He opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, and his head was pounding.

The dreams were back.

He and his brother, Bob, were in the skiff again, going for their daily fishing outage at Coos Bay. A gale had blown in, and the mainsail popped loose, the rope lashing in the wind like a spastic snake. Bob leapt forward to try and catch it, but the sail blew around and smashed Bob in the side, sending him sprawling into the churning waves. Danny snatched a life preserver and dove in after him, but to hardly any avail. Bob was already dead when Danny hefted his body aboard the ship. Fatigued, Danny fell to his knees and screamed. The rest was forgotten.

Danny had been found on the streets of a local port town, babbling insanely about “god knows what”, according to several townsfolk. He had been apprehended by the police and later admitted to a psychiatric ward, where he stayed for about three weeks after being claimed by his parents. Even after he was released, he had recurring nightmares along with bouts of somnambulism, and was prescribed several brands of pills to balance out his psyche. He had come to the decision that he needed a bit of a break, and headed down to his daughter’s house for a weekend.

When he got there, it wasn’t the same. His daughter and her boyfriend drank and smoked pot openly in front of him, and even went so far as to offer it to him. That’s when he acquired his penchant for the drink. It silenced the voices in his head, for however long he could stay sloshed.
He went back home.

So, a few years passed. Danny stayed with his parents for a while, visited the psych ward regularly with accumulating progress, took his medications as scheduled, and commuted back and forth to town on a bicycle. Everything finally seemed to be calming down. He still frequented the pub, though, and was more often than not admonished or apprehended by the local police for his tipsy biking trips back and forth from the bar.

He couldn’t help it though. He loved the drink. He loved the comradeship at the pub, he waxed maudlin over the idea of an evening at the bar, and he wouldn’t dare lose it for anything. It was his escape within an escape, he thought.

He got up, shook his head, and stretched. He opened the blinds, but ended up shutting them almost mechanically when the first rays of sunlight came peering through the cracks. He rubbed his swollen, bloodshot eyes and trudged to the bathroom to shower.

What’s a man to do, when left to his own lack of sanity?

He fumbled around in the medicine cabinet, pulling out several plastic bottles full of pills. All those beautiful little vacations, all different shapes, sizes and colors. He shook two from the first bottle. 50 mg Xanax. Nerves. He raised a glass of water to his parched lips, and gulped down half of it before taking the pills. He continued on, in that fashion, until he had run through his whole morning routine.

He walked into his kitchen and poured a glass of Tom Moore. “Never too early”, he grumbled to himself,”for my proverbial ‘coffee’.”

After downing half of the glass, something caught his eye just outside the window. He glanced outside, and did a double-take.

Jesus, it was Bob.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he screamed.

“Bob, goddammit I knew you didn’t die!”

He ran outside, and with a kiss on the cheek, embraced who he thought was Bob. He was greeted by a fist to the side of the head. A slightly older man with a tawny beard glared at him menacingly, and reared back his fist to strike again. “Fuck ‘re ya doin’, ya pansy bastard?” He spoke with a slight Irish brogue.

“Bob, we….it….it’s me, Danny! Your brother!”

The man just glared at him. “Look, Chief. I don’t know how long ya’ve been hittin’ the sauce already, but I ain’t fuckin’ Bob. Ya got the wrong guy. Kissin’ me on the cheek and shit, I dunno if there is a right guy. Faggy twat.”

With that, the bearded man spit in Danny’s face and walked away with an angry, stilted gait.

Danny just looked down at the pavement, and began to cry. He fell to his knees, sobbing, and curled himself into a ball on the sidewalk. He stayed like that until the police came.

Add Comment [2]

I often find myself running different paths. It is as if my mind simply does not know itself, or my predispositions, and just runs willy-nilly.

Or perhaps it is the lack of sleep and overwork that is turning me slowly insane.

At any rate, I find myself extremely capricious. Not in the malicious sense (or at least, not consciously so), but rather in the wil you nil you manner, my mind running amok. The only thing really holding me in check is the presence of passion in my life: passion for the Truth, if it is at all attainable, passion in entertaining whatever need humanity has for the arts (at least, in my field), and passion for my love. These passions keep my decisions at some sort of control, filtering out anything that might be destructive to the ideals apparent therein.

At any rate, being in a perpetual state of worry, ponder, philosophizing, calculating... in other words, being in a world only inherent of the mind is a dangerous prospect. It is arguably what brought Nietzsche to his final straw, so to speak, knocking him over the edge unto sanity. Or perhaps he had an imbalance or something. Whatever the case, it is a world that is regarded and accepted as dangerous should it be the sole existence...

