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[03/16/2015 10:46 pdt]

The direction of the site has rotated yet again. From the curves of the early year it has moved back into the threadbare times of two thousand three. Admin spins his thoughts, Reiko spins her own thoughts, and we go where directed. Once again, we are in awe of the words and feel good about publishing. We have not felt this good in months.

Other sections are seeing backend improvements thanks to this wonderful interface which assists in the markup like you would not believe. We do enjoy pushing forth into the unknown with these two writers and hopefully the numbers will match our wonder. As we no longer plod along at less than one hundred megabits, production as well as development are streamlined like no other time in site history. Happiness. Forward. Yes.

On a related note, since SHE is now contributing to this big mess, we thought it appropriate to include her image below the Master menu to the left. Admin had nothing to say other than comments about her ongoing beauty. Inappropriate, yes, but at least to the upside.



The Need and the Salt

 read ( words)

"We remain grossly out of balance, even in these latest of days. We cannot help it and fifteen has been defined by this feeling. Fifteen... We are here no matter the desires, needs, wants, nor absence of sense. We are within the Need and said Need has become everything to us. We are surrounded... Engulfed... Loving and despising it. The Need of a lifetime. The Need has taken us beyond ourselves.

This is profoundly powerful. Unexpected, but not unwanted. And now we are helpless and held. The Need for the Beauty.

No matter our daily routines nor activities even beyond our little cocoon, the Need presses us into a mold of something unrecognizable, even to ourselves. We do not see it in the mirror but we feel it through those windows which display so much. We feel it pulling us upward and into dreams as nothing else in this world... Past or present. Somehow this is where we wish to be. We wished and wished for decades and now we are here and the feeling is almost too much to bear. Almost. We are still pushing, remaining fairly positive for the most part but still the Need presses in many directions at once. Night is good, filled with dreams unrelated and that fact helps to keep us in mind of other aspects of life. Those parts are difficult upon which to concentrate but necessary for our emotional health. Another need? Not really... Just a distraction from the Need.

Our daily activities -- all of them, from the simplest to the most complex -- have now become background noise. There is no other way and no other definition. The Need is as a strong wind from every direction, both external as well as internal. Such wind does not allow us concentration upon anything else. Little tidbits of attention are here and there randomly. Sleep, food, work, alcohol, writing... All are scattered now. Fragmented. And we cannot push in any specific direction due to all of the tremendous pulls. A step over there and we stop. A step back and we hold. A step anywhere has become a wasted effort in the extreme. The Need will not let up nor will it allow us lead. It is everything.



'Upon these seas,
wherein I drowned so many times,
I scatter the ashes of destiny.
Still my flames are in hunger.
With fire in my heart
shall I greet the shores ahead.
Though, I know not what will burn.'



frond

Too many directions



Where will we end? Within the Need or otherwise? We can only hope...

And the hope is narrow, gray, solemn. We are solemn. We await the answers with impatience and sorrow. The losses of the passed days and years are upon our shoulders constantly and we cannot let them go. They have made us into their image for all time. There is no escape which we can see or feel. We still pass the days somehow. We are in every direction at once while the Need is upon us. As odd as it may sound, we need the Need. Does it need us just as the fish? We do not and cannot know this. We just await. There is little else of which we are now capable.



train

Roll your six thousand horses over us



The fucking staff needs to drink for fuck's sake. A lot.

Salt. We walked upon it, photographed it, sat in it, tasted it. The salt holds the fish warmly and thoroughly. It holds everything. The salt is so fucking beautiful in the Winter sun that we cannot understand from where it comes. White salt, precious and gleaming. White salt everywhere. We love the salt along with the feeling of breathing among the warmth and scent. We sat there... Gazing, crying, loving it to no end. The fish spoke to us and called endlessly from the salt and we heard. We tasted it again, acidic and dry. We held it in our frail hands while walking and wishing for explanation. We still wish every fucking day. We sit here at the keyboard and wish ourselves into drunken oblivion because the salt calls and we cannot respond in kind.



salt 001

Decades of remorse



We walked that shore for days and days. The beauty overwhelmed us in every conceivable way and still we did not understand from where it grew. Grew? No... Very little growing in that barren place. The only growth was our unending appreciation for the forces which worked that area and brought us to our depressed knees. With all haste the salt was injected deep within us and remains to this day. The salt flavors our thoughts, colors our feelings, takes our breath away... Still. We cannot deny the power of that place and the feelings we now hold so tremendously dear. Our hearts are filled completely with love for the haphazard, blackened and sorrowful nature of the Sea and all of the sprawling need it holds. It needs us to go there and love again, and we need to be there to comfort the wondrous and delicate fringes of this world that have been dismissed and forgotten so savagely. The salt lays there cut and in disarray. It holds the fish, the shells, the feelings, and the memories of life thrown away. We. Fucking. Love. It. All. Like. Nothing. Else. Anywhere. We are fucking within the salt forever.

