jbinja_theninja

also: SONNETS

2009-11-23T03:55:17Z

sonnet sonnet sonnet you would look good IN a bonnet, but even better on it

Weathered Clocks

The ticking creep of clock and solar spins,
keeps heartward rhythms beating marching on.
Though through the woods a sunken cheek there grins
awaiting fire to burn to ash and gone,
we know no other way but on and up.
November's smooth becomes a biting sweet.
No longer can we drink of autumn's cup
and winter's cold embrace we cannot cheat.

A heart may try to drag its feet and slow
the constant movement through the wooded glen
but it cannot dissuade the undertow.
So recognize the dew on grass and when
the ember of the sun breaks in to flame.
For progress of the clock you cannot tame.

A Sapping Stretch

November moved throughout my bones like long
corn-shadow fingers reaching for crow-calls,
a sapping stretch that cannot see the throng
of paper cranes in flight, but it recalls
the warmth they seek. I always watched the flock,
their southward V a chevron, sharp as spear
heads, stabbing toward the sun as if to mock
my rooted place. While sponging Courage, beer,

and booze, I saw my corduroy-frayed nerves
grow rusted from misuse and Time's decay,
but found a ticking warmth within the curves
of calloused hands. The crumbling away
unmasks the brassy leaves we call a sky
unfurled in autumn's freezing yearn to fly.

some poems

2009-11-23T03:43:19Z

My creative energies have recently been focussed on 1) a paper about environmental philosophy and 2) poems for creative writing class

seeing as I doubt you have much interest in my highly accedemic and astutely excellent slash super superb paper about environmental philosophy, I will hit you with some poemas.

Escape

Do you remember being covered
in numbers? Those days before I stripped
off my paper suit and traded it in
for a blanket stitched of leaves
twigs bark and hide.

Now that you've peeled them off,
all those numbers, like
bar codes off of fruit. Your
social security number
your pin number your drivers
license number. You can feel
air's rough caress in its current.

Discontent

Grey-blue days made monotony sit heavy
on shrugged shoulders like old-dog-eye-brows.
Ever seen a man sit slouch and pace at
the same time? Well I have, and he had shoulders
slung so low on a single piano's note
you could have sworn they were clouds.
Close clouds, the kind that make a man
churn on the inside, boiling to be
something other than what he is being
something other than a collection of
calloused fingers clutching, but not holding,
a paint brush, and simply being.

jbinja_theninja @ 2009-10-17T10:35:00

2009-10-17T14:39:20Z

This is a short story I just finished

“Gospel of Eli”

