Fuck Yeah Words

monkeyscandance:

After the huge argument between the Twitter-RP Damian and Tim I felt like drawing a happy scene with my favourite bats. 

Happy Birthday, Dick! 

housingworksbookstore:

A rare book dealer, Ken Sanders, could not stop looking at what may have been the biggest findings of his career, when a man paid $2 to have his antique book examined.

“A gentleman walked in and said I’ve got a really important book here and I’m sitting there rolling my eyes and thing, ‘yeah, sure you do,’” Sanders said. “Then he opens it up and it’s a Nuremberg Chronicles from 1494.”

(via A 600-year-old book is found - KPLC 7 News, Lake Charles, Louisiana)

Or at least how I do, anyway. The past few weeks I’ve been busy packing up my house so I can move, finishing stuff for midterms, doing all the pre-launch work for my new anti-war collective, writing my play, editing my other play for a contest, filling out Freedom of Information Act requests and finding Americans willing to send them to the Department of Defense for me, continuing my Iraq War Crimes research and trying to find a job for when school ends. And a week ago I went vegan. Here’s how I realized, today, that I need a SINGLE DAY OFF:

1. I put my briefs on inside out and backwards, but didn’t realize for 8 hours…until I went to the bathroom.

2. My sweater was backwards and I didn’t notice until I got home from a full day’s worth of stuff.

3. I signed the contract I wrote for other people to work for me.

4. I replied to my own email.

5. I keep thinking of things I need to do (cut the cat’s nails, change my sheets) and keep thinking “tomorrow…”

6. I forgot the word for Heineken.

(Source: gwenfrankenstien)

Oh, ho ho. I’ve got a goody today. I’m fairly confident it’s the strongest piece of writing I’ve contributed to anything in many months. From my play, Do Solemnly Swear (So Help Me God), here is Forgive Me, Father.

Forgive Me Father – A Monologue

­­ELI:

Some guys are too gentle to live among wolves. Their battle cry  is like the meow of a cat. There’s a reason why we call them pussies. (He meows.) They can’t hold onto their liquor, they lose their women and vomit and weapon. The only thing I ever seen ‘em keep hold of was their gun. Their cock. Penis. Pecker-willy-dick-weiner-wang-shlong-manhood-member-tool. And they hold that all night long, like it’s some kinda dyin’ baby needin’ momma’s love. Trigger-happy in bed, but not a trigger puller when it counts. Little hometown heroes who don’t earn no chest candy and don’t check nobody’s six. They don’t embrace the suck, never shoot real rounds into real brown flesh. They’re the lone wolves, y’know? The reservists who cry when they get their first yut-cut. Their uniform’s always done real nice and they walk like they’s real proud, and I know I look like a bag of smashed asshole, but least I got somethin’ to be proud of. Cuz I know what a rifle’s for and I use it. I shoot a 50-cal and don’t even feel the recoil. Hell, the recoil just pushes me on. Fuel to the fire, y’know? There’s somethin’ to be proud of. My battle buddies knowin’ they ain’t got nothin’ to worry about if I’m sittin on top a fitty-cal. I’ll shoot those people no problem, sand dwellers. Iraqis. I-rack-‘ese motherfuckers.

(He becomes somber, quieter and  starts to fidget.)

Forgive me, Father. It’s been four years since I confessed my sins…I killed a man. I flashed a lil’ red dot between his eyes and I sprayed the ground with his blood and brains. We painted the cradle of civilization red with the blood of our brothers. Cats in the motherfuckin’ cradle. But these cats weren’t pussies, Father. Their women scream like our women scream. My buddy…we was doin’ a search of this house in Baghdaddy, and there’s this woman, and when we was all leavin’, my buddy comes outta that house and he’s doin’ up his pants. And then all we hear is a few bullets and we’re all shoutin’, like, “Where’s that comin’ from?” and there’s Jolly Roger layin’ on the ground, dead as a calf in winter. I’d shoot a man for rapin’ my woman too, Father. How many Our Father’s for that?

I don’t hate ‘em, those people. The Army taught us that it’s okay to kill ‘em because they’re not real people; they’re just terrists. A twelve year old girl cowerin’ in a corner ‘cuz there’s this big white guy standin’ in front of her in cammies and holdin’ an M4, that’s terrism, but she ain’t the terrist. I shot a man in the backa the head. He was unarmed and I never seen his face. We’re the terrists, Father. I’m a terrist. When mommas pull their children away from the brown guy on the bus, they should be pullin’ ‘em away from me. How many Hail Mary’s for that, Father?

