,000 U.S. to operate a year. They receive only about $12,000. They need a new laptop because the old one was stolen. There is so much need in this world. Why can I do nothing about it?

Lord I feel so compelled to get the ball rolling for mission work like this. I'm good at getting people to open up their wallets - why can I do it for you? Lord I'm going to try and raise money for them. If I am successful then I know you will show me a way to do this more permanently.

I have a new idea to open up a missionary service that provides funds for missionaries. Lord the harvest is great and the workers few and the money even more sparse. Help me in this.

Poem #1

(Originally Written February 25, 2009 in the Journal)

Poem 1

The sun is setting my dear.
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.

So I went to Haiti today. I'm in Port-au-Prince right now! I came with Ms. Erin Adams and Cindy Hundley - a true motley crew we are. We're staying at an orphanage run by one of Erin's friends.

This is pretty amazing. I love traveling, but it was an arduous trip taking nearly twelve hours to get from Jarabacoa to here solely by gua-gua. They had dinner ready for us: chicken, potatoes and carrot, and a salad consisiting of lettuce, tomato, onion and a leafy green that reminded me of parsley but had a spicy after taste.

Well, I think I'm ready for bed. It's been a long day. By the way, Erin becomes more amazing the more I get to know her.

I didn't eat the chicken because I've given up meat for lent.

Lord, the Nazirite vow I took taught me very little. I failed you Lord. Out of this abstaining Lord I hope to gain insight on your true purpose for my life.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost but now am found.
Twas blind but now I ssee.

Poem 1

The sun is setting my dear,
The sun is setting.
Tomorrow, I will wake anew.

The Classic Nice-Guys Finish Last Victimization Story As Told from a Nice Guy's Perspective

(Originally Written February 24, 2009 in the Journal)

So I’m not really effeminate I’ve just always gotten along better with girls rather than guys. I love sports, I mean I watch at least two sportscenters a day. I go to games a lot, and play as much as time allows. I like to call myself well-rounded – the guy who does hockey and When Harry Met Sally.
I like women. I love women. Sure, When Harry Met Sally is a complete chickflick but when Meg Ryan (my old as mom crush) does that thing in the restaurant I mean come on – how can any guy not love this movie.

But always I find myself swimming in this vast ocean of female friends who treat me like another wave rather than the barracuda I imagine myself to be. My greatest fear in all of this is that someday I’ll be sitting there with my friends (all girls) and they’ll begin to assess me on the female datability scale. I know this fear well – it’s been with me now for nearly 12 years.

Travel back with me, 1997 – Freshman year of high school

So there I am sitting in Mr. Genter’s biology class minding my own business or wandering off into some parallel universe in my head when ol’ Gentsy gets this look in his eye that an atom bomb just went off in his innards and excuses himself in remarkably quick fashion for a guy hitting 70 who has just had his insides nuked.

So my asshole of a best friend yells out to Beatrice Worthington what she thought of me. “Hey Beadie” he yelled. She ignored him because she hated being called Beadie. It was actually a nickname I maliciously gave her in the third grade because she had one eye whose pupil was about a fourth of the other one. I had never seen someone’s heart break before that day and even though she annoyed the hell out of me I worked to fabricate a friendship out of this wreck I cause and protected her from a lot of unnecessary berating. I felt especially convicted of this duty when people called her Beadie.

“Hey Beadie” he repeated. More silence and finally he said her name in full, “Hey BE-UH-TRUST”. She knew that was as close as she was gonna get out of him.

 “Yes Anthony?” She replied in a fully proper way. Beatrice wasn’t Amish though we all looked at her that way until it was finally explained to us that she was from a conservative Mennonite family. She always were a bonnet, plain blouse, and ankle length dresses. I’m sure she wore shoes but I didn’t pay them much attention or ever think about it until just this instance.

In addition to dressing very old-fashioned she spoke irritatingly proper English and always called people by their full names. This really got under my skin because having a couple of pot-head hippie scumbag parents they wrote down my name when they were high at my all herbal, all homeopathic submerged birth festival. (Yeah, I was born underwater with about 14 other kids to hippies at the commune). No docs or meds allowed, just a little acid and a ton of pot. So the parents wrote down babies’ names on the official documents and placed them all in a hat. Then different sets of parents drew the documents out of the hat and turned them into the government. At my birth festival there were fifteen kids born, eleven girls and four boys. Miraculously the three other boys all got boy names. My name, Bryan Mark went to some unfortunate girl who I think goes by Bri. Her name, Candice Ashly got so wonderfully tagged tom.

