I'll come up with something in a minute.

Bad Romance

I turned my head for two seconds, when I look back, BOOM! World is over. This is what insanity feels like, you don’t even feel anything when the world ends besides a sense that another damn thing has happened.

Next thing you know, some bath salt smoker is chewing on the face of their neighbor. Everyone laughs about that for a moment, then their grandmother is doing it, then some little kid is dragging a useless leg behind them and reaching out with a three fingered hand so they can gnaw with their remaining milk teeth. All the sudden, it’s not funny anymore. At the point that they’re having to choose between what they’ve always thought of as their humanity, and smashing a six-year-old’s skull on the pavement, most people choose wrong.

I can handle this, I know how to deal with them. You play some Michael Jackson, or some Billy Ray Cyrus. They’ll dance to Achy Breaky Heart, which should have been an early warning sign in my opinion. Anything with a danceable beat, it gets into their hind brain, past the hunger. Bad Romance will also do the trick too, but that’s just too sick for me. Even I have some standards. Bad Leroy Brown just makes them stand there and look at you quizzically as you slice them to pieces. It’s not that I find this fun, but I do find it interesting and in some cases necessary to save people not smart enough to run away.

The problem is, splattering blood of some face eater on another person’s face makes the second person loose their shit. You save someone, and they demand to know why you just did what you did. So I left the idiot to the people he seemed to prefer, and they ate him. I’m having a serious sympathy deficiency right now. People that stupid don’t deserve to live.

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June 13, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , | Leave a comment

We’ve been here before.

Again.

Again?

Again.

People think it’ll be fun. They think, “Hey, I’ve played Resident Evil and Left 4 Dead. I totally know how to deal with this.” They think they can handle it, they think they understand. People, as I have mentioned in the past, are fucking stupid.

I know how it started this time. I was warned, I knew ahead of a time. I saw it in the stars, that’s how. It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t believe me and you refuse to understand that IT. IS. OUT. THERE!

When I tell you that The Pillar of Cheese in the shape of Jane Austen is out there, and that The Pillar of Cheese in the shape of Jane Austen is consolidating again, I don’t do it for my own health. I inform you of these things so maybe the idea of your dead grandmother climbing up your leg is as best a hallucination brought on by too much coffee. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m crazy, that I’ve gone round the bend for the fifth or sixth time.

Have you looked out the window?

Does that look sane?

I told you so.

June 13, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | , | Leave a comment

On The Twin Subjects of Depression and Knives

Hunter S. Thompson once said “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”

I would like you to keep that quote in mind as I talk for the next few minutes. In as much as I don’t advocate this, but it’s always worked for me.

There are people who ask me, “Weirdo, why do you own 97 knives and 36 swords.” And I tell them the same thing, over and over again. That it’s only 56 knives and 27 swords. As with many things, there are multiple answers, and all of them are true to an extent. I like the look of blades as pieces of functional art. I enjoy swinging swords and knives around as aerobic weights. The knives are often useful, and many of them have been used for perfectly practical things like opening boxes or cutting down trees. I cut down a sapling with my kukri once, which is what the damn thing is for. The fact that I sometimes use a two foot long short sword to open envelopes is my own damn business and I don’t see what it has to do with you.

These are true answers, there is nothing wrong with those answers. However, there is a secret answer that you must unlock like a playable character in a video game after scoring 10,000 points. Do video games still have points? Fuck, it’s been a long time since I played a video game.

The secret answer is that I keep the knives around because they prevent me from self harming or killing myself. Does that sound counter productive? Does that sound like leaving a loaded handgun, a couple of cyanide capsules and a noose around just in case? Maybe. I can’t say about the other things, they don’t hold the power or the allure of the blades for me, which is probably why I don’t keep them around.

See, I know about blades. I know how to fight with them, how to use them peacefully, how to store them and how to keep them in good condition. I also know how they can hurt, and being someone who learned how to fight I know that cutting oneself is against the rules of the game. In fact, the entire point of that game is that you remain uncut. It got into my head, makes me do things to avoid being cut, makes me feel I’ve lost the game when I do get cut. Kitchen accidents are more about me swearing in frustration than in pain.

