The Beat of the Metronome

“and there will be worlds, captivated by the lemon spring bountiful skies of April. The intertwined hands of winds and spry dandelion seeds falling, always falling, tracing the faint attack arc as translucent ballistic missiles exploding intact against blades of grass and empty patches of bark. These are the rose petals sparking the rebirth of former lovers on the short nights,” 

Paul Clarence sputtered and the words collapsed in the symmetrical darkness, the smell of electricity and a hint of citrus lingering in the breeze. “Quite good, Mr. Clarence. Can you please continue?” a baritone voice blasted from nowhere, the crickets suddenly quiet as seeds and time scattered into the familiar abyss. 

What is so disarming about sitting in a comfortable chair? he thought. Why, this is no different than the back porch back at home, holding each other's hands, a few feet higher than the creeping dew wet lawn, and witnessing up in the heavens one billion twinkling suns tranced fractally, their light burrowing through the disco ball smoke of twilight adrenaline speakers, the echoes of legions of ravers frenetic and raw, before finally reaching the musty and dark floor of a dusty techno club in Antwerp. But, I am merely a man. Always chased by the great chicken and egg game of mortality. 

“Mr. Clarence. Will you proceed?” the voice squawked with an implied uneasiness. 

He massaged a small square under his right temple, flesh sliding over the smooth corners. The reverberations of his pulse tapped at his fingertips as a cyclone of images dissolved and conjoined in a plum colored black of the nothingness now left in his proximity. 

 

“May is like a soft fever, the body warm and cold all over in a frenzied journey to feel alive," his voice quivered. "Racing bees, birds and beings trenchant towards creation and drinking the pollen and wine spawned by the arduous winter, because,” he began to whisper. “because... I can’t go on.” 

 

Seconds passed by as time coursed freely. “Mr. Clarence, we did not recognize the speech patterns and iterations at the end of your last thought.” 

 

Yes, a man, he thought. Always able to carry the convenient nomadic gym bag of terrestrial essence on a day trip to the beach or ensconced in the relativistic tug of war in fluidic space. Come now, everyone around the camp fire. He nearly spoke out loud. A bristling current passed through the silence and the singular molecules of air began to simmer. The chair moved slightly. 

He blinked. 

“Mr. Clarence, this is an official warning. Continue or we will disconnect,” the voice echoed and blazed through his mind.  

Am I an embryo or a child?  He scoffed at the thought of being an evolutionary asterisk to the nameless gods, until the dusty memory from the eternal depths collided with the entirety of his senses.  A grainy vision appeared in low resolution which seemed like only yesterday.  He recalled coming home unexpected and early one uneventful night, and fatefully stopped short of passing into the kitchen, only to observe his father through a crack in the doorway, the old man vulnerable and weeping gently. And it was always my fault, my fault, the tears staining the breast of a collared red golf shirt, and only the charred remains of a burning guilt thrust into the present. 

 

I always wanted to be a writer, a master of words and thoughts born within the secret compartments of the heart, never meant to see the light of the days or the mysteries of the night. Only to heal. 

 

“Only to heal,” he dared to whisper as he struggled to formulate an image of his legs. 

 

“Good bye Mr. Clarence,” the voice, symmetrical and carved from ivory filled the void. 

 

And he began to slide. 

Colors danced on the edges of stars and the effulgence of lightning bolts, as the pixels of nothingness exploded into an inferno of geometric shapes and patterns, sparkling and brilliant. He was drifting and he was flying, the drafts of solar wind tickling his chest with an exhilarating thrill against the rising and falling backdrop of the stars. Very faintly a chorus of voices began to rumble in his eardrums. 

What a way to reach a finality, he laughed out loud, perpetually attempting to find the finite or pathway to the boundless reaches of the universe. The multiple voices grew above a whisper. “No you didn’t,” he cried out. “You can’t haunt me with them. We had a deal!” 

His body briefly flickered into view, his arms and legs blazing lightning rods of white plasma, and for the fleeting moments captured by a nun beautifully articulating the word mercy in a single breath of worship, he was whole again, until the illusion yielded to darkness.  

He imagined himself drifting through eternity with his past, trepidation, joy and love trapping him in a viscous centrifuge of peace and remorse. Forever, he thought. All the years of refined creativity and serving the needs of a machine intelligence craving the unpredictability of humanity in exchange for existence, gone. 

