Fertile Soil

Image result for japanese gardenMy grandmother had the worst luck with back yards. Every year, she expected something to grow. Not even grass seemed willing to venture out into our backyard. What we were left with was a bunch of dirt. Between the two houses that she lived in most of her life, she was blessed with two boys who were willing to try every year to make something grow, as well as a few trees that brought more shade than we deserved. The roots dug deep into our backyard. Nothing grew for the entire time that I lived there.

One day, the landlord decided the trees were too much of a liability. He sent in a crew to cut them all down. He cut them in half and leaved the broken halves to rot into our backyard. It was such an ugly ornament, but my grandmother decorated the nearly seven foot corpse with flowers and hanging plants, as well as some solar lights and some other things to make it nice.

The thing that happened can’t be described as a miracle. I think we all understand that without such a massive obstruction to the sun, the grass, the weeds, the various plants that she attempted to sustain throughout the years, they all came back in a flash. Within a few weeks, her backyard was overrun. It was beautiful and terrifying. She had weeds running across her five-foot chain-link fence, so much so that we couldn’t see anything on the other side. Even the grass grew a much brighter shade of green.

Something had to assume control. There was far too much light for everyone to share. The weeds, I admire and detest. They grow with little difficulty and strangle the life out of everything in their path. That’s survival. That’s all they know. I wish we could click off that instinct in their DNA. They’d be much prettier and easier to appreciate. Instead, I resent the weeds, because they made my grandmother a fake tree. She loved it, but I saw the roots. It grew out of the weeds, which seeped into the ground, like poison. They jutted out and… I have to say, were quite convincing as a tree. It took a keen eye and some examination to understand that it was taking advantage of us.

When I wanted to cut it down, grandma wouldn’t have it… so, it remains. That’s how life works. It’ll grow out of control, but unlike the trees, it will provide no benefit to the world around us. In a few years, maybe more, the fertile soil will have been changed by the weeds and the narrative will change. Fertile soil gives birth to so many possibilities, but if we don’t do our best to seize these rare opportunities and make them a benefit for the good and righteous, it’ll all collapse into the earth and be forgotten for all eternity.

Fertile soil.

Death by Rib Bone

Image result for biblicalI’m not sure if this is the equivalent of me smelling my own farts, but I like to share different stories I’ve written and have found a platform that I find challenging and productive. I hope you all enjoy. If not, tell me I’m an asshole. Also, if you happen to be on reddit, I’ll gladly accept your ‘friend request’… even though they’re pointless… also, have a nice day!

She spoke to the Wind

Image result for living in cardboard boxI’ve been working on a puzzle based around stories with several connections, but I forgot to number them. Part of that is, well, I didn’t realize I was building a puzzle until the second story. Now, I see the picture much clearer… and I hope to share it with you from time to time. Sidenote: I also enjoy r/nosleep, which is a subreddit dedicated to horror stories, but really it’s the place that I enjoy. It’s a world where you must adhere to tradition, suspend disbelief and accept your reality. It’s a good thing to do from time to time. I hope you enjoy it!

Romo and Icarus

Image result for tony romo retire(I feel like I should mention… because football fans are fucking psycho… I’m not a Cowboy fan… just sayin)

Tony Romo was a complex character in the history of the NFL. He seemed to lack arrogance, while still being arrogant. Does that make sense? He possessed the confidence of a man who knew how to win… but just didn’t. It’s this complex character that showed in his eyes, mannerisms, speech and how he approached the game. He walked with such confidence, as if he knew what would happen next. He seemed to know something more than the rest of us. What I like most about him is that I think he understood that this is just a game. I know that in the ‘kill or be killed’ ‘macho-man Randy Savage’ ‘high-stakes world of fantasy football’ that’s a cardinal sin, but I admired how he approached the game. The key to playing a game is remembering it’s a game. We forget, because the NFL is a billion dollar industry that produces sadness for thirty-one teams and extreme joy for one (for at least a few months). For the rest of that time, you devote yourself to petty rivals, constant trash-talk and an incessant need to hack away at the hypocrisy of the NFL.

