RED LIGHT. GREEN LIGHT.

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She,

a woman,

rolls up to my right

at a red light.

I think to myself:

I could love her.

I could love this woman.

No problem.

It would be easy.

Over coffee,

or dinner and wine—

it could happen.

It would happen.

She would tell me things—

personal things

she’s never told anyone.

I would listen.

I would sympathize—

empathize.

I would be perfect

for her.

She would say:

This is crazy, I know, but

it feels like

I’ve known you forever.

It feels like

you’re my best friend.

I know, I know, I know.

I would say,

holding her hand in mine,

I feel the same.

All of this was

meant to be.

 

Light turns green.

Her Mazda is faster

than my Toyota.

I follow her up a hill.

She veers left as

I press on, driving forward—

onward.

Green light.

Green light.

Green light.

Yellow light.

I slow down.

Red light.

I stop

and look to my right.

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POETRY!

BURNT HALO

fuzzyheaded kids on knees watching toons over bowls of mush when sunrays warm toes and limbs and curiosities lying elsewhere in swimming pools and treetops and trails leading to places not fully known like the camper in the woods reeking of murder with shiny black crows screaming on wrangled branches of old oaks coarse frightening words not understood but felt in the bones when one boy shouts and another sprints spreading shockwaves of chaos like stomps on ant mounds leading to winded laughter and embarrassed acts of premature manhood like pitching stones at abandoned windows and carving FUCK on a telephone pole with a shard of broken beer bottle thrown wayside wondering all the while if this is what it means to be unaffected by the fear and desperation grownups feel and keep secret from kids by knowing how to drive and shave and write checks with blank faces gliding through time as though they were born with the abilities of adulthood oblivious to their own denial when they themselves cry to a god day after day after day behind closed eyelids wishing for more of this and more of that excess hoping for a mercy they no longer believe in except when looking into the bright eyes of the sweaty dirtclod kids filing in at dusk after the longest summers day spent swimming and climbing and exploring the worlds their fathers built with bare hands pounding on skulls in idling cars resting in driveways for families needing to eat and feel safe and loved on a dying celestial rock that morphs and rotates every day without ever explaining why why why does the sun fall so fast over our heads like a burnt halo made of smog and palm leaves

WHAT YOU WILL REMEMBER

Your parents spent on love—
every last cent.
The apartment
and your innocence up for rent.

Janey-Pie in her crib hugging Blanky,
smiling obliviously.
Obviously, however,
all is not well on the home front.

Clothes, toys, and junk
spread out hanging,
dangling from every space
like flannel snow underfoot.

Your acute angle of vision,
swaying, shifting
slowly back and forth:
Mommy—Daddy—Mommy—Daddy.

So close, face to face,
yet not embracing.
So animated, like clowns
we should all be laughing.

But this is the opposite
of opposites
attracting, my son—
this is the opposite of love.

FOREVER IS A CIRCLE

…a baby
is
born
to fly
is
to rise in the morning
each day
is
a gift of
thorns in a box are like
nothing else matters
when you’re on top
trampling
the competition is at
your heels move swiftly
when you feel
threatened
in
a turbulent ocean of
faces pass you
on the street you stop to feel
the movement of
your soul is morphing
into
sympathy is the manna that
god sent his sons and daughters to
a rock
is
a solid foundation
is what
we all need someone
to love is
all you need to see
the
faults crack open to
the core of the earth
is
a stage for us
to
perform
acts of
kindness admits us
into
heaven is
an ideal is
a revolution
of
the mind can
do
wondrous things
are
all around us is the sound of
music is
like rushing blood
the veins of the universe
spread
your arms open
to embrace mankind
is
to
forgive yourself
for
everything you have done
has been done
before
you
leave this place and
remember
life was good
and
you are full
to
the brim of time
is
death
is
not the end, but
the beginning
is
like you were
a baby
is born
to fly
is
to rise in the morning
each day…

SEPARATIONS

To separate two lives that lived as one—
that shared all love and pain, both day and night.
To drain their ripened flesh—sap every drop
of truths they knew and breathed as beaming youth.
Of this, a bitter cup, they drink the dregs
from promises they made in front of God.
What once was full with confidence and light,
is now a shredded sail in darkened seas.