“What have you got for us?”
Issac sits straight backed against the smooth concrete wall, a rough blanket clutched in his two fists and wrapped around himself tight, he stares through far off eyes imagining the tiny rivulets into Niagra’s boiling falls as they trickled into the gutter.
“Issac,” insists the boy in front of him, “what have you got for us?”
As if being pulled up through viscous layers of reverie Issac looks up, eyes focusing slowly, and shakes his head. “nothing today Eli. Ask Lucas if you must.” His voice is soft, softer than it ought to be coming out of cracked lips and hollow cheeks, but it is reflected in his distant eyes.
Eli shrugs and, retrieving a cigarette from a pack of Camel Filters, jamming the butt between his lips, slumps down beside Issac.
“Lucas is a fuck, and a miser, I doubt he’d be in the charity business if he didn’t get his pick of women.”
“Did Joseph On First tell you that?”
“yeah.”
“You shouldn’t listen to him, he lost what mind he had left last winter.”
knows it’s true. Joseph On First’s engine never ran smoothly, all rusted over with holes crumbling through, but he always knew how to get smack. Or rather he knew how to get enough change, and when that hot lump of silver and copper weighed his pocket down enough the smack would find him, always on First Street, always looking around hollow eyed. “It’s a squeeze,” He used to say in that pulled out long prophet voice, “yeah, it’s a squeeze, but it’s worth the juice.” That winter there were rumors whispered in the houses and the doorways that Joseph wouldnt leave First, just stayed there and shivered in the cold waiting for more smack to amble down his way.
“mmmph” Eli grunts, rembering
“Anyways, what were doing on First”
“Bumming, like you should have been down here.”
Issac shrugs. “Business is crap, and everyone knows you can pull better territory since you're still a kid.” He refers to the hierarchy of the homeless: Kids and pretty girls pull the most money and so get first pick of territory, then small groups including kids, next the disabled and the elderly, then men with dogs, and finally, men between nineteen and thirty.
Eli flicks his lighter and holds the tip of the flame to his Camel, letting it lick the end as he drew in slow. Through lowered brows issac regards the cigarette “you shouldn't be smoking” The familiar chide.
Eli glares back, “And why the fuck not?”
shaking his head issac gives no reply and recalls the first time Eli had smoked. At the age of seven. He had coughed and almost vomited, the wretching providing sickening punctuation to the chorus of guffaws from the lips of the older street-rats who had given it to him. He said he would never smoke again that night, but a week later he was choking down another Camel Filter, trying to look cool while leaning against a wall, holes in his jeans and greasy hair in his eyes.
Now the brothers walk in silence down the dampened sidewalk. The rain has slacked, in standard Portland fashion, down from a near downpour to the slightest drizzle, drops just heavier than mist so you dont notice how wet you are getting until your jacket soaks through and your thirsty cotton shirt drinks it straight to your skin. The two shove their fists deep into their pockets to avoid numb hands, Issac with both deep in the pockets of his jacket, and Eli with one burried in his jeans the other making a frequent round trip between his lips and the hovering space just above his hip, his fingers lazily pincering a fresh Camel. Issac glances at eli as if to break the silence. “I hate this weather” he might grumble as the two make their way across the city from Northeast to Burnside, a frequent sojourn which each knows by heart, but the words simply never spilled off of his lips. As they pass the numbered streets to Main there is little to distract them from the silence save the people passing by and their looks. Northeast is nice, and the people there usually are too, living in high houses stuck up on rickitty cliff sides. These people are almost always guaranteed to give a street kid a pitiful look, as if the Government wasn't required to take care of them, as if they didn't have a choice in the matter. Then, as they would move towards city center, the beautiful homes on the hill would give way to progressively taller glass-sided building and the upscale modern fashions would give way to progressively more black slacks, blazer jackers, and flat leather shoes. The looks that came from these were practically non existent, as if avoiding a street-kid's gaze would somehow make them go away. The only time the two would cross would be while panhandling. A street kid might be slumped on the side of some office building or mall and as the business men bumped by, drone-like as Eli always says, the kid would hold out a paper cup. “Hey man, got any change?” “Please sir, I know you can spare somehting” Then the business man in question, or maybe whichever one felt least in a hurry, would turn and, as if noticing the kid's existence for the first time, regard him with a judgmental stare, as if to say; “get off the street you little shit, and get a job.”
At first these were the stares which bothered Issac the most, he felt the need to shelter Eli from them, and would be sure to always pull Eli's hunter's hat down low over his eyes so that he would be unable to connect to those piercing eyes. They still bothered issac now, but it was Eli who had grown to laugh at them. Unable to shelter Eli forever Issac eventually gave up on the pursuit and Eli simply absorbed them as a facet of daily life, more a moving feature of the environment than anything else. One day bumming together at the corner of the Pioneer Place Mall, Eli had laughed at a man regarding them from a ways off. “They're just like cats,” he had said, “to themselves they are all important and everything else is just a curious inconvenience.” Issac laughed, but he thought that a cat was much too innocent a thing for a suit to be compared to.
The brothers near Burnside as they pass the Bohemian neighboorhoods, where you can never get a handout, but you'll be treated like a real person, especially if you can busk. They walk on and can almost see the waterfront ahead, streetlamps glinting off of the dirty waters of the Willamette, a sure sign of the homeless mecca which Burnside represents. Finally it is Eli who breaks the silence.
“Look man, I dont burn on you for the days when you slack, or your 'Moods', so just dont get on me about my one vice, you know? Live and let live.”
Issac nods, though he doesnt agree, and a small ember of agravation is fanned behind his eyes. “At least my 'Moods' arent going to kill me” he thinks, scowling slightly.
Eli pushes farther in. “I mean, at least I can smoke and bum at the same time. With you, I never know whether or not youll bring in your share.” He emphasizes the words “your share” jabbing the camel at Issac for further emphasis.
Issac's steady auto-pilot pace comes to an abrupt halt and Eli brushes he shoulder bodily before realizing the halt in their forward progress. “what?”
Issac's eyebrows lower further and the line of his lips under his half-grown beard thins to a paper-thin line. “What do you mean, 'What'? You really can't stand there pretending that if you didnt spend money on cigarettes, we wouldnt have to dive, or get a fucking handout half as often.”
“Since when did money mean so much to you?”
Eli's question is honest, in no way a jab. It humbles Issac, who shakes his head wearirly. “Whatever man, forget about it. It's been a long day. Lets go to the Mission Shelter, grab some slop and then some z's”
“agreed”
Later at the Mission Shelter, Issac and Eli walk up to the barred window set in to the wall next to the door. “Names and ages please, boys” The voice belonged to the sturdy black woman who operates the shelter on weekends.
“fifteen.” Eli states begrudginly, Looking back at Issac.
“And Im nineteen”
The big woman behind the bars nods. “Alright then, one bed for the youth room, and one for the adult bunkhouse.”
This is the routine. “But ma'm, “ starts Issac, “we're together and...”
Her finger is in the air cutting him off before he can finish. He stares at the thick digit with a half formed vowel clinging to his tongue. As he rolls it around trying to remember it's flavor and shape, she shakes her head. “Sorry, adults with adults, youth with youth. That's how it has always gone, and how it always will go. No matter how good of friends you are.” she says, punching the two syllables of all-ways out from each other, like each was a blast from a double barreled shotgun. Eli tried his best to look pathetic and Issac shook his head back at the thick dark woman.
“No, you dont understand,” he tries again “We're brothers. Each other, that's all we have,” he says as Eli continues looking abject and pathetic “Eli, hes never known anyone but me for family, so I guess what I'm trying to say is, either we stick together here, or we stick together on the streets.”
The act works just the the brothers knew it would. The deeply ravined creased of the big woman's brow unfolds, and oragami crane being pulled appart by the wing tips. She sighs softly “not every day you see a pair of rats as close as you two.” and after a pause “alright, ya'll two can have a bunk together in the adult bunk house, but you... Issac is it?” He nods “im sure you already know, but you are responsible for his safety. You, not us.”
Eli looks up at her through doey eyes, laying it on thick fly paper “thank you...” He even adds a slight upward inflection at the end, just to make sure he sounds painfully sincere.
Soon each lays in his bunk and, with a guffaw towards the thick lady, they sink into sleep.
Issac sits up in bed, it is to small for him the blue and yellow painted wood bedframe pushes insistantly back against his heels. The old house, the reoccurring dream. He is supposed to feel safe now but he doesnt. He knows it too well, despite the countless variations of the dream. Soon he will smell the smoke and hear the dampened, far-off blaring of the house's phalanx of smoke alarms all sounding the warning-ball at once. Tonight he hears the alarm first, he doesn't wait for the smell. Grabbing the thick woolen blanket off the bed and stepping on to the jungle-themed carpet he is suddenly tiny again, transported back to the only perspective of that house he knew. Trailing the woolen wedding veil behind him he floats through the expanding and contracting hallways that coughed with the smoke choking them. Down the hall, to the left, he needs to find the rest of them. Alarms blare out a symphony of hopeless monotone. Eli is there by his side, only one year old but now capable of walking, even breaking in to the slogging trot of dreams. Next he goes to the stairs, to the parent's room, but he cannot pass that way, tongues of flame lick at the wallpaper and hardwood stairs, eating them the way his father had always told him not to eat a popsicle. With the flame lurching and snatching after them Issac leads Eli out the door, and now they are outside, safe. Issac looks down to take up Eli in his arms but Eli isnt there. In fear he looks to the house. This isnt how it happens. In the second story window the flaming visages of his parents yell down to him, their voices are choked by smoke and muted by the now cacophonous smoke alarms. They flail. “Eli” he hears, Eli is still inside, alone.
Issac sits upright panting, an elevated heart rate keeping the syncopation with the smoke alarms still blaring in his ears. As the dream fades back into memory and the swirling haze of night and nightmare he realizes that the alarms are not a product of the dream. They persist because they are real. Eli looks around, he sees the others in the bunk house slowly rousing eachother from their sleep and gathering their things around themselves. “No, too slow” he thinks rising out of bed, one pant leg on already. practicedly he grabs the woolen blanket from the bed, draping it over her arm the same way he has done hundreds of times before. Groping at the edges of the bunk above he shakes. “Eli get up.” There is no response. “Eli, get up!” forcefully now he pounds where he guesses Eli's shoulder would have been. Only blankets meet his insisting attempts to wake his brother. Now panic enters his eyes, a wild churning. “Eli!” he shouts, trying to outdo the smoke alarms at their own game. Issac wheels around and around serching the darkened dirty faces for the familiar young face and stringy dark hair. Now the words of the thick black woman echo in his ears “You're responsible for him” she mocks over and over. Issac moves through the halls shouting for Eli and desperately pleading “Has anyone seen my brother? Has anyone seen the young kid with long dark hair?” No one answers as they milled at a dream like pace. Now tears soften his cheeks, cleaning them of so many days of street life. He can hardly breathe, though there is no smoke choking the halls. Issac runs from the building and out into the cold, damp burnside night, half expecting to turn around and see the smoldering silhouettes of his parents there in a window above the shelter. But no smoke belches from the building, no flame licks the pain from the walls. A sedate and groggy crowd had shuffled out of the shelter's mouth and continued to shuffle about grumbling.
“Issac!” a voice from behind, the familiar too-low-for-fifteen tones that Issac only knows as Eli's.
He stands with a half-smoked through Camel clutched between his lips. “Gee golly.” He says in a put-on drawl, giving Issac the once-over. “you look like youve seen a ghost!”
Issac's knees feel weak but can't help but wonder where Eli has been. Did Eli leave without any consideration for him? Was Eli already outside? The questions cascade in his mind but a weak “Where were you?” Is the best Issac can muster.
Eli shrugs, “smoking.” He offers without further explanation. A moment of silence sits between them, ripe with things unsaid, but it is only allowed to hang for a moment before Eli supplies what Issac has been searching for. “Inside” He says.
“inside?” Issac turns the implication over in his head momuntarily until he realizes. “It was you. It was you that set off the alarm.”
“So what?” Eli shrugs again, as if Issac's terror had meant nothing. As if the fact that it was him who brought Issac's dream into near-reality was nothing worth mentioning, a footnote to the inconvenience of having to smoke outside in the cold.
Issac is silent. His breaths are shallow and measured, a pattern imitated by his speech. “I thought you had died Eli, I thought I had lost the one person left to me,” His breathing begin the shorten and quicken, and his speech again keeps up, “you didnt even think to wake me up and tell me that the building wasnt actually on fire, that your fucking smoking habit almost killed me. As if it isn't enough that you are slowly killing yourself!” Now he is closing in on hysteria, and hysteria is closing in on him, two trains on one track heading opposite directions. “It was me who grabbed you out of the house before you could even walk. It was me who decided to take you with me when I left uncle Azel's house, and it was me who has always stayed by your side, the only fucking person, Eli. You can't even remember our parents faces, our parents voices, Im the one who carries that. And this is how you show me you care?” At last he is sobbing, chest heaving, staring in to the expressionless face of his younger brother, the face that has devoted everything to him and he realizes that he has gone too far, overstepped the place where you can take it back and gone for the killing blow. “No. Eli.” he tries to explain, but he is already understood.
Eli turns silently and, both hands deep in his pockets, walks away.
Standing paralyzed Issac suddenly finds it too hard to stand and as he slowly crumples to the ground he becomes aware of the tens of staring faces. Faces with beards and dirt and grease and frowns smeared on them. Faces that had watched the two brother's drama unfold just seconds earlier and now are handing down judgment. One face steps out of the crowd, long beard, hollow cheeks, yellow teeth, and wordlessly hands Issac a flask of Jim Bean. Without hesitation Issac unscrews the cap and fills his mouth with the burning amber. Issac chokes, he can't swallow, as the cheap liquor's fumes conjure his uncle Azel there in front of his face.
He and Eli had been five and one year old respectively when the house had burned. In their parents will and testimony their Uncle Azel, the only living relative to be found, was left full custody. It started off well enough. Like a visit to Uncle Azel's ought to have been. But as the days turned in to weeks and the weeks in to months it became apparent that Uncle Azel wanted nothing to do with the two brothers, instead finding company and comfort in bottles of cheap whiskey and rum. The boys learned to stay away from Azel when he had a bottle in his hand quickly, and learned even more quickly how to rely on each other for company. Some nights Uncle Azel's shouts would seem to shake the double-wide to its foundations, booming cusses about “the goddamn runts”. Issac taught how to walk quietly through the kitchen when Azel was asleep on the floor, and Eli could find the best hiding spots for the liquor they took from Azel while he slept. He would always be in a fit when he “lost” a bottle, until they would assure him that he had “drank it down last night and pitched it at some stupid so'mbitch.” Then he would laugh and say that he didn't know his own liver strength, laughed for nearly five years, until the day the board on the first stair in rotted though and he caught a good look at all the full and half full bottles of his best friends Jack and Jimmy. Then he looked hard all through the double wide while Issac and Eli were at school, and when they got home he had almost fifty bottles lined up all down the kitchen counter, in the sink, and spilling out of the dishwasher. Azel sat the boys down and asked them why they had hidden his drinks. Eli said they thought it made him laugh, but Issac stood up and told the truth. Azel turned red and quivered, he took up one of the nearly empty bottles of Jack, one with a nice long neck, and swung it at Issac's head. The blow wasnt hard enough to break the bottle or Issac's skull, but the glancing strike split the skin all the way from the top of his forehead all the way down in to his eyebrow. That night, after holding a rag soaking in warm water to his head like his mother had done when he would get hurt, Issac decided that he would leave his uncles house. That night, when the shouting had died down from outside, Issac grabbed his blanket and made his way carefully to the front door. He opened to door inch by inch, making sure to easy it through the squeaky parts. On the small patch of grass out front lay Azel, blacked out surrounded by the previous days re-discovered mother-load. Issac felt free as he walked out that front door, unbounded by anyone or anything. He was three blocks away when he thought of Eli. How Eli had cried and begged him not to die when his face was gushing blood, How Eli would feel in the morning when he was gone, How Azel would treat eli the next morning when he found Issac gone and Eli still there. Issac doubled back. He woke Eli gently and told him to be quiet, that everything was fine, that they would make themselves a life better than Azel's.
Vomiting as the faces look on, Issac tries to learn from Azel but he cant, can't swallow any whiskey, can't forget about Eli. Ungrateful Eli, unthoughtful Eli, unhealthy Eli. He wipes his mouth and stands, shakily at first, as if his bones aren't quite solid. Handing the bearded man the bottle he heaves his eyes up from the puddle of his own bile and into the wall of faces and downcast eyes. But among those pairs of avoiding gazes is one pair seeking his. There among the faces is Eli. Caring Eli, comforting Eli, the younger brother left untouched by the burning image of their parents pressed up against the second-story window. Issac looks at Eli and realizes what Eli had always known. Each other really was all they had, even the thick women had seen through what he had thought was all an act.

