Excerpt of Current Untitled Work

"Untitled" a fictional story.

"I don't need a bag" but he robotically places the brown paper bag inside the black plastic. My request echoes in my head as I stare at my late night purchase. I'm not sure if it is the language barrier, the heat, or the hour that stopped the balding man from even acknowledging my presence. Most likely a combination of the three. Something about the emptiness behind his eyes didn't match with the blue tooth headset stapled to the side of his head. I exhale, attempting to let the mild frustration melt off me like the sweat on my neck. But like the sweat, the frustration clings to my subconscious, aided by humidity, and continues to irritate me as I walk out, bags in hand.

I feel like the inconspicuousness of my parcel was lost on anyone who might pass by me. I hate black plastic. It screams. A white plastic bag could contain any number of items. Acceptable purchases are placed in white. The virgin box of cookies, clothed in white, paraded for the entire neighborhood to see. But black is the color of sordid investments. Black plastic is neither discreet nor ostentatious. The black sack hanging at my side oozes of squalid hobbies shamefully acted out behind closed doors. My purchase is only as obscene as the imagination of the other allows.

The walk from store to home is short; A nice walk in Spring, miserable in Summer, invigorating in Fall, and an unmanageable in Winter. The trail takes me past two 24 hour laundromat occupied by hispanic women and children, K's an underground dive, a mattress store that never has anyone in it, a mixture of ethnic restaurants, and several beaten down apartment buildings. It's an old neighborhood, a conveniently forgotten one. As the roaming tamale vender says "Gentrificación no aquí en mi casa". I approach my building. It's residences are almost all asleep. The light of a forgotten lamp, a television projects a dance of colors onto a curtain, and the ever present hum of old air conditioning units; signs of life in an quiet building.

My keys sit firmly in my right pant pocket. I reach in with my free hand and grab the warn leather strap attached to the key ring. On the ring are five keys; the front door, apartment, post office box, storage space, and a safety deposit box located downtown. I am proud of my efficiency with keys, and when I reach for them, a small grin of trivial satisfaction emerges. The simplicity of my pockets contents are known and celebrated only by me, and is something that does not need to be known by others. To them, it might just seem like I'm proud of monotony.

The sound of heals reverberating off the brick and tile seem to be following me as I enter the building. The rhythm of the walk paints a picture in my mind of the owner these shoes. I imagine they are yellow, mostly because I see a lot of women wearing yellow. If Dorothy had been wearing sapphire slippers instead would she have gotten home. I doubt it, and remember that in the novel, Dorothy has slippers made of silver, which I remember enjoying as a child. Does the owner of these shoes have any opinion of the works of Mr. L. Frank Baum? I doubt she would even be able to make to correlation. To busy finding dresses to go with the yellow shoes.

Sleep and it's Relation to my Life

"What do you mean you don't like sleeping" is often the reaction I get from people when I tell them that sleep has never been something I desire. I know many people who's favorite thing to do in the world is sleep. To many people sleep is an escape from the difficulties of life. Their troubles can only follow them into the world of slumber via dreams. And when these people awake they are relaxed and rejuvenated from a fulfilling nights sleep. So when I tell someone with a great sleep habit, that I do not have a good sleep habit, they often look at me like I'm not right.

"It's just what you do; you get up, live out your day, at the end you sleep, and then repeat it the next day". This came from a friend of mine who recently sat down with me and discussed why my sleep habits are not in sync with the rest of humanity. I told her that when I was little I slept like other normal children. My parents would see me rubbing my ears and knew that I was getting tired. Though as I grew up, my desire to sleep lessened. The more aware I became of my reality, the less I wanted to be away from it.

And that's where my problem stems from; my continued desire to stay connected to my personal awareness. Sleep for me is almost scary at times. My eyes become heavy, my brain slows to the point where my thoughts are almost incoherent. It is that moment where your consciousness is taken from you for a brief moment and then next thing you realize several hours have passed, you are in a different position then you were when you were last wake, and if you've dreamt, then your mind is filled with bizarre imagery that have only slight connections to the reality you are now a part of.

