Untitled 1, Pt.1

He followed his finger on the map until the line that was keyed a river met it’s maker; an apparent lake. It not being a very detailed map, the phrase adopted a haunting juxtaposition which alluded to his own ambiguity. In any case, he knew it was where he should go. The lake was roughly fifteen miles from the river that lay at least a mile ahead and was only recognizable as such by it’s surrounding foliage. He folded the visitor’s guide into a small rectangle and secured it under his Velcro’d chest pocket. Down the slope he slid, uncontrolled but direct ,with an occasional boulder that only heightened his enthusiasm. With this reference point, his salvation needn’t be reserved for Him. The rekindled optimism far exceeded prior moments he once considered unique or meaningful. It was an instance in which the primacy of biological function ruled. The extremities and eyes clumsily co-operated, yearning to moisten the now mummified throat. As the sun sat, crimson streaks of clouds aligned his path. One that he would have thought ordained if it’s end point hadn’t the promise of much needed sustenance. The land, heavens, and people lost inside or out held only practical connection. Ends and means. As he drew closer, though, his heart sank further into his now corseted abdomen. A closer look revealed not an oasis, but a graveyard. Thirty foot trees loomed with their charred and grey fingers stretched in every direction. Below, unwelcoming brambles competed for nothing as their condition was no better than the trees’. Using his scathed hands he ripped his way through, discovering not a river, stream or creek. Rather, he stood above a churned road of muck that exhibited the traces of like searches. Weakened, he collapsed, knees first, into the mud and mindlessly began to dig. On all fours, he became immersed in the thick black substance. It engulfed him and he accepted its embrace. As far as he was then concerned, it would have made a suitable place to decompose. Sinking lugubriously his body suddenly met their mutual composer, the cold liquid of life. Once again rattled by necessity, he reformed his posture. Taken aback, he looked down to see water seeping up through his own outline. Under the barley moon, light began to reflect on his now producing well.

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What is it like to be a zombie in philosophy?



What is it like to be a zombie in philosophy?.


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There comes a day once in a while where you fully understand an adjective. Where your intersection with your surroundings resonates as the word does with it’s definition. Today, for me, serendipitous was that word. Everything from the birds on high to the homeless recycling fit together; a schemata unordained. And evidently ironic, this discovery of serendipity fell in line with it’s formal definition. Full circle as they say. I find this strange, though, because I am usually apprehensive about the efficacy of language. I fancy it as one of many tools of expression. But as cautious, or critical, as I can prospectively consider myself, I think that some words are better than others. And even better yet is when they are used in their niche. And perhaps the greatest satisfaction comes when there simply isn’t another word to describe “it”. While I believe I feel this way today, the moldy underside of this perspective is that there also doesn’t exist words that may be needed. That uneasy feeling on your skin in awkward situations or perhaps the unspecific nausea of uncertainty to list a few somatic symptoms. Or how about miscommunication between not only a couple but one’s own self*. Granted, we all picked up the pieces of language separately. Some of us garnered a more cohesive construct of the written and spoken word. But my criticism still rests; specifically with those who consider themselves intellectual (myself likely included). Even our heroes of ancient and particular caliber would have to admit the holes of expression I am alluding to. Perhaps this is why definitions are often considered inherently inadequate by philosophers. Or perhaps why slang is used by common, less serious people or by those whose intellectual creativity has taken fancy to it (Faulkner, Salinger, Bukowski, etc.). So now it seems that there is a chasm of describable things that need only be pulled out individually by a linguistic fishing pole. And each person with each of their poles must fish to survive (or at least to have a socioeconomic successful life). Hence the use of big words to appear more intelligent. Or as can be seen in parents using slang to relate with their child’s generation. How serendipitous, wouldn’t you say?

*where the communication is not weakened by negligence

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Sweet home Alabama 2?

The Popped Corn

We know he can pull a southern accent… can he carry a movie, a drama?

Lets hope he can… for his own good!