do me a favor y'all

2009-09-28T05:10:08Z

will you compare this to my other piece and tell me which is stronger? well technically theyre the same piece, just this one is much more subtle.... so yeah that would be supah cool.

Have Phallus: Will Drill
All the men told Marty that she looked good, hands wrapped around the shaft of the double, sweat and grease mixed indiscriminately and running down her still soft cheek where she would roughly wipe it away with the back of her hand. She would stand on the derrick’s deck when the well would blow and they would tell her that she should be in films, all soaked in oil like that. Long blonde hair pulled back tight under her yellow hard hat, they were just itching for her to shake it out in flowing waves, but she’d just scowl and spit on the deck, marking how their amphetamine red faces would fall.
Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. That’s how they worked, which is tough when it’s the off hours that kill you, kill you because that hard rumbling steel isn’t between your hands, your legs, your feet. “rest up,” the foreman would jab, “you need your beauty sleep.” But she rarely slept, instead turning it over and over in her mind: all the steel rods that weren’t quite hers; that’s didn’t quite sit between her thighs. She knew them better than she knew the mound of her inadequate womanhood, that idiotically coveted bit of flesh that made them call her a softneck, when she could roughneck better than the best of them. And all without meth, without Adderall, even without coffee.
One night one of the men found her in the living quarters. He had just come off his twelve, black-face-grease-paint on his cheeks and arms, glassy eyes, and gaping pupils looking to swallow her up. She sat under a single lamp, her brow heavy over her eyes with a technical manual in one hand, one heavy booted foot slung onto a chair, and the other hand resting on her inner thigh. She looked up into his animal face, staring hard, searching and knowing what he meant, but no color left her face, her eyes didn’t widen in sudden realization. Marty only furrowed her brow, frowned slightly, and turned back to the manual. He stood there with new awareness written over his features as clear as if he’d just bitten the fruit off the tree of knowledge. Later that night when the others asked him how the dame was, he would mumble back “Ain’t no dames on this rig….”

prose de jour

2009-09-28T02:08:35Z

Ive been writing more and more prose. so dig in kiddies...