“Forever,” he said and felt a vibration of relief as he released a stream of stagnant air through his vocal cords. Within his thoughts, a metaphor perished and only the solitary and lonely hush of an individual voice remained. 

"Pause." 

"Stop." 

"Rewind." 

"Playback."

“May is like a soft fever, the body gently warming and cold all over in a frenzied journey to feel alive. Racing bees, birds and beings trenchant towards creation and drinking the pollen and wine spawned by the arduous winter, because,” the voice grew faint. 

 

“Because, death is only the beginning,” he whispered to the shrinking darkness and clamoring silence of an end.

The New Cadre in Washington State

Besides a blustery July wind shaping the traditionally austere waters of the Puget Sound inlets with a prevalence of white caps and tangy sea spray, the metaphorical ferry crossing from Seattle to Bremerton, provided an ascension to incessant excogitation. 

 

Washington's ferry system which is owned and maintained by the unfortunate citizens of tax happy Washington State provides a two pronged malaise to the indirect progress of small business and financial prosperity. The fleet, rusted and decaying, much like the tactics of its union, proved to exist as the consummate venue for an ego stroking voyage of dignitaries and bureaucrats aching to join the European Union both economically and culturally. 

This ironic twist further marred a festive cruise in the wake of one of the most pristine Independence Days ever experienced in the region thanks to a rare abundance of sunshine. 

 

Yesterday marked the opening of the Bremerton Tunnel, a 959 foot politician's answer to progress and justification for the refinement of taxation. The new concrete pipeline, apparently gives freedom of access for drivers and commercial vehicles, in avoiding the congestion of downtown Bremerton in the events following a ferry docking. To celebrate the preferred mantra to Olympian policy, "why build one, when you can build two at twice the cost," the usual suspects enjoyed the ride across the Sound with a view from the wheelhouse while the public was left to wade in the ambiguous vibe outside the carelessly strewn green streamers like police tape at the bow of the craft, the streamers insinuating an official separation and obvious chasm between a sick derivation from representative government and the constitution. 

While the scent of arrogance intermixed with the salt air of the cordoned off area with an ironic color, the guns from the Coast Guard swift boats flanking the leviathan and masterfully brandished to protect the people from themselves. In the mass mind of Olympia, it was hulking floating nursery requiring an expert interjection of governance to the huddled masses, the threat of a riot real. 

 Norm Dicks, the governor, the secretary of transportation and 40 staffers, security guards and assorted dignitaries, hid from the public for the entire voyage and lurked somewhere behind the green streamer barrier. Within the passenger area of vessel, a full allotment of commuters, families, voters and tax payers conversed and enjoyed the sun of a summer day and striking views of Mt. Rainier. At what level can state government be utterly out of touch with the people, their constituents? 

If there ever was a chance for the governor or Norm Dicks to shake hands and kiss babies in a true public environment, the chugging rundown ferry Hyak was the venue. Instead, with an air of royalty the group stood isolated and thrived in a pool of intellectual and emotional opulence, the aftertaste of power sweet and intoxicating. "Tovarich." Of course, when the Hyak eventually arrived at Bremerton, the dollars needed to overhaul the ferry system outnumbering the population of plankton residing in a square mile of Dyes inlet, Dicks and company proved more than eager to wave to their legions of fans and perched in the backseat of classic cars as the pioneers of the tunnel. 

On the return voyage a solitary politician was successful in escaping the coalescence of imbonities and sat with arms folded against a window with a view to the North. "I couldn't stand another minute in the wheelhouse. They're missing an opportunity to shake hands and talk to people." 

"I'm for jobs and education," the politician spoke with a rehearsed confidence. "How do you feel about unions. It's a multi-billion dollar industry?" 

Thus prompted a conversation- an intellectual, intelligent, civilized and entertaining exchange. For a brief instant amongst the polarization, the foist and impassioned rhetoric, the onset of social democracy parsing a fervid effulgence forged by liberty, right and left met in the rundown carcass kept afloat by the hard earned dollars of the tax payer. The dual voices obscuring the metered chug of the engines, the echo and prevalence of sea life and the chants of the pending decadence of the velvet revolution momentarily silenced. 

For the few waning moments, and in the presence of reason, it was paradise.

Cover Your Eyes Ma Bell

Two blinks of the eye and the future is no longer encased by the jeweled layers of nanotechnology, the subatomic particles burning a pristine green silent gleam of effervescent. Blink three times and the inventions and perpetual motion of the digital age reach a raging insomnia.