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The times were full

bladders like and tensions more

while music calmed

conversation swirled

until mess was forgotten

where anger was revealed

the crap a third

and real shit the rest

a place of neglect

but an area of negligence

we would roam without

and with we whimper

the edges only being scary as such


time called for action

which in turn was short of things

laughter unfortunate

among other rare sightings

perhaps the key

more likely the stall

the breather, or distraction

coordinates of imagination




Writing Sample For Portland Pulp

Walt, You’re my Father?

With the sale finalized, the galaxy that was once far far away will be reared regularly by your favorite pants wearing mouse. At $4.1 billion, half cash, half shares, George has made himself Disney’s third largest buyout, right after ABC and Pixar. What’s more is that Lucas Films was, prior to the deal, the most profitable independent production company that stood against Hollywood immersion. So where does this leave the die hards and what does it mean for future generations?
With full rights to not only the production company but also the studio and game division, Disney has been brain storming a full fledged plan of attack. To list a few: a seventh movie, a television series, and potentially a Star Wars theme park. They’ve even mentioned their hopes to produce biannual sequels until the Sith are utterly destroyed. Their ambition could prove provocative, though. With the old and new trilogy matched in movies, the classics still acted as a foundation. As more content rolls out free from the restrictions of the prequel/sequel puzzle, the universe is at the whim of our favorite media Sarlacc. Granted, raising eyebrows at Star Wars future would not be original in itself. Disneyland’s Star Tours has been running for decades off of a tangential storyline and countless books have overlapping histories of characters and plot. Regardless, fans and foes of the trade should brace themselves for an uninterrupted light speed jump away from what was. May the force be with you Disney.

What do you think?

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some thoughts

the origin of pain could not allude to its next instance as the world was burning before we had fire.

the cosmic winds of change affect me not as I am a boulder among pebbles.

its a shame that shame does not shame its way after such an intrusion

the blackness crackles and drags across everything with more

neeeeeeeed to write………

something broken inbetween

“you don’t get me! YOU JUST DON’T GET ME!” she exhaled with scorn. “you never have and you never will. your own fucked view of the world prevents you from acknowledging me, truly seeing who I am and how unhappy I’ve been! ohhhh, aaaw aw aw you piece of shit…”, gasping for more air to refill her contempt, “I have tried and tried with you, I wanted us to work more than i wanted happiness for myself!”. He knew at this point that he had lost her, that no amount of his usual indignation coupled with self-pity could console her. He’d seen her break down before, but never completely sever from their designated zone behavioral recognition. out of  nausea and sand paper throat she gurgled up her goodbye, “please leave me, please never talk to me again”. her chest was heaving so heavily it was impossible to notice the anxious shaking her body had involuntarily adopted. the floodgates had been cracked for sometime now as black veins of liquid pain formed a collar on her favorite shirt of his. there was nothing he could do as he’d already done too much. In a state of lucid self-reflection, he contemplated the force of emotion that had just engulfed him. He was force-fed the verified accusations of self which really only she could have done. But before he could even swallow, the catalyst of catharsis had already forged it’s path straight through his usual defense mechanisms. blind sided by what had always been right in front of him, a solemn sense of responsibility grew in his gut. unlike tactile pain, this emotion spread like a morning stretch but with the lingered itch of a scabbing knee scrap. bewildered and left with nothing much else to do, he mustered strength enough to stumble backwards towards the door. If given enough time to contemplate the action, he’d wonder if it was more difficult looking back onto her or turning around to the open the door. of course he did not cry, but he knew as well as she that he had long ago forfeited such outward displays “weakness”. Again, given the time, he might have tried.

After he peacefully closed the door behind him, she collapsed into a feverish curled ball of utter melancholy. her cries could have reached the end of voids or swayed the outcomes of war. but her remorse was love. that bitch of a word, the false prophecy of escape and solace. she wasn’t one to expunge her emotions through physicality, to trade feelings for the things. In truth, they were all she had ownership of. left alone with them, it would be a years before she’d stand again. despite her miniscule role in the world, their relationship inverted suddenly, leaving her the foundation on which it balanced.

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childhood favorite along with brazil as they were apart of the minimal vhs collection my dad kept

Neon Magazine Scans '97-'99 | The Website

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

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