Have Phallus: Will Drill

All the men told Marty that she looked sexy, hands wrapped around the shaft of the double, sweat and grease mixed indiscriminately and running down her still soft cheek. She would stand on the derrick’s deck when the well would blow and they would tell her that she should be in porn, all soaked in oil like that. “Fuck you,” she’d spit back at their amphetamine red faces, “I bet you all wish you could handle your cocks half as well as I can handle this drill.”
Twelve hours on, twelve hours off. That’s how they worked, which is tough when it’s the off hours that kill you, kill you because that hard rumbling steel isn’t between your hands, your legs, your feet. “rest up,” the foreman would jab, “you need your beauty sleep.” But she rarely slept, instead turning it over and over in her mind: all the steel rods that weren’t quite hers; that’s didn’t quite sit between her thighs. She knew them better than she knew the mound of her inadequate womanhood, that idiotically coveted bit of flesh that made them call her a softneck, when she could roughneck better than the best of them. And all without meth, without Adderall, even without coffee.
One night one of the men found her in the living quarters. He had just come off his twelve, black-face-grease-paint on his cheeks and arms, glassy eyes, and gaping pupil looking to swallow her up. He came on fast and hard. She understood the animal need, clear and sharp, it was all that drove him. His thick steel hard arms enveloped her, pinning her arms at her sides. She clutched blindly to his groin and squeezed hard, just like a roughneck. Reflexively he recoiled, stomach in and eyes wide, pissed, and went limp. “What a fucking waste!” Marty screamed over and over at the suddenly infantile man on the cold ground. He looked up at the cockless alpha male and whimpered. Finally he understood. They all did.

Prose de jour???

2009-09-11T13:24:04Z

I was up most of the night last night, writing and reading and editing and screwing off with people. I met a girl from prescott college, its a small world I suppose.

I wrote this as a personal narrative, it is true, some parts are assorted parts of those two years trying to be a punk, but most of it is fairly linear in the sense that it all happened more or less how its read. Not chronologically, but whatever.

Ruminations On Haircuts
There’s puke on my jacket, blood on my cheek, and sweat everywhere else. Just recently I had become intimate with the slick grit of the ground. Spilled beer, piss, and sweat sting my scrapes, more abrasively than the static and feedback of The Varukers stinging my ears. It’s a funny place to be, on the ground. Instead of the sea of neon hair, cresting in two-and-a-half foot waves, single lines and spiked domes, all backlit by absurdly cheap lighting, there is a forest of legs rooted in ratty converse all-stars and Oxblood shitkickers.
I didn’t feel like I poser, I felt real; real fuckin hardcore, a real punk at a real punk show. Despite it all there was something nagging at the back of my mind, teasing and tickling, it wouldn’t let up and I couldn’t help but remember what had been said.
The day before, one of my best friends called me a poser. We used to joke around more than a little, our little posse. But this wasn’t a joke, he’d meant it, knew the gravity and hurled the insult like he meant it. Like some kind of malicious insult hurling giant chanting, ‘sticks and stones can break your bones but words can never hurt you’ over and over. Back then it was Phillip, Austin, Richard, Daniel, Thomas, and I; always together, always punching, insulting, undercutting each other. We thought it was fun; at least we all played along and pretended it was fun. In retrospect I don’t think I ever liked the dead arms, titty twisters, or name calling. Especially the name calling. That night they shaved my head. The clippers bit deep into my thick mop of stoner curls, nibbling down to my scalp, and pinching there. The hair fell easily to the ground. My head was down and I could watch the locks of my meticulously grown hair fall like feathers, separating and swirling in wide spirals, and collecting in eventual mountains on the tiles. What Phil had said echoed in my ears, drowning out the humming moan of the clippers.
‘There’s a show tonight’ Richard called from the next room over. When Richard told us there was a show, it wasn’t a question, or really a statement. It was more like a command, not a command that he was going to enforce, but one carried from some unspoken commandment that if you were going to be hardcore, you had to be seen. Had to be seen at every show. Had to be seen at every overblown house party. Had to be seen at every squalid squat. That’s how you got status. The ‘Varukers! It’s the Varukers!’ Richard shouted it over the buzz of the clippers. I couldn’t remember what Phil had said about the Varukers, where they good? That didn’t really matter, no punk music is really good. How long had it been since they last played in Portland? Probably two years. Playing at the Meow Meow? No? The New Paris? Yeah? Kickass. So it was decided.
The leather that composed the armrest under my fingers stayed divotted briefly after my fingers drummed across it. As they went they left momentary evidence of their pattern and proximity, which was quickly filled in to a smooth cream colored plain again. It only took a fraction of a second, but I was engaged nearly fully by each sweep of my fingers, not wanting to think about how ridiculous I knew I looked with close shaved sides and a strip of foot-or-so long hair right down the middle. The clippers cut off abruptly. Phil shouted at Austin to take off the jacket he is wearing. It has nearly two hundred dollars worth of studs in it, and weeks of work on top of that.
Feeling the stubble that constituted the hair on either hemisphere of my head, I could tell that the job is done. Phil was off fussing over his jacket, an amalgamation of meticulously assembled leather and metal. He checked each riveted stud and spike the way a car mechanic checks fluid levels, spark plugs, belts, radiators, starters, transmissions, or break lines. He checks them because a missing stud looks sloppy, which is funny since everything he wore had at least five patches, and he hadn’t showered in a couple of weeks. He checks them because a huge part of the punk experience is dressing up, because without the costume, no one will believe that you are anything but a stiff. For this reason punks constantly obsess over their tattoos, their piercings, their jackets, their belts, their chains, their boots, their patches, and especially their hair. A punk might spend weeks painting and studding a leather jacket, making sure his or her wide range of far flung and obscure musical tastes are properly represented on the back of their leather hide. In retrospect it’s kind of pathetic to think about a group of people who, in trying to escape the oppressive and unfair social, economic and governmental system, enslave themselves to an image, just like the fucking prom queens they loath.
I finally looked up into the mirror. The skin which once lay beneath my hair shone nearly white in its blatant new exposure. It seemed bashful. After all, it had not seen light for nearly three years. Not since the last time I allowed my mom to perform routine hair maintenance on me herself.
That too had been an ordeal. It used to be that a couple of times a year my mom would decide that my hair was not in a suitable fashion and give it a trim. In the years prior to the advent of prepubescent angst and the onset of self image, this had been limited to a quick lap-around-the-head bowlcut with a long skinny piece of hair left to grow in the back like some kind of fledgling mullet, but popularly known as a rat tail due to both the close resemblance to the actual piece of rodent anatomy, but also due in part to the incredibly ratty appearance of the particular style. This particular fashion statement left me at age six, when my playful curmudgeon of a grandfather promised me a twenty dollar reward, if only he could separate the prehensile tail from my head. At the age of six the prospect of twenty dollars boggled my mind, not only did the sum of twenty dollars represent a vast fortune, but it would be a fast fortune that I had accrued myself, making me the proverbial self made man. Aside from that, the cost of all the best Lego sets seemed to hover right around nineteen dollars and ninety five cents. I was sold. The rest of my hair left me at age nine; when I let my mom cut my hair for the last time. It was the summer before the beginning of fourth grade and either she told me, or I told her, that it was time for a haircut. I sat on one of the three tall padded barstools at the counter, my head hung low as a dog caught pissing on the white leather couch, low as a drunk at a bar, low as it would be so many years later in the basement of Richard’s suburban home. I didn’t hold my head this way out of shame, or some kind of premonition, rather it was simply a courtesy to my mom so she could more easily access the back of my neck. By the time I realized that she had forgotten the guard on the clippers it was too late. Chunks of damp hair plopped onto the floor, dark brown almost black. I was shocked by my patchy baldness. I said I looked like my hair was falling out. She said we needed to finish, and I agreed. When she went back to buzzing it as close as it went I began to itch. I didn’t want this stupid haircut. I didn’t want to look like a monk. Whenever my mom tells this story she says I just wouldn’t let her finish, figuring that I thought it made me look cool, having that little unshaven patch in the front of my head, but really I just fingured that enough was enough, especially when it came to something that shouldn’t have started in the first place.
That moment never came while Phil shaved my head. Maybe I really wanted a Mohawk that badly, or maybe I just repressed the urge through sheer force of will. Either way, the deed was done and there was no going back on it.
We all sat in the back of the bus, sprawled three seats to a person, legs kicked out in front, backs low on the seats, and arms around the backrest. Thomas flicked pieces of a Big Mac’s Stale bun at Austin’s head whenever he wasn’t looking. Soemtimes it would be just a seed from on top of the bun, sometimes he would roll a pinch of the bread between his thumb and forefinger until the air has been pressed out of it and it had become a tiny pebble, then with a ballista-like snap he would fire it at Austin. Austin would lean forward and reaching over two seats punch Thomas in the arm, and we’d all laugh. Phil shouted to me from across the isle and diagonally. I couldn’t hear so I crossed over to him, grabbing the metal pole in the middle of the bus isle and swinging, grabbing the next pole and swinging into the seat beside him.
I was the post apocalyptic Tarzan I told him and he laughed. His laugh was encouraging to me, I guess we were in together after all, maybe he hadn’t meant it when he said I was a poser. He indicated his shoulder grinning. “punch me”. I look, his jacket is on, three bands of half inch cone spikes parade across his upper shoulder in rank and file, right above where the neck tapers down to meet to clavical. Under that it is solid pyramid spikes until halfway down his tricep, glistening like rows of armor on some mediaval comic book villian’s armor. When I laugh I try to pretend he is being sarcastic, I try not to sound nervous. “punch me”. This time he isn’t smiling, he’s looking right in my eyes. I jokingly sock him, the kind of punch you give your kid sister. “pussy.” Hes still staring at me, and I am no longer smiling. Fuck it. I punch him hard, not as hard as I could, but hard. My knuckles crack slightly with the impact and a dull pain begins to well in the joints. “again” I hit him again, harder. Something was welling up in my stomach, behind my ribcage, some kind of frustration, churning, curdling, boiling into anger. The skin on my middle knuckle was cracking. He didn’t tell me to hit him again, he didn’t have to, I knew. I hit again and again and again, earnestly putting anger behind it, putting frustration behind it, putting it all behind it, until I felt a moist cruching pop upon making contact. Phil held up his hand. His right arm hung at his side, useless and limp, as if it were a stanger’s arm occupying his jacket sleeve. Looking up he said something like, “I think you dislocated it man” My hands were shaking but both my parents are in the medical field and Ive dealt with enough dislocations, including one of my own, to know the procedure. Taking his arm I bent it at the elbow and rotated it slowly outwards, the bones began to reunite, and with a final push up on the elbow they are together again. It is only then that I realized that the studs on phils shoulder had lost their silver shine and acquired a rusty bronze hue. The forward face of my fist seemed to be the object the studs mirrored, with drying blood dripping and smeared down the fingers and each knuckle split wide as a continental fault line. Hot magma poured from the crevasses and cooled around the lip, building small mountain ranges there as it sat.
There is validation in pain some times, like all the times we fall learning to walk, learning to bike, learning to skateboard. It shows us what not to do, and the scars that we keep help cut through the distorted nostalgia of memory. But this pain was different, instead of me validating it, it validated me. I was the blank ticket to ride and it punched right through me.