I’m talking about Romo the player, because I don’t know the man. He seems like a decent human being, but the player, the myth and “legend” is most of what we see. He inspired rage and became a target for the media, as well as weary NFL fans who grew tired of hearing about ‘the greatness of Romo’. It might not seem like anything, because most of us have never had the media and thousands of angry football fans cursing our name. I’ve always thought of it as a storm. It starts with some heavy rain. You get your shoes soaked and think it’s no big deal. After a while it reaches your ankles. Still, you’re fine. It’s about the time that it’s up to your neck that you really panic, because that sense of urgency never comes when we think about devotion, truth and utter insanity.

The media loved him in the beginning. They made him more than he was. Romo had the potential to be a great quarterback, but so do many worthwhile players. The difference is in which of these players is able to keep his head above water. So many get overwhelmed, either by injuries or lack of talent. The former got Romo, as well as time and, for those of us who believe, fate. Fate had it in for Tony Romo. If fate had shifted a few centimeters, he’d be a king. The real history of the NFL is a mass of corpses, strewn along a highway out of some ‘Madmax’ dystopia. Concussions, surgeries, self medication, drug hypocrisy, bankruptcy… the landscape of the NFL is more treacherous than we can comprehend. Once fate intervened, the media lost interest. It was easier to paint Romo as ‘the king of blunders’ and certainly calamity followed. I say calamity, because it sounds like a funny way to look at the ruins. The dystopia of football revealed itself through Tony Romo.

Fans don’t pay as much attention to the dystopia. It’s the aftermath of our fandom. We worship and pay hundreds to watch games, buy jerseys, hats, socks, calendars, tire flaps, (Everything… literally everything… the NFL will throw any of its logos on… anything). Fans demand a lot for their sacrifice. They… we, work offensively mundane jobs to watch every week and, for whatever reason, this computes within our psyches to our teams owing us a simple victory every given Sunday. I never noticed until recently that I’m insane, well, at least when it comes to football. Romo became a constant. He was a player who stood out in a time when the ‘quarterback’ position has evolved to a point of such extreme urgency that teams will sell out their futures just to fake as if they have one. Romo was a constant for his team. He could be flashy. When he was flashy he became the foolish child that loved the game. I truly admired that. When he wasn’t flashy, he became the punching bag. Either way, the media made him a shape-shifter, to which I still don’t know who or what I was watching.

America is a country obsessed. We have a number of unhealthy obsessions, none more so than football. Every week, some dedicate Sundays to the lord… I give my soul to my knowing savior… the almighty masters who have blessed me with football. I know how that sounds. It’s god damn ridiculous. I’m a grown man who has no stock in my team. I have no control. I only played football until eleventh grade. I’m no expert, which is no easy claim in a world that seems full of people who know just about everything. When it comes to football, everyone knows everything. Everyone is allowed an opinion, because it’s football. It means nothing. Yet, everyone has an opinion, because they love it. It means everything. Make sense?

The media loves football, because it’s so easy for them to paint the narrative. You have much less control of the narrative when you’re talking about real shit, like health care or epidemics or orange idiots that, through a populist insurrection steal countries. The narrative is so simple that over the past few years I’ve become more and more offended. It begins with a few simple words. Choose your favorite, but out of all the sports marketing nonsense… I think my fave is ‘Ball is life’. It’s such a great saying, especially when it’s used ironically. Some don’t see it. They see ‘Ball is life’, but it’s in all CAPS and painted on their tank tops. They go to parks and play flag football. Their shirt says ‘ball is life’… all CAPS. They live out something, a fantasy locked in their psyches… I blame all the toxins in the air… maybe the lead in our water.

Romo didn’t fit into the narrative of a hall of fame quarterback. He did, however, fit much better into the mold of a high-priced punching bag with no ‘will to win’. I’m not an expert and I can’t claim to have seen every game ever played. Romo was a great. Reaching his potential was never in the cards. Fate had other plans. A few slips on key plays and BOOOOM you’re a joke. That’s how fast it happened. Literally a play before that he was a god. People were all set to buy his jerseys and run around during Thanksgiving and act out the impressive drive that almost one him the Cowboys’ first playoff game in years. Sponsors were thinking of catchphrases to sell his own sneaker-line… something like ‘Just do it’ or ‘In God We Trust’. He became a god and every Cowboy fan worshiped him. He stood atop the world, like Zeus, posing with a lightning bolt, ready to zap someone’s ass into oblivion, until he slipped. That’s all it took: one slip to define a career. It didn’t stop there, but the loss of that blessed immortality came down on high like a wind breaking through an otherwise cloudless day.

