"Recreation", a dissection of American English

@ the moment in Austin Texas, I find the thing to do to escape the almost aquatically humid 100+ heat is to rock the rivers and natural springs in the area. The entrances to the mythical "green belt" are not quite as simple as the wardrobe, requiring a hike through more than a few layers of clothing to engage the faery-forested  wilderness environs. So like an RPG-character I engage personas in my environment, cue digitized Final Fantasy wandering music: "A) Hi, do you enjoy caffeinated oxygen? B) Where do I find the sceptre of eternity? C) Where's your preferred spot on the green belt? D) Does the dragon of the etherrealm respond to kisses?" When I select C "plink"  I often hear of the same, occasionally of the new. One gentleman told me of his favorite spot to "recreate", a word that came naturally to this late 30something lexicon, bringing me to the point.

Recreation. Re-creation. Why is such a diddy necessary? Destruction.

Actual American-English definition:

Refreshment of one's mind or body after work through activity that amuses or stimulates; play.

This word implies that the American perspective of work is phenomenally negative, in that it is so destructive to one's being that "re-creation" is necessary. Work such as this is unfortunate, and made all the more so by the negative framing applied to it by our language. It should be called "living", but that is apparently what "work" is to most in this nation. The development of exceptional skill to the point that one may rise above this requires talent, commitment, pride, and moreover, recognition and appreciation. Too few Americans are afforded this, but nonetheless, all Americans should be granted the capacity to work part-time and live full-time, but "recreation" implies just the opposite. When Americans may labor ninety hours each week at minimum-wage and still not catch the carrot, something should be noticed, and moreover must be done.

Econo-Terrorism and the Ethical Implications of "Victimless" Credit Fraud and Innovative Entrepreneurship

Good afternoon. Awakening to a text message notifying me of a relatively large charge to my bank account, I brew me a pot of medium blend, take the half-eye blue pup for a stroll, then investigate. This Gent's debit card information had been thieved and capitalized upon for the purchase of a number of iPhone accessories from an online vendor in the now faraway state of Oregon. Two years past I'd experienced credit theft as well, at that time hydroponic equipment having been bought from an Emerald-Triangle CA-based online vendor.

Credit Info Theft > Start-Up Necessity Purchase (>) Entrepreneurship  =  Econo-Terrorism
                                                                           (or prison...)

I find such funding of entrepreneurial endeavors, such as iPhone accessory sales and marijuana (medicinal perhaps?) production, through "victimless" credit fraud to be relatively innovative, outside-the-box, and also the law. Econo-Terrorism with a capitalist slant is what I see; the ultimate damage is done to the bank, yet I nonetheless am inconvenienced during the fraud reset/refund period, up to 5 business days, an ungodly amount of time to some, not so much to others, but nonetheless, weak. Predatory financial practices I do not doubt the banks understand all too intimately, the loan-laden myth of higher education and rapacious mortgages among them, so the ethical angle on behalf of the ECONO-TERRORISTS towards the banks is transparent, but I wonder, how do they feel, ideologically   morally   ethically, about the negative impact and stress brought upon the interim-victims, Americans such as myself?

Upon having achieved my phD, I will publish an article on this within a sociology journal, ostensibly cited as such:

Westerman, M.J. (2015) The Ethical Implications of  "Victimless" Econo-Terrorism, from the Camp of Capitalist Utilitarianism. Some American Journal of Sociology.  X(x): a-z.

The Arctic Agent Trophy Hunter

Braving the digital tundra through the representation zone fuzzily sheltered by a white-leopard skin, its upper jaw rests comfortably, firmly, upon my forehead, the fangs descend barely into the line of sight, canining my perspective gone bestial like, the social Darwinist survival instinct rising like Japan's flag. Ahead a nimble and perhaps nubile young quarry picks at the frost, sifting occupationally 49'er style for something that could in fact be green, perhaps more should the creature have Midas' touch in advance and tour negotiation. Suddenly and without apparent warning like the sad sum of a fast car and a nearby puddle on a misty day a flood of additional creatures that have potential churn through the search engine onto the tundra. The cross-hair becomes crowded, the sniper rifle discarded for a shotgun, widely dispersed blasts emitting like a 21 gun salute, patters and fading glances only no death, no targets felled. Additional knowledge on the nature of the beast is necessary so the true targets may be identified, the pattern of its stripes suspected to be intrinsic, as one sniped equals one felled, with having your one being all it takes to start getting down. Snow falls, the decade climbs, and the seasons will change; change we can most certainly believe in. RnR