To me, I equate the moment before sleep to sinking into dark water. I'm not saying that when I fall asleep it feels like I'm drowning (as a former life guard, I know that drowning is a very violent ordeal). I say this because when you sleep, you give yourself over to sleep. Sleep, like the water in this example, overwhelms your mind and body and takes you away. It almost reminds me of descriptions of alien abductions. People experiencing lost time, not understanding where the last few hours had gone. A complete lack of awareness to their reality. Also, alien abductions are also something I fear.

Now you may be thinking, Kellen, you have to sleep, it's part of life. I do sleep; it's just something I mostly struggle with. When I do give myself over to it, I sleep deeply, and wake up fine. Though more often than not I would rather be doing something creative. Night is my time for writing, reading, making music, etc. And when I do eventually lay my head down, my mind likes to wander. It does what it has been designed to do for millions of years. I attempt to solve personal problems, I create stories in my head, I speak narratives of my life to myself to assess where I am (for more on how I think see my series "Ruminating on my Ruminations"). As anyone who has ever shared a bed, a hotel room, or a tent with me will tell you, I don't fall asleep easily because my mind just will not let go. Though when my mind eventually succumbs to the magic of the sandman and I do nod off I've never been someone who struggles to reenter the world of the living.

That term 'the world of the living' connects to another big fear of mine. My desire to hold onto my awareness of my reality is not just a fear of sleep; it's also a fear of death. I feel I understood death at a very young age. And not because I had a friend or family member die. I was a kid who asked a lot of questions. How does this work? Why does this happen? And when you're a kid who asks a lot of questions, eventually the subject of death comes up. Why do we have to die? What happens to us when we die? My parents, being good Christians, hold me about God and the idea of Heaven. I don't want to say that I was a skeptic as a child, but the idea of our lives ending and continuing in a divine reality, or worse, the one filled with misery and pain, has always been something I have struggled to understand and accept. Lucky, I've got some time to figure out what I believe.

In the mean time, I must spend my days working, writing, performing, pursuing the opposite sex so I can copulate with them to create tiny copies of me to continue my linage of DNA, and eating. And between all of this, I will have to sleep. I must do this in order to survive. "Regular sleep is essential for your survival. Without sleep, you will get sick, and die" she told me, trying to snap some sense into me like I was a junkie. Ironically, earlier she had said "sleep is my drug. I'm an addict".

Sleep for her is just as important as awareness is to me. And as we spoke I began to understand that the longer I had these unhealthy sleep habits the worse my connection to my awareness would be. "You're not 18, or 21, or even 24 anymore. The older you get, the worse it'll be". If I continued to avoid sleep, maybe I'd begin to lose touch with the world when I was awake?

Which makes me remember back to when my grandfather Robert was still alive. I can recall once staying up late with my family, and he would stay awake longer than anyone else. Then sometime in the early, early morning, you'd smell coffee going, and by the time you'd wake up, he'd have a full breakfast ready, read the entire paper, and have started his day off long ago. I asked my father about this, and he told me that my grandfather just was like that. He'd go to bed late and wake up at 4 am and start his day. My grandfather was a product of the great depression, the dust bowl, and years of service to his country in the air force. He was a man of habit, and somewhere along the his life he'd chosen to work hard, and thus sacrifice "healthy" sleep habits.

This anecdote doesn't justify my habits. All it does it make me feel like there's at lease some reason I don't sleep well. Be it genetic, fear based, or just a desire to do things other than dream. For now, when I look at my bed, and think about what it means to me, I attempt to stay positive. Because if my bed only represents a negative space then how will I ever be able to develop positive relations to it?

At then end of our conversation my friend asked me what I was going to do?

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

So that didn't happen. But it would have been really cool if I had said that, right?

Thanks You Letters to Strangers

The Lady with the Black Dog

The crosswalk of North Ave. and Wood St., Saturday morning, Wicker Park, Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A. Your back was turned to me while you were talking on the phone. Your dog, a big black lab mix, held his nose up, smelling the scents coming from the Gallery Cafe. I had just exited the cafe having treated myself to a delicious egg, turkey sausage, tomato and swiss sandwich on hearty multigrain bread. You were talking in a slightly raised voice, one hand on your hip, in a fist, and the other holding onto the leash. A few moments passed as we waited for the light to turn.

