Inearth - Revision history

imported>Isaac: new p

2011-03-03T23:01:42Z

new p

← Older revision		Revision as of 23:01, 3 March 2011
Line 29:		Line 29:
	I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.		I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.

	We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the ~~mind~~. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.		We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the wind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.

	Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust justice, there's nothing like an old-fashioned clogged urethra. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the deserts and the tropics, or at least the ones I was hated for being related to anyway. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.		Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust justice, there's nothing like an old-fashioned clogged urethra. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the deserts and the tropics, or at least the ones I was hated for being related to anyway. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.

			Show me the earth that envelopes the shovel. I'll show you the zero becoming the one. The answer, after all, was in the parallax. You shovel and you shovel and you shovel, and if ever there comes a time when you've stopped shoveling, you're probably doing it wrong. See, that's the trauma :: that's when you start to feel it :: you finish giving the shovel its proper pulses, and you go inside the sedan, your skin begins to feel as though it's melting, or it's on fire, or it is some painful, almost unpleasant union of the binary, the earth and the shovel, the ice and the fire. If you stop shoveling, let me tell you :: you're doing it wrong.

imported>Marcus: /* Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed) */

2011-02-23T05:12:45Z

Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed)

← Older revision		Revision as of 05:12, 23 February 2011
Line 31:		Line 31:
	We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.		We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.

	Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust justice, there's nothing like an old-fashioned clogged urethra. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the ~~Africans~~. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.		Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust justice, there's nothing like an old-fashioned clogged urethra. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the deserts and the tropics, or at least the ones I was hated for being related to anyway. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.

imported>Marcus: /* Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed) */

2011-02-04T08:48:03Z

Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed)

← Older revision		Revision as of 08:48, 4 February 2011
Line 31:		Line 31:
	We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.		We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.

	Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust me, nothing like an old-fashioned clogged ~~uretha~~. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the Africans. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.		Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust justice, there's nothing like an old-fashioned clogged urethra. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the Africans. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.

imported>Marcus: /* Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed) */

2011-02-04T08:47:21Z

Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed)

← Older revision		Revision as of 08:47, 4 February 2011
Line 29:		Line 29:
	I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.		I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.

	We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and ~~clamouring~~ for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.		We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamoring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.

			Tension killed me. Literally. I died from stricture once before. Fuck the times. The snow didn't kill so fast, so I had more respect for snowboarding than a clogged urethra. Trust me, nothing like an old-fashioned clogged uretha. I assumed the snow would kill me because my ancestors lived in the Africans. Instead, I had to be out there long enough for my forehead sweat to precipitate hypothermia. Since I never sweat, I had to bear the bite of below zero.

imported>Isaac: P13?

2011-01-20T00:14:46Z

P13?

← Older revision		Revision as of 00:14, 20 January 2011
Line 28:		Line 28:

	I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.		I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.

			We're all diggers, though, in the same way that we're all Jews. We are all zeros. We are all the oppressed, the huddled, the yearning, the massacred. That is what united us, and that is what united us out there, in the mind. It was the grief that brought us together, and reminded us that family is a light that shines even in the most bitter darkness. We are all family, we are a family of diggers. I mean, what's the difference, what does it matter - does it matter? - it does matter, this matter. The truth is in the struggle though, in the parallax between adjacent struggles, struggling for clarity, and clamouring for truth. Truth. Ha. Show me Truth, and I'll show you the pointy end of a long, cold, steel shovel.

imported>Marcus: /* Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed) */

2011-01-18T04:34:22Z

Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed)