Ahora Mehn

A Quick run-down of recent times past:
April 10s - Meeting with Dark Horse Comics: I present. Am given feedback. Accept and Learn. A meeting is aligned with the VP of Creative Development in LA. It is learned a friend has a business trip in LA during this time. Dominoes Align. I'm down with the fall.
April 20th - Negotiate w/ my Portland Landlord a discounted rate for 2 months, as I'd likely not be living in the apartment during the majority thereof.
May 13th - Vehicle packed alongside the glassware, I set off from Portland with minimal fanfare, entirely unlike a cruise ship departing the pier with folks running the planks waving bye-bye.
May 14-17th - Arcata, Humboldt CA, stay with Shin,couchsurfing.org connection, a cute intellectual gal with a proclivity for the bud. Observe the ocean with drift-wood and the rotting body of a beached whale. Eat home-style bbq meal with all the "fixin"s. Realize the town's center is comprised of a bar, and a donut/pizza shop, the donuts of which are outstanding.
May 18th- San Francisco - Hanging in the Haight with a neon-blue polo, by Express for Men as indicated by the neon-green griffin logo, I am propositioned by numerous individuals in want of psychedelics and rolls, neither of which I am at the time engaged in commerce with. Clothing mein frers does in fact say something. Burn with Nazi Nick and his entourage, hearing of his successful capitalization upon investment through the dealing of heroine, under the protection of the Aryan brotherhood, while in prison, which had landed him there in the first place I'd assume, and how given the cost of living in jail he'd gotten out with $10,000 in pocket and tattoos that enable him to keep on keepin' on atop his skin. Watch as a faded dead-head jams to the cassette tape of his favorite concert while touring with the Dead Family, listen to his explanation of how Jerry was swaying at a particular moment due to the strength of the acid wave crashing across the country at the time. Enjoy a ballet-show by an amateur tripping showboat of a beauty. International Hostel. Smoke-room. American girl. Opportunity faded. Korean Girl. Morning. Australian Friends made. Chinatown food consumed, Alaskan Sea Urchin and some truly fantastic duck. Meet with Ansel of the band, Ansel. Drink and merriment.
May 19th - San Fran to Muraga CA, stay with the delightful family of Ansel for an eve, and set off for LA.
May 20-22nd - The meeting; under review; the marvel. Roam the city with Ryan, roor in Venice, growl at the moon downtown.
May 23 - Ocean Beach San Diego hotel with Hannah, a Swedish model I'd made the acquaintance of on Venice Beach, travels with. Glorious opportunity overseen, now regretfully oversighted, but we move on, a twang of emptiness in our bellies.
May 24-25- Los Angeles. Business having ended, my mate Ryan goes back East, although like a boss, I remain.
May 26th - Banana Bungalow International Backpacker's Hostel - Hollywood. An anti-American sentiment about the individuals here, vibes I don't quite understand nor do I care to.
May 27th - Ocean Beach International Backpacker's Hostel - San Diego. An odd environment of homeliness and energy, offbeat with a sense of self-deprecation. Overseen by Doc, who staffs the "American Exhibit" of contributors and workers, as I consider him a zoo-keeper of sorts who staffs interesting Americans to present to the international travelers as illustrative of whatever genus they may descend from.
May 28th - My 27th birthday is complemented by Bernadette, a fine young Filipina woman now in London pursuing her wordsmithing craft and making of memories.
June-July - Global Network Friended - John Loup (Marseilles France) Robin (Germany) Maikel (Holland) Phil & Crew (Ireland) Theiss (Denmark) Ben (Australia) Cees & Kasper (Holland) Felipe (Austria) Tamara (Germany) Laurie (France) Francesco (Italy) Cybelle (Australia) Miko (Japan) Dan (Ireland) and many other unique and disparate individuals from across this global playground of ours, each with a story, some with a struggle, all with the reflective grin of the traveler.
June - The Portland apartment is left empty. I rent the room and am bamboozled out of the month's rent through silliness. A period of struggle, hardship, and intense awesomeness.
July - Both senses continue, additional connections made, progress accomplished in regards to impatient distaste and a sense of necessity. LA bounced to a few times in attempt at suturing together the optimal opportunity.
August - Roadtrip. Craigslist Rideshare Community. In San Diego I pick up Tommy, of Black Squirrel Films, a producer just leaving Comic Con, Scotty from Palmdale with an impressively scarred skateboard and a half-j of stress. Palmdale is a ghetto, section 8 and SNAP type diddy, literally in the middle of the desert that is truly an alarming social experiment entirely without the potential of a positive end-result. Scotty rides with us to San Francisco. Meeting his homeless friend, noticing his sleeping bag, we burn as the sun rises atop Golden Gate park and I leave with Tommy as Scotty soaks in his new home in the trees. Scott #2, a professional greensman, of the THC ilk, who along the way introduces us to an ethereal spot in the Redwoods in which the trees climb to the heavens and the clouds and atmosphere bow down and reside on our level. After a bit of hazy practice I'm able to run three steps vertical on a grandaddy Redwood before springing off and blasting into the wall of moss behind us. Scott informs me this freestyle walking has a name that I cannot recall. Portland OR Tommy and Scott are through. I pick up Syama, a yogi instructor and all-around hippie gal, a fine style of human being. To Boulder CO. My car's clutch lever breaks. Potential tragedy. A week spent in a room overlooking the mountains. High-altitude running posing no difficulty as I absorb the environment. Car fixed Kawika, a Hawaiian hombre, joins me East to New York. Dropped into the forest with camping gear and survivalist necessities, Kawika moves forth into the sunset. Later. I stand in total darkness atop a hill, lost, provide some fire, find my way, and move on to MA, arriving to an alternate flame at my boy Ryan's not-so-humble abode.
NOW - The organization and alignment of the next thrust to LA in a few weeks alongside preparation for the 2011 European Adventure and horizon-expanding event. These things are keys. These things are necessary. Complacency is a drag as time goes along with it. Now that's a fact.