I cannot help but listen to the increasing distress in your voice. You realize that I'm standing there, and try to walk the other way with your dog but he is not moving. You pull at him, and he just sits there. I glance down and see he's looking up at me. The overwhelming frustration of the two actions causes your eyes to water up and your checks to go flush with blood. It reminds me of someone.

Without saying a word you hand me the dogs leash and walk the other way. Each step the sobs get a little more pronounced. The dog turns his big head from me to his owner and then back to me. Looking down at the beast I see that his nose is graying and his teeth are slowly falling out. I kneel down, placing my right hand on his head, rubbing his lower ear with my thumb. His eyes slowly close as his panting increases and his tongue falls to one side. His smile is infectious.

The morning sun is falling down on us. The streets are waking up as pedestrians begin to make there way to and from shops, cafe's, etc. The neighborhood reminds me of Portland. Small streets. A couple passes the dog and me, looking at how happy the two of us are. She whisper to him, 'I want one' and without looking at her he says with authority 'No.' which causes her to look back at us with a longing.

It's been about ten minutes and the owner eventually returns. Her conversation is over though it is apparent that the words exchanged by the two parties are weighing heavily on her. I stand, and hand her the leash. She politely thanks me and turns to walk the other way, pulling at the dog. The dog stands, and follows her. I turn and walk towards Ashland to catch my bus home. Neither of us look back.

Thank you for letting me have that moment with your dog. I hope everything is fine.

Capturing Rudolf

I took a series of photo's three years ago which I now call "capturing rudolf". these are my three favorite photos.This is one of those shots you take and remember for a long time. Rudy Tyburczy was my model, who agreed to dance (practically naked) around the streets of Eugene OR only because he was drunk (as was I). We did this because my roommate at the time has asked us to leave the apartment because a girl he'd always wanted to sleep with was in town. We got drunk at a local pub, returned to see that my roommate had yet to attain his goal. We decided to be little devils and began jumping on his bed without shirts or pants. We then walked a few blocks up the street, where I asked Rudy to run, jump an dance in the street. Odd what the mind thinks of when it's pissed.

Fun with Words II

Comment with a word. I'll see what comes.

'Fumble' suggested by Devika

i fumble

fumble rhymes with jumble rhymes with tumble rhymes with rumble rhymes with stumble rhymes with crumble rhymes with mumble rhymes with humble rhymes with grumble rhymes with bumble rhymes with fumble.

fumble with my words. fumble with my hands. fumble with my thoughts. fumble with my past. fumble through a class. fumble with women. fumble with a bra. fumble in the darkness. fumbling to please. fumble out of bed. fumble with excuses. fumble.

jumbled words. jumbled thoughts. jumbled books. jumbled songs. jumbled stories. jumbled relationships. jumbled messages. jumbled meaning. jumbled apologies. fumble my jumbles.

tumble down a hill. tumble down the stairs. tumbled thoughts. tumble to the ground in laughter. tumble into open arms in tears. tumble across the dance floor. tumble drunkenly into a cab. tumble in the sheets. tumbled hair. tumbled clothes scattered across the room. tumble dry. tumbled heart. tumbling emotions. tumbled affairs. fumble with tumbling jumbles.

rumble between gangs. rumble between friends. rumble between lovers. rumbles behind closed doors. rumbling voices. rumbling thunder. rumbling stomach. rumbling engine. rumbles in the heart. rumbles from the past. fumbling rumbles of tumbling jumbles.

stumble along a path. stumble onto something new. stumble into someone on the street. stumble out of a party with a stranger. stumble home drunkenly. stumble through a conversation. stumble under pressure. stumble with responsibility. stumble with a weakness. stumble over my words. stumble with lies. stumble across self discovery. stumble across hidden beauty. stumbling across fumbling jumbles and rumbling tumbles.

crumbling ego. crumbling connections. crumbling love. crumbling perceptions. crumbling to the ground. crumbling under wear and tear. crumbling roads. crumbling buildings. crumbling statues. crumbling cities. crumbling societies. crumbling ideas. crumbling remains of a once proud civilization. crumbling on the cold bathroom tile, alone, crying. crumbling on a bar stool, to pissed to stand. crumbling connection to someone being buried. tumbling rumbles of crumbling fumbles set against stumbling jumbles.