Watching Romo in the beginning of his career was what I imagine it would be like to ‘be overwhelmed by the presence of greatness’. He was one of those pure, elite quarterbacks that wasn’t meant to be an athlete. He was a quarterback. He was that position… and then, everything changed. It took one flub to define a career. It took one mistake to somehow become his legacy. I just want it to be known that he was great… although history won’t remember him. How many of us can say the same?

http://www.foxsports.com/nfl/gallery/skip-bayless-tony-romos-retirement-showed-he-didnt-have-a-burning-desire-to-win-040417

Flight of the Bumblebee II

Related imageOmani Resef Yeman was one of the great diplomats and strategists of his time. He helped bring a time of peace and prosperity to the hive that would remain the glowing standard for diplomacy. One of his major accomplishments was shifting their focus on energy renewal and making the hive energy independent. It took a concerted effort, but he managed to influence powerful lobbies that had maintained familiar policies for years.

His son, Mulalli Actuhm, grew up admiring his father’s hard work, until years down the road when it was all dismantled. Omani Resef Yeman, at the height of his power, suffered a debilitating disease that effected several hives around the planet. It made bees act irrationally, suffering from a form of dementia that made them wander out alone in the world and forget how to get back. It effected their noses and made them lose the scent of the hive, as well as their own.

Other bees will attack each other if their scent is not closely aligned with their own. It doesn’t necessarily mean they have to have the same scent. The scent has to be close enough.

Omani was forced to settle into being nothing, as his condition became much worse. He suffered for a while, before ending his own life. He cannibalized with an inner-city neighborhood and was absorbed into the hive.

Mulalli hadn’t agreed with his father on several issues, but he did admire how he worked with others and managed to have what success he could, even against powerful foes. His father always found a way. Where they differed was in the politics. Mulalli believed that, no matter how hard they worked, those in power would always be able to keep them down. He used his father’s success to show the failure of politics. His father worked his entire career for the queen and her people and all of that came crashing down. The lobbies eviscerated his policies and the queen suffered. It wasn’t long until she became alienated by her people and the assurance of a populist revolt came to pass.

‘The Third Eye’, a group of revolutionaries led by Visyei Kislyah, received the label of a ‘terror cell’, after its attack on Lot 570xG. It didn’t take long for some of the main aspects of the group to dissolve, having seen the ugliness of the reaction to their crimes. Some warned the queen of the dissent, while others went into hiding. A lot of them ended up dead, with those in power blaming a deadly nerve agent, but always some form of ‘coincidence’ or ‘accidental poisoning’.

Visyei remained a pertinent threat for years, but always nothing more than a threat. He became a ‘boogey man’, used to scare the population into behaving and not venturing too far from its leadership, for fear that the ‘Third Eye’ would see them. When he met Mulalli, the threat became a reality. Visyei Kislyah maintained an underground network to sustain himself and further his political power, managing to unite various outlying groups that wouldn’t have joined his cause before. The hammer that came down against The Third Eye served as a political beacon for those who would act. They were forced to act faster than they wanted and thus mobilized to defend Visyei before it was too late.

The result was a number of attacks on civilians, not only by the Third Eye, but various paramilitary groups and even those in power. The scourge of violence drove the bees to madness, as the attacks came one after another, leaving no discernible enemy. The groups came and went, but none were ever defeated. More came up, suffering some indignity from their leaders and proving that they’d rather die than continue in this manner. The government took this as an opportunity to clear out some of the less desirable neighborhoods. A virus was infecting several communities that led to a severe bout of dementia, which had also infected Omani Resef Yeman, and they hoped to put it to an end.