back on track I hope

2009-09-08T22:09:41Z

poetry de jour

Yawning Autumn

There!-
Tall Grass licks your
Thigh right above your knee
Cap it swirls tiny
Tongues across your alabaster
Skin noting especially
The mango light
Smeared in lines by the
Waning sun.
There!-
See your hips lying down
Bones like mountains to
Lay the valleys low
Lower than the deep
Musk-notes of grass and
Words left unspoken
There!-
And there you are, your
Eternity bare before the
Opening fall

wow

2009-08-28T04:36:00Z

I have no time for anything but everything that needs to be done. and in a timely manner

I have an 18 credit load and am working 15 hours a week at the library, at which I started working yesterday and already have...fourteen hours!!!

I am taking
studies of radical dissent
Creative Writing
Intr. to philosophy
acting out
basement writers club.

Ive had homework every night for at least two classes since the first day of school, its fun, its hard, I eat well, I think well, I live pretty well.

If you have any interest in the subject Amy and I have seperated due to the pressures of distance.

that is the lame 12:35 am update, maybe some day youll get something better.

jbinja_theninja @ 2009-08-15T06:36:00

2009-08-15T13:44:38Z

perhaps the best part about the south is the fact that the ocean is like eighty something degrees.
I mean really, I try not to let the chillyness of the west coast get to me, but what good is an ocean that you cant swim in naked at midnight?

I suppose its that time again

2009-08-14T02:25:11Z

SO
Im in North Carolina, and I move in to my dorm on sunday, but for now Im just bumming around with my relatives and suchlike

I love the south, I even like the humidity.

theres soemthing about the way live oaks line sidewalks and embrace the sky, spanish moss hanging from their branches, that makes me feel closer to something that I lost along the road. Cicadas buzz so loudly that conversations can be muted and thunder and lighting are regulars, people say that nature is more wild in the west but every root piercing the sidewalk, every house engulfed in kudzu, tells another story.

before I left the dudes (Nick, Nick, Turner, Conor, Quinn, and I) had our final hurrah/spontaneous friday/ man day at the beach and it was honestly a ton of fun. Nick and I experimented some more with his new salvia shipment and got some great results,
then I experimented again with nick and kate and then again the sunday before I left, this time trying the ten times concentrated salvia with mind and reality shattering results. If youd like me to go into detail just ask, but I dont really feel like writing that much now.