One’s bedroom is transformed into a Las Vegas laser light show while the anxious, deprived and intoxicated crowds bustle and murmur with a busy bee buzz and appetite for the harmonics of electricity. AD-DC, is only apt for the use of examining the habitual lifestyle of modernity and industry, even though an echo of sexuality lingers under the covert nature of darkness. One simply has to employ a few select kernels of imagination and delusion to escape the technomare of future shock. Cellphones are always an excuse and cause for the alter ego and many would be surprised by the concept that a threesome or an orgy simply involves a willing couple together with their cellphones. It is amusing to visualize the acts of reaching the pinnacle of the foreplay ladder with one of the 50’s styles block black telephones filling the pocket to a breaching point, and emanating with the voice of a livid mother-in-law or the operator, their incessant strings of "hello, hello" drowned out by animalistic moans and content sighs.

A study should be conducted tabulating both the frequency and total connection time of cellphone calls dialed thanks to the inadvertent use of a partner’s oscillating body in close proximity. In the voyeuristic free wheeling wild west mentality of self gratification and exhibitionism, an app could be developed for the I-phone which would monitor the heart rate of the subscriber and as the blood pressure and breathing rise to appropriate levels, a call is automatically connected to a random number propagated from a list of those signed up who enjoy listening to orchestra of the mating ritual.

La Bibliotheque Translated

I hate to admit it, but the functionality and the effectiveness of the Public Library checkout system supports a wavering hypothesis and an equation of plausible success in aspects of government.

Efficiency in government X amount of public funding / level of compentancy = capital effectiveness

Will this hold true with the Obamamation of the economy, coerced by a liberal senate and congress?

Lost in translation is the actual definition of La Bibliotheque within the confines of King County. Library users can expect an efficient electronic check-out system complete with a book delivery infrastructure routed through the postal service. From the point of view of the home user, simply visiting a library bookshelf and selecting a text involves no more than possessing a reliable internet service on a home PC and having the basics of mobility to reach a mailbox. La Bibliotheque applied to an actual location of a King County library branch, breaches the very fabric of the third and fourth dimensions and creates an infuriating desolate tundra, void of logic or direction.

Along with the multitudinous casualties of the intellectual minefield which is the politically correct movement, is a simple utterance propagated by clenching the of the lips and letting fly a rush of air.

"Shush"

In the nuclear war zone, punk rock homeless haven of the melting pot of unbridled immigration that is the vortex of the meeting rooms, shanty corners, free video rentals and echoes of English as a second language that fills the space between the shelves of untouched volumes of beautiful literature and information, the library still stands as a destination for involved scholarship and learning. However, absent are the graying centaurs of the bounded works, their eyeglasses precariously perched upon noses and the constant threat of a furtive glance combined with wariness should any teenager be involved in a search for the true recipe of holy water a reality. Within the conservative approach to appearance, her hair in a bun and the snug lines reflected from the earth tone business attire constraining a wild animal threatening to escape to the nearest route of carnal bliss, the arsenal was full.

"Shush"

The man with the pink and blue mottled hair at the information desk is oblivious to the street bum stinking and exiting the restroom on the second floor who haphazardly dropped a used rubber heroin tie in the daily game of finding a vein. The yellow waste remains on the tiled floor, like discarded snake skin, with or without a probing shard ready to pierce the sole of a child's foot. However, the technicolor(ed) Information Expert of the MTV generation as he is known to friends and partners proclaims loudly in a New York subway intercom voice complete with a cute lisp to a waiting customer, that the astronomy section can be found on the third floor. The bum strays towards an obscure corner of the building to relish in the works of Keats and Homer.

"Shush"

Recently, an unnamed person snuck a decibel meter into the branch of their local library. The background noise alone measured the equivalent to a moderately busy street, complete with the occasional bus, angry biker and the eight dogs walking a woman.

As a result of cultural differences and the gentle evolution of modern society, the librarian has dissolved into oblivion. (It should be noted that in Washington state, the term "extinction" should only be applied when referring to the legions of wildlife and bacteria yielding to the cruelties of humanity.) She is imply gone and with her the last bastion of sanity left in publicus. Her forceful use of the cruel wind to silence offenders, yet calculated efficiency in the field of the Dewey Decimal system and plethora of knowledge, were deemed insensitive to some, empowering to others and culturally irrelevant to the sowing of diversity.