They grip the hands of children, whom they formed,
and conjure ways to shield them from their sins.
They hope, in dreams, for better times to come;
for lungs that breathe and hearts that beat in tune—
a normalcy and luxury for those
who brave the waves and storms of growing old.

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FICTION FART #2: Prosthesis

Name?

Allison Harper.

Age?

Thirty one.

What position are you wanting to fill?

Anything I can get. A swan, I guess?

…a swan?

Yeah, or whatever. I don’t care. I just want to be on the stage.

On the stage.

Yes.

Okay, but you…what about your…

What? This? I can get out of this. No problem. I just use this to get around long distances.

Hmm.

Seriously, it’s not a problem. I can still dance.

You can still dance?

Yes. I’ve been practicing for almost a year now. I have a trainer and everything.

I see.

I’ve come a really long way since the accident, I think. Well, I know I have actually. I’ve really turned a corner, you know?

Right.

Right. So, I’m ready. Todd thinks I’m ready, too. You can call him, or I can even show you right now, if you want.

No, not right now. I just don’t…

What?

I don’t understand. Your leg…you only have-

One leg, I know. My prosthesis is in my pack, though. I can put it on right now and show you if you-

No, don’t do that. I think…

I swear to God, I can dance almost to the same level that I could before. I understand why you wouldn’t believe me, but-

We have production positions to fill. I was under the impression that you were applying for something like that.

Production?

This is something I’ll need to talk to Marty about.

Marty?

The director.

I know who he is. Marty Allen. Of course I know who he is.

Okay, then you can understand why I need to speak with him?

No. I don’t. What’s it going to hurt to just let me try? Will it hurt you?

Will it hurt me?

Yes.

No.

Then put my name on the list. A swan. I want to be a swan. You can put me down for that.

Umm…

I know Marty, you know.

Mmmhmm. Okay.

He knows who I am, too. I was back up for Leslie Delmonico in Phantom two years ago.

Hmm.

Believe me, you are going to want to put me on that list.

Hmm.

Hmm…should I call him right now?

Okay, look-

Yes. Thank you. Yep, there’s your pen right there.

Okay, here you go. Your name…is now…on…the list. See?

For a swan.

For a swan.

Okay.

Okay.

Are you grossed out by me?

Excuse me?

My leg. This nub, does it gross you out to look at it?

No. Why?

Because your face is all scrunched up. You look like you’re about to throw up.

Well, I’m not. I’m not like that. I don’t care.

Hmm. Okay. Are you a dancer? Are you going to be in the production?

I dance, yes, but I’m not in this production. Was there anything else that I could help you with?

Nope. That’s it. That’s all I needed from you.

Okay, great. Saturday, then. 9 A.M. sharp.

9 A.M. Got it. Thanks.

Mmmhmm.

Yeah, so my leg was pinned between the door and the seat.

What?

There was gasoline pouring out of the engine. They were pulling my arms so hard that this one came out of socket.

Oh…I don’t need-

That actually hurt more than my leg at the time. Then they started cutting the door off, but there wasn’t enough time.

Okay, but-

So they cut my leg off.

Mmhmm…

Just below the knee.

Okay…

There was tons of blood from what I was told. I passed out, though, when they put the jaws on my leg.

Okay…

Yeah. It was crazy.

Mmmhmm.

Have you ever lost something?

Have I ever lost something?

Yeah.

Yes…I’ve lost something before.

Something that you loved?

Yes.

Did you get it back?

No.

Hmm.

…so, Saturday then. We’ll see you there?

Yes. Thank you.

You’re welcome.

Bye.

Bye.