Ive been writing alot of poetry and posting none of it, partially because Im lazy, and partially because I feel like I no longer have any talents, maybe some time soon Ill post it all and let you be the judge of that.
anyways, goodnight

JB

never like this

2009-08-01T06:08:16Z

Today I got the news that a friend of mine died, it was the first time id ever experienced soemthing like that and I did know what to do.
Ive been sitting here crying like a little bitch for the first time in a year and I dont know what to think.
Corrie was a beautiful girl who was so full of life and love, and I just cant think of any reason why any of this can be alright.
I know you guys have gone through this a million more times than me so can anyone tell me what to do, or what to feel?

feel free to disregard

2009-07-22T00:03:39Z

the stress relating to my upcoming long distance relationship attempt is quickly mounting. Im not sure if Im ready for this level of commitment. What will we talk about? we say well talk all the time, but really, will we just talk about our college friends and shit? becuase we wont really have anything to do with that part of eachothers lives so..... I mean, what if Im miserable while were apart? more importantly, where is the light at the end of the tunnel, neither of us have any notion as to what will happen after college, so really its just a speculation, a gamble....where the fuck is the positive in all of this????? yes staying with Amy is a positive but staying with Amy without being with her seems contrary.
sedate me!

dream a little dream

2009-07-14T21:49:19Z

Yesterday I bought myself a vaporizer in order to save my lungs.
for those of you who dont know a vaporizer is a device that heats a smoking medium to the point of it's active ingredients' vaporization (moving from solid to gaseous state) but not to the point where it burns, this allows you to get the full effect of whatever you are smoking while avoiding carcinogens, carbon monoxide, tar, and all the other harmful substances that are usually inhaled while smoking. Instead all you inhale is water vapor, the product's active ingredient (THC, nicotine, ect), and a clear and incredibly rich flavor. Generally vaporizers need to be plugged in to electricity and are quite bulky, not to mention expensive, usually starting at around 100 dollars. Is the price to steep friends? dont worry I have the solution! The Vapor Genie, vaporizing pipe, is the worlds first lighter powered vaporizer and can be found for as little as 50 dollars, often coming in a package deal with a grinder and some legal mood enhancing herbs (wild lettuce or a blend usually).

yesterday I smoked off of my new vaporizer and let me tell you I couldnt be more pleased, not only was there absolutely NO harshness on the lungs and throat the flavor of the herb was entirely undiluted with smoke or that ashy flavor that comes from smoking hand rolled or from a pipe. When I say that there was no harshness I mean it, I have smoked from a double, even tripple perk ZONG brand waterpipe and this was less harsh than that. the effects of the herb were greatly increased allowing me to smoke much less to achieve the desired effect. I have heard it quoted that vaporizer increase smoking efficiency (in terms of active ingredient content) by up to 75 or so percent, which means in the long run your investment will pay for itself, both in monetary and health terms.

thats my two cents, anyone else supah down with the vape? anyone want to give my new piece a test run?

mmhmm

2009-07-13T05:51:09Z

Well, today I experienced my first salvia trip,
I decided to ease into it and so bought a couple grams of straight loose leaf at the market today, I ground it coarsely, and added some lavender and crumbled elephants head, just to help fill the bowl.
using a small butane torch (generally used for cigar lighting) I roasted the first bowl down holding in each hit for around 45 seconds,(I noted an interesting flavor much like gingerbread) I proceeded to do the same for about four or so more bowls.
this trip was less than hallucinogenic, which is to be expected from anything weaker than 10-20x concentrate, but was certainly different from other herbs, it was strongly euphoric, but I did not feel impaired in terms of cognition or motor control. My eyes did not redden or become glassy as they do with my other herb of choice (to the extreme) nor did I experience any lack of salivation (cotton mouth) or an increase in appetite (the munchies) the trip lasted strongly for around 45 minutes and the afterglow lasted for another couple hours. all in all a positive experience, the two grams cost me only 10 dollars and by the fifth bowl I had just barely scraped the top of the first gram, so the cost is right, the feeling is good, it tastes good, and best of all, its fully legal. whod-a-thunk-it??

secondly I purchased a half ounce of some more legal mood enhancing/medicinal herbs while at fair, I am happy to report that they are wonderful, not only are they a pleasure to smoke (smooth thick smoke, and a bitter-sweet taste on exhale) they also do quite well for relief of back pain as well as relaxation of muscle tissue, I also noted a hightened feeling of well being after as little as 1/2 gram of usage.

if my use of legal herbs offends you I am sorry. but really.

here we go yo here we go yo, so what so what so whats the scenario

2009-07-11T19:37:44Z

Yesterday (friday) I went to the Oregon Country Fair, and let me tell you it was a blast. Everyone was so friendly!!! As an example, on my way from the bag search station, where they briefly check you ticket and make a poor attempt to prevent massive number of hippies from smuggling drugs into the fair, and the place where you get stamped and are admitted into the fair proper (about 500 yards) I lost my ticket, but after explaining my situation to the people at the desk and asking what I could do, they just up and gave me a free ticket! how nice!!!
Aside from that the fair was great, plenty of stimulus in all forms, tasty food and herb smells, people bumping into you and all kinds of crazy sounds. Im hoping to go on Sunday, although I think my dad and mom are backing out for Sunday so we shall see, anyways, I recommend that you go. if not this year, than next year!

plus.
poetry!

The Ant Farmer

William called himself an ant
farmer. Not a farmer who is an
ant but a man who farms ants.
No on thought him much full with
wits, though he knew himself full with
wisdom planting-wise. One thumb-
deep into the earth, two to four ants,
to be sure, cover, and water
daily with sugary nectar. Then the
hill swells tall feet high, a sure
sign that the hollow roots are
setting well far-deep. Spring
and the fields of shining hard fruit
hanging from trees capable of
bearing three time their weight
march next. A generous harvest
sold to the Ant-Eater family down
the lane,who were really the
Aardvark family who ate only ants,
which William grew best, they
always said.

kayyyy

2009-07-09T06:47:59Z

first item of business.

If you wanted something from stuffapulooza pick it up NOW! Im putting everything unclaimed as of the end of july up for a free for all, so claim something and come get it soon!!!

I got my AP scores back, and wouldnt you know that I got a 5 in lang. and comp. and a 4 in AP studio art! not too shabbay, oh also, I thought I failed my AP stats test from last year but NOPE I got a 3 which isnt great but hey! its passing!

I just registered for my freshman seminar class, its finally sinking in how soon Im leaving. Aug 11!!! thats soon! I cant wait, although I know Ill be sad to leave Amy....How can I possibly make a long distance relationship work? anybody???

I need a new hobby, I just finished my first poem in over a month...it goes nearly without saying that Im suffering from some form of creative block, but dont worry, I think Ive figured out how to get over it. I just have to read poetry, GOOD poetry. I recently became a member on some poetry forums/networking sites and I am slowly realizing how many a) incredibly shitty writers there are out there and b) how many people just eat it up...If I have to read another cheesy love poem in first person or another tortured teen poem I will hurl. SO I quit that shit and went back to reading actual poets that I like and lo and behold I wrote somehting!! so here it is I suppose, yeah its not that great but I finally kicked the block...