“Beadie, whaddya think of my boy Ash there. He was telling me the other day that you don’t get the credit you deserve. I think he’s working up the nerve to ask you out”. Laughter erupted in the class as Beatrice turned from pale white to a light pink.

Not to make me look like a saint in anyway but I risked a lot of my reputation on being nice to her. I never was a real jerk to anyone, well not intentionally, or not without some comedic purpose, but I wasn’t overly nice to anyone I didn’t see as capable of improving my status. Shallow but typical, I’ve grown out of a lot of my usury and will pay my time in purgatory someday undoubtedly.

Beatrice had actually acknowledge this fact a number of times before, especially in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. Some of this was probably self-preservation on her part but she offered me a release of her and my duty forbade it. A noble guy I wasn’t but, this was one I did right.

Embarrassed by my friend’s jackassery I looked at Beatrice awaiting some relief. I didn’t get it. Instead I got the origin of my phobia – the female datability scale.

“Ashly is wonderful. He’s like a big brother to me but not really boyfriend material”. Her eyes smiled at me as if she had alleviated me from an embarrassing situation. But as an even great clamor of laughter erupted in the classroom her eyes darkened as mine must have imploded. “Not boyfriend material”.
Fast forward with me to 2002. After four years of high school and a few shallow, short-lived relationships and a monstrous best-friend crush fiasco I survived and I went off to school.
I became real close friends with this girl a friend of mine had dated. After they broke up we became even closer friends. That friend moved away after one semester and Meredith and I spent all our time together. It was like we were dating, best friends, and brother and sister all at once. During finals week of the second semester we were together all the time. We slept in the same bed (a twin) and even showered together a couple of times. The tension was there, beyond anything I had ever felt.

There we were, completely naked, chest to chest, about an inch from each other’s lips saying some of the most filthy perverted things imaginable. A pause. She closed her eyes and curved her mouth into a wicked smile. Her tongue licked all around my lips as she put both hands on my shoulders. My body shook in anticipation.
She ran her hands down my chest into my stomach. I opened my mouth and breathed in deep. Closing my eyes I peered up at the ceiling. Moaning playfully her hands criss-crossed over my stomach ever inching further south and crossing my back she grabbed my hips. Yanking me in she bit my shoulder causing me to wince out in pleasurable pain, my eyes focused down on her. Biting her bottom lip she took her hands and grabbed my ass and dug in her nails.

“Like that?” she whispered with a sexuality I had never noticed in her before.
I could only throat laugh and choke out a “yeah”.
She giggled, kissed me on the cheek and said, “I bet you do”. I was stunned as she got out of the shower and dried off. I couldn’t move out of the shower. “Take your time, I’ll be out here” she mocked, shutting the door behind her.

Had this been anyone else I would have never have talked to them again. As it stood though, she was my best friend and could get away with anything. She owned me and knew it.
Our last day in the dorm that year she told me she felt guilty about earlier in the week and wanted to make it up to me. My mind raced on all the possibilities and two front row tickets to a Cubs game seemed pretty fair.
Over the summer we worked at summer camps. She worked in California and I worked in Michigan. I had a fun yet pointless summer fling and she fell madly in love with a guy who was no good for her. We didn’t talk all summer but she was so excited to tell me about him when we got back to school.

That semester we were close but it was different. She was really unhappy and stressed out all semester long. He was cheating on her and she knew it, but her love was so deep she said. They broke up over Christmas and she was thinking about dropping out of school. I drove up to her parents in Chicago on December 23rd to talk her out of it. I promised my parents I’d be back for Christmas but Meredith needed me more. My mom still lays a heavy guilt trip on me every Christmas.

So Meredith and I were together every day and night that semester. We grew close again and Meredith was happy. I was happy. Life was good. No, life was great. One night we were watching Law & Order. I rolled to my right because my left arm was asleep. Just at that moment she rolled to her left to tell me something. I was quicker so her nose fell right on top of mine. She was so close I could barely focus my eyes on her.
“Hi”, her warm sweet breath fell on my lips.

“Hi”, I retorted.
That was the best kiss I ever had. I threw my left arm over her in somewhat awkward fashion (it was still asleep) and it came crashing down on the night stand. My hand took in the remote and turned off the soothing sounds of Jack McCoy’s closing arguments so I could focus on this gorgeous woman wrapping her tongue around mine.
We made out for three hours straight that night. I’m not sure how we even breathed. Just passionate kissing. This went on for two weeks. Every night we made out and it was fantastic.