And I know what blood does to a knife. It corrodes the steel, it dulls the edge, it can really screw up a good knife if you do it properly. I have too much respect for my knives to want them damaged. These are works of art after all. Like books and paintings, it would go against something inside me to deliberately damage one, or leave it in a state where it could get damaged. Some things, a person simply does not do.

However, if I were going to do it… if I were going to engage on an escapade of self destruction, I would have to use a blade to do it. Where did this rule come from? I don’t know. Perhaps ego, that I would only take that sort of thing from an object I respect and admire. Maybe I’ve got some old warrior idea in my head that it can only be done right with a blade. I don’t know, but I try not to poke too many holes in a rule that’s saved my life more than a few times. All I know is that with the knives around, they present a dare that I don’t take. It’s almost as if the knife is saying “Yeah, you wanna do it? Well, you’ve gotta use me. Only you won’t, because you don’t want to cut yourself and you don’t want to damage the blade.” and I know the knife is right and it’s okay that it talks in a Bronx accent because that’s what it’s like in my head.

Example
When we were on vacation recently, I crashed hard and bad. Probably the worst dip into depression I’ve had in years. One of the problems, at least from my standpoint, was that I didn’t have a pocket knife with me. I didn’t want the hassle on the flight, it would get confiscated even in checked baggage, blah blah blah. But not having it made me edgy and miserable. Now, this isn’t a self defense thing. I don’t need a knife in case thugs decide to attack. I don’t see thugs around every corner, and even when walking in downtown Detroit, the thugs tend to keep a respectful distance and look for an easier mark than me. When deprived of a knife, I can fuck someone up with my keys, or my belt, or a Bic pen, or a magazine, or a chopstick, or even my hands if the situation goes that way. No, the person I needed to defend from was myself, and for than I needed a knife. I realized how dire the situation was when I found myself wondering if the fall from the balcony to the street would be sufficient. See without a knife there, to insist that it had first refusal on any self-destructive behavior, other options began to crop up.

It was so bad that on the second or third day, on the first shopping excursion I took, the first thing I did was look for a knife. I didn’t even get a particularly good knife. It was $10, and probably worth half that. It’s a tanto point, which I hate and it’s a widish tactical blade, which I’ve never liked. I like a nice thin stiletto like blade, something that can fit into the gap of an envelope and slit it open neatly. Hence why I love the Laguiole style so much. None of that is the point though, what is the point is that it was a knife and I felt better for having the knife The ledge stopped looking inviting and I was able to relax… for a given value of relaxation. I was able to not become so argumentative that I made Syd cry, and that was something.

The rest of the trip wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but it was at least tolerable. Going into a funk when you board the plane and only starting to shake things after you’ve been back at work for a couple of days makes me feel like we’ve missed the point of our vacation. It was hard to enjoy anything while that weight was on my shoulders and colored everything that happened that week. However, the victory so tiny you need an electron microscope to see it is that I did come back.

And that’s REALLY why all the knives and all the swords. I need talismans, and these are mine. Well, that and a steady influx of sugar and caffeine. They seem to steady my mood a bit and keep me from wanting to enter into danger. The knives really do help though. They focus my attention, and keep me thinking about being careful and not cutting myself rather than the opposite.

I can’t recommend these things to you, because blades and Red Bull might be just the thing that sets you off. However, there is some power in having some kind of talisman, for whatever reason you have it. Granted, most the people I’ve talked to carry worry stones, or religious icons, or pictures of a loved one. I don’t know of anyone else who carries a dangerous weapon so that if they feel suicidal that weapon will keep them from doing it.

June 13, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Route (a poem)

I can talk about cars or listen to guys talk about sports
And I can smile politely when a horse race subject
Like politics or reality TV is brought up
I can even make comments when the subject of hot celebrities comes up

However!

Whenever someone asks
“What route did you take to get here.”
I am immediately forced to announce.
“I’m sorry, I’m not middle aged, nor middle class enough to have this conversation!”

And I must leave.

June 12, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

Twins in Death: Chapter Two – Part Four

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Two: Love Lost

 

 

           

March 29th, 2002

2:45 p.m.