A Stooping Place

Once through a pipe stood
three but three stooped
instead

What use is for stooping
instead of standing when standing room
is let to stand?

were stooping room only left than
stoop three may without another
word. Yet the other end
of the pipe let stand quite the
spacious room.

It stands to reason to stand
instead of stoop, but men
stooping in pipes stand not
for reason.

So Ive learned that in order to write I have to read and what goes in is what comes out. so if I read shit, I write shit. keep that in mind all ye readers and writers.

Peace!
JB

jbinja_theninja @ 2009-06-28T22:37:00

2009-06-29T05:52:00Z

I havent posted anything on here for a while.
My summer is going alright, I had been bummed for a while on account of that cloudiness we had working for a while, but Im glad its clearing up. Im working at CBAP which is essentially the more educational version of adventures without limits, plus its primarily aimed at disabled kids, so what Im saying is, my summer job involves rock climbing paddling rafter ect, with disabled kids...oh my!

this last weekend was...odd I went camping at stub stuart state park with a large group of people and let me tell you, it was very disjointed. I hereby resolve to never let someone less experienced with camping than me organize a camping trip, at least not one that IM going on. otherwise I dont really care......
anyways I meant to write alot more so everyone could know what the deal was but Im exhausted from getting up a 4 or so this morning, plus I have to be up at seven tomorrow.
good night.

well. and thats that

2009-06-10T12:34:21Z

graduation was pretty....well pretty good actually. the ceremony was long as fuck but I got to speak which made it slightly more exciting to me than I imagine it was for many others, afterwards I had next to no time to say good-bye to those who I wanted to say good bye to, and I also had a bunch of stuff to give away to people, and I never found them either, but oh well! my speech went super well by the way...then we had gradnight which was way better than I expected except that I didnt win ANYTHING, how is that even possible? they gave away like 300 things??? oh well. anyways, I rock climbed like most of the night so my entire boddy is tired as foooook, and I also sang a ton of kareoke which means my voice is gone. oh good times....so yeah!

want to read my speech? there are some changes I made in ink before hand but this is the general gist, I dunno why any of you could possibly be interested in this but Im tired as fuck so who knows?????

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 2009, before I even begin speaking in earnest, I will make you two promises. First, that this will be neither the best, nor the worst speech you have ever heard, and second, that I will not even mention Doctor Sues or Oh The Places You Will Go past telling you that I wont mention them.
Now, you have undoubtedly heard that we are the future, you’ve probably heard it a thousand times. I suppose that it is true, in the sense that we will, by the slow hand of age, and the plodding progression of time, have the world and its stewardship surrendered to us. But we have been duped, duped into thinking that we have to wait our turn complacently, and accept whatever world has handed down. Why wait? In a generation of instant gratification, why wait? We have the ability to take the world into our hands and shape it like clay into anything we please, if we do indeed have such power, then why wait? People say that if it’s not broken, don’t fix it, but there are leaks in our world’s plumbing and the simple fact remains that if we wait for our turn to try and fix it, we may be unable. So seize the day! Why wait!
Some members of generations before us have misnamed our generation a ‘lost’ generation. Nothing could be farther from the truth. We have been given a compass, which points straight to humanity, and I believe we plan to follow it. To demonstrate what I mean I’m going to need your participation for a moment
First could anyone who has met with a teacher outside of school for help please stand up. Now could anyone who has ever texted a teacher, please stand up. Anyone who has ever hugged a teacher. Anyone who has been patted on the back by a teacher. Anyone who has ever called a teacher on their cell or home phone. And finally, will anyone who has sustained eye contact with a teacher of the opposite gender for eight or more seconds, including during one on one conversation, please stand up.
Some educational experts would say that you that are standing have been in some way wrong. Wronged by the very educators who you have developed a lasting bond with over these past four years, a bond that facilitates learning, growth, and most importantly, understanding. Yes, as absurd as it may sound even sustaining eye contact for more than eight seconds is considered to be inappropriate. Although we are not lost, thanks in part to the efforts of quality educators like mike and Bonnie McCabe and Eric Larsen, and the countless others who are willing to go the extra mile to make sure students get the education that they need and deserve, the next generation may be if they are not allowed to form the bonds necessary for a proper education.
Finally, I would like to give you all some advice, which is probably the only advice I am at all qualified to give you, and that is, search for happiness, and if you see it, don’t be shy. One of the most important documents in American history, the declaration of independence lists the persuit of happiness as one of three inalienable rights. It doesn’t guarantee that you’ll find it, or that if you do you’ll be able to hold on to it, but at least you can chase it. If you are one of the lucky few who ultimately attains a wide degree of this, the most basic of commodities, I urge you to not horde it, because happiness is a commodity that does not keep well. If you finds yourself with a surplus of happiness, share it to avoid waste, and if you know a way in which to obtain happiness you will find no greater joy than sharing the map to that happiness, because it will in no way diminish the value of your happiness, just as a candle’s brightness is in no way diminished by sharing its flame with another candle. We are not all 4.0 students, we do not all have our CIM, we are not all the prom king or queen, we are not all ASB president, we didn’t all make varsity, we did not all make state, we did not all make the team, heck most of us didn’t even make it to school on time, but what we can all do is find some measure of joy and chase it with everything weve got, live life to the hilt, and never forget that happiness is nothing if not shared.

jbinja_theninja @ 2009-06-07T23:25:00

2009-06-08T06:38:27Z

I believe that human beings grow close in three ways

physically, which is the easiest to identify and name and so is often used as the sole indicator for relationships by those of less than elevated thinking
emotional, which is less simple to identify as it is variable from person to person and one must be very self aware to understand the varying depth and bredth of an emotional connection
and thirdly mental which involves the sharing of thoughts and ideas and is associated with comfort and relaxation around the other person, as two people become closer mentally they will begin to feel that they share one mind and can speak it freely

these three ways culminate, ultimately, in the act of sex, or as I think it should be more aptly named: love making.
Sex can be entirely physical, many men suffer from this assumption, it can be entirely emotional and many women suffer from this assumption (in particular those who are very uncomfortable sexually and therefore cannot experience the pleasure of love making to its fullest), but it is only proper when love making brings people together in all three ways, physically mentally and emotionally. Our design intends it to be this way, during sex endorphin levels spike and hormones go wild, we feel relaxed and entirely at ease, content, and fulfilled. All of these reactions are our being's way of attempting to facilitate the smooth development of the three bonds. It is when we fight these reaction and tell ourselves that 'it doesnt mean anything' and 'its JUST sex' that we put ourselves in danger. Each time that we make love we form a deep connection, however if that connection is quickly severed due to a lack of depth in a relationship we risk forever damaging our ability to form that type of connection again.

Im drunk....why do I think when Im drunk????

stuffopalooza 2!!!!

2009-06-07T21:52:45Z

For this installment of stuffopalooza Im giving away fake weaponry better call it fast becuase this stuff will go like hotcakes!!!!

First up

A custom built M4 close quarters squad automatic weapon. I bult this thing nearly entirely from scratch, that said it could use some work, predominantly it needs a new upper reciever, I would prefer that this go to someone who knows how to replace such parts. It works as is and has a freaking huge battery space, large enough to accommodate a 12 volt 3300 MAh battery, did I mention a freakin 5000 round box magazine?????

this is just a little springer m9, good quality as far as spring guns go, and comes with an extra magazine!

