Category: Journal


Von’s Journal #5


Von held a small piece of lace his grandmother had given him. It was one thing before, another now. He picked up his journal and made a singular entry:

At the end of the day, what is the measure of one’s life.

Von’s Journal #4


No one was really sure when Von made this entry since in a very unlike Von fashion, he forgot to log a date. Time estimated based on other entries: shortly after the Kyra Incident.

There is a stillness, like the moment before dawn, in which understanding is reached; and, like the breaking of dawn, surrender to the inevitability of all hell breaking loose.

Eyes do their best work when closed.

Things are never as they seem. How can they be since “to seem” is to separate, to create beyond, to work in interpretation–the playground of the non-Janus.

Von’s Journal #3

Von was the last to rise and he looked like a child awaken from pleasant dreams only to be told to hurry, he was running late for school. He politely listened to Kyra’s update. When she finished, he excused himself; “to think”, he said.

Get out of the boat. Swim. Swim naked. Splash and laugh.

Believe the act, for in the act we see the heart.

Distrust those slippery messengers of language bred from bastards and whores of origins unknown.

White lies know a higher truth.

Unkind words are like thieves, only worse. They steal the most valuable gift we have—time.

We are like color. In light we exist. In twilight we fade. And in darkness, we all but cease to exist (we are born in light—as light fades, the very hue of our lives follows till the curtain of our days rises never more).

Every yes is also a no.

Von slammed his journal shut. “Kyra, I’ve got an idea.”

“On our way Von. Come on Em.” And the two moved like ideas were gold, not the platform for someone’s ego.

Categories: Story, Kyra, Von, Emy, Journal

Von’s Journal #2

Von rolled out of bed, scratched his head, more from habit than itch, and prepared a pot of snizzle. With the brew on, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat down at his desk, his quarters as quiet as an abandoned barn in the afternoon. Pulling out his black notebook, he began to jot down ideas, as he always did, in no particular order, with neither rhyme nor reason.

You are one day away, one action, one moment from having no influence.

Life is an opportunity, a gift—not a guarantee, not a given.

Everything matters—every word, every look, every touch, no matter how small, it matters.

Better to be kind than to be right.

Power, authority is never what it appears to be.

Space is not all that different from Silus and those twenty-one day solitary retreats. Where others see the void, the unknown, I see and feel the infinite ocean that gives all, takes all, is all.

There is no escape. No matter where you go, there you are. On Hyneria, one was under the illusion of escape. The illusion that if I don’t like it here, I can go somewhere else, and it will be different there. Don’t like this job, find a new one. Don’t like this town, move. Don’t like this spouse, divorce them or find another. The problem, however, is there is no escape from ourselves. Travel 100 million parsecs and in that place, everything you ever were, everything you are, is right there. In fact, the very idea, the very thought is wrong, false and only leads to pain. Problems are the illusions. To run from an illusion is to believe that a dream is real. The lover in slumber warms not the pillow beside us.

So step one is to see problems as the mist in the dawn—only does it persist until the light of awareness burns away those eidolons of our imagination.

A vessel is only a vessel when it is moving. If it won’t move, if it doesn’t move, is it really a vessel? Or is it simply an idea of a vessel or a former vessel or what could be a vessel. Life moves. Not-life doesn’t.

What does it mean to be the same? If I am different today than I was yesterday, if I am more or less, am I the same? I killed some brain cells last night. I also created some new connections in the plasticity of my mind. Still other electrical connections have faded such that what I knew yesterday, I know not today. So I ask myself, who am I? Or, perhaps, who was Von yesterday and who is Von today and are the two the same?

If I show you a picture of me as a child and I ask who that is, is the anwer—that’s me? If it is me, can you arrange a meeting with that young man? No? He does not exist? Really? Where did he go? Did he die? Who was he? And who am I today, if not the ghost of a thousand former me’s, all forever gone. To be born to the present, I must die to the past and so my whole life is nothing but coming and going, living and dying, forever changing, moment by moment.

When I say I’m here, what does that mean? And if I am here, am I totally here and if not totally, then where is the rest of me and how do I perform this magic act of being here and there at the same time?

Do I see or do I construct?
Do I hear or do I translate?
Do I love or do I judge?

In the spirit of oneness—I should have told Kyra this last night—it is impossible to piss on someone else without pissing on yourself. We all swim in the same pool.

In the flow of love, which is the flow of oneness, life is good and easy and natural. Outside the flow of love, life is painful and hard and filled with the friction of resistance.

We join, we belong for either love or fear. Where there is one we do not find the other, but only love beats within our very fiber. Fear is the intruder.

So what do I love and what do I fear? And how honest is my inventory? Can I eat my list or does it evaporate like cotton candy?

When the slate is blank, what is my default position? Who sets my default position and who can change it?

Note to self: spend more time with my bamthems and flutrices.

The way of no way is the only way to avoid the wrong way; but before one can know the way of no way, one must first master the way of way. Ultimately, the way is both way and no way without being one or the other.

Von placed his pen down and took a deep breath. His snizzle was ready and his mind, well, it was still damn itchy.

Categories: Story, Von, Journal

Von’s Journal #1

Kyra left in the early hours of the morning and Von was sad to see her go and he thought of Rog and the times they danced the night into the day. Reaching into his desk, he pulled out two small metallic discs, no larger than the tip of a young girl’s finger, and placed them on his head behind his ears. Ambient noise faded away as wet ink vanishes into dry papyrus.

Reaching back into his desk, he retrieved a small black folio and taking pen to paper began to write, not as most do, but in the free flow of one concerned only with letting his snoot induced mind and hand communicate without interference. With the conversation of the night still whirling in his head, words appeared as fast as he could move his tired fingers, punctuation and grammar be damned.

I’m at the age where I have memories and then all I have is memories of memories, and of course, what I muse upon most is the memories that have forever slipped away and I wonder if I am less of me for that loss.

My body moves on its own accord, within its own time. I grow old, my eyes change and here in space there is nothing I can do about it.

When you see the person, you see yourself and if you can see past yourself in that person, you see the past, you see their book and from that book you can feel their future. So few have the ability to change their book one hundreds pages into their life and so they live trapped lives, stuck in a story, in illusions neither seen nor known.

There is the flow of life and that flow is always moving. When we obstruct that flow with resistance or negativity, we create pain. The resistance of standing against the flow of reality—hurts.

Here to empty my cup, of what I know to make room for something else, something more. Here in space, on Bravo, fate itself has both emptied our cup and we, with our concerns and worries and fears have filled it up again because we fear the emptiness, we fear the unknown, we fear the silence, and in space, there is nothing but infinite silence. So we wake up each day and the silence mocks us with the very thing we fear—the emptiness, the void, the blank black slate of the unknown.

Von put his pen down and scratched his head and he thought of Rog and Yul and he thought of connections and then he said under his breath, “frail it,” and poured himself one more shot.

Categories: Story, Von, Journal