← Older revision		Revision as of 04:34, 18 January 2011
Line 23:		Line 23:
	At this point, the weeping just pissed her off. She wasn't weeping, so why should anyone else? He was her father, after all. It's not like she hadn't wept. She had wept mightily, nonstop, like a goddamn fountain, but this was not the time, even if it was the place. This was a time for manual labor, beads of sweat, tender hands, and silence – except for the sound of the blade chopping the mound of earth at the bottom of each stroke. This was a time for resolute resignation and steel. This was her time, even though maybe it was supposed to be her father's time, it was her time, because her father was dead, dead you hear, and she was the one holding the long wooden handle attached to that steel blade. She almost wished that the creepy second cousin ron would come up and tell her it was time to say the blessings so that she could hear the crunch of a shovel blade breaking through a ribcage. It was her time is all, and she would take her damn time, even if it meant that the second cousins had to stand and huddle in the background against the saltwind.		At this point, the weeping just pissed her off. She wasn't weeping, so why should anyone else? He was her father, after all. It's not like she hadn't wept. She had wept mightily, nonstop, like a goddamn fountain, but this was not the time, even if it was the place. This was a time for manual labor, beads of sweat, tender hands, and silence – except for the sound of the blade chopping the mound of earth at the bottom of each stroke. This was a time for resolute resignation and steel. This was her time, even though maybe it was supposed to be her father's time, it was her time, because her father was dead, dead you hear, and she was the one holding the long wooden handle attached to that steel blade. She almost wished that the creepy second cousin ron would come up and tell her it was time to say the blessings so that she could hear the crunch of a shovel blade breaking through a ribcage. It was her time is all, and she would take her damn time, even if it meant that the second cousins had to stand and huddle in the background against the saltwind.

	To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. ~~The diggers~~ often feel so much apprehension because life does ~~not freely afford~~ us time to mourn~~; only~~ time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against ~~the~~ elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so~~, I thought~~, but some nihilistic ~~economists~~ said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.		To tear is ''to tear'', some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. Diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does give us time to mourn. Only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against their elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, but some nihilistic theorists said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.

	It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it? </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.		It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it? </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.

	I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me.		I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me; it's about all the diggers.

imported>Marcus: /* Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed) */

2011-01-16T22:17:49Z

Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed)

← Older revision		Revision as of 22:17, 16 January 2011
Line 26:		Line 26:

	It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it? </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.		It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it? </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.

			I'll do it because I need closure and have half the will. No one has the will. The power of the clouds is insurmountable, so it seems. I could not even drink beer out there to numb the pain and combat the dehydration of that salty world. Last week's snow froze my beer. I brought two cans out with me. I poured one into a barley-hops slush in memorial, and I sat the other in a little mound on the back of my mom's truck. The samba made me forget about it after four sips. It was too cold to drink anyway. The temperature made the beer can cannon fodder some twenty to forty minutes after I abandoned it. I can't be sure. My mom says I am lucky I didn't get a "Public Intox" or fictitious--but very real--DUI charge while I was out there. I get picked up by the boys regularly, and never do anything, right? I,I,I--fuck me. This story isn't about me.

imported>Isaac: +?

2011-01-16T20:31:01Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:31, 16 January 2011
Line 25:		Line 25:
	To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. The diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does not freely afford us time to mourn; only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against the elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, I thought, but some nihilistic economists said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.		To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. The diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does not freely afford us time to mourn; only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against the elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, I thought, but some nihilistic economists said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.

	It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.		It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it? </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.

imported>Isaac: P11

2011-01-16T20:30:38Z

P11

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:30, 16 January 2011
Line 1:		Line 1:

	== Inearth (maybe we should change it to ''Inearthed'') ==		== Inearth (maybe we should change it to ''Inearthed'') ==

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	The salt dried the skin, yet more salt was needed because it would help to break the ice, in rock form, and with a bit of magnesium chloride added to it, nowadays. Most things had changed for most people, but I still used mittens and the shovel. Neighbors preferred snow blowers. Even though they called their machines that name, I just saw exhaust. Since that was so dark, I could not see the snow, and who knows if the machine blew anything. It was probably just a noise maker that screamed to scare the snow aside. My father, the being that I dug for, told me that was the lazy way, unless you are a senior. "People need to bend their backs regularly," he would say, "otherwise they hurt to bend." So I despised those that only pulled out a 62-page instructional on how to work their snow blowers. To shovel all the water this December had to bring, at least a 400-pager seemed better suited because if you didn't shovel, you would have all day to read, and because a word of scripture might have been the best thing to get you through the approaching hell. Somewhere in time, someone added fire and heat to hell's climate, but I bet there's a "Blizzard" section.		The salt dried the skin, yet more salt was needed because it would help to break the ice, in rock form, and with a bit of magnesium chloride added to it, nowadays. Most things had changed for most people, but I still used mittens and the shovel. Neighbors preferred snow blowers. Even though they called their machines that name, I just saw exhaust. Since that was so dark, I could not see the snow, and who knows if the machine blew anything. It was probably just a noise maker that screamed to scare the snow aside. My father, the being that I dug for, told me that was the lazy way, unless you are a senior. "People need to bend their backs regularly," he would say, "otherwise they hurt to bend." So I despised those that only pulled out a 62-page instructional on how to work their snow blowers. To shovel all the water this December had to bring, at least a 400-pager seemed better suited because if you didn't shovel, you would have all day to read, and because a word of scripture might have been the best thing to get you through the approaching hell. Somewhere in time, someone added fire and heat to hell's climate, but I bet there's a "Blizzard" section.

