Archive for the ‘Creative Writing’ Category

Friday, August 19th, 2005

I sleep with my clothes on every night. This way, I will be prepared for the afterlife if I die in my sleep.

Sisyphus, Atlas, and I–tragic heros indeed.

Thursday, October 28th, 2004

“It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.

If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.”

Excerpted from The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus (trans. Justin O’Brien)

While I agree with the initial analysis of the situation, I do not agree with Camus’s conclusions that “The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory” and “There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.”

Thursday, October 7th, 2004

I am not sure
if it is sinus pressure,
blood pressure,
a brain tumor,
or just the mysterious merciful grace of God,

but it feels as though my cluttered, sprawling mind
has finally grown too large to be contained
within the vast metaphysical boundaries of my brain
and is going to explode out of my brain
through my eye sockets
into physical existence.

Personal Entry

Sunday, July 11th, 2004

Purple Heart

The Ballad of Pinky and Fonzie

Tuesday, February 10th, 2004

The Ballad of Pinky and Fonzie
There was only room for one in that dream, and so he opened the door and ushered her through. Always the gentleman rebel, always on outs while being in, he gave himself away again and again. He would fold each time, for he was never dealt the hand he needed: marriage.

Of Pearls Cast Before Swine
Richie Cunningham was greatly underappreciated.

1151 Words About Champagne Bubble Lemmings

Thursday, January 1st, 2004

One thousand, one hundred, fifty-one words about champagne bubble lemmings.

Age 64; A Scene From “The Life of Andrew: The Original Motion Picture”

Thursday, December 25th, 2003


One time during his later years, an aged and weary Andrew sat down at a café on a warm California Christmas Eve.

“Is there something I can get you today, sir?” asked the waitress.

Her name was Reagan. She was a student at the nearby university—a junior studying business and world economics—and worked just short of 40 hours-a-week as a part-time employee.

(The manager used this strategy with a number of waiters and waitresses so that he could have nearly-full-time workers without having to provide them with full-time worker benefits.)

“I’d like what he is having,” replied Andrew with a wink as he gestured to an attractive young couple a few tables away.

There was an exhausted, cold, seriousness to the statement which caused Reagan to stumble a moment while attempting to figure out if the old man was joking or not. She finally decided that it was mostly jest, and that Andrew was referring to the thin, attractive, wide-eyed companion of the young man.

The young woman had rich brown eyes and straight brown hair that fell just below her shoulders. She was dressed plainly but well, and was madly in love with her handsome young escort.

(In less than five hours, she would be overwhelmed with joy as the young man presented her with a modest but elegant diamond engagement ring. It would be nothing spectacular—just the traditional bended knee, solemn, request for marriage—but at that moment she would believe that she was the most beloved woman ever to exist. And perhaps she would be correct.)

But Andrew was not referring to the young man’s companion. He was not referring to the man’s entrée or beverage either. Nor was he referring to the youth, health, beauty, or modest wealth. What Andrew desired was the young man’s appreciation for all that life had provided for him and the unconcern for all that life had withheld from him.

“The Bourbon Street Chicken with Rice?” inquired Reagan with some hesitance.

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Andrew responded, “with a glass of lemonade, please.”


This is something that I composed for my other journal [quietist], but felt like sharing here as well.

Some thoughts on being square

Sunday, December 7th, 2003

Sydney Smith (1771–1845), a witty parson, writes the following in his Sketches of Moral Philosophy:
If you choose to represent the various parts in life by holes upon a table, of different shapes—some circular, some triangular, some square, some oblong—and the persons acting these parts by bits of wood of similar shapes, we shall generally find that the triangular person has got into the square hole, the oblong into the triangular, and a square person has squeezed himself into the round hole. The officer and the office, the doer and the thing done, seldom fit so exactly that we can say they were almost made for each other.

To which Samuel Langhorne Clemens (aka Mark Twain) contributes:
A round man cannot be expected to fit in a square hole right away. He must have time to modify his shape.

But to which I reflect:
If we look back, we find that the triangular person is to blame for the square person’s having to squeeze into the round hole. I resent having to change in order to find my place in life and (most likely uncomfortably) fit in.