Burning

His name was Clive and with such an interesting name you would imagine a leather glad, enigmatic ladies' man or a slack jawed yokel ogling ladies much too young but Clive rested somewhere in between. His stomach rested a little too far past his belt, he clothes a little too loose to his frame, and the circles around his eyes a little too dark to be mistaken for a healthy man. He was just an every man in every sense of the word.

Clive was all too keen on what he was and his worth upon this Earth. A man of the earth, lower case mind you, his momma would tell him. For earth and dirt were not low things but rather were the things that like sprung from. Without the cool embrace of rich soil to protect, where would the seeds begin to find root? Where would the mighty tree stand firm? Where would the grasses and vegetables that nourish beast and man sortin from? Clive knew his place was one of quiet dignity over glamorous bravado. Clive was a man of Earth.

Come one spring, from soil well tilled by Clive, a son sprouted. A son, who like the trees and vegetation before him, grew well with Clive's engrave. Watered with knowledge and sunned with love from a quiet but hearty family, the son blossomed into well grown stock.

Others were not as lucky though. For with every prize winner, there is loser prized even if by just chance alone. Clive's son had a foil, an opposite birthed and named not too far from himself but raised in such a way as to be considered further than light is said to be from dark. The soils which bore the foil were dry, and cold, and full of hard rocks that cut. The foil was raised mean and alone.

Two men, born unto this world similarly but raised as if one were alien to each other are where this story takes place. Clive and his son Patrick and the foil, Steven.

Interlude from Dynaman

The world was always shit. I'm talking about that nihilistic young guns like to spout from the hip to make themselves sound cool, aloof, and mysteriously dark. No, the world is shit because that's just how it has to be. There's always some rabbit running, frantic and hyper aware from bush to bush looking for scraps of roots in cold winters only to be noiselessly stalked by an owl in the night. Just like there is always some asshole, working a job for assholes, serving assholes, just to pay off bigger assholes who were lucky enough not to be born the first asshole.

It's a shit show for everyone but the one on top. The king, or queen (I don't want to appear to sexist as shit don't care what you got between your legs) atop the throne looking down on the little rabbits leaving tracks in the snow. Yeah, they sit safe and happy in their nest and wait for the next fool unlucky enough to poke their unlucky to be born that way head out of cover and dart into the open.

At least that's how it's supposed to be. How it was. At least until a few decades ago when I was born. Now, you're probably thinking I'm some kind of narcissist who fancies himself a king (or queen) slayer. No. There was nothing really that significant about my birth in particular but on that day, on that day something really significant happened. There have always been Meta Humans. Those whose bodies, minds, and fucking auras sometimes were more potent than the average person. They possessed abilities that, in some cases, could be matched not by man or machine. They were gods, goddammit. So war broke out. Not for land or for money or for oil, those were all benefits to be sure, but for distraction. Keep the eyes focused on the hand showing nothing is up the sleeve while other pulls something from a secret pocket.

Most of the old timers, the first organized Metas, formed this nice little club (no girls allowed at that time unfortunately) and they fancied themselves the protectors of a way of life. Who's way of life I hear you ask? Why the one they prescribed for you. That one. The white picket fence, the home in the suburbs, the car in the garage and the chicken in the pot kind of life. Now, that simplifies things but I do have to give them credit that they at least tried to have some kind of ideals and top of the list there was to stop the wanton murder of good, normal folks.

So hence the wars. Two bigguns too. Two whammies of wars that boiled up the entire world it seemed leaving no shore free of spent shells and bodies. It started in the East, with the Ottomans looking to stretch their legs in someone else's house. Once the troops marched 'cross the border, the bombs started flying and the Metas came running. That war, the first world war killed three of the original eight. Three strong men, stronger than the fucking columns of the Earth it seemed were obliterated over those years. Worn down and weary they finally gave up the ghost in their own way.

During the short peace time that followed, the remaining five got bees in their bonnets about their comrade's deaths, and the death they dealt. They thought themselves the owls during that time but when some wings got clipped, questions got raised. How did they know? How did they do it? Who did it? They began poking their heads in holes better left dark and unknown. Started rounding up folks, dangerous folks, folks with secrets to have quiet little chats in the mountains. Chats that were more questions and fingernails being ripped out than normal chats between chums. Chats that were often the last dialogues more than a few people had.

It was dark work, messy work but work they said needed done. Funny thing about work like that is that it's not without its lasting marks. Try torturing a man one day. Try cutting his fingers off, hitting him in the face so much that his face more resembles what an child with clay might think a man looks like. Try listening to their screams, their pleads, their blubbering for hours and try and remain distant to that. Now, there will be those among you who can. Sociopaths is what they are called.

New year

Gonna start a new year list of all the neat things done. These things need to be something new that I haven't done before. When it comes to concerts, every new artist will be listed.

1. Saw Rezz at Rialto (2/2/2018)
2. Saw Lana del Ray at the Talking Stick (2/13/2018)
3. Watched two goalies Duke it out during a hockey game, UA vs. ASU (2/18/2018)
4. Circque du Solie Crystal at the TCC followed by St Patrick's day boozing downtown (3/17/2018)
5. Missio and Morgan Saint at crescent ballroom in Phoenix (3/24/2018)
6. Shanghai, Pudong District, China (4/8/2018 - 4/14/2018)
7. Phoenix Zoo (5/14/2018)

The night terrors have come back

It's interesting that they have returned. I'm almost 30 years old and yet they close at the back of my mind every so often. In those times I almost feel as if I'm coming unstuck from reality. There is this weird, "tearing" feeling where I swear I can feel the stands that bind me here stretch. Melodramatic, sure, but that's what it feels like in those moments. I know sleep deprivation can cause unrest and even paranoia which seems to feed into a deeper terror each time. Like I hear things. Thumping, the front door being opened, shadows moving all these things I hear or see in my mind. It's a duality though. I know they aren't real, but the feel to real.

This helps though. Reminds me of center. Of where I am nominally.

Head space got really noisy there

Need to dump. Those things aren't real, they might be but they aren't right now. Just weird waking dreams. Hate the feeling though. That feeling of being awake but clearly not. Fucks with my perception of reality and the shadow of doubt lingers for a bit too long. Okay. Feel like I can go back to sleep now. Would like to dream about the Roci and crew. While stressful and dangerous, it is an adventure and isn't a really that would make me question mine.