My girlfriend is long distance, as is my family. Not that I do not get the chance to talk to both, because obviously I make time for them. They are too important to me to do otherwise. Yet, my brain just feels so damn tired... I feel approximately 986496906340957 years old, at the ends of my rope.

Too bad there isn't something similar to eyedrops for your brain... neurodrops. They make your brain feel fresh and exciting! Catch them at your nearest grocery mart!

I suppose this is a confession of sorts, and as such, not in my usual style. Usually my articles are contemplations about something outside/in, such as the way I see the world or the way the world sees me, but this is purely inside myself. No, not because I feel particularily self-important (indeed, I always feel rather insignificant, a cog to a gigantic wheel that I hope to keep on moving), but rather, because I feel at home here, at akpcep. Yes, folks, get out your handkerchiefs...

I actually have a heart beneath all that pretensious babble.

That's right, you are my friends, as true a friend as any I have kept over the years. You know my secret desires, you know my faults. Indeed, we are so close that when I present my faults, you hope to inspire me away from them. You all are my friends, and are the first people to actually criticize my work. I have been called "wonderful", but never do people compliment me on being human and having faults.

That said, I guess I must admit that this is also cathartic for me. I have embraced the darker side of my psyche for awhile, hoping to find some refuge with seeing the world through a different perspective. Perhaps I have destroyed a lot of what I worked up to, doing a lot of the things I said I would never do, embracing the parts of me I always wanted to surgically remove from my psyche. However, I admit, it was not without warrant; for, I firmly believe, in a world of intolerance, it is necessary to see the world through a different set of eyes. Not everyone is made equally, and not everyone's perceptions work on the same level.

We are so different, you and I, and this is one of many things that I adore.

Listening to Grieg's Ase's Death... (forgive any misspellings), I feel solemn. Listening to one of Chopin's Nocturnes, I feel melancholic and loving. When I listen to Liszt, I feel energetic and tempermental. It is these alterations that I hope to find and mimic in my personality, hoping that through this mimesis I can find a clearer path to the many Truths that I am searching for.

My soul is a deep, hideous cavern that echoes as Things, perhaps truthful or perhaps lies, knock against the walls on the way down. It eats up all it sees, but also, as a part of this nourishment-function that it serves, it also destroys. I hope to both take the Truth into me, and to return it unto the Real, that which rests upon the high pedestal, and in doing so, perhaps I, too, can glance the wonderful world of the Real, where Truth lies, to bring it down back to the particular.

I hope that you, my friends, might help me carry the heavy burden of Truth to whatever mountain it resides, returning it to its original position. I hope that you, too, my friends, will walk down the path that Zarathustra has paved for us.

Only, I hope, we won't go mad, like Nietzsche did when he took Zarathustra on the path to begin with.

I am not crazy. I am, hopefully, not even selfish/self-righteous. I am merely a dreamer, with my head in the clouds, hoping that Truth has not whithered away and died, and that there still exists a path that I can both go up, unto the deadly and often perilous heights of the Real, and hopefully, my soul will survive to take the walk back.

Thank you for allowing me to search by your side.

And forgive me my instabilities. They are ever-so pressing nowadays.

Add Comment [1]

You may not think so, but you have the ability to see through time. Well, into the future at least. We all have this ability, at least the more developed among us, but it is nearly always passed over or ignored. It is an example of both the power and the fallibility of the human brain, and the instability of the human mind. Allow me to explain.

First, you should know that in order for any of the following to hold water, one must believe in Fate. That is, that we are all set on a determined path, and that path does not deviate. This does not imply the oversight of a deity, as many might believe. It simply means that Time, the lifespan of the universe, is a one dimensional line, that can only go one way, one path.

Many argue that fate is a myth, because once you know your fate you then have a choice, to follow it or to ignore it. In answer to this I have two arguments. One is an old Chinese tale, in which a man, wandering about a busy market in Hong Kong, sees Death. Death, in turn, notices him, and begins to walk toward the man, raising one bony finger. In panic, the man runs to the docks, leaps upon his boat, and sails back to his home on a remote island of the coast. The moment he shuts his door, confidant that he has tricked the specter, he hears a nock on the door. Answering it, he finds Death on his doorstep. “I have come for you,” rasps the skeletal figure. “But,” the man stammers, “If I was to die in home, why did you approach me in Hong Kong?”

Death does his best to shrug. “I just wanted to ask you why you were in Hong Kong when I was scheduled to pick you up here.”

Thus, in attempting to cheat fate, our friend simply played into its hands, doing exactly what he was meant to. Just something to bear in mind.