 

 

 

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TRUFICTION BACKLOG #2 (Some posts from the past that I like)

PEOPLE WATCHING #2

A boy and a girl are sitting together at a small round table. His hair is big and all in disarray like a young Einstein. His demeanor seems to be saying that he has no time for her. He is obviously busy and deep in thought, or at least he is trying to appear that way. His face is craned over scattered books and papers. He refuses to look up at her. He completely disregards her pleadings. She is desperately trying to gain his attention. She wants to know something. I can see her mouth form the words, “Tell me, please, just tell me!”
She seems to be entirely out of his league—blonde and just plain gorgeous head to foot, so I’m intrigued by his subtle and reserved ability to resist her. She clearly wants him. She is leaning over, revealing everything she has and everything that he could ever want, yet still, he shows no interest whatsoever. His gaze remains fixed on his books.
She lays half of her body over the table. She puts her hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her. He seems repulsed. He seems to not know her at all. She tries to kiss his lips but he averts his face and pulls away.
Her body goes limp with defeat. She says, “Fine. Whatever,” and takes a big bite from his sushi platter. She stands up and waits for a sign of recognition that never comes. She looks around the room, embarrassed from her rejection. She puts on her coat and gathers up her things and before leaving him there to be alone and free of her, she leans over and whispers something into his ear. Whatever it is, it causes him to lift his head and watch her walk away through the busy crowd of student bodies.

SOMETIMES

Sometimes I’m like a dog that’s sniffing poop and then my nose gets kicked and I go running off all sad that my nose got kicked and I think to myself NO BRYAN! you’re not going to go back and sniff that poop but then I do go back and sniff that poop because I can’t remember why I’m not sniffing the poop so I go and sniff the poop and I just keep getting my nose kicked and I keep going through this cycle of not knowing why I’m being kicked and not knowing why I keep sniffing poop but one day I’m telling you one day I’m going to snap and I’m just going to go ahead and sniff all of the poop that I want to sniff because it’s my life and if I want to sniff poop then by God I’m going to sniff poop and there is nothing that anyone in this world is going to be able to do about it.

ANY HAPPY LITTLE THOUGHT?

IMG_3825

I’m not particularly crazy about J.M. Barrie or anything (Peter Pan is pretty much all I know of his work), but I found myself thinking about him today. My thoughts weren’t revolutionary by any means, but they were deep and true. I took my son to the park- something I hadn’t done for a long time, but should have. I brought a book to read, but found myself just watching him run around and play with another girl that looked to be about his age. They had no emotional reservations, my son and this girl. They saw each other and that’s all it took. They became instant friends- with no hidden agendas or preconceived notions. They just wanted to have FUN.

FUN OR BUST!

I was so jealous of them. Their friendship was pure and innocent and based on simple principles. In an almost methodical sequence, I watched them as they slid down slides, and hung on bars. They threw wood-chips at each other and pulled up big clumps of grass. They looked at me in stunned confusion as I scolded them, telling them to stop pulling up the grass and to calm down. My repremand was false and fell flat, however. I didn’t really care, and they could tell. If it weren’t for my inherited adherance to the often steifeling status-quo, I would have helped those kids rip that park to shreds.

The concept of Peter Pan is simple: Never grow up. There are a million rebuttals against this concept, but I’m going to follow my gut on this one and declare that they’re all bullshit. What did that one guy say? “…Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Now, assuming that Jesus actually said this, and assuming that Jesus was a God in the flesh- why would he say this? Is he saying that heaven is just a bunch of little kids running around? I don’t think so. If that were the case, heaven would be a giant day-care center. And that would be fucking Hell. I think he meant something more than that. I think he was referring to a mindset. I think he knows that if people want to be happy, then there can’t be personal judgement of others, there cant be social status and bigotry and corruption and hatred and envy and all of those things that depress us and bring us down to despair as we grow older. Heaven is an ideal. Heaven is a Revolution.

Anyway- OFF TO NEVERLAND!

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TRUFICTION BACKLOG #1 (Some posts from the Past that I like)

PEOPLE WATCHING #1

People are endlessly fascinating. When I walk the chaotic hallways from class to class I soak in all of the little mannerisms of those around me—each one a minute treasure of raw emotion. It makes me realize that everyone, when absorbed through these snapshots of recognition, is truly beautiful.

