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Glitch_Tybalt
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Name: Glitch
Birthday: 10/17/1985
Gender: Male
Interests: Swimming, Hiking, Rock Climbing, Programming, Hacking, Reading, Network Security, Advertsing Design
Expertise: Social Engineering
Occupation: Sales
Industry: Retail
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  GlitchTybalt
Member Since:
6/13/2004
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| And another day dawns dreary over the pavement countryside.
Our Hero rubs his bleary eyes. Is it another day, he thinks, or is it the same one? It's become so hard to tell as of late. He stares out the window into the color-robbed outcropping of buildings and cars. Turning slowly from the man-made vista, he clumsily clothes himself. His feet are leaden as he shuffles to the sink. Cool water flows freely from the faucet, into his hands, splashing his face, stinging the nerves into wakefulness. Glancing at the mirror, he finds the image there perplexing. What had happened to the joyous, youthful man he was so accustomed to seeing there? Where was the man with the quick joke, the comical retort? Where was the man that everyone knew and loved? Where had he gone?
In all actuality, he was still there. He just wasn't awake. It seemed that man had fallen into a deep slumber some time ago, occasionally stirring into wakefulness when events warranted him to. But for the most part, he slept. The golem that he inhabited was left to wander the earth in a functional state, going through the motions.
The Hero's finger twitches. Three days without a cigarette. He decides it's time for one now. It wasn't that he had quit, mind you, it was merely a self imposed abstinence. To prove to himself that he could, you see. Stepping out to the back patio, he plucks one of the remaining four out of the pack of Parliaments still sitting on the bench. Ahh, he thinks, choice of the U.S. Navyman and Cokehead alike. A spark, flame catching, the quiet crinkly sound of paper and tobacco igniting, the brittle hiss of the first drag. Stiffness releases, eyelids flutter, heart quickens, a fast calm settles. The soft sigh of his exhale centers him, bringing his focus external for the first time since waking. A thread of smoke unfurls in front of him. For a moment, time hangs still.
Smoke.
Something unfurling.
Or was it gathering?
Yes, gathering. Something silken gathering on the ground. No. Floor.
Soft white floor. Red gathering on the carpet.
Blood? No, definitely cloth.
A dress.
A delicate ankle.
A smooth calf.
A hip.
A hand placed on it. His? No. Hers.
Smoke. Jazz. Slow, deliberate. Unlike any he's ever heard before.
Those eyes.
Shaken, our Hero glances at the cigarette to find the long and fragile length of ash attached to the filter. Completely burned down, and only one drag from it. Damn, he thinks. Dropping the butt in the bucket, he re-enters his home. The familiar arrangement of furniture, clothing, and assorted detritus is comforting. In reality, the place is a fucking mess. But it's his mess, and that makes it ok. Lord, if his mother ever saw this place...
----MORE TO COME----
[this time i swearz fo' realz, yo.]
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| How can a man look himself in the mirror and be proud of the accomplishments he has made, yet still be discontent with his own being? How is it acceptable for him to show his face, bright and vibrant with victory, while still being uncomfortable in his own skin? How can this be?
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While doing some housekeeping on this computer of mine, I happened across this old thing. It would appear that I have not written in some time. My, how does the time fly...
I started a relationship and ended one well within that time. I used to read to her on the phone when we were together. Late at night, when I could, I read her a chapter or two out of "Kiss Me, Judas," a noir novel I've referenced in the past. Apparently, she liked the sound of my voice coming in like a radio announcer of the thirties through the pathetic excuse of a speaker in cell phones. We would talk for hours about everything and nothing at all. I still remember her touch, the way she smelled. Her taste on my lips. Vibrant, she was, with much to offer this world.
Things went sour when my mind went south on me. A great emptiness had opened up inside me, slowly growing. The death of my father still loomed large in my mind, and I had never really given myself time to deal with it. That combined with the overall depression I had dealt with for years and left me more and more broken. I found myself fearing life itself and the uncertainties it holds, moreso than one would normally. I couldn't deal with the fears of others as I had in the past.