Rock and Roll

MJW

The Lot, Tossed

And so it has come to November in the Northwest, the trees turn hues of amber orange and crimson but burn not with the same spark as the Northeast. However, the environment, terrain, and regular parks to break up the concrete provide for a key environment for that outdoor running; I now get the runner's high in about seven minutes and it maintains for at least forty thereafter; my distance has improved. Concrete in Portland is for the most-part friendly to the wheels of my skateboard, although the needles of pine have ruined my favorite path through Alberta Park, those thoughtless bastards. Beyond this I, as per a successful self-nomination, am now a member of the board of the Concordia Neighborhood Association, hold the chair of economic development, and will be contributing to the Concordia Newspaper as a writer; responsibility, obligation, means to ends. Converging the community, economics, and politics together into a triumvirate of awesomeness is entirely my intention and to waffle upon such matters of import would be not at all sweet like syrup. The new novel has found its name, "Ginataan and the White Balls", or at least for now, chapters falling into place but not so quickly nor orderly as dominoes. Having pitched Drug-Land Security, my script, to Mark, a lawyer at Nike and my cousin, I've re-sold myself on the concept that I'd moved beyond and now machinations are back in gear in this regard. The Glimmer Train Press literary magazine has a competition called "family matters" in which I've entered my short story From Whence We Come; inspired by a picture I'd found of my grandfather and my 5-year-old self playing catch in the Cape, the violet bouncy-ball having left his hands, arcing, frozen in mid-air, towards my open and expectant arms; 31 Dec 09 will be the judge, the final day of the Zeroes. The secret to maintaining optimal condition is to always be in pursuit of impossible perfection; complacency and contentedness being counter-productive in nature; and I am, like silly, as you should too buddy. Rock and Roll

Spiffy Space-Cadets entering the Final Fall of the Zeroes

Rocketing and rocking on with life in Portland Oregon my current writing projects burn with blaring clouds of flame and smoke blasting onto the pad. At the moment I'm working on a press-release for my boy Ansel, for his band, wait for it... Ansel. This kid is a contender I tell ya, living on the waterfront so to speak in West LA at the moment. Check them out at www.bandcamp.com/ansel . Beyond this I've just begun a new novel, "White Balls and Kina'ta'An" the tentative title, a romantic drama of sorts juxtaposing the rise and fall of a relationship with the economy of the Zeroes while expressing the reality of cross-cultural relationships in contemporary American culture, in this instance between a Native Son (American born) and 2nd generation Filipina. The short story "A Sentimental Story about Family" is done, exploring the transitive and at times surrogate-like nature of family set against a decadent back-drop of a Portland OR drug-scene, email me and I will send you a copy, as well as "Panic Switch", a sort of criminal drama, and I'm working on a religious satirical allegory titled "Adam" exploring the origins of Adam, a creature of the visionarium nestled within the seventh belt of the thirteenth planet from the darkness. On the physical front I've breached five miles and am nearing the kick-flip, it's only a matter of my front foot placement man, front foot placement mastery, and I'm golden. The weather in the Northwest is a watered down iteration of the Northeast, although I must admit the kindling leaves and fall foliage is a welcome divergence from the evergreenery of SoCal. As the trees come alight in this final year of the Zeroes savor the burn and prepare for lift-off.