I see a deaf girl and guy flirting with their hands. (or perhaps they’re just two students studying sign? Maybe it’s more exciting to not hear each other speak? I can imagine that being so.)

A skinny-spiky-blonde-haired-kid turns around in front of me and scratches the back of his head with his index finger. His eyes glance at mine before instantly looking down. He’s agitated. At what I wonder?

Some good looking/well dressed guys stand behind a table with a bunch of pamphlets and booklets. One of them does a karate-chop through an invisible…piece of wood? The seemingly unwilling patron viewing this act takes a shocked step backward after the swipe.

A small group of dancers in spandex are relaxing—lounging on each other on the floor against the wall. One guy has his buzzed head resting on the leg of another guy. His smile is so casual and inviting. These people are so at ease together! It amazes me. I don’t have anyone that I could rest my head on like that. Is it strange that I want to join them? Inconspicuously infiltrate my way into their mass of sweaty limbs and torsos?

A girl is looking at her phone—no, she’s smiling at her phone. She tilts her head to one side and looks up for a second to make sure she doesn’t run into something. Then she looks back at her phone and continues smiling. I glance at the screen as she passes. It was a texting conversation. I wonder what was being said? With whom?


TANKA

All was said and done,
So God closed his weary eyes,
And sighed a deep breath.
“Don’t forget that I made you.”
He thought, drifting off to sleep.

This is a blog post about a TV show that I watched that was about some dogs that were being treated poorly and were saved by some animal-loving people:

I saw a show on TV a while ago that showed how these animal-safety-activist-superhero-people had saved a bunch of dogs from a house where they were supposedly being abused/malnourished, etc. Their plan was to take these dogs to a park and let them run around on the grass and bask in the warm sunlight—which was, I guess, something that these dogs had never experienced before. When they got to the park they opened the back doors of their animal-rescue-van and opened the kennels and they were expecting the dogs to just jump right out and run around and have a great time. Instead the dogs started pissing themselves and curling up in the rear of the kennels. After a long time one of the dogs was coaxed out of the van somehow and when its paws touched the green grass it didn’t know what to do. It couldn’t stand up. It just slumped down and laid there whimpering. My guess is that its paws were not used to the softness of the grass. They were probably used to hard concrete and chains and coldness. Eventually the dog gained some confidence and started walking around.
I have to go, but just one more thing: That one brave dog influenced all of the other dogs to jump out of the van and face the unknown. Maybe they thought the sun was going to kill them. Maybe they thought there was fire outside of the van. They had a lot to be afraid of, but they eventually faced it all and realized that all of the things that they thought were scary were actually good things that could make them happy. Anyway, I’m glad that I stayed up late and finished watching that show.
Posted by B.C. NOLTE at 1:39 PM No comments: Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookShare to Pinterest
Thursday, December 20, 2012


SOCKPUPPETARMAGEDDON

jesus20the20warrior20king20on20hors

I created this blog upon request for a class. Since then it has become somewhat dear to me. I realize that (starting with this post) I, meaning you, Bryan, are the only person that is going to be reading/writing anything pertaining to this blog. Is it worth continuing? Wouldn’t that be kind of strange? Writing a blog to and for yourself?
Probably.
You could try and gain a devoted fan-base—form a cult, perhaps. The Bryanists. But that will never happen, because you’re an INFP and you don’t seek attention,, acknowledgement, or fame.

But, am I not writing this, and this, and this and THIS, because I crave attention? Am I not writing this in hopes that, perhaps, God willing, some stranger (possibly some literary talent-scout-stranger?) might stumble upon my blog and see my writing for what it truly is: Brilliant and Original and Twisted and Poignant and Clever and, let’s just say, a myriad of other cliched adjectives.

Anyway. Maybe this really is your last blog entry, Bryan. What do you want to say? Do you want to say something Poignant and Twisted? Or maybe you want to say something Brilliant with a dash of Clever and maybe just a pinch of something Twisted?