She was dealing with a potentially serious medical issue at this time. Fear for her wellbeing paralyzed me. When speaking to her I would stammer and falter. I could offer no words of comfort at the time she deserved them the most. I began to feel as though I had nothing left to offer her. I would call her less than I wanted to for fear of doing something wrong. This would cause a feedback-loop where I would berate myself more for not talking to her, which would cause me to call less.
Eventually, I ended it. I wanted to stay, wanted to be with her. But in my mind, I felt that I would cause more harm than good. Plus, I was splitting myself in two over her, and I had to get my head right. I could make no progress in that state.
And so it went. I spent another New Years alone, staring at the stars after the ball dropped in an alcoholic stupor, thinking of her.
She contacted me a little while back, via text message. Asked how I was doing, let me know she got the surgery she needed and was doing better. She also wanted to know if "..[she] had secured her place in history." I'm still puzzled by what she meant by that.
So here we are, April 2008. I've started school, now majoring in Digital Film and Video Production. I've gone back to Best Buy after working at a dating company. [that will be a tale for another time, dear reader.] I'm not as well as I'd like to be, but I think I'm getting there.
One day at a time, Moment by Moment.
It's the only way to live.
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| "Shit," thought Dave. "It's going to be another one of those days."
To Dave, the world felt too small. It was an odd feeling, really. How do you describe such an absurd notion to someone? Your mother, uncle, coworker, girlfriend? It had been said that the world was getting smaller, but this was said in a more euphemeral sense, what with the advent of telecommunications and such. But Dave actually meant this when he said it: there wasn't enough room to breathe no matter where he was.
As the blood continued to trickle down and off his fingers, Dave slumped to his knees. "Shit. It IS one of those days."
Then the blackness came.
*
Dave consulted his watch while barreling up the 35.
1:17A.M
The drive was taking FAR longer than he had hoped. A simple run to Oklahoma, proceed through the checkpoint, handoff, and be home before the infomercials stopped. But when did anything ever conform to plan in life? His fingers idly tapped out the beat of a song half listened to. The rapidly approaching billboards captured his attention for a few seconds longer than usual. What the hell, no one on the road for miles in any direction, and no worry for pedestrian traffic. Wilford Brimshaw for HealthOne. Friendly police officer reminding you to buckle up for safety. A&E's new Docudrama. Win Big on Our Tables. Advertise here Cheap It Works.
And people get all up in arms over e-mail spam?
Up ahead, he eyed a highway patrol car under an overpass. The speed limit was 70. He was cruising at a cool 88. The overpass loomed large and imposing.
"Fuck it."
He pressed on, not even blinking as he flew past the car. Which was a good thing, for he was able to see that it was empty. A clever ruse, but not clever enough. Agitated, he consulted his watch again.
1:21A.M.
He sighed. Mile marker 108 was so far away.
*
upon the rails
among the weeds
i had a moment of
serenity
i saw you stand
in all the green
upon the rusting rail
balancing...
As the music drifted through the house, Dave found himself dancing with Kaywinnet. He never called her this, however, as it was what her father called her. Looking deep into her eyes, he felt weightless. Nothing ever mattered when fell into her gaze.
"Kaylee," he whispered into her ear. "Do you know I love you?"
"You'd best," she whispered back. "I'm not sure how I'd handle my husband suddenly not loving me. I'd probably kill you."
Dave grinned. "That's my girl..."
The empty wine bottle caught and scattered the light of the candelabrum on the floor. The green luminescence bathed them both, and for that one instant...
Everything was fine.
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| So, I've promised you updates, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
But I'm tired.
So, here's a special treat JUST FOR YOU!
I have this... shall we say, acquaintance. He's a very special man, with very special talents. He's a journalist, or "renegade truth-teller," as he'd put it. He moved to a discrete mountain hide-a-way a few years back, and he stopped writing.
Or at least I thought he did.
He got in touch with me the other day, saying his "whoremonger" was calling in the rest of a book contract, and was convinced to oblige. But, to save his sanity, he would write Op-Ed pieces that would never be submitted. Knowing that I liked the cut of his jib, he was gracious enough to send me a few of the said pieces.