 

            The boat had finally been consumed and lost seaworthiness around noon. It sunk below the waveless lake and only a few charred splinters and planks remained on the lake, but they were slowly loosing their buoyancy and sinking into the odd lake as well. The lake would not tolerate anything breaking up its dark surface. It wanted to look like a scryer’s mirror, and would truck no interference in that goal. He had watched as the fire had leapt up, while the boat sank. It had tried to get away from the lake, but had been consumed and quenched. No doubt the pieces of flame that hadn’t escaped the cold grasp were still under the water, being kept alive somehow.

 

            Max and Mrs. Pendleton had driven away together; Marla, Judy and Sheila had gone with them, leaving the three fellows together. Jack, Tommy and The Weirdo sat together in the cabin. There was a silence about them, none of them wanting to be the first to speak.  For men who had known each other for as long as these friends had, there was little to say. They had told each other everything as soon as it happened. There was almost nothing that any of them kept secret from the others. These men knew what the other was thinking already. Never mind the telepathy that they each shared, they could block that for the sake of privacy. Each of them had, and this was the more important art, a profound understanding of how the other two’s minds worked.

 

            The Weirdo got up and walked to the kitchen. It was such an ordinary kitchen filled with ordinary appliances, a stove, a refrigerator, a toaster oven and all the other little things. He touched the handle of the refrigerator and tugged it open. Almost without looking he reached and pulled a two-liter bottle of cola from the door. He set the bottle down on the central island of the kitchen and withdrew a large glass tumbler from the cupboard. He opened the bottle and began to fill a tall glass tumbler with cola. It was Tommy, unable to take it any longer, who broke the silence.

 

            “Did you speak with Doc?” Tommy asked.

 

            “Not yet.” The Weirdo said. “Why?”

 

            “Shannon was…” Tommy halted, and it looked like he was trying to hold back tears.

 

            “Shannon was what?” The Weirdo demanded, holding the bottle and glass out like he was offering them.

 

            “She was…” Tommy halted again.

 

            “She was pregnant.” Jack said. “About five weeks.”

 

            The Weirdo’s face twisted, the glass and bottle shuddered in his hand for a moment. It wasn’t a large, exaggerated shake like one might make in a movie or if they were trying to gain attention. It was in fact barely visible to someone who wasn’t looking for a reaction. If you didn’t know him, you might have thought he was reactionless. The Weirdo set the bottle and glass down on the counter before he did something stupid that he’d regret later. He didn’t want to destroy these things, it wasn’t their fault, and he understood that.

 

            Just suppress, push it down, not now. Don’t explode, don’t smash things that had nothing to do with it. Just hang on, find an anchor line, hold on to something. Find that nugget of rage and hold it in, it could be all you have soon. Just clamp it down and compress it into a tiny little atom bomb of emotion. Hold on to it, and don’t let it go. You may need that later. Don’t blow it now.

 

            He turned back towards them, holding none of the rage on his face. He looked supernaturally calm and his barely concealed rage was kept in check by his look of interest in this topic. Tommy and Jack both knew him well enough to know that they should keep telling him before he asked in a very loud voice what was going on. This way they wouldn’t fall into reading each other’s minds and loose shape of their world. It was, again, Tommy who began.

 

            “She only told me the day before.” Tommy said. “She said she wanted to be sure before she told you, she was going to tell you that morning.”

 

            “I see.” The Weirdo said, walking to a wooden chair and sat down. “That’s what she was going to tell me. Her surprise that would trump my surprise.”

 

            He took in every sensation, noticed every detail. The solid wood that he could carve ever so gently with his fingernail. That he did carve into it in fact, not very deep, but a small visible line in the pine furniture from with his nail. The way the backing of the chair pressed against his back, the exact temperature of the room, the way that Tommy’s shirt had bits of lint that glowed in the light. He always seemed to be doing this, recording everything for later record.

 

            “Doc said that one of the bullets struck her womb, killed the baby.” Jack said. “Would have been a girl I understand.”

 

            “My daughter.” The Weirdo said. “My wife and my other both killed.”