Something Like:

As I was driving to work today I counted seven flags at half-mast. The flags, of course, got me thinking about the Newtown massacre and how fucked up things can get in this world. Then I started thinking about December 21’st and how it might be the end of the world and how, especially for the parents of the Newtown victims, it might be a good idea for God to seriously consider following through with that plan.
If I was God and if I was trying to come up with a cool way to kill the earth, I think I’d gather up all the guns and the ammunition and the steel and the iron and the copper and the gold and the silver and the nickel and all the things that have built up our collective conglomerate of evil and I’d melt them all together and form them into a massive bullet-shaped-projectile-device and I’d blast that bitch at the speed of light straight into the earth’s black heart.

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FICTION FART #1: Christmas Eve in Boulder Fucking Colorado

In the kitchen- the same kitchen that my siblings and I witnessed our father lose his mind, holding a dirty steak knife to our mothers throat, shaking like a dome of Jell-O, yelling at us behind all of those frightened Jim Beam tears: Do you see this? Not so pretty anymore, is she?- my mother is showing Helen the correct way to knead pie crust dough. Helen looks back at me and smiles. I know what this smile is telling me. It’s telling me that my mother is so old-fashioned and cute. It’s telling me that she’s truly enjoying her time here in the place of my up-bringing. It’s thanking me for bringing her here, for trusting her with all of this. But it’s also saying something else. It’s saying: soon, oh so soon, my Darling Darin, enough is going to be enough. And when that moment arrives, you’d better get me the fuck out of here. You’d better get me the fuck out or I will have to finish the job that your pathetic excuse for a father started all those years ago. I swear to God, Darin, I will slit her throat and smile the whole goddamn way through.
Of course I’m exaggerating a bit. Helen’s not an evil person or anything. Most of the time she’s actually really nice and sweet and all that. She’s just got this extreme bitchy side to her, too. She was an only child, so all of this weird traditional-family-Holliday-bullshit stuff we do, she just doesn’t understand. It doesn’t resonate. And I’m fine with that. I actually find it incredibly attractive- this unabashed familial ignorance of hers.
Mark, my mothers new boyfriend, is in the living room with my father. They are standing in front of the record player discussing the distinct differences between Burl Ives and Bing Crosby’s singing voices (as if the subject warrants discussion). Outside there is everything that makes Christmas, Christmas: slow falling snow, little colored light bulbs lining all the roofs of the neighborhood. Icicles. Stupid lit up inflatable Santa’s, etc.
And here I am, leaning in the kitchen entryway, soaking it all in. I can’t help but smile. Which is interesting, because I hate it all so much. I’m so tired. Physically. Mentally. I hate it all. Yet here I am, in the midst of this strange little group of people, on Christmas Eve in Boulder Fucking Colorado, smiling like some creepy, nostalgic idiot. I hate it all so much, yet my heart is pounding with love. Love for all of these stupid things, things, things. Love for all of these stupid people. Why do we love the things we hate? Why is it always so impossible to separate the two? Love. Hate. Love. Hate. Why do they so often fool around on the same playground? Does anyone know? Does anyone give a shit? Is anyone listening to me? Jesus, put down the fucking eggnog and listen to me.
No. No. No.
Stay.
Stay the way you are.
Let me love you.
Let me hate you.
Let me stand here and smile like an idiot.
Let me. Let me. Let me.

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Introduction to TRUFICTION

Mainly because of the inspiration of others, I’ve been feeling an increased desire to become a diligent Blogger. It’s an exciting and frightening endeavor. Exciting because writing is exciting, and frightening because revealing that writing to others is frightening (I guess it’s a good thing that frightening things, in the long run, tend to generate positive results).

What will this blog be about? What will I write?

I’m not sure exactly, to be honest. I just like to write. So we’ll see where that takes us.

Hmm…I will say this: This week I was asked by someone very close to me: If you could have a Mission Statement for your life, what would it be?

Without thinking too much about it, this was my reply: To leave a legacy of truth, bravery, and love.

I’m drawn to the simplistic beauty of this statement. It sums up what I’m about- who I am, who I want to be, what I want my writing and artistic endeavors to convey.

Truth. Bravery. Love.

Sound good?

Are you hooked yet?

 

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