"Shush"

The festive like atmosphere of the main lobby and second floor of the building are a testament to the culture that has been forced into the subconscious. Cellphones ring incessantly as non-english speakers and teenagers combine to thwart the ideals of free will. Babies scream, slackers take advantage of the shelter for a day, while perverts inoculated by pharmaceuticals enhancing the nuances of mating quench their thirst for instant gratification utilizing the free 1 hour of internet use- a complete representation of Anarchy which could only be resolved by the reinstatement of the enforcer. During Superbowl Sunday of '08, a gentleman was allowed to watch the game on his portable television on one of the many downstairs couches. Of course, he employed headphones, but a crooked precedent was set. While the librarian of the ages employed an air of discipline, the presence of authority today has been removed from the staff and placed on the head of a lone security guard, who takes gradual laps through the three floors and ensures that the homeless, the college student and the elderly are awake. This scenario frees the Information Experts to direct patrons and answer questions in a volume and boldness which rivals a performance at Poet's Corner.

"Shush"

There is simply no escape from the petty distractions and infuriating exploits; no alternative to losing oneself within a novel or text. The further the journey into the causeways, walls and corners of the building and the threat of losing a limb becomes substantial. While intermixing with the main crowd proves only a tonic for learning a new dialect of Slavic, and witnessing a crazy rant about the clouds to any staff member who will listen. But, a sense of entitlement pervades thanks to a heightened sensitivity and inability to properly implement discipline within the family unit. The glass front automatic door creaks with the ironic laughter of an anachronism, an authority who was cast into the void of society by a generation unable to comprehend the basis of freedom and liberty. As the door closes, the wind hisses a brief, "shush." To which no one listens.

The Ionic Truth

"The toil of all that be helps not he primal fault, it rains into the sea and still the sea is salt." AE Houseman

Profound words from a different time and place aptly that describe the supporting role humanity plays not only within the confines of the solar system on an obscure fringe of the Milky Way, but on a planet bestowed with infinitesimal treasures and wonders hidden by logic and a pervading arrogance.

The decision by the City of Seattle to save pending climatological and ecologic deprecation by choosing to not employ a rock salt solution on roadways as a catalyst for safe driving conditions, borders on mendacious and incendiary notions. Apparently, based on the city's scientific models, the two or three days of cubic tons of rock salt used in conjunction with sand would have incalculable effects on the reproductive prowess of salmon species as well as damaging properties for many species in the animal kingdom. However, overlooked amidst this plethora of logic and duly supported is the cause and effect enveloping homo sapiens.

Through out much of the week leading up to the Christmas holiday, drivers and pedestrians were put in precarious situations as a sheet of glacier like ice covered most the urban thoroughfares. Cars slide like Russian ice skater Oksana Baiul after a night on the town in her luxury convertible, while people zigzagged in a frenetic motion on the frictionless sidewalks like Oksana Baiul in a passionate display for the wonders of socialism on the stage of the world. To those who support the notion of global warming, which has now evolved into the broad spectrum of "climate change", a virtual no-risk perspective based on the junk science of carbon dating, the onset of the next ice age may be upon us. (Already it has come to the author's attention that ice core samples acquired from above Seattle's sidewalks are on their way to NOAA) However, reality dictates that the pathway of decision making the the wake of the area's worst storm in 25 years borders on ineffectual dream weaving.

With streets precariously functional, combined with the daunting sensationalism of the Jim Forman school of journalism painting a state of emergency on the 6 o'clock news, and the ineptitude of public transportation as a viable alternative for transportation, area retailers were left scrambling during one of the biggest shopping weeks of the year. The enduring economic difficulties in the latter half of 2008 were merely compounded by the epic travel options left to potential consumers. Factor into the equation the cost of repairs to cars made from the innumerable accidents, the strain to the health system with the amount of preventable injuries, revenues lost from commuters who could not find a ride with Metro transit operating at %50 capacity and the pending springtime repairs to the gutted roadways. Does this dollar amount equate in any circumstance to the financial obligation required for clean-up of excess material, had a rock salt solution been utilized? Of course it is assumed that a certain percentage of consumers would fail to wash the underside of their cars after the thaw, thus causing the need for repairs as rock salt can be a corrosive material when exposed to metal over a period of time. Left out of this scenario has been the DOT's use of rock salt solution to treat highways. According to the scientific models of state ecologists, the use of sand as an agent for deicing is a deterrent to the environment. The lack of scientific consensus proves baffling. Sand or salt?