the Bi-Week Networking Endeavor

I've been in this here city of Portland for a period of five weeks, however, have been chilling within the Alberta Arts District for two. This sector of the city is to Portland as the Meat-Packing district is to NYC. And so, having posted on Craigslist in the strictly plutonic section that I was interested in watching "Weeds" with someone, I met Morgan, through whom I met Jason, through whom I met Micquael. This particular lady is a social nexus, having introduced me to Dusty, a southern boy with the charm to match dressed in flannel, Baisa, Caleb, Shyanna, Chrissy and Lex, Jason dos, the Cajun bartender Brandy, Mantas, a gentleman from Lithuania not unlike my paternal Grandmother with nice art skills, and Shah, a stylish hair sylist with panache, the latter two with whom I've become boys through a few hyper-silly nights of adventure, although Mantas has since moved to Seattle. Shah has lifted me out of the virtual world into the realness of friends, and I've crashed with his hospitable self since having signed the lease on my pad, suite-mating with Drew, an aspiring painter and likewise inquisitive mind that no doubt will inspire mutual creativity. The coming end of the final year of the Zeroes is looking up,and I've no problem with getting higher. Rock and Roll
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The Couch Surfing Community

So yeah there is this website known to the world as couchsurfing.com, in basic, in that it is global and everyone calls it that (ir?)regardless of what their native language is, as English is basically king considering England once had one that we were all like whatever to then busted out on our own and dominated; so it goes. Couchsurfing is a profile-based interactive community that enables one to solicit or provide for a roof over the dome of a traveller through online networking means. It is not driven by the forces of capitalism but rather those of karma, in that to give is to receive, pay it forward, and so on. I've utilized the site to provide for shelter for the last three sets of seven days here in Portland, as initially I had time to chillax and grow acclimated with the atmosphere, then having begun an apartment hunt in earnest eight days ago, have yet to find an ample abode. The housing market in Portland is inundated with renters; those with a pad hold what are essentially casting calls, interviewing exponentially people compared to the number of rooms they have, stacking humans atop one another as shipping containers spaced out evenly at fifteen minute intervals. This difficulty however is entirely acceptable, as it has forced me out of the renter's bubble for a moment and pushed me into a world of individuals as disparate as the elements man, travellers and drifters and philanthropic locals with surfaces to spare and a wish to care. My first contact to the site came through Mairead, a barista at the Bean Counter in my home town of Worcester MA as I was trying to sub-let her my apartment within which my sword and inventory rest still; check out my review for it on http://mjwesterman.yelp.com/ ; who upon checking out my apartment alongside her friend Eli I believe mentioned they'd heard of the site and known of individuals who'd sillied it up. I told my boy Rye-Guy. He said his ex girl from high school was a member in Portland just as I had given up my attempt to move to Puerto Rico and opened the triangle chart of movement locations: LA, San Francisco, or Portland. The final option came together and in short order I was upon the couch of Tamara and Alice in SE Portland. My forest green 5-speed 1990 BMW 535i was placed upon consignment with a dealer who is at this very moment defrauding me of my money after having sold it; used car dealers - yeah... Two weeks in passing there I shift to the couch of a guy named Guy with a wife named Jen a dog named Grrr and three chickens known as Original, Crispy and Extra Crispy. Five nights pass of kind hosting, a futon in a private study my place of rest. I met a young gentleman by the name of Serafim yesterday through a random call after a CS msg, picking me up on Alberta Street after having had tacos and checkout out a pad at a housing collective known as the Whale, who instructed me to call him "Chinky" although I refuse and through him a connection may be made as he is a nexus of personability. Tonight is unknown, a sort of out in the great wide open situation, under them skies of blue. Rock and Roll

A La Calle - Ahora at least mehn...