mumbled feelings. mumbled truths. mumbled replies. mumbled actions. mumbling old men. mumbling under her breath. mumbled protest. mumbled confessions. mumbled fears. mumbled requests. mumbled desires. mumbled rumbles and stumbled fumbles, tumbling over crumbling jumbles.

humble pie. humble abode. humble servent. humble thoughts. humble admissions. humbling moments. humbling words. humble men and humbling women. humbled by the presence of a greater being. humbled by recognition of ones personal mistakes. humbled by the praise of others. humbling criticism. humbled by an understanding of our own limits as human beings. humbled by tragedy. humbled by the compassion of another. humble apologies. humbly holding your head in shame. humbly he fumbles with mumbling praises, nervous rumbles, stumbling over words, the jumble of thoughts crumble as his ego tumbles.

grumbled complaints. grumbling over burn toast. grumble over consternation. grumble over that fact that 'umble' really can only produce so many ideas, emotions, memories, words, etc. grumble over this stupid exercise. grumble over my own inability to just press on. grumble over the music I'm listening to. grumble over R.E.M.'s 'Second Guessing' and how it fits perfectly in the moment. grumble over my own second guessing. grumble that i'm not better at this even though I've been working on it for more than an hour. grumble over wasted time. grumble over not having enough money for a proper dinner. grumble over customers taking their bitterness over a rainy day in July out on me. grumble over not having the confidence to talk to freckled yoga girl. grumbled mumbles and stumbling fumbles, on top of hungry rumbles and tumbling jumbles, humbly crumbling quickly.

bumbling idiot. humble ownership that i fumble often, stumble under pressure, tumble into bed, ignore my rumbling stomach, crumble in the presence of beauty and, grumble and mumble when confused, while all along happily bumbling through life.

fumble.

SNACKS!

Lay's Kettle Cooked-Original Extra Crunchy Potato Chips

I am a fan of crisps, or as we in the United States commonly call them, potato chips. It is the comfort and simplicity of the chip that has always brought me a moderate sense of gastronomic fulfillment. The chip isn't meant to be a meal, more so a side, or something to accompany a meal. Chips can of course be a meager substitute for a meal, often caused by late night movie watching, sports events, or boredom in the kitchen. Chips often lead someone to gorge themselves on handfuls of chips due their inability to actually fill your stomach with anything more than small bits of processed root vegetables.

I eat chips because I like the taste, and texture. The salty taste causes my mouth to water, craving the salt it ferociously does not need. The salty flavor can pair well with most sandwiches, BBQ, and almost any other snack. A plethora of chips can cause the human taste bud to implode with chemically manufactured taste. The texture is comforting against the soft den that is my mouth. The ridged edges of any chip easily cut though my weak gums. The chips break apart in my mouth, each piece becoming a separate razor sharp slicing implement. Welcomed torture in a bag.

Frito-Lay's is one of the largest American producers of chips, owning Fritos, Doritos, Ruffles, and Cheetos. Cheetos technically don't count as chips, and is more commonly classified as a "cheese curl" thought should be classified as cheese flavored home insulation. Frito-Lay is owned by Pepsico inc., the world's fourth-largest food and beverage company who make "a wide variety of carbonated and non-carbonated beverages, as well as salty, sweet and grain-based snacks, and other foods" (wiki). Companies under the Pepsico inc. umbrella are Mt. Dew, Gatorade, Izze, Naked Juice, Starbucks Frappuccino, Quaker Oats, and Human Pride and Dignity. This only furthers my belief that the world really is controlled by lizard people who want me to become fat, and unhappy so they can feed on my life juices which are extracted by television.

One of the many wonderful "food" products that Frito-Lay's produces is Lay's Kettle Cooked-Original Extra Crunchy Potato Chips. The bag itself is expertly designed to make you believe the contents are wholesome and hand made. A soft blue banner frames the image of a few fresh potato's, a small black kettle, and thick, lightly salted potato chips. The Lay's symbol shines like a sun (obviously intentional) above the modern-olde-englishly text. And proudly printed on the top right corner "0 grams Trans Fat" allowing all the obese Oprah following mothers to feel better about their children eating two bags each in one sitting.