One night the kissing went deeper and grew more passionate. It was exceptionally hot that night and we were already fairly naked. I reached up the back of her tanktop and undid her bra while she took off her shirt. Whispering in my ear she said, “I don’t want this to mess up our friendship”.
“Ok”, I said, slowing down and resigning myself to more Law and Order. She straddled me when I rolled onto my back and leaned in for a kiss. Taking her shirt from the bottom she raised it over her head. Passion became lust and sex filled my mind. She ran her nails down my chest to my belt line and grasped at the waist of my boxers with her finger tips. She looked at me in the eyes and I saw hesitation. Fear struck me stiff. She was pondering that female datability scale.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this”.
“Ok”. My lips spoke words my heart could not comprehend. It was dead. She got dressed and I walked her to the door. We didn’t speak for two weeks. She started to see someone else. We fell away more and more until we hardly spoke.

It had been three or four months since we had talked. We were now seniors and just two weeks from graduation. At a mutual friend’s house we had both popped in for a drink. A cocktail of nostalgia and mixers took over and we sat there and talked for hours. Her and Mike (the guy she started dating right after we began the gradual drift apart) had broke up after a year and a half. I was ever single. She had a good job lined up, I didn’t.

The party wound down but we felt up for more nostalgia. She came over to my apartment, commented on my stagnant taste in design and I opened a bottle of Merlot. She fake slapped me and kissed my ear.

“You know wine makes me horny”, she laughed a little. “You’re just trying to take advantage of me”. I had actually honestly forgotten that she had told me that wine made her horny.

We made out again that night. The passion was gone.  Every once and awhile she calls me or emails me. Friendly how-are-yous, nothing more. We’re cordial but not close. I think she’s married now, but I’ve lost touch with most of my college friends.
So back to the present. I’m a bundle of relationship disappointments and a serious inferiority complex wrapped in a sheer veneer of overconfidence. I’ve got one good guy friend from work, Dave. We hang out. We play tennis, hit the movies, or bars. Then there’s Jamie, my closest friend. She’s amazing. Other than that my social network is more about business ties.
I’m good at what I do. My job is great – good hours, even better money. My apartment is fantastic, like one of those out of a magazine. Gloria, my cleaning woman, is to thank for that fact.
When I hang out with larger groups its with Dave’s or Jamie’s friends. I like Jamie’s better.
Just last week I was out with Jamie when Denise called her up. There was a wine and cheese affair later that night. Jamie wasn’t Meredith (more of a beer and a game girl). Jamie was uptown. I pretended to be too, so I went to the party.
Jamie was my ride and she was clean-up duty for the party. Afterwards we sat around knocking off the remainder of the wine. Then it happened:
“He’s so cute. He’s sweet. He’s stable. He’s perfect.”
“He’s too cute. I love him so much”.
I was in the kitchen doing dishes and picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. Basically Denise was trying to convince Jamie of why we were a perfect couple.
“It’s a lost cause you know”, I chimed in rounding the corner. I had left on the apron to encourage a laugh. Jamie’s laugh was intoxicating and put my mind at ease. I knew this was potentially awkward so I needed a buffer – laughter.

We sat and talked for twenty minutes. Plenty of laughter – not too much awkward silence, but enough for an inroad on a conversation in the car.
“You know, Denise is right. We’re perfect together.” I smiled and looked over at me. She had a look in her eyes of sadness, excitement and slight disapproval. (Tell tale sign that the female datability gauge was firing up). Fear gripped me.

The signs of that gauge change as women mature but I know the look well. I’ve seen it at thirteen, nineteen and now here at twenty-five. (I had seen it many other times but these three left the most telling marks on me). I wish this was a hollywood romantic comedy. That way Meredith would bump into me tomorrow and I’d all of a sudden be conflicted between Meredith and Jamie. Jamie or Meredith or both would get jeaulous and eventually Jamie and I would have a gorgeous ceremony and Meredith would be the best man for me. Sadly, this is my life, not a romantic comedy.
Jamie pulled up to my building, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “We’re on for tomorrow right?”
“Of course! It’s not Sunday without our non-date lunch date!” I still pressed further than I should have.
“Good night Ash”.
“Good night Jamie”.

 (The Classic Nice-Guys Finish Last Victimization Story as Told from a Nice Guy’s Perspective)

Some thoughts on Divorce and New Love interests

(Originally Written February 23, 2009 in the Journal)

So I found out what I was suspecting. She is dating again. I'm loosed from my chains. This marriage was a prison. The relationship had its highs and a piece of my heart will always be hers but not as my wife (my wife was not the woman I married). Like a first love, a fondness for a high school romance. That's all it was - we were just older. Nothing more, nothing less, but not insignificant.

