Category Archives: Writing

Victims and Heroes

Posted by Jordan on

I’ve never been a victim of anything. I’ve had stuff done to me, like any other, but signs were there. Red flags and signals of the impending actions, but I refused to see. Blinded by love, lust, pride, you name it. Enough fog to rival a Sunday morning in San Francisco. I don’t blame myself for my mistakes of trust or character. Its a part of living and growing. Experiences that bring about a deeper, harder and stronger person. You can’t rightly survive without knowing the pain of betrayal or shortsightedness or impulse addiction. Its how it is.

Which brings me to the hard truths that so many people forget. It goes without mentioning in the Sphere that there’s a Western-wide idea that there are victims everywhere. The poor, racial minorities, sexual minorities, religious minorities, entire cultures, women, children, entire nations… everyone is a victim of everything. Not everything is criminal enough to warrant a harsh sentence, but the few acts they have cordoned off as so heinous that the law cannot apply as written. It must be re-written time and again until the very act is removed from thought through pain of a leering, liberal public.

It is these acts they froth at the mouth for that are usually the most preventable.

I see time and again from schoolmates and old friends, on Facebook feeds and Twitter timelines and from their mouths, the complete and total loss of their common sense when stories come along of a cop punching a unruly woman, shooting a threatening man or quelling a riot. I see fire and brimstone in their eyes over a media-fueled story on rape by teenagers at a party. When a politician lies, when a banker gets another bonus, when a nation is bombed by the U.S. (or isn’t, depending on the civil war). When a black kid doubled back to attack an armed wannabe cop who insulted him. When people are offended, hurt or killed by their own choices, they lose all peaceful facade and show you the reality underneath. The indignant growl that someone would scrape the thin, flaking paint off of civilized life and show the hard iron that is true humanity. They forget what it is to be human through the clouded thoughts of a “humane” viewpoint. It makes them forget a cold truth:

A victim, a real victim, is a person who has been wronged through no fault of their own.

I’ve known a few people truly harmed in their lives. Those who have pulled themselves together and and stood up, they are the most extraordinary, strong people I know. I’ve known people brutally beaten for no reason. I’ve known people molested as children. I’ve known people touched by the very worst of humanity simply because they existed. I’ve known people that took pain time and again waiting for the right time to vanish, and they did. Despite it all, despite the fists and violations they suffered, they put up and saved themselves. With knives to the throats of their kin. With vanishing acts from all they ever knew and loved. With the heaviest of hearts and no other choice. And those who I still talk to, I can’t help on occasion, or when they’re down, to remind them how strong they are and how I admire them. How much stronger than me that they’ve been.

So, when I hear this word pushed around, it doesn’t fall on sympathetic ears.

If you confront a cop, you’re going to get hit, beat or shot. Most so-called brutality is just some fucktard thinking they can convince or defeat what is essentially a solider for the city, not using their fucking head and telling the powers that be what is problem with his arrest is. Instead, he or she swing fists or spit and end up bloodied. Not a victim.

If you walk into a party as a teenager and get drunk with a bunch of strangers, or even a group of friends, guess what? You’ve put yourself at risk. Unless you trust a person with your life, you don’t drink yourself until you are motionless and vulnerable to everything an intoxicated person can do. Drunk people commit crimes. Drunk people rape. Drunk people kill. If you know the people you’re with, fine, but what fucking idiot walks into a party full of people they don’t know and basically draws a giant target on their chest, most of all a woman. Honey, you know the stories. You’ve heard the news. Had the talks with parents and teachers. Maybe even a lady officer came in and told the entire school that rape culture is not cool, and yet you STILL walk into the jaws of intoxicated chaos? What happens to you may be a crime, but you are not a victim.

I once ran into a friend of the First when I was in college. It was outside of an dying coffee house chain. This friend knew some sketchy people, but I sat down with her anyway. Within 15 minutes, I had a knife pulled on me. I knew the reputation of the people around me, but I stayed. Not a victim, just an idiot.