How can a Christian man justify these Cardinal sins? How many Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s will save me? Our Lord Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins, and those of the whole world, have mercy on us, and on the whole world. I ain’t this man I am. I ain’t this man.

"This is a strange new kind of war where you learn just as much as you are able to believe."

Ernest Hemingway

I closed my eyes and you were there.
I opened them, and you were gone.

I reached out and felt your hand.
I squeezed mine and it was gone.

__________________________________

I worry about you.

I am scared that when you wandered off the path you were on
You wandered the wrong way.

I am afraid for you.

I am afraid that the people talking around me of your faults, of your mistakes, of your brutality are right.
I have shed my blood for you, and I have slept soundly in your bed
Curled into your bosom of protection and love,
But you will never bleed for me.

I am clinging to you.

I am grasping any part of you that I can still find,
Afraid to let go and fall back,
Afraid to hold on and get carried away.
Where, now, do I turn?
All the world around me are snow castles
Melting and running into sand,
Hunks of metal screeching
And melting into sand.

I am longing for you.

I am dying to wear your colours on my sleeve
With the pride I had when I did before,
But I’m afraid to bleed without blood. 

A few years ago, my blood was found at the scene of a murder. It was pooled and thick, and warm, and nobody knew it was mine. Now, sitting here in my chair, it feels like that was a lifetime ago, but the blood is barely dry. There is space between yesterday and everything before it. This space, this void, has not forgotten the memories I sometimes try to lose and so it waves them in my face, pounds them in my ears, plays them across my eyelids when I close my eyes. I must learn not to try  and visit them. I cannot give in. They are not to be enjoyed anymore; they are not to be enjoyed. The memories in this void are where the lives of lovers, friends and family lie.

There is a vast abyss I must cross. I have no ropes, and when I look down, the bottom lies so far below. A river runs through it, tempting my lips which are dry and desperate from the heat that beats down from above. I do not have what it takes to drink from this river which lies in waiting for the one who will brave the canyon walls.

Her face is like porcelain painted the colour of a very light chocolate. They don’t sell porcelain dolls like this in stores because they are too beautiful, and when I look at her, I don’t imagine that it will be re-painted the crimson colour of blood. When I remember that face, her face, I want to take it in my hands and do anything I can to protect it from what I know what will happen next. The blood was spilled from our bodies with the repetitive crack of an aluminum bat. Crack. The bat was held by the gigantic hands of my girlfriend’s father. Crack. Her father was the giant Somalian she’d warned me about. Crack. This is what he looked like. Crack. My skull broken open. Crack. Her face crushed. Crack. My nose broken. Crack. Her skin peeled away from her flesh of her face. Crack. Her eyeball hanging, a finger wrapped around and tugging. Crack. My ribs snapping. Crack. The distinctive shattering of porcelain.

The bridge across is weak, the wooden planks scarred by the rough footsteps of the many intruders this land has seen. I take a step and it swings. I take another and the weathered ropes beneath me creak. Every step becomes less sure, every breath becomes more ragged. I am scared, and I am weak, and I am dying of thirst, but I cannot go back. Warm sweat pours down my face from some place I cannot see, but I cannot go back.

I woke up in the bathroom with a river running through the cracks between tiles that could be bleached but would never be white again. The river ran on and on while its creator, blocked from his victims, ran away. She put a towel under my head to collect blood from the fountain of my youth. She with her face falling away from her; how was she alive? When I was so barely conscious…Exhausted, she closed her eyes and sang to me like it was any other night. And while she held me…

The river carved a gorge in the land, and everything fell into the abyss, that’s what the natives say. Nature’s breath, her smiles, her tears and each of her kisses were carried into this place forever. I will fall into this abyss. I will be gone forever.

She sang to me like it was any other night and while she held me…while she held me it all fell into the space between yesterday and everything before it. I could breathe. I could feel. I was alive until the moment that she wasn’t. And I don’t remember what happened after that. Until yesterday. And today is tomorrow’s yesterday. And tomorrow, yesterday will be gone forever.

A few years ago, my blood was found at the scene of a murder. Nobody knows it was mine. It feels like a lifetime ago, but I know it is not. It feels like there is a huge space between yesterday and everything before. In the space there are memories I have lost. They shine golden and silver from the bottom, not because they are good, but because they are parts of myself I still don’t know I want to leave behind. The memories tempt me, but I must learn not to try to visit them. They are not for me to enjoy. They are not to be enjoyed. They are where the lives of lovers, friends and family lie.