I've written a lot in here cryptically about feelings for someone. I'm not sure if I have them or better yet, I'm not sure how rooted or strong they are. I feel freer, happier than I have in years. Yesterday I woke in such a glory that not even a hangover could have spoiled my mood. I had fun, not mere enjoyment or a lack of fain, but actual fun.

The divorce is over. It was hard, but I am hopeful. Every bit of separation I feared to be hard was monstrously difficult and left gashes though my soul and heart yet...

Yet is the most powerful word in the English language, in my somewhat humble opinion. Yet is the power we have. Life comes crashing down brandishing the weapons of destruction, yet I carry on even in times of slavery. Yet, I am happy. Yet, I have joy. Yet, I am not conquered. Yet, when these deep wounds and gashes heal I feel more alive.

There is some anger, maybe even some hate in my heart. There a whole mindset of women out their who will now write me off. There is a stigma. I wonder if she dons this philosophy as protective gear. Maybe I shall find out or maybe I am still too afraid to move on a feeling like this. I don't fear I will have a hard time committing. I fear the opposite. Maybe I'll come too strong and scare her away or worse still we'll be married and I'll find another woman who I've married is not the woman I dated.

That's an odd sentence.

I dream of love

(Originally Written February 18, 2009 in the Journal)

Late at night I sit in my bed wishing to sleep. I scrawl this out, possibly a short story, possibly just for you Ashley.

Me: Can I ask you a question?
You: Sure, go ahead.
Me: Do you think I'm damaged goods?
You: (laughing) What does that mean?
Me: You know, I'm 25 and divorced. I couldn't make the marriage last. From the perspective of a woman... am I damaged goods?
You: Wow, that's a hard question. I mean, I know you; I know your story. I don't really understand how you feel, but I wouldn't say it's all your fault.
Me: (thinking: a classic dodge/stroke my ego a bit, thanks. I love the effort, but don't fully buy it). But if you were looking for a husband, I mean we're not old but were at that age when everyone says, 'When, I wonder when they're gonna get married...' I mean - - not you and I, but generally speaking...not that I wouldn't marry you but you know (nervous laughter) [my head implodes a bit, did you just realize I love you?]
You: (laughing) Oh so you don't want to marry me, or do you? If you don't, that hurts Chris.

A long pause happens. Both Ashley and I feel uncomfortable with the silence. We've been friends now for almost a year and working in such a close knit environment makes it feel like it's been even longer. The uncomfortable pause breaks with her voice.

You: Chris, you know I don't like you like that... I like Steve.

There's an awkward laugh because this line is drawn directly from our skit from a few months back. But, somewhere along the way I realized that I do like you like that. You're attractive - your red hair/infectious smile, your alarming sense of humor coupled with your deeper than expected laugh, the way you hug me or run your fingers through my hair, all these things you've done subconsciously as just a part of your being - your beautiful irresistible personality. My God I love you! You have no idea of what kind of effect you've had on me. The impact is deep. I married her because she gave me affection/she gave me love (however shallow it may have been), a sense of love I'd never felt before. I groan for it everyday (you give it to me). Do you do it on purpose? We click so well... but do I like you? Do I love you? I'm so fucking confused. [I wish I could tell you this/I'm free enough to express my feelings right now]. I think I love you but it's just so soon. My divorce was only a few months ago, but I separated a year and a half ago and my marriage was a sham. In two years I had a wife for two weeks - maybe (probably) less. I feel so alone and you my darling are the only woman who has shown me genuine (and I assume not totally platonic) affection since my dating years over four years ago - a lifetime for me. I don't know, every time we're alone I feel like we're a couple but when we're in a group we're brother and sister/ more like step-brother and step-sister/kind of like a Greg & Marsha... a bit of sexual tension (at least in my mind).

By the way, Steve is asleep beside me on the couch. He's the one I blame for making me realize I love you. He planted the seed. I only looked at you as the coolest girl I know/but he ... he said we looked good. He said it over and over and over until I said, maybe? Just maybe? You, you obviously are out of my league. Sure I'm self-deprecating, self-loathing and yet overly sure of myself, but look at you and look at me.

I can't answer your quip. I can't answer your joke. It would require realness. It would require me to allow you to see my feelings (weakness for you). Why is it that I fall deeper in love with you as I talk this out? Though I've imploded before I explode in my mind this time. Too much stimulation. I see two mutually exclusive outcomes to this.

(As a side note this is to E.A. You'll either be E.L. someday or I'll block your memory because it'll be too painful).

I love you. I think I love you. That Terrifies me.

Two scenarios: We're gonna kiss or you're gonna break my heart.