 

            There was silence in the room, Jack looked from The Weirdo to Tommy, who for a change of pace was looking from The Weirdo to Jack. They all sat in silence as the two men tried to find things to occupy their eyes so they didn’t have to look at the terrible face of their friend. The Weirdo sat in the chair, his face twisting from one emotion to another.

 

            Jack and Tommy stood like helpless children, watching him sit in the chair, unmoving. He would look at them, his face would twist, his eyes would squeeze shut and then he’d open them again looking around the room. His hands tightened into fists and untightened again. Every time his left hand tightened into a fist, the tendons would snap across the bones and the sound would twang from his hand. He sat in the chair, unable to move, not wanting to move for fear of himself. He wasn’t angry with them, but he was angry, of that there could be no doubt.

 

            “I think I would like to be alone for a little while.” The Weirdo said after what seemed like hours.

 

            “Yeah,” Tommy said, “But make sure you come home.”

 

            “I will.” The Weirdo said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

 

            “Well.” Tommy said, leaving the unfinished remark to hold out its obvious ending.

 

            “No.” The Weirdo said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

 

            “Alright.” Jack said standing. “We’ll go home then.”

 

            “Okay.” The Weirdo nodded.

 

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

 

 

June 11, 2012 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment

last few pictures at the moment…

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June 8, 2012 Posted by | Photo | , | Leave a comment

We need a new name for Depression

There is a problem with the public perception of depression. It’s the same problem as theory or murder, in that the technical term means something different than the colloquial term. Depression in the colloquial sense means to be a bit sad for a bit. I’ll give an example… “I haz a sad *teh sigh* is sad” There, that’s colloquial depression. After the sigh, I’m right back to babbling and being smarter than the rest of you put together. No problem there, that’s actually not a bad definition of depression. It’s a period of sadness and the things that go along with being sad for a while.

But then, we get the problem. That’s not really what depression means. Clinical depression is less about the surface state, or even your actual emotions, and more about having a depressed system. Being depressed in that sense is “Working at less than optimal levels.” Even when a manic depressive is in their manic stage, they are still operating below their optimum. Only at those times, their system is trying desperately to compensate, often over compensating as a result. Those manic periods can result in an even more powerful lapse into depression, creating a dangerous cycle.

However, there are many other manifestations that depression can take. Being tired is often a complaint, and that’s got little to do with the emotional state of the person. This is why people who try to describe depression often have a problem explaining the problem to other people. Yes, often there is an emotional state you might call sadness. However, mental and physical exhaustion cannot be ignored when discussing the problem. You can’t simply be “Snapped out of” as the glib so often enjoy saying. One cannot “snap out of” a need to sleep thirteen hours a day. If one is fully and completely exhausted, but otherwise fairly cheerful, then that doesn’t fit into the colloquial definition of depression.

It is here that the problem can take confusing twists and turns. Your clinical depression doesn’t even necessarily have actual sadness. Sometimes you have a situation where sadness would be preferable because that would at least be an emotion. There are plenty of depressives who suffer what can only be described as a cessation of emotion. There is no sadness, no excitement, no reaction at all to any stimuli. The closest they can come is an occasional explosion of emotion, after allowing it to build up for a considerable amount of time. This usually manifests itself in some form of unacceptable behavior. That’s not being sad, that’s being nothing much of anything. An outside observer might attempt to interpret that state as being sad, but it’s really REALLY not. As far as feeling goes, it’s a step down from sad, it’s nothing.

This is the main problem, most religious people tend not to understand that atheism is having no religion at all. The phrase “atheism is your religion” gets tossed around to underline the lack of understanding. Equally, people think depression is just feeling sad, or feeling anything at all. As I said, in some cases it’s not even a manifestation of emotion. It’s purely a physical manifestation of being too bloody tired to focus on more complicated and involved than twitter, which is great because you can just read the little lines and even people who you want to read can’t go on for pages and pages.

June 7, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Gotta clear out these old pics

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June 4, 2012 Posted by | Photo | | Leave a comment

Picture Post #66

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June 4, 2012 Posted by | Photo | | Leave a comment

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June 3, 2012 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment