The old, the powerful (short story)

From beyond the knowledge of the shell, of even the projectile within, the hammer follows the will of some finger (the appendage to a much larger question atop a question, atop a question ad infinitum, until we reach not some hard wall, not some resolute end, or lowest turtle, or willing mind; rather, it isn’t until we understand the relationship of the whole that we can see the origin to our current path), the path of the physical constraints of the mechanism that delivers the firing pin to the rear of the casing.

Youth, the explosion that first propels us, that first heat and light and fire that seems to tear away the cocoon that was our personal nothing, the fleeting, familiar warmth of a void that delivered us into the world.

Tumbling through the air, spinning, heating with the coarse, rushing air, and, as our trajectory begins to dip, we cool; the energy drains from us, or, becomes manifest in the distance, in our own affectation of the world, of each other.

And then we strike a wall at terminal velocity, perhaps we bury ourselves into the ground, maybe we strike someone in the heart, and the world is forever changed, again, and again, and, well, this is how the world works.


Imagine a world where we do not age as in decline. What if, instead, the older one became, the larger, stronger, more verve-filled one became?

Gone would be the days of sitting by Grandmother’s bedside, waiting for her to lose her local battle to entropy, to the use and re-use of mechanisms ill-equipped for the immortality of the human.

Instead, one would notice Grandpa in the weight room, in the middle of the night, despite his claims that he was tired as the dinner table.

Frozen, from the doorway, Andrew, the youngest of the ten children of the house licked his lips, the dim blue light from the room not yet fallen onto him.

“Grandpa”, he spoke, cautiously, his hand on his hip’s holstered sidearm, “what are you doing up so late, shouldn-”

“I’m only eighty-two”, Bernard interrupted, slowly letting down the combined seven hundred pounds, back onto the rack. The rack sagged under the weight, as Bernard’s giant, bursting muscles relaxed. “My granddaddy lived to be a hundred and forty”, he spoke, taking a swig from his water bottle, still laying, looking up at the ceiling.

Andrew moved his right hand’s middle finger, an inch, just to be touching the leather clasp that held the revolver in place.

As if responding to this unseen motion, immediately, Andrew’s eighty-two year old grandfather ducked his head beneath the bench press bar, leaned forward, as if in one or two, soft, yet quick motions. His head, looking at the floor, slowly tilted up, toward his grandson.

“Now listen, I just want to be healthy, while I’m still here, and there’s–“, he began, before his was cut off by his grandson.

“No, you can’t be doing this; you haven’t been taking your medication, have you?”, Andrew said, his throat in pain from the fear, and of the sadness, a physiological reaction of fight or flight.

The room was silent; though, to the boy, the room was filled with tinnitus, the beating of his heart, his breath. To the man, his highly developed years, his eyes, beyond high definition, could see detail in the moon-cast shadow in the hallway, enough to see, to hear Andrew’s finger pop the little revolver clasp off of its holster.

“NOW LISTEN!”, Bernard shouted, as he stood.

With two loud bangs, Andrew fired two shots into his grandfather’s chest. Bernard lunges at the boy. Another three shots fire off, flashing the room, each time, blinding only the boy. His wrists crushed, Andrew lay on his back in the hallway, his torso unnaturally twisted around, his upper torso flat against the linoleum floor. Andrew looked beyond his mangled hand, the gun deformed, too, covered in red and pink, wet bits of flesh, through the sliding glass door, into the yard.

Andrew could not hear anything, and his vision was failing him, before the draining blood took with it, his consciousness, his life, he saw his grandfather’s 7′ frame, half way to the treeline that stood twenty-five feed from the back of the house.

His grandfather’s body suddenly stiffened, and his white collared shirt began to fly into little pieces, into the air. Out of view, on the deck, and out of the windows on the second floor, all of the children of the family emptied their weapons, filling his back, cutting his head in half with bullets and projectiles of varying caliber. Overkill, always.

Behind Andrew, just as the lights inside, went out, a woman, his aunt, ate quietly at some cheese that she stole from the dinner table. Alice never felt like she was eating enough. She felt old. She felt strong. She ate the cheese. Tensing the muscles in her back, long, thick muscles hidden beneath a dated dress that we wore often, Alice stepped into the night.

Lifting the fingers of her dress with her bloodied hands, she disappeared.

It wouldn’t be for another hour that the family notices that both of Andrew’s hands were missing, not a piece larger than a pea, anywhere to be seen. Not until morning would they find Alice missing.

Following the investigation of a terrible, terrible event that laid waste to two neighboring industrial districts, some years later, the family learned the true age of Alice, not aunt, not mother, but great, great grandmother.

  • J


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Photo, words

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds”, he said, learning against his bicycle, his feet, and it, planted into the sun-white grass, the stark black of the leaves, beneath him.

“Did you mean to say that?”, she asked, looking through her mirror, into an image she was imagining, a man leaning against his bicycle, in the park; the scene, completely bereft of colour, and wholly dark, stark with black and white contrast.


“You said you love me”, she said, her own eyes closed now, “just now, you say you loved me”, her question could be felt in her stomach; like quickly driving over a hill, in the back seat of a car, she felt the sudden pull of her innards, her unconscious mind flirting with the awareness of the dubious reality, here entertained, with such conviction.

With his head down, his hands in his pockets, he looked as though he were sleeping. He didn’t say anything like that. He knew he had not, because he could feel the tension within him to do this; that tension was as strong as ever.

“I meant that I was alone, and that I wanted to be warmed, some”, his lips moved, the words drawn out in his head, invisible lips and vocal chords, constrained by the mere functional understanding of speech.

“Yes, and I am alone too–“, she began, but he had already begun speaking over her.

“I shouldn’t have come here”, he said, aloud.

“I should have stayed away.”, she said in her mind, he said in his.

And together, they shared in the silence of their minds.

  • J



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20161024 – navel gazing

Words and ideas, they opine in my head. Flowing, but not like water rushing over the fall’s edge, cascading into the air as a great, white, billowing mist. No. These days, the words and ideas seem to move about like flotsam, forgotten: trash that’s become lost to the pointless swirl of an eddy. Relegated to follow itself, to lead itself nowhere, round and round, until time, until circumstance dries it up, leaving only the dusty, dirt-speckled residue of what had ceased to be, long before the moisture of its body had left it.

And lo, I am now faced with an opportunity to pick myself up, to gather these words and ideas, this garbage, my wreckage, and to toss it all–everything, toward those turbulent waves. To drown, to swim away into the blackness; to be, or to become overwhelmed, beyond hope, and to then walk the ocean floor, reluctantly waiting for the sun to envelop the Earth, to boil off this weight above my head, and to turn me to the same ash as everyone and everything that I have known, here on this place in space and time we call home.


And I may do this. I may do it with no good reason beyond depression.

Hmm, and if I do find myself and my weightless, empty thoughts dashed upon the rocks below, well, that wouldn’t be the end, either. For, being so-destroyed would be another such eddy, only, one less familiar, far less comfortable. And so, given my fall, I could just do it again, and again, and again, until I have either succeeded, or until my life and/or opportunities in life have expired.


Time. Time is finite. Life, is worthwhile, certainly if you’re already in it, and you’ve not found yourself immediately aware of the horrors capable of the human animal and his human animal civilization.

Open your eyes, and you may find yourself suckling at the bosom of one who loves and cares for you. Blink, and now there are worms suckling at you, beneath a pile of your brethren, atop countless generations of that same life that lives on in the near-to-infinite variations.

This blink. This time between lives, we feel that it is something like the length of the life that we presently lead. Oh, the life that I presently have is good, and therefore I may enjoy this good life for some eighty years, at which point I may roll the dice, once more, hoping to get a life as good as I now enjoy.

I’m afraid to tell you –mainly, because I have spent years writing a book on the subject,  a book I doubt that I have the heart to finish without assistance, the help of a trusted adviser, likely a Buddhist — that this blink of a lifetime, it is an illusion.

What I mean to say, and perhaps I won’t here describe it (lest I fear that my words are too imprecise, concerning something that is paramount to my intellectual, heartfelt existence), is that all existences, all existence everywhere, all of it, all of you, each of us, myself, your dog, the little bugs on your face, what animated, living things that live upon them, all of you are a single existence. That existence, this universal existence is you. Rather, more precisely, it is You. Call it us, call it we, call it God or the Cosmos.

You do not experience your life after the last life, before the next life. Rather, you experience everything, all of the time, all at once, everywhere.

The only reason why you are not aware of this, is because your intellect, that which may grasp this idea, is essentially extraneous additions upon the more basic animal constitution, and that animal that you indelibly are, it simply must survive, and because of the way this place, the cosmos, this universe, at least this apparently physical instantiation of it is structured, one body can (under normal circumstances) only know itself and the world through that single intimate lens of awareness.

If the animal body was aware of the oneness of everything, as the intellect can ascend to, then, I imagine we would be something more like the ant, or, perhaps the bee. The individual would be lost, and to that, our quality of life; indeed, life itself, as we know it.

I am meandering, dangerously, with these words. Like a painter, rather, like a “painter” who looks at his easel with reproach, with a disgust that hurts his being, like a “lover” who never speaks to his love. Is such a person a lover, or are they simply deluded, perhaps they’re in love with the idea of being in love.

Yes, I put these words here, but am I a writer for doing so?
Have I put anything here, really, that hasn’t been said before by me, and/or is not pitiful navel gazing?

I doubt it.
But this is a step, a step toward a long, long journey that I had stopped taking steps toward.

Sometimes, your first step is a stumble.
Perhaps that’s what this is.
I certainly hope so.

– J


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Watch “Joe Rogan Experience #750 – Kip Andersen & Keegan Kuhn, producers of Cowspiracy” on YouTube

Found this podcast subscribed on my walk home, tonight.
A talk on Cowspiracy, a Netflix documentary concerning the consequences of our way of life.


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Love, or some such thing | 20151008


Just walking around with my camera. Even this, I find myself doing less of.

Just walking around with my camera. Even this, I find myself doing less of.

It’s amazing how fucking can be so important to me, while at the same time being lesser than this idea of love. But what is more real, a physical act between two people, or some lofty, vague idea that probably exists nowhere but in my own head… at least in the form by which I presently grasp it.

Perhaps it is because I have been there; I have been wrapped in this vague idea as a butterfly was once wrapped in a cocoon. But now I approach the idea of love, the idea of this transformative cocoon, not as the caterpillar, the loveless and open being that once facilitated it, but as the butterfly that knows it…

And that may be my problem. I have known it. I have expectations.

I once was blind to it, and only then was I able to find it so.


I’m still alive.
These are thoughts.

– J

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03/30/2015 – TPP | Chris Hedges on the next 50 years

Ho folks,

Business interests are to this world as the massive Kraken is to the ship which it is squeezing, crushing, pulling beneath the waves. Of course, before the ship’s back is broken, we feast on the fruit of the beast.

Is it any wonder though, that things are getting so bad? Although we are among enlightened humans, they, like ourselves, are subject to the same market that supports our way of life. We drink Kraken oil, and we cry when we hear that more of the ships resources and focus are put toward this great monster.

How do we get ourselves out of this mess? I do not know. For, if we push against the interests of the huge corporations of this world, then we will be met with the most aggressive and effective resistance that our own dollars, labour, and livelihoods can offer, for it is we who constitute the Kraken. We do not simply support it, we are it.

The core of the problem is not we the people, but the organization of our persons. And the root of this has to do with a failure to properly conceptualize what is, what we are, and what role we play in the construction of our collective future on Earth and in this vast cosmic beyond.

An article, with news video on the leaked TPP plan – WikiLeaks Reveals TPP Proposal Allowing Corporations to Sue Nations 

WikiLeaks Reveals TPP Proposal Allowing Corporations to Sue Nations

WikiLeaks Reveals TPP Proposal Allowing Corporations to Sue Nations

A talk out of the UK concerning the TPP – Recipe for Ruin: TTIP the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership

It seems that the sky will be turning black, and that the Earth will heave and throw off its back many forms of life. This will likely be unavoidable at this point.

What can be done is to teach our children well. For, when when these bodies are falling to pieces, it will be our children and their children who will face more immediate existential threats, and ideally they will be doing so with greater knowledge and more advanced technological tools by which they may reign in our greedy Kraken before it is too late.

Should we be leaving it to our children?

Well, the Canadian Bill C-51 may actually make it illegal to discuss (much less to do) anything that will reduce the environmental impact of industry, because (as the TPP covers) this hurts business.

Below is an article by internet freedom crusader Michael Geist

A Conversation About Bill C-51: How the Anti-Terrorism Bill Undermines Canadian Privacy | Michael Geist

A Conversation About Bill C-51: How the Anti-Terrorism Bill Undermines Canadian Privacy | Michael Geist

And finally, a very, very important talk about the gloomy future of humanity and the planet’s other inhabitants by the incalculably-important Christopher Hedges

SFU Vancouver Speakers Series Presents: Chris Hedges

– J

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McKenna on creativity | Sagan on Earth | 021715

To say that I have been neglecting this blog is an understatement. I have been putting all of my energies onto my primary project. The status of that project? Stalled.

It is very disheartening to see so much valuable time go by without anything substantial being accomplished. This is the malady that affects my entire adult life, at present.

Anyway, there are more days, and more opportunities for me to get my life together.

Moving on,

Here is great view from Terence McKenna, on Opening the Doors of Creativity

When I finally publish my work, people who are familiar with the work of McKenna will no doubt see similarities, parallels, and probably a great similarity between his, my own, and Eastern philosophy more generally. To become as lucid as Terence is my dream.

But we all have dreams, surely.

From another love of mine, here is a lecture from Carl Sagan, The Earth as a Planet.

That’s all that I have for today.

Perhaps I will share something tomorrow as well.
Baby steps toward productivity… or at least a less-useless state.

Take care,

– J

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Abou Ali Issa: The Lebanese Hero Of The Tripoli Explosions

A man sacrifices himself to protect a crowded cafe in Tripoli, Lebanon.

Suffice to say, this man’s quick and good-natured thinking make him a clear example of human excellence, and of the greatness that we all posses within ourselves.

It is a touching story in his memory, to his honor.

– J

A Separate State of Mind | A Blog by Elie Fares

Two days ago, Tripoli got hit with death yet again as a terrorist attack took place in its Jabal Mohsen neighborhood.

The politics and intricacies of the attack are many, but there is one story of heroism springing out of the horror that took place on Saturday that no one is talking about. I figured I will, because this particular story about these kinds of people are the ones that make you see that faint silver lining in all the mayhem.

Many have wondered how come a café as crowded as the one attacked in Jabal Mohsen only amounted to less than 10 casualties. That’s because the suicide bombing attack didn’t go according to the two terrorists’ plans.

Among those at the café was a brave, courageous, heroic man called Abou Ali Issa. He was a father of seven. When Abou Ali Issa saw the second suicide bomber approaching the premises to…

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Neil deGrasse Tyson and Richard Dawkins, a conversation | The Poetry of Science + a tight beat

Ho folks,

I hope you enjoy, or find useful, the following.

Science – Evolutionary Biologist Richard Dawkins, and astrophysicist, Neil Degrasse Tyson speak their minds

Neil deGrasse Tyson and Richard Dawkins – The Poetry of Science

Music –

Vanic X K.Flay – Make Me Fade


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The Power of Empathy | How the economy works | Sounds of the universe

Good morning all,

I hope your week is going well.

RSA Shorts – The Power of Empathy
: What is empathy, and why it is different from sympathy.

How the economy works in 30 minutes. From the largest hedge fund manager in the world, Ray Dalio who predicted the 2008 financial crisis.

Sky at Night: The sounds of the universe – “While sound can’t travel directly through the vacuum of space, there is noise in the universe. From a distant star collapsing in on itself, to an aurora on another planet in our Solar System.” – BBC News

Sky at Night: The sounds of the universe [LINK]


– J

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