Who the Hell is Kattie

So there is this woman that's been tending my green patch as of late, joy-facebook I know. Anyway, she's been tending my garden and sending me plants and writing on my wall and I just want to know who the hell is she? How does she know me or how do I know her? What did I do to attract people to my *shining* personality? It's all very confusing and full of fluff. I'm not complaining, I like people. Heck there are a few I even love. But, that aside, how on earth can I repay those that care. I suppose by caring back. That seems to be the only way, though I growl in contemplation as I enjoy apathy very, very much. Even by putting some effort into my life I can show those folks that I think they are important and that I appreciate what they say and so. So K, love, good luck with this Jerry person and be happy. May the God you believe in bless you and all you do.

And everybody else thanks.

Ha!

And here you thought you would never, ever see me again. Well, I am back and better than ever. Well, maybe not better in the cleanliness area, or the grooming situation and true I haven't written the stories I wish I had; but I am here. For those of you who don't know I have broken up with said Gf of last post. We had been dating for about a year and a half. "What went wrong," you may ask and I shall tell you. Commitment doesn't seem to be my strong suit. So this Christmas instead of giving her a ring like she wanted I get her the boot instead. Not the real boot, the proverbial boot, but she took it bad and left. I am now a free man, a free man who is faced with an extra $200 rent check each month. So if anyone knows anyone out there, ha ha ha, that is looking for a place to be, please, please God, please send them to me.

I know, I know, I am not responsible for here portion, she did sign the lease, she is responsible for her portion of the rent. Well, like daddy Grubbs used to always say, "Damit Matthew!" Though I think it would have been better if he had said you can't squeeze watter out of a stone. Because that would be a little more appropriate. Yet, I must leave
take care all

iteresting

right, so this is a bit upsetting. I found the reason why I was unable to gain access. It trainspires in the hostale take-over of all things by the corperate big wigs; they found it just (in their infinate wisdom) to demand from me more work! Like we all don't have enough of that. It's preposterous, create a new mail acount. I can hardly remember all my passwords as it is. I do update so very infrequently, but no more. They, (the proverbial they), have infused me with enough displeasure that I feel it is my dubty to rant. But enough of this. It's seven in the morning and I can't spell. So I am going to bed, but I will warn those out there to expect me on the horizan. (hopefully in more blogs than one.) Just to let you all know, I have a few stories that I am working on, and have been for some time. Though there are only 2 that have been in the long run, the rest have been scrapt at this point in time and I hope to expound on a few that I have been working on; spicificly: The King of Serpents, and How the Eagle Lost His Crown. They are to be a part of my new summer initative which includes the following.
3-5: short children type pieces
1-2: works of extended fiction (haveing mutiple sections, but still not a novel)
1: novel type thing, though only 100 pages expected
5-10: short stories of no more than three pages

I havn't had a lot of time these past few mounths, haveing a GF saps a lot of time (amoung other things) but no more. I endevor to step away from my comuter, and focus on the inner muse rather than the static reality of video games. And while I may not complete the subsantial list of works that I have clammed I will write; I do know this. That progress can never come from still hands. But I can't see anymore, I say good by.

The Chronicles of Jack: The beginning

The other side on the shadows.

There is no question to what we are. We are timeless, we are forever, we are damned. I don't know how we became this way and I don't know if there is a cure. Is there a cure for a soul so black? No, we are here; surviving and thriving on your scraps. What you toss casually away becomes our treasure, our life line. A discarded news paper tells us when we need to lay low. A dejected wino becomes an easy meal. And when the night folds in on you, when you feel like there is nothing left to life for. We are there to pick up the pieces and continue on for you. Long before your flesh ever grows cold. Is there an escape, maybe. Maybe hell will take us, maybe this existence is hell. We are uncertain. But given the choice between hell on earth and the pits of endless torment we chose to remain here. Besides, if we left, who would be there to hear you scream?

Jack panted and sputtered as blood gurgled from his mouth. He ran grasping his side where a metal pike had been driven into it moments before. Escape was the only thought that crossed his mind. Escape from that thing. He stopped to catch his breath and felt his life ebb from with in him. One more street, one more door. He could hide, could he hide? Questions spun through his head like a shaking cup on a saucer. The lights ahead began to dim and the alley way beneath him began to warp. No, he had to keep his head clear, he had to run. No time for questions, just run, "RUN!" He shouted and dashed, looking for a door, but the whole world began to wobble and spin. Poor jack didn't have time to go through all five fazes of death. He only had time for acceptance before the alley around him began to warp and the world itself faded away.

Another body lay sprawled across the ground and the beast moved on. Sniffing the air as it did so. It was searching for fresh meat, fresh blood and it found what it was looking for. The ground is littered with bodies now, and the city begins to shrink. It looks diminutive, like an ant hill and the screams become distant, like voices on the wind. Lights flicker, and guns discharge but that is below the clouds now. Not even when the beast found the orphanage could Jack's attention be drawn back. He could only look up at the light that was calling him home.

A New and Exciting Adventure

Well I figure it's about time, about time again for me to write. I have been lax for too long and need to rediscover my muse. I am hoping to have a new installment every Tuesday and Thursday by about 6:00 am. Whether it be flash fiction or an on-going story I hope to have something up. Maybe, just maybe it might spurn someone to read it and critique it. I don't really have anything ready Today however, so I shall present a short paragraph for a story I am working on. Enjoy.