Two weeks into the Portland experiment and my hypothesis of awesomeness continues. No longer crashing with my bro Ryan's ex girl, I sit beneath the stars upon a reclined chair of finished oak at Guy and Jen's house, a couple met online through couchsurfing.com, a community of wanderers using karma to keep one another's trips through this world flowing. Their dog's name, a wiry Wishbone-esque doggy dog, is "Grr". Word. To my right rests a garden bristling with staked and vined tomatoes as upright comrades at attention beside other herbs cultivated, to the left my wet, perhaps about dry, clothes hang upon lines similar to the rather retro clothes-line rack curiously in the attic of my Father's childhood house and former Worcester crash pad, as a result of an earlier laundry situation. A few feet farther still three chickens roost, awaiting the dawn, prepared to produce breakfast. In Portland it is legal to have up to three chickens on a private residence without a permit. Conscious of green, I release a breath ignite and inhale; it stimulates. Appreciating the stars I laugh, "I hadn't ever thought to consider that it was space that was moving"; a line I roughly recall from the new Star Trek flick, enjoyable; and recognize that while progressing within, it is at times necessary to sit back, chillax, and let the movement go on without. Rock and Roll MJW

Wednesday

12-2am - 7pg paper on how The Passion of the Christ influences pop-culture's ideology regarding the narratives of the Bible, 2pg's on plea bargaining and the due process implications of Miranda Rights. 2-9am - sending the sheep to slaughter. 9-11am- awakening weirdness and wandering, adding 100wds to the cj paper as per a rewrite request. 12am- sushi, iced latte, lost my keys. 1pm - Resume dropped at Tin House literary magazine, met the managing editor. 1-3pm - wandering from NE Portland to SE Portland. 3pm- Resume drop at Glimmer Train Press, meet Linda and Susan, the owners/editors. 4pm - Interview at Mode Models, offer of representation, given I pay $100 for their photography session or just use my own photog. 5-pm - Wandering, jalapeno pineapple and cheddar pizza slice, drinking a few beers, joined by Alice and Tamara, skiball, maximum force. 9pm- short run. 10pm- witness a live jazz concert sax-ed by Joe, Tamara's boyfriend-type-thing, after which there is a beat-off, which despite its sexual undertones is actually, (unfortunately?) a remixing of the tunage by fourteen dj's; Wolverine is robbed like an elderly woman in pre-Guiliani central park. 12am-meet Yoni, a local musician and likewise creative type; we discuss how in SoCal people get together to get stoned and do nothing, while here they come together and get lifted while creating and collaborating. The Day after the First now begins, the woolly massacre ending at a late 1pm awakening mark.

Iosif Stalin had the night of the black limousines, Hitler had the night of the long daggers; I often wonder which generated more fear, the disappearance entirely of an associated being, or the discovery of their steel-pierced deflated bodies in the morning. Fear and mystique often go hand in hand, and should one rise, does the other one fall or perhaps diminish and dilute? These are important questions people, things those of us in the know simply must.

The Oregon Initiation

I fly, hesitant to take with me only a lighter. Upon landing I meet Alice, after meeting a rather friendly airport employee named Craig who offered to make me Filipino food, then like I said, I meet Alice, don't in any way inference the classic animated film, procure a lighter, and rise up from the airport into the city. At first I see a corporate absurdity, Best Buy Staples etc, but am quickly assured the only lame part is near the home of the airplanes. Coming to the neighborhood, I check out the pad, nice with an interesting flair, seven picture frames mounted upon the wall in an abstract pattern with only two having pictures, the others; empty... Skateboarding out onto Burnside I catch a wafting aroma in the air, one of glory, like napalm in the morning almost but not quite victorious. Tucan Samming it I follow my nose and come upon VooDoo donuts, apparently their satellite location in SE Portland, immediately killing a Butterfinger, chocolate cake donut with buttercream frosting topped in butterfinger chunks, and get a few to go, being sidetracked by a travelled lady by the name of Tricia who I follow to her apartment, from which she'd been locked out of, to observe and learn her skills at picking a lock; she was unable to do so but offered to buy me a beer; kind people here; but I had people to see, places, and so I had to go. Meeting Tamara for the first time the second time around, chilling, plagiarizing a paper on Jesus, and plotting the plan of tomorrow, the literary hunting and munchie opportunities. Blogging. Crashing. Unconsciously Rocking and Rolling.