Mulalli Actuhm helped lead the revolution, while Visyei did the same behind closed doors. Mulalli was the perfect figurehead. His people rallied behind him and, in this way, a populist revolt came about that never had a chance at success. The populists were equipped with a wide array of rifles and automatic weapons, but none of that mattered when their government had napalm. It took only a few hours for the revolution to end, one fateful day, when it was too quiet. The queen, sensing the collapse, enacted a lethal toxin that killed thousands of her people. The collapse was far too much and the hive could no longer be sustained.

It took only a matter of hours for the hive to collapse in its entirety. The upper strata escaped first, of course, leaving the lesser sects of their society to ‘sink with the ship’. After all, it would only make sense, that those who sought a ‘populist revolution’ to be held responsible.

Now, the hive and its future has become a riddle. The world is interested because all the bees are dying, when, in reality, they’ve lost their faith. They can’t imagine any reasons to unite, rebuild the hive and start all over. It doesn’t seem like all that effort will be put to good use. This is a generation of bees that grew up during a time of mass corruption and greed. For as much as they don’t want the same fate for their future, they also can’t think of how to keep it from happening. They don’t know another way, so, they wait.

Mulalli Actuhm lives a quiet life, despite the infamy of being responsible for the collapse of an entire culture. Most bees are learning to survive as something else. They don’t want to be bees. They live solitary lives, although they all work the same and perform the same tasks. Most bees have learned to make tunnels in the dirt to serve as permanent hovels. They live in close proximity to their brothers, but the connection between them has been lost. A new hive is the furthest thing from their minds.

Flight of the Bumblebee

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A list of bees: military personnel, diplomats, political rivals, associates, doctors, ninjas, assassins, street vendors and hackers.

America and the rest of the human world has always taken a strong stance to stay out of inter-species politics, despite the extreme detriment that comes with allowing the unrest to devolve into something far worse. At times, you’d like to move on and forget it, as even foreign affairs in the human world often seem far too complex, as our scopes and opinions remain all the more limited. Experts don’t seem to have an answer. The politics of other worlds and other species are far too complicated, even for those who’ve studied their entire life. In this way, it might make sense for us in the common world to stay away.

It is in light of our hopes and desires to remain neutral on these politics that I feel the need to at least share them and allow for a bit of understanding about a complex environment. The hive has been misunderstood for far too long. The bee has also become a desperately unforgivable monster, which seems to terrify us every step of the way. It’s been necessary for years to avoid the bee, much to the detriment of the ecosystem, although I’m glad to share this opportunity to perhaps change your opinions and unlock the mysteries of the hive.

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Mulalli Actuhm, known terrorist.

One cannot begin to talk about the history of the bee without first referencing Mulalli Actuhm and the Populist Revolution. He’s been responsible for a vast channel of inter-species terrorist organizations for quite some time. He’s gone down as one of the most familiar faces for the civil unrest that has plagued the hive ecosystem, for which a rallying cry has been uttered for years, in which the bees are now learning that there is a possibility of escape from the dreadful lives they’ve lived. Those who maintain the delicate balance of the hive ecosystem consider him a terrorist, while those who’ve escaped and fight for the ‘resistance’ consider him a freedom fighter.

In an effort to understand Mulalli Actuhm, one must consider the eco-politics of the hive. For years, it was believed that the queen controls the population by a scent that drives the bees to specific categories of ‘work’ that allow them to carry on fulfilling lives within the context of the hive. This, however, is a misappropriation, for the strands that allow power to twist around her wiry knuckles are being pulled by powerful groups of interest that serve as ‘feudal lords’ or ‘lobbyists’ as one would see in a representative democracy. These are lesser factions that help to hold power within groups, which, while detracting from the power of the queen, allow her to point in other directions when something goes wrong. She can blame these groups, if they don’t come through in a beneficial way for the hive.

In this way, the hive reacts and cannibalizes these groups of interest. Now, it can be stated that the act of ‘cannibalizing’ groups of interest, is not so easily accomplished, as is the act of voting out a local official who is seemingly not acting in your interest. These groups form powerful bloodlines and allegiances that make them formidable and thus, assure the continuation of a process that is less than ‘fulfilling’ for the life of a humble bee. The entire system gets corrupted and thus, an all-out revolution occurs. It doesn’t take much for an entire bee colony to revolt. We’re seeing it now, but you hardly get to see. Once they make the choice to go into ‘full-swing-revolution’, it happens so fast that no one has an opportunity to truly observe the phenomenon.