A soft rain was falling on the Burnt remnits of another nameless village. It had an elder who lead in political matters, a lord who represented it in matters of the crown and a priest who reassured the masses that Morrow was watching over them. It was a bustling village full of life, commerce and the laughter of children. It would have been a fine place to raise a family, until I burnt it to the ground. No, that's not fair to say. I wasn't the only who had a hand in the destruction, but I did play my part and was sickened by it. MY stomach tightened in knots and my vision blurred. It could have been the hunger in my belly or the rain in my eyes, but I know that wasn't. My hands were shaking, clasping and releasing, almost nervously. It was the blood on them. There's an old expression that my father used to say, "No man can live in peace as long as there is another man willing to take orders." He's probably shaking in his cell, that is, if he is still alive. But that's another story entirely.

Unhappy Noise

Have you ever wondered why real life has to encroch upon escapism? I have, and I have come to the conclusion that it sucks. Not life, or escapism but just the combination of the two. "Forever spererate, replacing each other as the mood deams." I just want to read, to write, to build a world for people to enter and experience. However, other thoughts occupy my mind. They pull at me, waking and sleep. Finances, grades, relationship concerns. They burden me, and I know I am not alone in this. I know that everyone faces the worries. Like right now, I just want to run up to Charles De Lint and give him a big hug. It might just be the lack of sleep talking, or typing rather, but I just finished "Our Lady of the Harbour," and I feel that its one of the best I have read. A little disapointing, but not at all cliche. I do not fault him because the story did not go the way I wanted it to. Rather I comend him, because I have a way I think the story should go, but I understand why he did it the way he did. I get why it works, the underlining mood, maybe not meaning, but certainly metephore. And I am sitting here all Jazzed, thinking about my transition issues and what I could do better for my own stories. And what does reality do? It glarbs at me, and weighs me down again. I hate it, you know, I hate having to be so serious, knowing that I am not serious enough and that even if I exert more effort it still wont be enough. I just want to follow the Muse, but benality has me so tightly that it invades my dreams! worry, regret, concern. I even sit around thinking about what I would change if I could, how I could make it better. But I don't really know if I could do it, probably just falter. And that's the really anoying thing, that I feel just so darn depressed about it all. I know I shouldn't. I know I have a lot to be thankful for. Probably even enough to think about haveing some sort of faith. I also know these problems will never go away. They will always come in some form or another and if I am not ready for them; if I give up latter like I have given up before, I know they will destroy me. Destroy what I have now, what I will have later. When it all will mater. When I have somthing worth fighting for. Granted, having someone to share the night with brings the future into prespective. The only real problem there is, I see the man I want to be latter, but know I am not him now. And the real scary part is, I don't know if I can become that man. I don't know if I will ever care enough, to really feel and fight for it all. I'm not saying I'm messed up, there are a lot of folks who feel like that from time to time. It happens. But its just irksome when such worries and self examinations envelope the mystical places we hang our hats when we want to get away from it all. When words in a book form commitment, and when classes on theology are held in one's mind. Then, my fellows, it is time to be concerned. Any who, I better get to bed. May the Muse Guide You.
-this post has been spell checked for your convenience-

Art, The Fight for Originality

It has come to my attention that people are complaining more than usual. What about you may ask? Why, art of course. Be it poetry, drawings or my nemesis writing. They say everything has been done, that nothing is original any more. I guess I can agree, however there is a way of looking at the glass half full. The problem is that there are so many of us that want to get our work out there, that want to make an impression on the world for whatever reason. I am not saying that any artist is miss-guided or conceded. We are just motivated to prove ourselves and our usefulness to the world (or maybe just to our parents). However this drive has come at a cost, we have become afraid. We are afraid of somebody steeling our work, of not getting the right message out, afraid of failing short. So what dastardly effect does this have? Seclusion. Let's face it the concept of the secluded artist is a bit of a cliche. But that doesn't make it any less true. We draw from ourselves and try to ignore outside stimulus. Though no matter how fresh and new a piece looks it can always be compared, sometimes rather closely, to a previous work. And this is were our problem lies. In perception. There used to be a time when artists fed-off each other. Were a story spawned a picture, a picture a song, a song a legend and a legend a story again. It's this cyclical pattern that we have been avoiding that may bring a rebirth to art as we know it. Who knows, this very comment may have been made a hundred times before and a hundred times again. However, it is necessary now, and probably will be again. I don't claim to be a wise man, just a man. Yet, if my experience has taught me anything it is that we need to band together. Art has become too commercialized, too over produced. Though the heart goes in, the soul is not there. I can only hope that we can move past this and back to the community of rejects that we started out as. Be bold, be daring, be yourself and look to other works for inspiration. If they find your work to be plagiarism rather than a honor than they do not understand what it is to be an artist. Life does not imitate art, art is begot from the muse which is the filter we see the light of life through. Only by agnoliging the muse and therefore the world and all of its stimuli can we have a true appreciation for our own art and works of others. So take in all the world has to offer and give back to the chorus that is the song of humanity.