A victim is my friend who was beat time and again by a man 3 times her weight, a man who would pin her if she tried to run, until one night he passed out drunk and she vanished with just the clothes on her back, crossing an entire nation to find safety. A victim is another friend who had a blade to her own father’s jugular after he raised his fist to her; that knife and the piss running down his leg ended 15 years of abuse. A victim was my distant relative who while closing up his hard-earned, barely floating shop, was shot in the head by two ghetto scumbags and robbed of a few hundred dollars, if even that.

A victim is a person who has been wronged through no fault of their own. Everyone else that claims to be is just human cattle, willingly lined up and sacrificed for preachers, politicians and the 6 o’clock news. Their bodies piling up, with markers of red or blue for whatever sides profits most from their deaths. For every man who fights a cop, for every girl who walks blindly into a party of strangers to get hammered, for every single person that lets their mind cloud their instinct, there is an activist or Senator who silently smiles within when your corpse is put to ground.

Don’t be part of their blood coffers, brothers and sisters. Learn to survive like my friends have. Be smart and you won’t have to go through what they did and also have it on your own head. Learn to survive and you’ll feel more alive, and more human, than any idea or drug can give you. It won’t guarantee you won’t be someone’s target, but that’s the price of living. The price of being men and women instead of fodder.

___

Her Master: An Educational Fiction

Posted by Jordan on

___

She sat on the edge of the bed, sulking, naked, alone. I could see her from the shadows. Her blonde hair hanging over her face and down her shoulders over the tattoo sleeves that ran down her arms. Crosses, dueling guns and other images. Sulking made her ugly.

I could hear her thoughts. Questions about life. Questions about what’s happening to her. Why she couldn’t find satisfaction with herself. Was it bad? Was it wrong? Things just kept running through.

She lifted her head slightly, watery eyes, but no tears. She sniffed and stood, allowing the beauty of her body show. The right kind of pale skin, C-cups that hung just perfect, all natural. Slight curves here and there. Nothing jutting out. Nothing off. Other tattoos on her thighs and legs were exposed. Chains, praying, webs. When seen in totality, there was a theme.

She turned and walked out of the bedroom. I followed silently.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and fetched out a beer. Her hand had gone for two, but it jolted quickly to a single bottle. As she closed the fridge, a wash of cold air hit her body, setting it on edge. I stood behind her. She knew.

“Did you want one?” she asked.

“Its not like I could have it,” I retorted.

“True,” she said, sadly.”

I brushed the hair out of her eyes as she took a sip. She shivered, but the room was quite warm.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked.

“Nothing at all,”

“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’m wrong and broken. That what I want is something that they put people away for.”

“They used too,” I said.

“Great,” she sighed.

I laid my hands on her hips and turned her around, her bare, artistic back on my chest. A breath of happiness came. Her eyes closed.

“How do you do that?” she whispered.

“Do what?” I whispered back directly into her ear.

“Make it all go away?”

“You know why.”

I could feel the sadness return for a moment, but it vaporized within her and vanished. She pressed her ass into me.

“Why can’t it always be like this?” she sighed.

“You ask too many questions,”

“I know,” she raised a hand around my head to touch the back of my neck. “Its my flaw.”

I run my hand down over her stomach, nearing her more sensitive areas. She moans softly.

“If only,” I whisper, letting her go. “Finish your beer and come meet me in the living room.”

“Yes, sir,” she says instinctively.

I wait only a few moments before she arrives. She walks tall and confident, but her head is aimed at the floor. Without words or hesitation, she kneels before me. I pat my lap. She silently straddles me. I wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back, feeling the scars of a life yet fulfilled. I lift her head so we look at each other eyes.

“Why can’t this be real, sir?”

“Because then things would be perfect.”

“Why can’t they be?”

“It would be too easy. And if things were easy, God would find a way to make them harder.”

“Fuck God,”

“In this instance, I agree,” I smile. She smiles back.

“Can I touch you, sir?” she asks coyly.

“I have to go real soon,”

“Please, sir?”

I grin, taking off my shirt. “You did ask nicely.”