This magazine comes with a full metal CO2 blowback m9, the front barrel broke off so you would need to push the inner barrel back in every 2 shots or so, but its really powerful has a 30 something round mag capacity, its metal and better yet its free. get it while it lasts!!!

These two are non-functional prop guns, one in black, one in OD, great for making movies

an olive drab officers jacket, its a little too small for me, but its super rad, also I screen printed a BA skull on the back.

I dunno why I have these, but two HUGE leather belts!!!

I have a set of these, they are boffing swords, one handed and of medium length. pretty good construction.

a really big boffing sword

a wooden sword with woodburned designs and a leather wrapped handle

Soft neck tactical vest, 6 pistol magazine pockets, 4 rifle mag pouches, and two big shell pouches, fully adjustable

carved wood black walking cane, a must for all the pimps in the land

A funtional miniature crossbow in need of one crucial part.

I have two of these available, they are tri-point tactical rifle slings that have been ruberized for gripping ability. theyre very high quality.

These are wooden daggers for use in whatever, I like to use them for airsoft if there is a knife kill rule.

Chargers!

A pair of walkee Talkees

Batteries, all mini connectors, 8.3 and 9.6 volts two straight one nunchuck

Wire masks

PARTS!!! this has every single part to an airsoft gun you can imagine in it, springs gearboxes, motors barrells, body parts. everything.

wooden viking sword! make it fancy yourself!

Stuffopalooza installment one!

2009-06-06T21:00:01Z

first up, spawn comics! all nice and in good condition, five issues!

next! An Item I highly recommend for madame Ellie martin! the amazing joy buzzards a great indy comic with lovely art.

next up, SUPREME! this comic is pretty weird....four issues

Dark Angel, a couple issues of a not so awesome comic but hey! its free!

heres a comic I used to love! three issues of Radix

assorted comics!!

Dramatics magazine, its got stuff about acting directing stage craft ect

a couple issues of Dragon Magazine

Mad magazines

Pop Sci

tattoos

Eco-structure

Dwell

White Dwarf Tryranids Issue

Assorted amgazines, mostly gaming and anime related

The Concept Art of Star Wars Episode 1

D20 Books, Dragon Mech (steampunk Fantasy) Rifts TRIAX (mecha d20) Factory (sci fi fantasy d20)

Dragonology, a cheesy book about dragons!

Illustrated Episode 1 guide

ripleys believe it or not

Web Pages That Suck- a book about web design

The Big Book of Lego. you know you want it

Tr
Diablo 2 guide

A history teachers text book?

Tyranid Codex (caleb, do you want this back?)

How to draw superheros and villains

Draw aliens

drawing manga

More drawing manga

Everything Bond in one book!

Magic the Gathering Strategy Guide

Starwars Essential Guides

Science Fair Projects

Pop Sci 21st Century Soldier

How to draw mecha

eyewitness Knight

Drawing Super heros

Eyewitness Spy

Maya 7 how to book, also has a cd with software

Ripleys believe it or not

Stephen king: wastelands (its the third in a series)

Starcraft Strategy Guide

Samurai Spirit

The Greatest Generation

The Amulet of Samarkand

Two of the books in the Ragnarok series

Wastelands an excellent collection of short stories about the apocalypse, thanks laura!

some book about saving the planet

Steven King: Everything is Eventual

Im getting a new laptop

2009-06-06T18:31:45Z

http://www.dell.com/content/products/productdetails.aspx/laptop-alienware-m17x?c=us&l=en&s=dhs

holy balls, alienware makes a damn fine laptop.

on that note my old desktop is up for grabsies!(caleb has first dibs on parting it out or the whole thing)
Stay tuned for stuffapulooza in which I will give you all my shit!!!! I have many comic books and other books up for grabs first, and then will be airsoft guns, and then will come the random shit round.
so yeah! stay tuned!

thoughts on proficiency

2009-06-05T06:23:31Z

heres a message I sent a freshman kid
Hey Dom, so heres my argument against proficiency.
It is my opinion that proficiency promotes mediocrity, by that I mean that there are many people in our school who will strive, and when I say strive I mean literally strive, to do the bare minimum that they must to get by, and once scraping out the minimum no longer requires any maintenance, and instead requires only a one time 'proficiency' test these people will cease to learn. Furthermore, in such cases once the student ceases to actively learn in class, they become a dangerous distraction for any students who still strive for something beyond 'proficient'. I feel that is not right for any system to push mediocracy as a standard much less to degrade the standard of education for those students who strive for excellence. Yes, through proficiency our bottom line may continue to rise, but at what cost? I say that in a system with its focus on raising the bottom line, and leaving no child behind, we also install a ceiling for the higher achievers, and ultimately no child gets ahead. Should a school system that calls itself exceptional and outstanding really institute a system that is DESIGNED to simply make students proficient, which is another word for OK, decent, mediocre, average. Heres how it all boils down, proficiency grading might bring some students who normally wouldnt pass up to a 'proficient' level, but ultimately it will bring down those students who could be pushed to much higher levels, luring them with promises of an 'easy A' and a shortcut. SO, what do we ultimately want to teach? That you can get by in life on shortcuts and mediocrity or that if you work hard and persevere you can succeed.

All of these thoughts are far from objective, and are mostly hypothesis and observation, but isnt that all any science or philosophy is?
For more really good (and slightly different) thoughts you should really ask Larsen, he always has something good to say.

poetry de jour

2009-06-01T15:11:18Z

The Line

there's still a
line drawn in the
sand which reads once
you leave you can never
come home again not to
the same home nestled
in comfort. there's
still a line drawn
in the sand you
left it in the wet
to dry, to dry and
dare you to cross it
I crossed once in the
early summer only to find
the grass to be browner on
the other side. Now after
six years of trying to
return, I am packing
my bags to cross the
line again, to lose
another home and
hope to gain one
in the process
there is a
line drawn
in the
sand

30 in 365

2009-05-29T15:13:25Z

because I do love following trends, and becuase I feel like Jess and Ellie might just be on to something here, I have made my 30 in 365 list, however I will not be making a video, thats just not my scene.

1. Get Published
2. Sell Ten Knives
3. Finish Writing at least 1 song
4. Get the shit kicked out of myself
5. write a short story
6. wear 6 beard styles
7. learn banjo
8. find someone I used to be friends with
9. survive in the desert
10. screen print/ customize my entire wardrobe
11. home brew wine beer ect
12. live outside for a month
13. shoot a gun
14. kill and eat a beast
15. journey outside of US
16. jam frequently
17. stay fit (hit 200 lbs bench press!(im at 195))
18. chop shit in half with homemade sword
19. grow veggies and herbs
20. cook frequently
21. read 5 books
22. hitch hike
23. help a complete stranger
24. get lost (on purpose)
25. learn biofeedback
26. learn meditation
27. use my ordination (ie: conduct a marriage)
28. smoke out of home made pipe
29. start an Almost Invisible Art campaign
30. Finish This List!!!!!!!