You: It would be hard to be involved with a divorced man. Plus, we're great friends. I wouldn't want to jeopardize that.
Me: I know right, what could we do?
You: I just don't think I'm interested in you.
Me: Thanks for preemptively shutting me down. This conversation has been most enlightening (my heart is breaking). You know... life is real... not every story comes with a happy ending. [rejection. again.]

My mind was so busy. I was so preoccupied that I didnt' realize that you moved in closer. We are kissing. How long have we been kissing? We're making out. There's something different. I can't put my finger on it. All I see is white. My knees lock. I'm looking up now. This makes no sense. What's that? Your finger? It's shiny.

What a dream.

I'm alone in bed. There's a crackling sound. The aroma o f bacon overwhelms my nostrils. I love bacon, but not as much as you (fake vegetarian).

We're married. Is this fantasy? Is this life? I love you/you love me. We're happy. Together. At the beach. It is a happy ending. We're kissing. It's unexpected from both ends. We're kissing. We're kissing. You're not breaking my heart.

Me: I love you
You: I love you

Is this a dream? Will I wake alone? Is this a dream or fantasy? Is this real? Is it 2009? Is it 2005?

Drunk? Too drunk to write? Is this fiction? you're touching me. This is too real to be a dream. I'm in love.

Joseph Flannigan and alcohol

(Originally Written February 15, 2009 in the Journal)

Joseph: "See, me and alcohol have this symbiotic relationship. They need me to keep buyin' em and I need 'em to keep forgetting the past so I can live in the present."

Narrator: "A bit too drunk to write eh?"

Joseph: "Sure, why not?"

Joseph Flannigan goes to the Habitaciones

(Originally Written February 14, 2009 in the Journal)

An excerpt from Habitaciones

After all the revelry and madness of Cabarete Joseph decided it was time to follow his self-imposed dictum and go to the Habitaciones con Banos. When he awoke at seven the next morning he felt like ripping his eardrums out to stop their pulsating rhythm that seemed to magnify the trob of pain in his head with each thud.

"It's too early for this" he said to himself. As he closed his eyes he imagined two miniature versions of himself on his shoulders. The one on the left, clad in red and clutching a pitchfork urged him to sleep while the one on the right, draped in a white bath robe urged him up. Joseph listened to neither of his mini-selfs but didn't feel like actually dealing with his subconscious turning his actual conundrum into a rehearsing of some Looney Toons medley. He got up out of bed, grabbed some hair of the dog and showered.

Normally drinking off a hangover usually struck a nerve in his conscious, but his conscious was so overloaded by his week of flesh that this minor offense slid through the cracks. After showering he headed to Dick's for breakfast. The very smell of food made him nauseous and intensified his headache. He grabbed a beer from the colmado next door instead and drained it with a thousand milligrams of aspirin.

A taxi drove him to Sosua. A bus drove him from Sosua to Puerta Plata - from Puerta Plata to Santiago -  and finally from Santiago to La Vega. He was asleep when they arrived to La Vega and almost got stuck on the way to Santo Domingo. Luckily, a child no older than five fell down in the aisle next to his seat and screamed. The thumping resulted at a quickening pace as Joseph's eyes nearly exploded from opening so quickly at the disturbance.

It took a second for him to come to the realization that he was in La Vega. He collected his stuff and exited the cool bus into hot 0 though not Sosua hot - and stale air of the city. He hopped in a cab and headed for the habitaciones. The driver stared at him for a second to study Joseph's features. His eyes told Joseph that this was the first time a white tourist had ever asked to be taken there. How one gets that from somebody's eyes is unknown, but Joseph knew it intuitively.

Ten minutes later the driver dropped him off at the place. It seemed to Joseph it was even more rundown than he remembered. The lawn was wild, overrun by tall, thick grass. Joseph wondered if some large animal was lurking in there waiting for something or someone to invade its guarded territory.

Joseph carried his things to the door marked "oficina". Setting his things down to knock the door flung open at an alarming pace. A bare potbelly with other features greeted him. There were a lot of features that Joseph could have noticed about this man - his metallic gray hair sandwiching a shiny coffee tinted head or his exotically blue eyes or the fact that this Dominican man was as tall and broad as he'd ever seen a Dominican be, but his midsection, which protruded out over his belt in a semi-cockeyed fashion demanded Joseph's first glance.

All of this stunned Joseph and it took him longer than usual to change his English thought process into audible Spanish. Just as the words escaped his lips they stopped. The steely blue eyes of this forty-something or older or younger for that matter - Dominicans seem to age either spectacularly well or the opposite and Joseph simply could not mentally age them so he gave himself a 30 year margin of error. But the eyes struck Joseph as exceptionally odd.