She lays her head on my chest, fingers tracing the cyberpunk tattoo I plan to get.

She just lays there, silent, content, fulfilled beyond her wildest dreams. The fire of life in her burns brightly and warm. Everything is right and perfect.

I pet her hair like I own her. She knows I do.

I vanish. She remains on the couch, now clothed in sweats and a hoodie. A drink by her. Her eyes had been closed for only a moment. The TV blares bad news. The weather pours rain. She smiles anyway. She had time with her Master. Life can go on.

I watch from the shadows again. I always do. I’m always around her, through her and in her. If I wasn’t, it would be a failure. One I could not allow.

The A Game

Posted by Jordan on

People are always afraid. They’ll tell you fear is a good thing, but that is a lie. A myth told by fearful leaders to fearful servants to do abnormal things for abnormal reasons. They say courage is busting through fear and accomplishing what you were told to do. Courage is stepping out the line of fire and letting the general take a bullet or two, not stepping in front of the man and taking one for the team. There is no team. There is no collective. There is just you and your decisions. No one around you can account for anything that you do and in a bind, they may just hold you to what you’ve done when it suits them.

Can you ever truly hold someone to a standard? No. Principles kill. Principles ruin lives and break good men down to a set of rules passed down from hypocritical father to addict son. A rapid escalation of dumb ideas until the culminate in the death of empire. There is an A that swirls around everyone. Deep down in the grey matter neurons and electrical sparks of the mind. It says do what helps you. Do what makes you happy. Do it for the gold. Grab her by the scruff of the neck and lead her back to the place where the deeds are done.

I read on Roosh’s board that some follow the path to the point of absurdity. They want cunt, they want to get in deep, but they’re so lost they’ll do whatever it takes to be further from themselves. Its not healthy to repress yourself. Its not human to mimic humanity. The herd is not natural. Its a product of civilization, and civilization has track record of being on the wrong side of history every time. Even time is a product of disassocation from the roots of what we are. We track every moment. We track it and wonder and hold dear each shakey click of the second hand until its sets us free from things we don’t want to do. Things we don’t want to share.

I could break in to the world of many, shatter dreams, shatter noses and push back these slaves until I take what is mine and vanish into the fog. I could rip apart psyches and relationships and bring down scores. I have the power, like you do, to sow seeds of havoc. Standing back and watching it all come down and laugh while it happens. The principles say we shouldn’t. The rules hold us together and keep the house of cards up. People rely on the cards to keep sane. One deck, two decks, seven, twenty-four. Building higher and higher.

I see the sea before me, as I did seven months ago, locked in my own apartment, caged and sedated. I feel the rocks under me. I smell the salt. I see the evergreen and watch the needles sway. I dip my hand in and sip at the liquid I’m told not to drink for fear, deep fear, of making myself sick. The taste is as told, but I drink and drink and drink. I piss out what I knew, back into the ocean, drops back into the source. I could do worse. I could do better. I could always dream and hold it all upon the altar, but I won’t. I wouldn’t. I can’t. It wouldn’t pass. It wouldn’t create or destory. It would just fake that stack of cards and bring another deck upon the fold.

We could all do that. Pass on to the naïve that their mimicing for trim is worth it. Playing cowboy in the 21st century jungle, but I doubt any of those peckerheads could have it in them to pull the trigger when the time came. Not on some cocksucker who rode the train until she wilted and wanted off, but on a true item. Fragrant with emotion and ready to pull you down with her if you can’t hold her up. There are too many reasons why we shouldn’t trust them. There are so many reasons to avoid them. But, we won’t, we shouldn’t. We reap pleasure and fufillment from them. We do what we need to do to survive.

There are no principles in this game. Just actions. Just our wholeness. Forget the puppies at our feet. Let them get kicked and figure out its better to drag her behind him that make her think she’s walking ahead, one dick at a time.