From a chemical point of view, rock salt is essentially NA+CL- or table salt. Obviously, sodium chloride is an important agent in the function of cells and the diversity of life. Of course the world's oceans, once the cradle of all life on Earth contain a solution of sodium chloride and water. From a simple mathematical point of view, how would two or three days of rock salt use have an effect, if any on the environment or the life cycle of area species? A few cubic tons of soluble compound spread over square miles of concrete layered on differing topographies would have no adverse effects on the mating rituals or genetic framework of local plants, animals, bugs or bacteria. The few protozoans who die a horrendous death thanks to realities of osmosis will be missed. Up the amount of material to thousands of tons and still the same result. In this overtly green state, does the use of a solvent for safe travel open Pandora's box for extreme measures in the future and disconcerting precedents? Will the employment of rock salt eventually lead to the progression and ultra efficient ice breaking wonders of anti-freeze which will ultimately be replaced by irradiated matter with a shelf life of 20,000 years? This is utter insanity.

Living in the state of Washington rivals signing a contract with a wayward landlord. In this case as tenants we are subject to the judgement of salmon, spotted owls, snail darters and native americans. Are we expected in the frenzy of an icy blizzard and running the errands of Christmas shopping to salute the grand verticals of a douglas fir tree as we spin 180 degrees in an intersection, a life of reason flashing before our eyes, before crashing into a telephone pole, shattering a fibula, radiator and transmission fluid mixing with blood to form a pool of irony and with deicing qualities? At least the nature's greenhouse of Washington dodged a bullet as the pure sand from the blustery beaches of the Pacific was promised to avoid the gills and gonads of the fickle salmon.

To those who yearn for the days of foraging and gathering; ideal of the noble savage quivering under their pillow, how can socialism act as a facilitator for population control of the human race? If every being is programmable and equal in a forced utopia, how will a rift form and the wondrous levitating properties of change be manifested? Thankfully, salmon cannot shed tears.

Strife

On a quiet night bellowing with the blankets of winter cold biting at the fingers and the nose, count the ceaseless stars in the pervading still waters of the cosmos and the museum of unique light. Hear the whine of the sorcerer, the blue shift of the lugubrious nuclear reactions in the flight of the train coming home to the station near the waterfront. The battlefront between the past and the present, the light of the stars and the terrestrial horn of a far away locomotive a dichotomy of reality and perspective. Insignificance, strife, the known universe aloof to the vibrancy of humanity in a display of frigid perfection across the vacuum of eons. What is left but shear introspection, the remnants of a shattered mirror reflecting not the truth but ambiguity and boundless questions. As with entropy, the chaotic will of the years reduces simplicity to a multitudinous formula marred by variables, a steady bank of fog obscuring the bitter end. All that is left is the echoes, the pulsating light of the lighthouse, a perpetuating familiarity towards identity. Against the pathway to infinity, the singular fires of the solar systems and galaxies indifferent to warm tears crawling below the eyes are but a dream to living, breathing and loving. The thousands of billions of the pieces of the puzzle of the thousands of billions of the pieces of the puzzle on what is earth and what is what rival impossibility. The singularity that is fuels imagination and the notion to persist.

Could This be a Repeat of 1969?

In the search for futility and some sort of perspective, the last version of UW football to start the season 0-5 was in 1969. With Arizona looming on the horizon in Tucson Saturday, matching an almost 40 year old low water mark does not seem improbable.

Like most fairy tales that end with a feeling of warmth and magic dust, a winless v1969 managed to knock off WSU 30-21 in the final game of the season, thus avoiding the dubious distinction of going 0 for 10. However, in the post-game shower of LSD, prayer circles, wayward activism, and Rainier, the ideals propagated amidst the peace movement are responsible for the current detriment of UW football, our empathetic military and the ineptitude of enabled consumers.

In a striking parallel to the less than auspicious start and circumstances surrounding this dismal season, v1969 played six ranked opponents, including a date at home with #1 Ohio State in a 41-14 defeat. While there exists a very good chance that 2008 may end without a single victory, it must be noted that legendary Coach Jim Owens turned things around the next year and the team won six games in 1970, including two against ranked opponents thanks to a quarterback named Sonny. Though Tyrone Willingam is not Jim Owens and Jake Locker is a hybrid of the modern game and lacks Sixkiller's nuances in the pocket, anything is possible in the world of college football.