"Yeah. My eyes are blue. My mother was half-German. What can I do for you?

Whenever Joseph was attempting to translate his English thoughts into Spanish words and someone spoke English to him the whole thought process in his head derailed. Joseph stammered back that he needed a room for a week.

The guy seem surprised. Like the first taxi driver he encountered the quarter German, fully Dominican (as Joseph learned from the man's drunken tirade the next night) was expecting Joseph was looking for something a bit more illicit. However, the man obliged Joseph with a room for 150 pesos for a week.

Joseph sat his bags down in disbelief inside the room. The dilapidated outside of the building hid a pleasant room with a clean, queen sized bed and a table and a fairly ornate wooden chair. The bathroom, despite lacking a showerhead, was more than acceptable. In his mind Joseph expected the place to house a wooden frame with no mattress, a hole in the ground to squat over and a host of cockroach roommates. Joseph was overcome with thoughts. Part of him was relieved and pleased with his surroundings while the other - and drastically smaller part, was disappointed that he was not disgusted by the room. That part of him was counting on squalor to be an inspiration for writing.

The Habitaciones aren't quite in La Vega, an overgrown town full of factories and motorcycle mechanics. It's on the way from La Vega to Jarabacoa, a more peaceful and scenic mountain village. The Habitaciones are in a town called Jagua Gorda. There's not much there, just the Habitaciones and a couple of colmados.

It was peaceful during the late afternoon and early evening. Joseph popped out of his room about 8:30 to get a little bottle of Brugal to help him sleep through then night as he didn't have a TV or radio for background noise. By the time he had got back to his room the ladies of the night had come out. He had to avoid them with all of his might as they were even more persistent than the beach patrolling cigar salesmen. One of them, a pretty girl, was standing by his door.

As he walked up he planned his escape in his head. On arriving he opened his mouth to speak but before a single word escaped his lips she greeted him with a smile and stepped aside. The smile nailed him to the earthy pathway he was walking on. He stared at her with a goofy, yet charmingly boyish smile. She laughed and told him to have a nice evening before walking away.

Joseph, now aware of his surroundings again continued to the door. It was an awkward few steps and his feet felt like cinderblocks and his legs moved as if they were composed of jello. Like any red-blooded man Joseph enjoyed a good looking woman, but he was always incapacitated by a good looking woman's smile.

[In a gua-gua again and headed back home. Impossible to write]

More structuring of Joseph Flannigan

(Originally Written February 13, 2009 in the Journal)

First 14 Days:
- Drunk Night/buys ticket to Santiago
-Airplane fiasco on the Way
-Arrives in Santiago
-Nightmare about ex-Wife
-Goes to Cabarete to hit the beach
    -Lots of drinking/partying
    -Sex with four strangers (doubling his numbers in a week)
    -Writes to Angela
    -Final Rendezvous with a girl from first night (MB-Swede)
-Decides to finally go to Habitaciones after 12 days
-Habitaciones description and Hooker "Rosalina Ordonez"
-Eats lunch with Rosalina, ponders Pretty Woman scenario
    -I'm not Richard Gere and she's not Julia Roberts
    -This ends with him having to pay hustler named "Pete" for Rosalina's time

[The girl across the restaurant keeps staring at me. Freaky-freaky is all that I can think of. Not that I'm interested, she just has that look that the girls at the beach had. I'm still enthralled with the woman from the gua-gua yesterday] Can I use this?

Day 15 - Nothing written except scribbles of the ocean sounds and a note to Angela. Shops for three days of supplies. Locks himself in room to write. Goes crazy. Writes nothing. Fourth day leaves to go to Santo Domingo for inspiration. Angela's double. Stays in a hostel and meets three girls from Peacecore. One (in his mind) is a dead ringer for Angela. Hangs out with them for a couple of nights discussing politics/love/philosophy over rum and cokes and café con leche. Mind is fixated on Angela's double (guilt/remorse from Cabarete and anger at break up)

Day 17 - Shocking realization: goes to internet café with new pics of him and peacecore girls to put up on facebook. Sees pics of them and old pics with Angela. Realizes they look nothing alike. In fact they sound and act nothing alike. Every girl he meets he compares to Angela - which either makes them fall short or pisses him off. With this realization the pent up frustration flakes off him and he feels freer than he has since youth

Day 18 - Cabarete part 2 - Goes back to Cabarate, hotel for sale. Contemplates giving up writing and buying a hotel. Decides against it. Heads to Santiago after a night.

Day 19 - A novel in a night.