Thirteen Past Midnight’s Hollow

Posted by Jordan on

You don’t hold much in your hands. Usually, its nothing. Sometimes, its a drink, a fork with some food, a ball or a remote. Other times its a baby, or a woman, or a gun. Sometimes, what you have in your hands can change your entire life, and sometimes what you you have in your hands makes no difference to anyone at all.

It doesn’t take much to bring a man down. It takes a lot to bring him back up. Men are killing their families because of debt, of the economy, politics, failure and hurt. They walk from bedroom to bedroom, stabbing or shooting or asphyxiating their blood for no good goddamn reason. They are weak. They are washed out of the world.

Its way past the time normal people would be strolling the neighborhood. In one hand, a smoke, in the other, nothing. Not yet. The footfalls scrape against asphalt. I walk down the middle, looking left and right. I check out each car. Flashing red lights telling me to walk on, brother, walk on. At night, I feel like I own the town. There’s not a soul. A cat. A nest of coons. House after shiny home, cars lined up in driveways and garages, families tucked in deep. Doors locked and hearts at peace. Click, click of a old soul on the porch, lighting up. I walk on by, giving a silent nod though he can’t see me.

I wear the only pair of jeans I like. Ratty, tearing at some places, loose, used, historic. Sneakers on my feet. Cheap things. I think of being noticed. Then I remember none of these people think it’ll happen to them. A laser light of rage and anger sweeping into their eyes, burning the back of their skulls, just because it can. They’d second guess anyway. They’d wonder what was the right move. They’d take time, precious time, and work it out. They have things. Things to lose. Things to covet. Things to keep secret. I don’t. I’m not afraid. I don’t hide anymore.

I wear patches of pain upon a skin worn by a child. Ideas pass by and get stuck, damming up the river, creating choke points. I push and dig and obsesses over getting it done. I forget that water, nature, finds its way around everything. It created the mountains that tower over me. The riverbeds where the city gets its name. It created the trees I sit under. The fingers which fidgets with my pocketknife. The flow will go on, with or without my unwanted assistance. Its always been that way. It’ll always be that way.

There is nothing that can change the skin, the river or the eyes that prefer the dark to the light. That need to hunt and watch and climb above the back and forth of a life forced on everyone by uppers and betters and old dead men with old dead thoughts. We do what we have to do to survive. To live. To live beyond. I do this. I tap the items in my pocket hoping one night, something will come along. But I can wait. I have all the time in the world. There are more patches to sew on. More streets to walk.

Limitless

Posted by Jordan on

I sat on ice
Miles of ice
Forever and ever
It never cracked
It never moved
I obeyed
I was cold
Then I warmed
From inside
The ice began to crack
The shards pulled apart
The ocean appeared
Water
Endless water
The ice was gone
I floated above
And I drank
I drank
And I smiled

Book Writing #1

Posted by Jordan on

I had collected all of Change (In the House of Flies) into one word document, including The Resurrection sub-series, and it topped out at 10 000 words. While the first three parts were usually written under duress or influence of alcohol, the Resurrection series was written with sober eyes and crisp memory. I read the differences. I read how my style did not change, but the detail of the women, the club and everything else added to the style. I thought about it for a while. I talked to Kay. I thought about a short story. I tweeted the number of words I had, around 13 000, after adding in some other posts from SFTD. Around the same time Willy Wonka asked me if I was writing a book, I had made the choice. This wasn’t going to be Roosh’s A Dead Bat in Paraguay (READ IT). No memoir, no travel story, no six months of waiting and having to shit 24/7. I was going to take my story, with little adventure and a ton of introspection and hurt and hate and Hell, and make it something people can relate to. A statement of my will, if not a young generation of men. Not a book that could change the world. That’s up to the readers, and I frankly look at anybody to be the voice of the people with much skepticism. This will be a book that makes me happy I wrote it and makes me happy that someone read it.