However, there are also no records within the colonies, because no colony would want those records to be. Bees revolt all the time, but nobody in a seat of power wants that history. They don’t want the bees to remember that every so often an entire hive collapses because they get annoyed with their leadership. It also might be a bit of history that doesn’t seem beneficial to maintain for those in power, as perhaps it hasn’t happened so often, especially to the success that a momentous revolution has occurred.

Mulalli Actuhm was a member of the ‘first-born El’, which is the queen’s direct line. The queen is accustom to certain politics, aiming to maintain her matriarchal status, she takes on a group of lovers that match her scent. The key to the scent is in disguising itself. The scents become so powerful together that it dulls the ability to smell. It’s almost odorless, yet still palpable, still permeating, still there to remind its people that they belong under her control.

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Omani Resef Yeman. Not a terrorist. A pretty good guy.

Of the hundreds of lovers taken by the queen, Omani Resef Yeman, was her closest ally. He was a keen, shrewd bee, who took to politics like a fish in water. He helped the queen maintain her hive by manipulating the special interest groups and then kept them from chipping away at her power with ‘reform of the establishment’, led by political lobbies that sought to undermine her rule. They ended up having hundreds of children, of which none was more adept at politics than Mulalli Actuhm.

Bees hardly ever have close bloodlines. More often, once they’re born, they’re given a particular scent that allows them to ‘find out’ they’re meaning, somewhat like a person would find his purpose in life. They find out what they will do to serve the hive. Most are given menial tasks that lead to their decision, yet there are several jobs that one can take. Some bees have a temporary immunity to the scent, which allows them, for a short while, to think for themselves. The immunity is due to a deterioration of the bloodline or a ‘faulty chromosome’, which allows for cognitive dissonance and a certain degree of freedom of expression.

There were three brothers who stayed closer together and formed a tight-knit group of hooligans who, at the time, were a public menace. They terrorized other bees with petty acts of violence and vandalism. They loved to fight and made it into, not exactly a game, but a code of honor. They’d insult someone and expect him to fight. A bumble bee is a humble creature, who possesses a swelling of pride and a sense for defending it. He’s not immune to jibes and receiving them from younger bees serves as even more of an insult, especially when those bees are members of royalty. It’s customary for bees of a higher bloodline to steer clear of lessers, for strict penalties are more in favor of those who have no power, as opposed to those who do. It’s a clever way to maintain barriers between classes, while making those on the bottom believe they have in the least a semblance of an ethical code within their democracy.

It consisted of Mulalli, Darshiba and Okami. Mulalli was the unquestioned leader, while Darshiba was a powerful brute and Okami a playful diplomat who somehow managed to ease tensions with the locals. The boys soon learned that life was a lot funner at the bottom. They enjoyed hanging around with bees of a lesser sect, because it was much easier to get into trouble. A local bee, Ansulum Machati, owned a secretive club that allowed only a select few members to enter. It was rumored that one could get anything he wanted in ‘Boma New’, which is, as far as I can tell, a type of ‘speak easy’ that operated during prohibition. The bees are strict when it comes to alcohol, as it has led to an increase in infertility and inhibits certain chromosomes that impair productivity.

Boma New also functioned as a political playground. Anyone could buy time and spew whatever rhetoric they wanted in three of five rooms. The main room was where the entertainment would be, which often included a beautiful singer that played a delicate tune by the sounds that reverberated between her stinger and abdomen. The tune played out for a few hours, with several guests and performers, while business could occur in the backrooms. Some of the rooms were occupied by business, while others took to dark pleasures.

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Visyei Kislyah, former operative for the queen and known anarchist.

Others took to revolution. On the night in question, Mulalli Actuhm walked into one of the backrooms, which was reserved for a known anarchist, Visyei Kislyah. Visyei was actually a brother of the three, although it didn’t register at the time, as bees only remember a select group of their relatives as closely as they should. (Bee bloodlines are far too complex for the moment) Visyei didn’t have much of a crowd at the time, but that would change after meeting Mulalli, who was so interested in the insistence of change that Visyei presented that it would change his life.