The chip itself isn't bad. It's as thick a chip that the stingy bastards at Lay's could possibly make. If you take a regular Lay's chip and put it against a light source, the chip resembles an oily discolored sheet of news paper. Taking a Lay's Kettle Cooked-Original Extra Crunchy Potato Chip and repeating the same action, makes the chip seem more like few sheets of oily paper pressed together for a few years, dried, and then fried. The chip is rather tasteless, uncomfortably crunchy, and oddly small in size. Kettle chips I've had in the past have always had a rich taste, whether that be sea salt, sharp cheddar, or wasabi. They have also had a great consistency in texture, allowing the chip to have an appropriate heaviness, and crunch.

Lay's chips on the other hand feel more along the lines of a handful of chips in your mouth rather than the traditional kettle chip. The so called crunchy part of the chip seems more along the lines of being stale, and over fried. Rather than dense the chip seems bulky, though this is only compared to it's brother the traditional Lay's chip. Compared to a real Kettle chip, the Lay's Kettle Cooked-Original Extra Crunchy Potato Chip seems hard, and unrefined.

Traditional kettle chips have a hand cut feel to the chip, and even the larger companies that produce kettle chips still have a human presence to their product. This is because traditionally kettle chips are made by frying the chips in a batch all at once at a low temperature, where as Lay's makes it's Kettle Chips by using a "continuous-style" by cooking the chips on a conveyor belt, expediting the process and taking out the inconsistencies that are brought about by human interaction.

As stated before, I'm a fan of chips. Sometimes my gluttony can get in the way of my inner snob. I'll eat crappy chips if it means that I can take advantage of post fourth of July holiday sales at supermarkets. Lay's Kettle Cooked-Original Extra Crunchy Potato Chips are a fine chip to eat on a hot day with a cheap beer and a boiled hot dog if nothing else is available. Just make sure you're not doing all that in front of the TV as to not wet the ravenous hunger of the Lizard people.

God, I miss beer.

God, I miss beer

There,
Beer was an experience to be shared.
Beer was something to look forward to.
Beer was part of every meal.
Beer was story time.
Beer was a creative outlet.
Beer was welcomed laughter.
Beer was mentally stimulating.
Beer was the boys.
Beer was courage.
Beer was vibrant.
Beer was away.
Beer was pointing fingers over heated debates.
Beer was after work.
Beer was bohemia.
Beer was for the porch.
Beer was always a block away.
Beer was seasonal.
Beer was a conversation starter.
Beer was collective freedom.
Beer was...

Here,
Beer is merrily that.
Beer is soulless.
Beer is simply consumed.
Beer is obvious.
Beer is four red white and blue taps.
Beer is disconnected.
Beer is homeless.
Beer is everywhere.
Beer is forced.
Beer is disinfected.
Beer is clout-less.
Beer is cheaper than water.
Beer is monotonous.
Beer is spilled and forgotten.
Beer is expensively flat.
Beer is vapid.
Beer is pointless nonsense.
Beer is the smell of trashy girls and dipshit boys.
Beer is...

I miss,
Max's Tavern, music blaring, dimly lit booths, fresh popped corn.
The Beer Stein, waiting for a table, pico and chips, hundreds of choices.
John Henry's, rock and roll, the tattooed bartenders, 32 oz. High Life.
High Street, summer, the smell of hops as they brewed in the basement.
Cornucopia, juicy burgers, dark beer, the smell of body oder.
Jackalope, darts, baskets and baskets of salty fries.
Sam Bonds uncomfortable seats, bingo night, tom waits tributes, locals.
Random parties with random home brews.
Family dinners, standing in the kitchen, sun setting over the west hills.

I long for...
Imperial India Pale Ales
Black Butte Porter
Duckdive
Sessions
Anything Ninkasi creates

God, I miss beer.
I pray that I find it soon.
My the angels touch someone here.
And create something that reminds me
Of what I left behind.