There is a vast abyss of memories I must cross. I have no ropes, and when I look down, the bottom lies so far below. A river runs through it, tempting my lips which are dry from the heat that beats down from above, but I do not have time, strength, or courage to descend. I do not have what it takes to drink from this river, which so far below lies in waiting for the one who will brave its sheer walls.

The blood was spilled from my own body with the repetitive cracking of an aluminum bat. Crack. The bat was held by the gigantic hands of my girlfriend’s father. Crack. Her father was the giant Somalian she warned me about. Crack. This is what he looked like. Crack. My skull breaking open. Crack. Her face crushed. Crack. My nose broken. Crack. Her eyeball popped.

The bridge across is weak, and aging. I take a step and it swings. I take another and the ropes beneath me creak. Every step becomes less sure, every breath becomes more ragged. I am scared, and I am weak, and I am dying of thirst, but I cannot go back. Sweat pours down my face, but I cannot go back.

I don’t know what happened. I woke up in the bathroom with a river running through the cracks between tiles that could be bleached but would never be white again.The river ran  on and on while its creator, blocked from his victims, ran away. She put a towel under my head to collect blood from the fountain of my youth. I don’t know how she was still alive, I barely knew that I was. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and sang to me like it was any other night. and while I held her…She sang to me like it was any other any night and while I held her…while I held her it all fell into an abyss. I could breathe. I could feel. I was alive until the moment she stopped breathing. And I don’t remember what happened after that. Until yesterday. And today is tomorrow’s yesterday, and yesterday will be gone forever.

The river carved a gorge in the land, and everything fell into the abyss, that’s what the natives say. Nature’s breath, and smiles, her tears and each of her kisses were carried into this place forever. I will fall into this abyss. I will be gone forever.

This is a monologue from the first act of a new rendition of a play of mine that premiered at the Paprika Festival in 2009. From Hope Is Not A Plan, here is Jonathan Moss’ first monologue.

What’s the worst thing you’ve seen? What’s the worst thing I’ve seen? I’m carrying my kit bag to my car. How brave am I? What do you want to hear? What makes you think I have time for this, time to satisfy your curiosity? What would make your heart swell with pride, and patriotism, and make your own little movie of an eagle flyin’ in front of a flappin’ flag play? Do you wanna cry? Hmm? Maybe you’re a vet, huh? You just wanna ask me somethin’, anythin’, because you need someone to hurt with. Or maybe you’re just thinkin’ it would help me, let me get somethin’ off my chest. You’re gonna be a Good Samaridan by lettin’ me share my heroic battle stories so I can accept the recognition I deserve. Do you want an action story? You really want an action story? Fine. Picture this…

It’s midnight in Baghdad. You can smell sulphur, and sweat, and rot. There are no cars, only swaying palm trees and birds you can’t see, callin’ out from trees blacked-out against the sky. Picture it. You’ve been living in the same three-foot section of earth for eight hours with absa-fuckin-lutely nothin’ to do. Bored out. Of. Your. Fuckin’. Mind. Stuck on a bridge over an ancient river in the middle of one motherfucker of a sandbox. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was daylight, but it’s not so there’s no one on the streets because of the curfew. It’s hard to feel like you’re doin’ somethin’ when you’re standin’ in full battle rattle all night, protectin’ a bridge from nothin’, huh? Just picture it though. Tiny John is standin’ to your right, Ricky Larkin’s across from you, still holdin’ his weapon ready like somethin’s actually gonna happen. Kings is on the other side of the sandbags, his back’s to you and he’s chattin’ it up with Rodrigues. Brown’s up topside in the Humvee with the fitty cal, but you can see from where you are his eyes are glazed over and he’s half-asleep. So you’re standin’ there with your M16 waitin’ for nothin’ to happen. Just picture it. The moon is kinda yellow, and it’s just a sliver tonight. The stars are amazing and since you’ve been here you’ve seen more of them shoot than you ever saw back home. There’s a soft breeze and it carries the smells of shit and spices and a lot of sand. The sand’s everywhere. It’s up your nose and in the gaps between your teeth, it’s stuck to your chest because of the sweat that never goes away. It turns out Brown’s not asleep up there afterall because in the middle of all the silence he says something into the radio that sounds like a mumble but turns out to be his way of lettin’ ya know there’s a paira headlights at 11 o’clock. Sergeant Rodrigues looks back over his shoulder at you guys and toggles his radio switch, “Look alive.” Oo-rah.