To write this, I have to pound away day after day, which is easy since I don’t have a job yet. On Monday, I got in around 5000 words. I know writers who can barely get in a paragraph some days. Putting meat on the skeleton this Change. Adding true detail. Pondering what fictional, yet related events I could add to keep the story true. Tuesday, less so due to family obligations and just not burning myself out. I have other interesting coming to the surface after years of suppression: music and exercise mostly. Downloaded a few DJ demo programs, gave it a few minutes of testing before returning to other things. I will have to get a job soon. My steady television work isn’t until near the end of summer, that’s if they end up hiring me. My bills will kill me before then, even when I’m spending little to nothing.

The most important things I can do right now is just plug away at it as much as I can, but not obsessing over every word or every moment. Just let it flow out. When I write of moments, I’m feeling the pain of the fights and the sense of loss. When I lose that. When I’m writing to fluff, I’ll have to stop. But, that’s a long time away. The last 5 months have been a hell of a ride.

Ireland is Dead

Posted by Jordan on

Pretenses and vagrants
I see the symbols run
I hold authenticity in my hand
Cracked stone and raging fire
I lay upon it waiting
Wounded ears
Conformed mutilation
There’s nothing here
Invaded by stereo
Micheal Collins would be suicidal
They tell me its okay
Worldly nothings
I leave different
I can’t come back
Ireland is dead to me
New to everyone else

The Fearless Moment

Posted by Jordan on

The thoughts rushed through like cattle on the subway
Pick pick pick at me
They crack me open and spill the candy
Wasted time and wasted thoughts all a mess
I wash it down with brown bliss
I wash it down but it doesn’t work
Self-awareness is a bitch
I get up and walk into the light
Warm and cold and looking away
I watch the tic toc of the words
Despite myself I accomplish
Despite myself I step aside
Despite myself I am victorious

Change (In The House of Flies), Part 3

Posted by Jordan on

Part 1 – Part 2

___

The night before we flew back to Utah, I got loose. I found myself feeling better. Convincing myself that it was all a loaded dream. There were problems, of course, but not the end all be all. Tim was cooler, Mike less odd. Jokes and fun all around that last night. We said our goodbyes. Then, as before, as I was waiting, the disappeared again. I thought I heard I voices. I thought I heard a kiss. Like green skies over Kansas, I saw it. The storm came.

Driving back to the cabin on the mountain, the reason we came to Arkansas, I did everything I could to provoke her. I was angry, but I was chickenshit. I pissed her off and I liked it. I was hurt, real or imagined, and she wouldn’t budge. Fuck you, bitch. Fuck you. Back at the cabin, she slept and I tried to. I went to the couch instead and cried. The crying you do when you lose your parent to a horrible car crash. It had been a very long time since such emotion burst from me. It went on until the fire I built died. She woke me, concerned. Funny. We packed up, said goodbyes and went to the airport. Flight pushed back. Waiting. Waiting. Silences and breathing. Indecision. Waiting. Pictures uploaded to Facebook. Tags and smiles.

Days went. Days and days of fog and shit and hell. Fighting often. She was unhappy. I was confused. Over and over the same issues and she was a stubborn one. Stubborn beyond reason. Stubborn to the core of her being. The choice was made beforehand. I could see it and smell it and taste it. This, if not on the tip of her brain, was something made a long time ago. My paranoia and anxiety aside. This was something I had no control over. And that was a killer. Copulation was unknown. Touching, yes. Kissing. Sucking. Blowing. Backoor. But nothing that said, I miss you. Nothing that said, I’m still with you. At first, I wanted it to mean something. Second time, I just took the everything but pussy. Defeated and horny.

The first of the month of love, I lost it. I grasped at every straw. Felt every emotion. Pushed and pulled and stood up and gave in. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last, but it happened. Thrashing around like a wounded animal. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and you and you and you. I wanted her to stay so badly. I wanted her to be with me. I was better. I was amazing, yet I was begging and crying and unable to control myself. I was on the mend and swinging from the noose made by my own hands. I had to get out of there. Concerned for me, she agreed. Concern for the heart she’s breaking. Indeed.