So, since I couldn't be buggered to write anything of interest, I'm posting one of the pieces today. If it gets any kind of response, I may share more in the future.
So, without any further ado, here's Arco Soveriegn.
------------------------------------------------------------------
In a meticulously engineered environment, I sit.
The
walls are a very particular shade of Eggshell-Mauve-Vomit.
Appropriately leveled paintings of marketing labels adorn the room,
along with All-Natural Hand-blown Pre-Processed lampshades covering
environmentally sound lightspheres that only consume twice the amount
of energy of a standard bulb with over half the output! The chairs
have been designed to comfy, but not too comfy. Can't have the clients lazing about all day! Music that was crappy the first time it came out but now is classic or retro is
broadcast at a level that is too loud for comfort, but not loud enough
to complain about. Even the smells are designed. The scent of coffee
is much more powerful than what is expected of a coffee machine brewing
all day to create. It's there to remind us that, Hey, we're in a coffee shop!
And the conversations. GOD, the CONVERSATIONS! I
can hear them all around me. It's all the same mindless blather that
you expect to hear in a coffee shop. "Oh, Have you heard about New
Shitty Band? Well, of course not, they haven't struck it big here.
But, God, once they get off MySpace and find a label that'll press
them, you'll thank me." Or there's "Well, my thoughts on the Neuveau
Redereconstructionalist movement is that blah blah fucking blah listen
to me I'm more important than you because I can string more big words
together in one sentence than you can." To quote another Shitty Band,
"...[you're all] competing for that one moment of self-aggrandizing
glory while you hold dominion over the entire pointless conversation"
Fuck. I have to get out of here.
And so I've stepped outside. And it's no better.
I am Arco Sovereign, and I hate this place.
The
rain falls, in a vain effort to cleanse the city. In Literature, they
tell you that rain symbolizes renewal and rebirth. In reality, rain
just gets everything fucking wet.
We exist in a society run by
the youth. It's said that the youth of today will be the leaders of
tomorrow. Fuck you. The youth of today control today. Tomorrow too.
Fuck, next week's been planned around Tony's sick kegger he's throwing
since his parents are out of town then. The culture's obsessed with
the youth. Sure, our politicians are in their forties and big business
owners are not far behind. But the simple fact is they cater directly
to the demographic that is orgasmic to obtain. 18-35 year olds. Males
specifically, but the girls are all right too. Take a quick look at
the '04 elections. This was a "watershed" moment for the campaigning
process. It heralded the advent of the Politician's Blog. Yes,
finally, political figureheads found a way to "reach directly to the
people." They figured by adopting this "blogging" fad, they would
appear more approachable and interested in the public opinion. Now,
there's two GLARING FUCKING PROBLEMS with that.
One.
Name a time in the last forty years that a politician has actually cared about public opinion. Go ahead. I'll wait.
Nope, that doesn't count.
Nor does that. That was called spin.
Nuh-uh.
That's right. You can't.
Two.
Have
you actually BEEN on the internet? Really? Other than to check your
e-mail for really funny forwards your grandmother sent you and to see
what new porn-stars
have added you as a friend on MySpace to sell
you a super-special secret web-cam account that only YOU have access
to? Guess not. Allow me to educate you, then.
The Intarweb is populated by a very special group of people. 18-35 year old manchildren [where have we seen that
number before?] who have nothing better to do than swap copies of the
latest geek fest films and bitch about the compression qualities. And
if you've ever stumbled across a blog before, you should know what a
fools errand it is to believe that by using one, you can connect to the
people. There aren't people on blogs, only trolls, ogres, man-liking
lesbians, and other mythical creatures.
So in this hip, youth-centric arena I sit, consistently befuddled. An
era where the old try to be young, the young control the old, and
everyone walks around with their pants on backwards, 'cause it's the
cool thing to do.
Did I mention I hate this place? | | |
| Yeah, I know you can't read this. But, it's an update. Something I needed to say.
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