	In a lot of ways, she was in hell - out there in the atmosphere, with a bunch of second cousins and whatever is more distant than a second cousin, just watching her break the soil. In a lot of ways it was hell, to know that her father would remain down there, below they earth that she was slowly breaking and tossing into the deep hole with more resignation than determination. Still, in some way it was the first relief she had found. The cancer had been diagnosed just ~~after~~ Thanksgiving, and now, just barely after the beginning of December, was the first even iota of relief from the onslaught of grief. The rapid and rhythmic contraction of her bicep was real, and physical, and though it was not pleasant, it was also not unpleasant, which in and of itself was actually pleasant, that fact that something wasn't unpleasant. She wondered if the second cousins and the second cousins once removed, and the great-great uncles, and the step-uncles were becoming impatient with the slow, with un-unpleasant process of filling this hole. She wondered if they would care to take a hike, if that was the case, and who would be the last to grow tired of the tedious crunch, the monotonous dry heave-thump of the cold, hard, cleaving earth against the plain pine box.		In a lot of ways, she was in hell - out there in the atmosphere, with a bunch of second cousins and whatever is more distant than a second cousin, just watching her break the soil. In a lot of ways it was hell, to know that her father would remain down there, below they earth that she was slowly breaking and tossing into the deep hole with more resignation than determination. Still, in some way it was the first relief she had found. The cancer had been diagnosed just before Thanksgiving, and now, just barely after the beginning of December, was the first even iota of relief from the onslaught of grief. The rapid and rhythmic contraction of her bicep was real, and physical, and though it was not pleasant, it was also not unpleasant, which in and of itself was actually pleasant, that fact that something wasn't unpleasant. She wondered if the second cousins and the second cousins once removed, and the great-great uncles, and the step-uncles were becoming impatient with the slow, with un-unpleasant process of filling this hole. She wondered if they would care to take a hike, if that was the case, and who would be the last to grow tired of the tedious crunch, the monotonous dry heave-thump of the cold, hard, cleaving earth against the plain pine box.

	Gone in less than a month of diagnosis was not easy for me to swallow. My father had six months or so, just did nothing about it, probably so he would never have to shovel again. Although, we can't be so sure. If he hated so much, he would have stopped coming out at 80, not 81. There was something about the pain, or the task, or completion, or being the master of your universe, which is what it takes to be outside when the wind chill makes the temperature feel like negative double digits, to keep going out. The cold had a numbing effect, at a time when every bone in my body ached. The digging was my enemy and my duty, a thematic balance act. So it never was so hard for me to get out there and do it. Since it happened more than once,I'd like to say I got better. I never could forget about about my father, though, who would still be digging at 85. Blizzards confuse brake systems, but do little to determination.Even if dad was determined to drink vodka, I doubt that came before. And if it did, than so be it, probably made duty more fun. I have not manage to separate myself from mourn, actively feeling a higher pain, when fulfilling the snow removal duties bequeathed to me.		Gone in less than a month of diagnosis was not easy for me to swallow. My father had six months or so, just did nothing about it, probably so he would never have to shovel again. Although, we can't be so sure. If he hated so much, he would have stopped coming out at 80, not 81. There was something about the pain, or the task, or completion, or being the master of your universe, which is what it takes to be outside when the wind chill makes the temperature feel like negative double digits, to keep going out. The cold had a numbing effect, at a time when every bone in my body ached. The digging was my enemy and my duty, a thematic balance act. So it never was so hard for me to get out there and do it. Since it happened more than once,I'd like to say I got better. I never could forget about about my father, though, who would still be digging at 85. Blizzards confuse brake systems, but do little to determination.Even if dad was determined to drink vodka, I doubt that came before. And if it did, than so be it, probably made duty more fun. I have not manage to separate myself from mourn, actively feeling a higher pain, when fulfilling the snow removal duties bequeathed to me.
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	To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. The diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does not freely afford us time to mourn; only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against the elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, I thought, but some nihilistic economists said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.		To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. The diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does not freely afford us time to mourn; only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against the elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, I thought, but some nihilistic economists said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.