In any case. You can see into the future. You get short glimpses of places, people, situations. No conversations or events, but perhaps a few emotions. You may get such a vision once, maybe twice a month. Unfortunately, though this vision is now embedding into your brain, your mind does not pick up on it. Your premonition is stored away, ignored.

So, what proof have I that we can in fact observe the yet-to-come? Well, perhaps a while after your premonition, the situation or even comes to pass. And you say, “Huh. I’ve been here before; I’ve done this sometime in the past. Déjà vu.” Déjà vu. Being triggered by the actually even, your mind suddenly runs across your vision, but, being feeble, it does not grasp that you knew this would happen, and misinterprets it as a memory.

That is to say, you remember you vision, but think it is just that, a memory. That you are recalling something you have done before, or someplace you have already been, when in fact it is only your prophecy coming to pass. We, as human, have evolved far enough to not only perceive space, but also time. Unfortunately, we have not progressed far enough to differentiate between weather we are seeing though space or seeing through time.

Which brings me to my second argument in favor of the theory of Fate. Even if we did know our fate, we, as human, are too dumb to do anything about it.

Add Comment [1]

This is a reader submission from Sam M. Enjoy, and thanks for the article, Sam!


I have often found that some people simply focus on the negative. Some of my friends, much to my surprise, have turned from the fun-loving people they once were into something altogether different, all under the pretense of "maturity."

I understand that, as you grow up, it is inevitable that people change. At my age, with my friends from high school scattered across the globe, I have to come to grips with this ultimate truth. Yet, I was always told that "the more things change, the more they stay the same..."

I have lost friends because of this change. Some have become so trivial and airy that I cannot stand their company. I do not dislike these people. Some of them I still adore, but it pains my heart to be with them, remembering what they once were.

It might possibly be a danger that I can remember as far back as when I was two years in existence. Remembering the childish in these friends of mine makes me seriously miss that childishness, that jovial time when the stresses of the world are still foreign.

I might be naive to think that all my friends will always get along with me. I have just married recently, and the experience has humbled me somewhat. I see some friends disappear simply out of jealousy, as if my marriage reminds them of something they cannot have. Other friends, I lose simply because their cynical nature either meshes with my ever-lasting optimism, or I no longer wish to humor their darkened personae.

Re-reading what I have just written, I must explain myself. I do not wish to leave my friends behind. In fact, my friends have gotten me through many difficult times. I just cannot perceive of their changes, their alterations. Maybe it comes with knowing what they were like as children, when all the pretenses a person can gather have yet to play with their sense of self. Perhaps I am naive to think that childhood is such a purity, that I can remember the pure essence of someone simply because I remember what they once were.

At any rate, I apologize to all my friends who I left behind, and I hope that you will forgive me. I also hope that you live a life of love and happiness, and that you shall be in love as I am. There is more to life than differences.

Life is so very wonderful, once you get right down to it :)

Add Comment [1]

Believe it or not, I am a difficult man to please. Especially when it comes to films. I'm not sure if I was a film snob before I lived with someone that had something good to say about every flick to be released or if this experience was chiefly responsible for it. I will say this, though. The Ring fucking rocks.

The premise is spooky enough to make a good spine-tingler. There's a video tape that, once watched, will cause you to die in seven days. When a Seattle reporter's sixteen-year-old niece dies of a heart attack, she sets out to determine the circumstances, discovers the tape, and attempts to unravel it's mysteries before they unravel her. There's nothing quite like trying to make that kind of deadline.

The film contains all your expected cliches. Excellent background music, more than a fair share of shock tactics, and some just downright disturbing uses of special effects. What will make this a classic, however, is it's very carefully calculated suspense. Several plot twists abound, and there can be no safe assumptions as to the villain or their motivation. All the pieces do fall in to place by the conclusion, and I have to applaud the filmmakers for taking a road slightly less traveled within the genre. It's still not exactly what I would have hoped for, but it's a step in the right direction for Hollywood.

This film was good enough that when I observed a rather obscure (and very geeky) error on the part of the filmmakers, I actually had let myself forget it within five minutes of it's observation. Of course, I've had plenty of time to reflect on it now, and I'm still right. They should have noticed their mistake. I'd like to see if anyone else catches it, personally, as it would make me feel like less of an anal-retentive loser.

So, grab someone who frightens easily (or, yourself, should you fall into that category) and take an opportunity to see what we've been missing in terms of horror. For a taste, here's a link to complete footage of the video that kills.

Add Comment [8]

This is a site I came across...and honestly I can't remember what I was looking for when it happened.

They've got humor, commentary and the daily Peeg. It's become a regular stop for me, I think you will like it too.