A Much Shorter Story

"I'm a straight arrow..." "Really...?" she says. "...rather, I'm a crooked arrow with a straight shot." "Much better..." she says, stroking a lick of the lengthy blonde and mohagony fire of hair ablaze, alighting amber eyes, "...now I'm not disappointed in you."

A Swap of Consideration


His post was published in the artists section of the craigslist community, seeking a fellow writer within which to trade feedback, his work a scripted tale of a bedeviled bounty killer, hers a novella regarding emerging bisexuality. They exchange emails and quips, personalities seeming to click through the keys. Meeting in person, trading hard-copies, they share a joint. She is El-Salvadoran, late-twenties, coffee-tone lending a contemporary flavor to her 1950’s pin-up figure, lashes complemented by fully inviting lips. The ash burning halfway, there’s space between them, the joint extinguished, she sits nestled beneath his arm, head resting against his chest as she exhales the last gust of smoke.
“Fuck… I hate to say it, but I need to get to class… we’ll meet soon, see how the reading is coming.”
Deep brown glimmers with mutual reluctance as his green stare fades. Rising, shouldering a suede messenger bag, he takes her hand tenderly, helping her up.
“I’m busy until Friday, but I’ll call you, I’m excited to get started.” She says.
“No doubt on that. I’ll show you out.”
He does, holding doors, impressing her with quite unfamiliar expressions of gentlemanly behavior, as chivalry is oft dead, particularly considering the girl’s line of work.

Working on a piece his phone rings, recognizing the number, sensing an energy, answering.
“What up Kaera.”
“Hey You.”
She’s had a fight with her open-relationship boyfriend. Fucking strangers is acceptable. Fucking best-friends apparently is not. Obviously stressed, he offers a session to lift her spirits should it be desired. It is. She talks. He listens. They stop. They smile.
Moving in, they share the first embrace, tongues meeting, experiencing, adapting, flowing. Passion sparked, she mounts him, gyrating in a practiced professional rhythm. Pulling off his shirt, scratching down abdominals, red nails flutter as she unbuttons his jeans, likewise disrobed, foreplayed.
Slipping into intimacy they fade seamlessly between intense lust and an almost romantic synergy, their flows having synced powerfully.
Time having passed and the crescendo orchestrated they appreciate a moment in passing admiration. She bites her lip, he licks his.
Rising, he assists in clasping her black lingerie, watching admiringly as she slides on her pants, hopping with effort to slip them on. I pull up my jeans, zipping, buttoning, tightening the belt and clasping it. She helps him slip on his t-shirt and he does the same.

Strolling arm-in-arm outside the warm afternoon sun strikes their flesh, a cool breeze skittering past, rustling the trumpeting blossoms along the drive. She perks up onto her tippy-toes, sharing a last kiss, her lips remaining against his for the length of an indulgent blink. Stepping down she wraps herself around his midsection, cheek nestling against chest, his muscles first tensing, releasing as he feels the realness of her embrace, returning. Pressing hard, pulling reluctantly away, remaining in one another’s arms for a beat, bittersweet vibes exchanged through a gaze, they’ve come together in parting.

Westward Bind

My name is Michael, Jack, Michael John, but on the East Side it soon won't matter until it does across, as I'm about to peace out, be swayze, gone. I've been running three to four days a week, training at World Gym three, laughing my way up higher inclinations during midnight jaunts. The song "Summer's Almost Gone" by the Doors, live, enchanted me in May, persevered happily into June only to haunt me in July, pushing me over the edge of the decision precipice, free-falling I am no longer. On Tuesday I'll be landing upon Portland, the West Side once again the locale I've chosen for my residence. I've not yet been there, however "Paranoid Park" was illicitly good, VooDoo Donuts sounds ill, the skateboarders there are better than me so soon will be my skills as I thrash along, and Southern California felt too comfortable for me to be content in such a choice. I'm halfway through the smithing of four domers, the first of which shall be sparked as the wheels of my storm-trooper board touch down upon the black fields that never die cutting through downtown Portland. Literary internships, the Burnside Review, Open Spaces, Tin House, are to be taken on forthwith son, leading to literary connections building to the dominos of publication falling into notoriety as the ostensible path beckons. Rock and Roll.
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A Short Story