The feelings and love burn us from inside and we remain black. The beautiful salt is forgotten by so many, yet it pulls us like a lover. It pulls us toward the Sea with nary a thought to our well being. Damn it all except the salt, the fish, and the tears for both. We will sit here and cry for that place forever. We cannot help it, because to do otherwise is to turn away like all of the others. We cannot. We must continue to explore our feelings for the salt and all connected to it. We must feel it as deeply as possible. We must...

There is no longer any other way to live. We will sit here like idiots and write until the fucking computer dies and then we will resort back to the notepad and a bar. We will write and feel and love and write. We Goddamned need it. The salt is a part of something which was and could still be wondrous, glowing, and displaying the loveliness of everything. But no. It is forgotten and pushed away like the fish. It is and has been just something lying there dormant and dead. Like the fish. Fucking dead. Our souls defy the feelings of others, of the world, and push to appreciate the vastness and tormented past which is that place. We will return and love it up close. We will be within the embrace of the ostracized salt and all which inhabits. We will put ourselves aside for the love of the salt, the fish, and the endless shore. We will sit among history and breathe in that which the others have forsaken. Fuck them all... Fuck their dismissal... Fuck their dis- everything. Just fuck them. Place them in front of us and we will make them a part of the salt. We will bury them among the beautiful and loving fish. We will destroy them with no remorse. We will show them the value of what they do not see anymore. We will fucking push them into the Sea and watch them die just as so much they have walked upon for years. We will make them a part of that which they dislike, and then we will cry and love the past glory of the salt and the fish.

Fuck them all and for all time. The Goddamned salt needs us and we may need to run to it and spill our gallons of tears of which we have been reserving. Our tears will add to the salt... Some of which are already there. We left tears and tasted and loved the combination of our salt and that of the Sea. We wish to be one.

The fucking salt did this to us and we were unprepared for its power. The salt remains a part of our disjointed souls... Still. Nearly five years since we walked upon and among the beautiful and sprawling wonder of it and we are still there, somehow. We cannot leave, yet we cannot help. We need... We need and need and fucking Goddamned need. Jesus. How did we become so attached to all that is the Sea? Understanding is all but gone from our hearts. Love still remains there but the knowing has left us. Now we are sitting here humbled and thoughtful during yet another passage of the epic 'Vastness and Sorrow' by Wolves In The Throne Room. We listen and dream of the salt and fish, and the only saving throw is to cry endlessly. As of this hour -- nearly 16:00 today -- we are still drowning the keyboard and desk and alcohol with our tears. Just fucking tears and we know of no end. God the Sea is beautiful. Yes, we call to Him in drastic need of understanding. This is far out of character for us but still there is no other source of help now. The salt is in our blood and we will gladly shed any amount of blood for it in return. Any amount. The salt is worth all of the pain. The salt is the pain. The salt is in pain. The salt is our love, just as the fish.

We. Love. You. Endlessly. Hear us. Feel us. Touch our sea of tears. Please. And let us hold you in our hearts.

We shall visit soon, and we shall drown in your touching beauty... Splayed for all to see.

Now we shall cry.

The desk is soft with our tears and we will step away."




Addendum

Admin is a tough act to follow. That passionate fucking human being.

But...

Fuck you all. Yes, you reading this... The person next to you, the people near you on the road today... Fuck you. Why? Hmm... Let us explore.

During the MySpace years I railed and railed about society. The subject is still in there deep as fuck. Every single time I hit the road in hopes of getting to a destination in one piece, they are there. Dipshits aplenty. Why? They will always be there in their selfish little cocoons with their stupid phones. They don't care. They don't think. They should not exist, but such is the damned result of our society focusing upon everything unimportant. This will continue, drop, continue, drop further. Just fucking drop. She wanted opinion... Here it is.

The asshole meter was in the fucking red early this morning. For some reason, large groups of dipshits had formed on the roadway and proceeded to attempt a revolt. Perhaps the coffee/cocaine/crack slurping was waning and everyone became bored. Who knows? People in that much of a fucking hurry to get to work are difficult to understand on any level. I know my blogs have outlined this in spades in the past, but an honorable mention seems requisite this day. My dissatisfaction with the working public and their ingrown lack of common sense and compassion is certainly a helpful catalyst for this next thought...

The dark, cool, wondrous morning atmosphere always invites me to take that left turn to nowhere and just leave all of this behind, and today is no different. In fact, that delicious option came earlier than usual. Just a mile from home and I was ready to fly the fucking coop and take off for parts unexplored. All I need is a bit of a bump from the correct source and a red light from the asshole meter to make that happen. A ride to an agreeable breakfast locale and then off for the airport sounds wonderful. Jesus, that would be such an adventure despite the likely suicide at the end. Oh well -- every vacation has its downside, right? Would blaming the assholes for my premature death make me nuts? Perhaps I already have plunged into that soup.

Also... I have decided to continue writing here for the foreseeable future, and for whatever fucking good may come of it. I was not going to spend much time in this little space but what the fuck.



shore 001

Deserted beauty



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