I give my harness one last safety check and then step toward the edge. I look back and make sure for the umpteenth time that the anchors are solid. One of my climbing partners has already descended. I’m the middle. There’s one more after me. But it’s like anything else — taking that first step is often the most difficult.
I lean into the rope and position my feet on the ledge. With a little kick and a slight release from my handbrake, I’m off, rapping my way down approximately 50 feet to a small ledge overlooking the Bruce Peninsula…
“This is just my personal take, but to me the definition of survival horror is a game where fear and the sense of exhilaration coincide.”
Shinji Mikami, Director of Resident Evil
Sometime in 1996 I made plans with my best friend to pull an all-nighter and tackle what was being praised as one the hardest — and scariest — games ever: Capcom’s Resident Evil. The two of us had grown up on Romero and Raimi movies. We each had our own private Zombie Contingency Plan. But we’d never fully immersed ourselves in a true “survival horror” scenario. …
A square is not a cube, but a circle is a sphere in any dimension.
Everything circles back. Time is relative only for the non-accelerating observer and we are all moving toward something. An objective; an ideology. A dream. A death.
Death is merely finality; the end of a singularity. Every singularity begins and ends. Simultaneous. Final. The beginning and end of a drink or a meal. The alpha or omega of a moment. A friendship. A life. A lie.
Cycle begets cycle; the spheres go on, unending. Orbits and obituaries. Everything a part of everything. Spiral galaxies…
The spokes keep turning, one at a time. A poem.
One Spoke of the Bhavachakra
I say to her, Hey — we should go back to my place
I can make us a couple peanut butter ice cream sundaes
This was and it wasn’t innuendo
It was just that the evening had gone so well
The only way to end such an evening
Was with peanut butter ice cream sundaes
Like the kind my grandmother used to make
With fresh ice cream and homemade peanut butter
She hesitates; thinking about it
What kind of ice cream?
Vanilla, I say to…
What Happens If/When The President Refuses to Leave Office
On November 3, 2020, the chances are dubious that the American public will definitively learn the identity of the next President of the United States. Already, seeds of doubt are being sowed by Donald Trump, with accusations ranging from voter fraud to foreign interference in the election to doubts about his opponent’s physical and mental health. Come election night, if Biden wins, but the results are even slightly close, the President will almost certainly call for a recount or otherwise seek to challenge the results. …
I limp into the small gear shop, defeated. I’m looking for ace wrap and new shoes. With every step, I wince at the twinge in my knees. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be, but it’s where I ended up.
Yesterday began with one sore knee. I thought a brace would help, but I soon found myself looking for large walking sticks to use as a crutch. Eventually, the other knee started giving way. I talked over options with my hiking partner — my dad. He was being patient, but I could tell he wanted to press on. As…
Set to Trespassers William’s Lie in the Sound, available here: https://open.spotify.com/track/1YIpoD7bslS2nKTac1WfrZ
The oven timer beeps. She’s in the middle of doing her mascara — she finishes it quickly. There’s just a little more prep to do. A song on repeat begins again.
I love you more than I should…
She spoons the drippings from the pan and sets the burner on low. It just needs a touch of flour and some cracked black pepper. Just like momma made it.
The roast needs to rest a little longer, but the vegetables look good.
It will all pair well with the 2016…
March 17, Chicago.
A chance business trip lands me in the Windy City on this, the holiest of drinking days. The only meeting I have ends at 10:30 a.m. Granted — most people are well on their way by then, but beggars can’t be choosers.
At 10:31, a co-worker asks me where we should head out to. Let’s wander this way, I tell her. In this city, on this day, you can’t swing a stick and not hit a handful of places advertising Jameson, waving the Irish flag and, of course, beckoning drunkards with the promise of dyed green beer.
I arrived in Santa Rosa, New Mexico, 1500 miles from home after three days on historic Route 66. It is here that I part ways with what was once the Main Street of America in search of something more obscure: the potency of Belief. I turn onto US 54, heading to southbound US 285 on my way to Roswell.
I know the idea of “little green men” (or greys, depending on which camp you’re in) seems silly — but say what you will; I’m a sucker for chotskies and mystery, so what better destination than the epicenter for the UFO…
Red faced. Eyes bulging — nearly on the verge of tears. Tears he probably can’t shed, perhaps because it was beaten out of him that men do not cry, ever. Perhaps because this is what he preaches at home — to not back down and not be wrong, ever. Because that’s for losers and snowflakes and he sure as shit ain’t one of those. The veins are sticking out from his neck. This guy is pissed. He’s screaming something to an hourly worker. Making a scene. I’m just here to buy some coffee, dude, I think to myself. I’m trying…
When one is lost, it is not the absolute number of days that is important. It is the vast uncertainty that consumes every moment. (The Serpent and the Rainbow)