			It was so cool out there, in the salt wind. <i> Can you dig it? </i> It wasn't exactly that bitter cold yet, but everyone wore coats. It was my Uncle David - it was her Father, David. The assured us that the hole would fill in time, and my siblings and I believed them, stepping to the mound and the pile of shovels, just like Jessica. The hole was too deep though, the deep grave left such a chasm in our world. <i> Could we dig it </i> Would we persevere? Burying the body would help us to heal. They hadn't told us that we would rupture muscles in the process – that when it was all said and done would heal stronger than we were before – we had to find this out on our own. We had to find out exactly how much digging we were willing to do.

imported>Marcus: /* Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed) */

2011-01-16T20:03:10Z

Inearth (maybe we should change it to Inearthed)

← Older revision		Revision as of 20:03, 16 January 2011
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	At this point, the weeping just pissed her off. She wasn't weeping, so why should anyone else? He was her father, after all. It's not like she hadn't wept. She had wept mightily, nonstop, like a goddamn fountain, but this was not the time, even if it was the place. This was a time for manual labor, beads of sweat, tender hands, and silence – except for the sound of the blade chopping the mound of earth at the bottom of each stroke. This was a time for resolute resignation and steel. This was her time, even though maybe it was supposed to be her father's time, it was her time, because her father was dead, dead you hear, and she was the one holding the long wooden handle attached to that steel blade. She almost wished that the creepy second cousin ron would come up and tell her it was time to say the blessings so that she could hear the crunch of a shovel blade breaking through a ribcage. It was her time is all, and she would take her damn time, even if it meant that the second cousins had to stand and huddle in the background against the saltwind.		At this point, the weeping just pissed her off. She wasn't weeping, so why should anyone else? He was her father, after all. It's not like she hadn't wept. She had wept mightily, nonstop, like a goddamn fountain, but this was not the time, even if it was the place. This was a time for manual labor, beads of sweat, tender hands, and silence – except for the sound of the blade chopping the mound of earth at the bottom of each stroke. This was a time for resolute resignation and steel. This was her time, even though maybe it was supposed to be her father's time, it was her time, because her father was dead, dead you hear, and she was the one holding the long wooden handle attached to that steel blade. She almost wished that the creepy second cousin ron would come up and tell her it was time to say the blessings so that she could hear the crunch of a shovel blade breaking through a ribcage. It was her time is all, and she would take her damn time, even if it meant that the second cousins had to stand and huddle in the background against the saltwind.

	To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. The diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does not freely afford us time to mourn; only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against the elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, I thought, but ~~nihilists~~ said no. Competitiveness had driven many before me, yet it did not compel to shovel the snow in front of my house ~~because I thought better things to do. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit~~. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, ~~uncles~~ and all those aunties expected me to bury my father ~~and make them money~~. Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.		To tear is to tear, some emotional ligament overextended. Icicles, bicycles they all fall down. To dig is ''to dig'', comprehension of our reality, epitomized by angst. The diggers often feel so much apprehension because life does not freely afford us time to mourn; only time to dig, you dig? The memories of my father's effort out there, and images of his triumph against the elements, made for a damned rendition of a proverbial question: ''can you dig it''? Sure hope so, I thought, but some nihilistic economists said no. School taught us competition was the market so I thought about that profit. Money kept saying: you have better things to do. I increased the Samba's volume. Competitiveness had driven me many times before, yet it did not compel me to shovel the snow in front of my house. That was duty--not duty to the neighborhood, to my property or duty to the postal worker--to my people, that overextended family that seems like it never ends. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all those aunties expected me to make some money and bury my father . Since my folks burned him up to save the planet space (and cash), shoveling the snow was his antithetical inearthing.