He sits in the first hotel in a somewhat paradoxical mood. He is happy because he is emotionally free again. he is sad because he hasn't written a page. Suddenly he realizes he should just tell the story of his last three weeks. Pages fly by as he relives the past in detailed prose. Of course it would have to be proofed and polished, but it just flows out like lava. It oozes from his pen at such a rate he fears he will ignite the paper. "My name is Joseph Flanagan and I would like to tell you the story of how I rediscovered myself amidst pure chaos in the Dominican Republic..." Narrator: "He skipped his flight to finish the book. After nearly 45 straight hours of writing he had written his rough sketch and felt proud of it. I'd love to be able to say that it was received by the publisher with awe and enjoyment but I can't. I don't know. I'll let you know in the next book".

Yours Truly,

Joseph Flanagan

A Possible Structuring of Joseph Flannigan

(Originally Written Feb 12, 2009 in the Journal)

Whenever I see the numerical code 666 in my everyday life I get nervous that I am the anti-Christ. I've never told that to anyone. I wonder if I am alone in this fear or if others share it with me.

This bus is freezing. By bus, I mean gua-gua. I'm heading to Santiago to get some Pollo Victorinos. It's been raining for a week solid. I'm completely depressed.

I'm struggling with spiritual apathy and lust issues. I'm certain the two are connected. I need to overcome one and the other will resolve itself. I should take C.S. Lewis' advice and "focus on heaven and earth will sort of just be thrown in". That's a paraphrasing, but it captures the essence.

This is fairly personal stuff I'm writing, albeit some discombobulated ramblings. There's a guy next to me in a yellow oxford shirt looking into this book reading every word. I'd be intensely offended if we (my book and I) were in America, but I doubt he can read English, let alone my chicken scratch.

Salvation ain't a woman.

You ain't gonna find salvation in her.

You are dead to her (my journal says to me).

Move on.

You ain't gonna find salvation in her.

Salvation ain't a woman.

(A Poem from Collected Thoughts and Scattered Dreams)

- Part of the unfinished book of poems by Joseph Flannigan

Have you ever tried to write in a moving vehicle on an ill-maintained road? It becomes increasingly more and more frustrating. I need to get a recorder.

I have just decided to name each of my writing journals by a woman's name beginning with A and ending with Z. This being the first, shall be called Ashley - in honor of the Ashley I played with as a child, not the Ashley I dated as a sophomore. Not that there is anything wrong with that Ashley, nor do I wish her any malice.

Dear Ashley,

You are my first, so be gentle.

Love,

Christopher

"Oh Ashley, I can read you like a book!"

Enough of the stupid jokes - I feel carsick and claustrophobic.

Alright, so I'm out of the gua-gua. I'm in Santiago at the Pollo Victorino's. Habitaciones con Banos is moving along. Chapters keep spilling out. It's nice and exciting actually. But I don't have much of a direction... Hows about some structuring?

Chapter 1 - Introduction of Joseph

Chapter 2 - Supplies shopping and flight

Chapter 3 - Arriving in Santiago

Chapter 4 - Dream

Chapter 5 - Cabarete

Chapter Z - Writing ridiculous three weeks calling it "Three Weeks of Frivolity - Rediscovering myself in a chaotic holiday to the Caribbean"

I think I've got a good thing going, I'm just unsure of how to get to the end.





Letters of the Alphabet

(Originally Written February 11, 2009 in the Journal)

Did you ever think about language and the alphabet?  Who could have ever decided that "A" came before "Z" and that "Q" had a purpose or that each letter could represent a number of sounds by positioning the tongue, lips and the mouth in certain patterns and forcing out air. I don't know, the thought just popped in my head.

Joseph Flannigan - A letter never meant to be mailed

(Originally Written February 4, 2009 in the Journal)

Habitaciones chapter 5

Random thoughts: you can't find salvation in a woman... pass me that bottle there.

Joseph woke from his dream, feeble yet refreshed.

*I apologize to my future typist self for the handwriting...moving bus.

A letter never meant to be mailed

Dearest Angela,

They put a photograph of you in the main gathering place. You don't look too pleased in it. You have a contrived, half smile in it. You look very sad and angry in it, that look you get when something didn't go as you had planned. I know that look well, you gave me it for months as our marriage was falling apart.

I wonder what you are doing these days. Occasionally, though not as frequently as I once did, I check up on you. Facebook and blogs are such anonymous ways of emotional sharing. It is safe and dangerous all at once. I took you off mine (as I'm sure you're well aware of) - I just wanted to say I didn't do so because I was angry or hate you, but because this knowledge is too much for me to bear.

When you left me I felt relieved at first. This giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. No more threats, no more suspicions or doubts. Only one reality, albeit one monstrously ugly, universe crushing fact: you no longer love me and I am alone. I guess I'll take this reality over doubt though.