Rum and Monkey

Add Comment [3]

I'm frequently amazed by the types of things that trigger my memory. I saw a movie tonight, a horror film. I haven't been to see a flick in a theatre in over a year now, but the choice seemed like it could be entertaining, and the company was good, so I figured it'd be worth the price of admission.

I'm at that point in my life when I should be looking forward. I have a whole world of options laid out in front of me, golden opportunities that require only my will and determination to take the fullest advantage of them. Tonight, however, I'm only looking back.

I have a long history with the horror genre in film. I can remember the first one of these films that I saw in the theatre. I was far too young at the time to get past the ticket booth, but we were with adults and things were a lot less strict in those days anyway. I can look back on that movie and laugh. I've seen it countless times since, and I can recognize it for it's ironic humor and frequent moments of camp.

This pales in comparison to the first film of it's kind I had ever seen. I was about four years old, as I can remember it, and the film was Silver Bullet. It's funny to me now how an adaptation of a Stephen King story could have frightened me as much as it did, but it wasn't nearly so humorous then. I had nightmares for years. I can still feel the hair on the back of my neck rise as I clearly recollect the climactic scene where the young protagonist is reaching into a drain to retrieve his single bullet, his single shot at survival. I even visualize the gunshot, the werewolf flying back against the wall, his fur retreating into his skin to reveal the weak and mortal man underneath. And, then, the presumed dead villain reaches out to grasp his killer, only to fall short and slump over in his final movements among the living. I've never seen the movie since that first viewing.

What's funny about all of this, though, are the people that I associate this film with. From the time that I was five weeks old until I was nearly six years of age, I had a babysitter. It was similar to the daycare we have available to working professionals these days, but it was far more personal. The woman had only two clients, and we grew up together, in a sense. I can't remember who the other girl was, though. I can't even remember the sitter's name. I always just called her Quigley.

She's no longer with us, Quigley, having died over ten years ago now. I'm not sure how it was that she died. My mother might have told me at one point. I think that she may have just said that she'd passed on. I remember speaking with her husband a few years ago while on a visit to my home town. He wasn't particularly talkative when I was a young child, and it appears that little has changed with him. I'm not even certain if he's still alive now.

I remember their children, already deep within the throes of their teenage rebellions by the time I was even old enough to comprehend their existence. I can conjure an afternoon when their youngest daughter was going on and on to me about the virtues of Billy Idol, his face plastered all over the walls and ceiling of her tiny upstairs bedroom, the only illumination coming from a lightbulb which had been painted red.

So many little details can come to mind. Quigley's chronic foot pain, the ratty furniture, the pet snake that my mother was utterly terrified of, the collection of vintage Coca-Cola bottles in the storage area off the kitchen. I know the entire layout of that place, despite it being so long ago. I can even remember when I had started to learn to read, with the help of an instruction manual to the Atari 2600 version of Centipede, still able to visualize the logo on the booklet.

How do we retain such utterly mindless detail? Are these truly the things that shape us into the people we become? Am I always going to have this attachment to a townhouse on the west end of York, Pennsylvania? I'm not sure. Honestly, I hadn't even thought for one second about Quigley, or her family, or her house until this night. I may not again for many years, but she'll always be a part of me and I suppose I'll just have to accept that.

Add Comment [4]

I’ve been away from here too long. I’m getting more and more caught up in the world; I’m losing who I am. This mountain, this bluff, this slab of sandstone – they are all my refuge from urbania and the hectic helter-skelter of modern life. The sheer solitude of it all is where I find my sanity. I’d call it my Walden, but I’m no Ralph Waldo.

Of course, I haven’t completely escaped my fellow man, just left him behind for the time being. The sound of trucks puttering up the other side of the mountain is still louder than the sound of crickets and flies. People still occasionally drive up to my little haven, but I regard them as tourists. They usually get out of their car, give me a quick wave, wander around for a minute, and then drive off. They see the vista but they can’t appreciate it.

They don’t even stay long enough to watch the sun set and see the mist creep up the valley. They’ve never watched the hawks hunt – never seen those noble carnivores sweep gracefully across the treetops only to dive suddenly beneath that green carpet. They have never been still enough to notice the occasional glimmers from the stream on the valley floor.

Mankind has taken itself out of nature. The stunning beauty she can offer is no more than an idle curiosity and her vicious nature is foreign to our comfortable technology-driven lives. Don’t get me wrong. I love infrastructure. Without it there would be no dirt road to get to this bluff, no truck to drive on that rutted track, and no gas to power the truck. But I think we have lost touch with what life really is. Life is not towers of steel and glass. Life is out here, with the trees and the grass.

But now the sun is setting, and I must leave my heart behind and return to the working world. I’ll be back. But it will never be soon enough.

More pictures of petit jean mountain are here

Add Comment [9]