Called in to work. Flew out on to the road. South. Mind wanting Vegas or some far away spot. I only got as far as Draper and In N Out. Called my dad. Told him the news. He was shocked. Me too, Dad, me too. I reached out and found ears. I felt like it was 4 years previous, her previous strike at me. I felt like I was a teenager. I felt like they needed to pick me up and put me back to sleep. Shhh, son, it’ll be okay. But this wasn’t Glendale. This wasn’t my bed and drawers. The one taller than me that I climbed like a monkey. This wasn’t our old, but safe home. This wasn’t memory. This was today. This was now. This was my life choices staring back at me like hungry bats in the night. These were my failures. I went to see a movie, The Fighter. I like boxing movies. I like Marky Mark. I came out of it a little better. I saw my mom had texted, offering her support as well. I called and it all returned. I drove the streets, talking, sighing, making excuses and hiding the full force of it all.

Days went by. Still fighting. Still sucking. Still. I couldn’t break her like she was breaking me. I couldn’t make her stay. I couldn’t do anything, but lose my heart. So, I did. Piece by piece, hour by hour, game blog after game blog, I just shut down. It wasn’t a change, it was a suppression. It was taking emotions and hiding them, not destroying them. I could stand tall. I could say the words, but I still shook at times. I still felt my heart race and my mind go insane. I slept away from her. The couch, the futon, the recliner. Not the bed. Not that it mattered anymore. Game didn’t apply when it was all over. Now, it was just making it through until I made it home. I knew it, but I didn’t believe it. Still fighting. Still wishing. Still.

March. Her trip to see her friends. Wish I could do that. Fucking city work. Got you money up the ass. Yet we never had enough. No savings. Fuck, whatever. I would be on my own for the first time in a long time. For the first time in this marriage. Truly on my own. I came home sad. I got drunk. I waited for return. I started disassembling. I started what I thought was to be a long process. A week went by. I talked to a girl. I flirted. I gamed. I missed parties and tried to set things up. Things were looking good. Things had a purpose. Then, “If I didn’t come back, what would you do?”… sleep, bitch. I’d sleep. I need to sleep. Oh, you’re serious. Fine, stay. Fuck you. I’ll take the car. I need a road trip. I need to clear my head. I need to escape from my escape from what I thought was oppression. Turns out it was just reason warning me. I tried to sleep after that. I couldn’t. I took pills. I turned over and over in bed. Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! I called the family. I called my dad. The fixer. The man. I had doubted him previously. I made excuses of why I was based on him. I was 100% wrong. Dead wrong. He gave me advice. He got my shit together. A day of no sleep, drugged up and I did what I had to do after her impulse. He had the clear head. I defended her as she killed me. He told the truth. It didn’t sink in just yet, but it was breaking the wall put up by idealism and naïve, sex driven opinion. It was falling, one brick at a time.

The Prophet of Dee’s

Posted by Jordan on

A long walk ahead
Legs pumping
Brain thinking
Hungry for real food
Hungry for quiet
Hungry for a change
No ideas
No worries
No cares
Step into the diner
Dee’s
Local and good
One, please
Little old lady
Dyed hair
Fragile hands
Yes, coffee, please
The prophet comes over
She asks my beverage
She doesn’t like my answer
She’ll come back later
Her tone is her sermon
It says you don’t matter
It says I can ignore you
It says I’m the queen
Pack and shades on the seat
Drinking the old lady’s offer
Silent in my thoughts
She takes a while to return
I order, she obeys
I work on pictures
I watch her talk
I listen to her mouth
She talks, I eat
Complaints
Speculation
Gossip gossip gossip
She forgets an order
“I feel out of sorts”
Bullshit
Rationalize, hamster, rationalize
I finish
I wait
I wait
I wait
She takes the plate
I wait
I wait
I wait
I get up
No check
Best guessed total in my hand
No tip
I hope the totals bigger
I hope she loses money
Old lady sees me
She smiles
She asks for the check
“She didn’t give me one”
Asks for my order
Gives me the total
I hand her the money
I get change, I keep it
Old lady saved me from leaving a tip
I smile at her, saying thanks
I walk out, light up
I walk back home
The long walk
Thinking of what to write