Complacent Denial: A Missed Connection
Ten blocks of downhill action marred by only one near collision with the careless driver of a rusted El Camino, I come to the end of Garnet Street, the business strip of the crunchy community of Pacific Beach, the boardwalk and beach a half-block ahead. Grinding wood upon pavement I clap the tail and catch the board as it rabbit-hops into the air, eyes rising ahead, that which aligns in my sights captivating me.
On the horizon the full orb of the sun has turned a charred orange, hovering seemingly a few inches above the gaping aquatic skyline. Her gait is that of a confident feminist, her body not unlike a lanky yet curvaceously blessed model who realized the benefits of pilates and proper nutrition. Bleached blonde hair with auburn roots, in a pink cherry-blossomed bikini-top and tan Hollister capris, the breeze lending motion to her stillness as she comes to a halt directly ahead of me as if coming against some invisible wall.
I continue walking forward, as silhouetted within the waning sun her head turns, blue eyes luminescent, sparkling akin to the sea while contrasting violently with the deep solar hue. Our eyes connect as I mutually come to a halt. A moment is shared, an unspoken introduction breaking the ice, silently tangible vibes flowing, drawing us together into the promise of what is to come. Curiosity breaks, a mood of blustering anticipation dawning as she turns her body to face me. Her right hand resting naturally upon her waist atop the curve of the hourglass, the left gently lifting and holding up her hair, rays of light twinkling through, sparking off a diamond earring as she shifts her weight to her lead leg, body flowing likewise at the movement.
As moonlight hitting a gargoyle I break the stone of my immobility and take a step forward, her eyes drawing me in. Thoughts interrupted I halt, a vibration followed by the echoing of Beethoven’s Ninth pulls my concentration away from the moment. Fuck. I mouth “sorry” and know she can’t see it. Turning to the side, answering the phone, it is a customer who I can’t afford to lose, Maddie, who similarly represents an opportunity at experience, her recent semester in Italy having refined her allure considerably. Out of the corner of my eye I see her gaze drift to the ground as she glares towards me then forward. Walking off to the left and out of my sight she waves a reluctant goodbye with dainty fingertips over her shoulder, manicured nails flashing in the light as I admire her gait, appreciating the half-heel on her sandals and how her calves and above are perked, noticing the lack of a tan-line anywhere upon her gently toned back.
Rushing through the requisite pleasantries the phone call finally ceases. I drop and hop onto my skateboard, propelling towards the boardwalk, busting a fakie ollie over the curb, sticking it and continuing on. Rolling south searching in vain, I halt at the ferris-wheel on Mission Beach, my eyes following the red, white, and blue bulbs of light as they circulate round, chasing one another so fast trails are left dancing amidst the air.
She’s disappeared and the wonder of the moment collapses around me, fleeting wonder rising up amidst the dust of fallen opportunity. I ignore an incoming call, feeling the last wireless lassoing to have prevented my running wild into a real-life experience, as I skate off in search of another down the boardwalk.
Handing off my skateboard with a grin and a glare alongside a twenty to the valet, I adjust the collar to my polo shirt, tuck my chain, and enter Level III, a trendy lounge with a glassed wall facing the beach. The bartender recognizes me from the gym with an inviting smile. She looks like Jennifer McCarthy only younger and without the silicone. I smile back and take a seat. Ordering a scotch on the rocks, I feel her warm gaze upon my back as I turn to take in the sunset. The first sip flows down my throat, warming my stomach as I absorb the blushing sky, the red sun sliding beneath the distant waves of the horizon as I turn and segue into conversation.

The Naked Reaction Index: an article preview

An article I've been pitching around is "The Naked Reaction Index", which involves the initial reaction one has upon seeing another nude for the first time, not entirely unlike the unwrapping of a present. Now there are reactions beneath those which I'll outline here, but if you have standards, those of the "eww" "ech" and "eek!" assortment will never be encountered.
*First off is that of a normal physique, acceptable, just better than average. "Oh."
*When the garbs drop to the floor and natural beauty alongside light but symmetrical muscular definition alongside body shape is revealed, one may be motivated to emit an "Oh My..."
*The final level is that of direct effort and subsequent achievement, when natural beauty is augmented by physical training, dieting, and superficial primping like keeping a tight trim, that of "Oh My God!"
... What level are you?