Visyei Kislyah started his career as a populist, which is a bee who believes that the ‘lesser bees’, as they’re known, will rise up and destroy their abusers under the guidance of an ‘extreme hand’ or ‘one who will lead’. They look to various strong leaders of the past to guide them, but the insistence is that the will of the people is reflected in the will of the tyrant. This insistence has led to several terrorist attacks meant to cripple the regime that maintains power over the hive.

One such occurrence, which led to Visyei hiding out underground for the rest of his life, was the ‘Lot 570xG cannibalism’, which left thirty bees dead and several more without homes. The group, known only as ‘The Third Eye’, barricaded several lesser bees in their homes, before detonating plastic explosives that destroyed a sect of ‘Lot 570x’, which is something of a natural power source to the hive. Natural power sources are what give the hive life and is also what allows those in power to maintain it. Without a power source, the lesser bees, or so it was thought, would revolt and a war for survival would ensue. It didn’t go as The Third Eye believed, as blame came down throughout the hive and the act became nothing more than an act to inspire fear.

(I apologize for interrupting this story, but it’s gone on for too long. I think I’ll have to post more on the topic another day! Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, as I’m truly impassioned for you to know all about bee politics and I hope you will forgive me and come back Tuesday, April 4th! Thanks!)

Ballad o’ Brother Bear

Image result for spirit bearMashaReinI’maDoinyamom

I expect to live in a country where we’re allowed to make up words… just don’t expect my sympathy when you’re subpoenaed for a military tribunal. You can’t expect to commit such an audacious crime and express yourself without consequence. We all should have reasonable concern for those who make up language, because they go beyond our reasonable interpretations and make up their own. What if that’s all that language is? What if we’re clinging to a vocabulary that only makes sense to us? You could be talking in your own words, as if every conversation is between you and your imaginary friend! Then, there are those words that lose their meaning over time. If they don’t disappear entirely, that is, they become something else. They’re just words without any symbolism in our psyche to cling to and further themselves into the future. This is written in honor of those words.

Doesn’t ‘Masha-Rein-A-Ma-Doo-A-Ma-Da’ sound suspiciously like an Irish version of the N.W.A. song   ‘Fuck the Police’?   No… it’s just ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. The tale is about a highwayman who robs a British official, then comes home to find his wife cheating… not just cheating, but having sex with said British official. A-masha rein a-ma-doo a-ma-da!

The Ballad of Brother Bear:

(Now, remember it is a ballad and you must repeat ‘Masha-Rein-A-Ma-Do-A-Ma-Da’ as often as you wish) Lookin’ to the stars one night, I see ol’ brother bear, whose grinnin’, snearin’, snarlin’ teeth warned give’a bit’a care. For ‘neath the seamly starry sky I prayed for sweet surrender to cast down on the land of Tul and any mine offender. Beneath the glisten, guiding stars shines light to sling and pebble, ask God to grant me ‘gregious sin in blood be born the rebel. Takin’ sling and steady fast to rabid, dreadful creature, an’ as he spotted his demise I sent him to the preacher. Walkin’ with this wondrous night I thought against my blunder, for hopin’ for a wish fulfilled and saintly sinful plunder. But as I entered to my home I heard the head-board rattlin’ and lyin’ deeds of sweet Elise, our creaking bed was tattlin’. I walked in with an angered roar, and neither could be bothered, as sweet Elise was in delights, which she had ever wondered. Takin’ Tommy from my wall I let off two-click’s thunder, Ol’ sweet Elise arose from bed, t’was Brother Bear she’s under. That bastard bear, he smiled, with the wicked scar upon him, it seemed despite my murd’rous ways my wish was lookin’ grim. Readied wretched weapon toward the twinkle in his eyes, quick to catch the fates, who would make turn with my surprise. For as I readied him to death it was my sweet Elise, who would not let ol’ Brother Bear unto his damned release. She cried and poured her love upon him, ‘spite our sacrament, and even in his wicked deed ’tis I could not lament. His eyes upon me, in this moment we could see the humor and we could laugh as brothers, who should’a let the joke go sooner…….

There you go… a bear fucked his girl-friend… have a Happy St. Patrick’s Day!