It took time for me to fully realize this. I moved from a sense of relief to a sentiment of happiness. The more I ponder on this feeling the more I realize it was just emotional and spiritual shock at the life just hemorrhaging out of my soul. My head spun a lot and I searched for ways to reassert my individuality. I lost all sense of individualness in our relationship. Whether that was from you stealing it from me or me forfeiting it, or a combination thereof I still don't know, nor do I think it matters much at this point.

While reconfiguring myself as an individual entity again I realized how many things of my own personhood I hated. There is my neurosis, my lethargy, my existential crisis at the face of my loneliness, my obsessive nature when it comes to just about everything I pour myself into, as well as a host of other things. Most of all I especially hate my insomnia.

Back when we were together my insomnia wasn't any better, it was the same. Maybe even worse. That said, it was easier to cope with because you were next to me. For hours on end I would just look at you, memorizing your breathing patterns, studying the curves of your body, watching your lips curl into half-smiles or frowns. Eventually I could gauge your morning's mood by observing your subconscious moments. Now when I wake I lie in an empty bed and fully comprehend the meaning of loneliness.

It hasn't been all bad though. You know as well as I do (or better) I always paint the landscape a more sinister shade than nature has. I don't know maybe this time I'm accurate. The world contrives to spin but I sink deeper into this hole you dug for me - so deep I can't seem to climb out or even find the motivation to do so. I HATE YOU!

(Joseph steps away for a bit)

I don't hate you. I'm sorry. It's been so long since we've been together but I haven't dealt with it. I've brushed off everything with humor. My jokes and quips have become ever more self-deprecating in the past few moths.

I still battle alcohol. I can't go into a bar anymore because I never know what will happen. The last time I went into a bar I drank until I blacked out. The next morning, or rather afternoon, I realized I had bought a plane ticket to Santiago. I figured, what the hell, why not go?  So here I am sitting on the beach trying to overcome a deep sense of loss and a clinical case of writer's block. All I can think is to write is love letters to you. It's all very depressing.

I replay our divorce proceedings over and over in my head. We signed papers, had them notarized and parted with cordial goodbyes. As I walked away I said, "I'll always still love you". Choking back the tears I walked away. In my fantasies though I either express my true thoughts or you reply more favorably. You blurt back, "I'll always still love you"!

Turning around, dramatically slow I peer into your face with sadness. I sigh deeply. "Angela", I say, "you have never loved me. You used me to achieve a certain set of needs, when your needs changed you discarded me. You don't understand the meaning of love. I don't fault you for it and I forgiv3e everything. I never want to see you again - not because I don't love you, but because I love you. I would fall back into your arms again and again only to be discarded at will. I can't go through this again."

At this point in my fantasies one of two things happen. The first is you realize the errors of your ways and we come out stronger in the end. The second, and more likely scenario if I had said what I just wrote is that you spit in my face and walk away. I then leave.

So here is my letter to you. I've written hundreds of them. I never save them. I fold them, put them in an addressed envelope and drive or walk to the post office (you remember walking from the campus to the post office how we would always grab pops at the gas station and we'd always carry exact change and then that one time the price had gone up? We could only get one that time. I couldn't get my Diet Coke if you got your Pepsi and you couldn't get your Pepsi if I got my Diet Coke. We got Dr. Pepper and split it with two straws. I guess you got tired of Dr. Pepper and splitting things huh? Once I get to the post office though I can't follow through. I go back home, with a quick stop for a Diet Coke, and burn the letters in the kitchen sink.

I'll always still love you,

Joseph

A bust of a day

(Originally Written Jan 10, 2009 in the Journal)

I don't know how much time I have left on this island. My purpose here may be coming to a close. Thus, I have decided I will expedite my explorations. I have a concho. I have an urge to see things. I have a pen and a notebook. I have a camera and a memory card. Here we go.

So I went to La Confluenzia. It's on the outskirts of Jarabacoa. It's a little dilapidated. It's where the two rivers merge.

There were about ten children on horses. They wanted me to ride their horses, each of them came up and asked me - even after I had told the first three no. I didn't feel like spending the money. Then once I pulled out my camera a couple of the pushier caballeros came over to take a picture of me on their horse. I snapped a couple pictures but didn't stay long because the kids wouldn't leave me a lone.

After leaving the Confluenzia I went out to Salto Jimenoa. Salto Jimenoa is just past Hato Viejo and to the right. Salto Jimenoa is a waterfall. I didn't go see it though because I didn't have much cash on me. Overall today was a bust. I did get some pictures of one really cool house though.