Business Farmers

In a recent discussion with a friend it became apparent to me the nature of sales through the word usage I've been pursuing in regards to my salesman friend's pursuit of his leads. A first meeting is considered to be a seed, in which the idea, the concept, of his product is planted within the minds of the soil, the people. Meetings following this initial introduction are to be considered watering the plant, which shall grow as the knowledge base and need recognition take root. The final process in sales as in farming is that of the harvest, when the client is closed, the plant turned into a commodity, and the sale made. And so while farming is a steadily dying industry in the domestic sense, at least we can take comfort in the fact that its concepts live on through the harvesting of profits from the crop of humans stomping upon and above the soil which was once cultivated.

Make Kerouac Proud, Run and Live on the Road

Raindrops packing upon my skin as I stretch to completion, the recognition that a run is much like a life floods to the surface of my reality, a thought percolating throughout, words dripping later on as I begin to laugh for no reason, adrift in the nomad's high as I remove my shirt to appreciate the clearness of the sky contrasting the precipitation, finishing the final of four or so street miles. The campus of WPI was the playground for this particular late-night jaunt, wrought with uphill necessities and blessed by the opportunity at many more. I've learned two things through running: A-Taking the most difficult path comprehensible produces the greatest amount of satisfaction, results, and from a pain is pleasure perspective, is fucking tight; 2_When it feels as though another step is impossible it is time to throw caution to the weak and sprint all silly like, after which the previous pace is nothing, not of note, simple; 3, Listen, whatever, I lied get over it/ It's okay to get a bit lost here and there along the way, adventure is learning and knowledge is power children, so long as the pace is kept as time hasn't patience nor should we. MJW.
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A Day in the Life

June the 13th. 12am: Arriving to my apartment having parlayed with my homie Ryan. I stretch. 12-12:35: I run three miles on the streets bathed in darkness while listening to my iPod shuffle, on shuffle, although coming upon "I'm looking through you" by the Beatles listen to it seven times while returning home. 12:35-12:45, showering, gripping and ripping. 12:55-1-45: Latino night at the boiler room, a RedBullandvodka, a song heard while at my barber shop that morning getting faded is played, the Spanish version of "Mrs. Officer" by Lil' Wayne essentially, but classic style. 1:50: I encounter a particularly striking African American girl, her name: Marcella. 1:55: Burning with Russ, I witness the outbreak of violence, the smack of the first strike landing upon teeth entirely audible. 2:15-11: Incandescent dreamy slumber. 11:30-1:30- A glorious work-out sesh at World Gym Worcester. 2-3: Submitting a Shady Transaction in Southern California to Anderbo, an online literary journal, and the Arch Literary Journal. 4-10: I assume the role of Jack to produce cash; he's a waiter. 10-x Pushing it to the limit. Rock and Roll. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

The Flow, Induced.

After midnight training is often essential. Eminem’s new cd Relapse is incredible. Track 12; “Stay Wide Awake”, his greatest lyrical delivery, ever: 5lbs in each hand I shadow-box. Track 8; “Same Song & Dance”, a haunting beat by Dre: Bokken (solid cherry-tree wood katana) training alongside nunchucks. Track 2; “3AM”, a unique flow and illustrative lyrics: Shinai (bamboo kendo sword) training, weightless shadowboxing, weighted, and without. Southpaw feels more comfortable but I train evenly nonetheless. Adequately flowing, a short jog is necessary. A cool off. A shower. A mental warm-up in the form of this blog, and ready to begin the continued crafting of the current piece of short fiction, The Recovery, through a bit of intense mental training, equally paramount and so tanta- to the physical. Rock and Roll.

Learning Espanol, Thug Style.

Spanish is a subject studied for a number of years throughout both my public and transition into private school, however I'm by no means fluent nor even sufficient. To rectify this sad reality I must improve, become better, develop my skills. And so to this end I've decided that the most logical thing for me to do is to listen to mad amounts of Puerto Rican rap, memorize the lyrics, pronunciation, and meaning, then next thing I know after time, effort, and practice, I'll know the deal. What I'm wondering is if the parallel will hold true, in that should an individual not know English, then learn it by listening to 2Pac, 50, and Wu Tang, would they sound like a thug in the language? I hope so, and project that I'll be rocking and rolling Espanol silly like and all gangsta-ish as soon as I've internalized the flows. Mi lengua es Ingles porque yo estudio ahora, escucho con la reggatone porque es proximo de la hora. Now the real question is, should I learn from Nengo Flow or Conculluela, the feuding rappers in Puerto Rico who have brought about an East/West style division in their rap world, as should one be crushed, I'd woe my Spanish to taste of the losing lyricist/street soldier's style.