Writing about Nothing

Be. Just be. That’s it. Let all your hate just slide away, let your ego go. When writing about nothing, you must be prepared to sacrifice everything. Everything counts, when letting go. Every small detail written in stone, matters. It all does. That’s why letting go hurts so goddamned much, we all care. When writing about nothing, never repeat yourself. Never faine to know exactly what you’re saying, about anything, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters, you know that. So what’s the point, the point of writing about nothing. Well, what’s the point of writing, anything. Is it some form of therapy? A way of releasing our inner selves? Is it hypnosis, a way of confronting reality, when we spend all day hiding from it? I want to know these things. Are any  of us really real? Questions. Everyone argues about the same things, I am right, I am wrong, but it is about nothing that they argue for. They spit and quell and come to terms on blank pages written in firelight. Dropped over a hot timber, burnt for nothing.

I am writing about taking my freedom back, from myself. I am becoming nuanced, and more menacing altogether. There are no limits. The only limits, imposed by mine own hand. So I write for nothing. I write because I have to. I have to express this inner…nothing.


Journal Entry: 1

Hello, my name is David. I am thirty-six years old. I have a crush on a girl at work. Her name is Sarah. It was my second day today, at work, today. I work at Hannah’s Off the Square. Kind of a square name, I know, but I like it. I am the fry cook. I cook pizzas, appetizers, squid, fried green tomatoes, and pomme frites. I feel like this job is a leg up on the world. Before now, it was like all jobs are just jokes. Like nothing could hold my interest, except now for cooking. Back to Sarah.

Yeah, she is a waitress, I think. Yes, she is. She has blonde hair, and a nice smile. She reminds me of someone from olden times, like a pioneer lady. Weird, I know. Anyway, I like her. She’s pretty.


I also work at the Boardwalk Cafe’. It is a sandwich shoppe in downtown Denton. It is not a very busy place to work. But sometimes it’s fun. I work with the owner, Mr. Juwan, a nice guy. I feel like an old tyme clerk working there. But sometimes it is very boring. I get so anxious to get out of there, I really hurts. But I won’t be there long. It is closing in January 2018. Then I’ll focus all my energy on learning my craft, and expediting my success as an entrepreneur chef.


I love cooking now. It brings me such joy to see a piece of work come to life in front of me, that I myself would love to shove down my throat, but instead, give it away, like a daughter for marriage. I love getting food on my clothes. Under my nails, popped by hot grease or burnt by open flames over the stove. I love marinating the meats and vegetables in concoctions that took literally hours to produce. I love the dance of co-workers that must be made to maneuver effectively around a tight kitchen. The nodding, the assuring, the yells for this or that, civilized people cooking civilized food all in hopes of something better.


My favorite authors are Bukowski, Bourdain, Hemingway, and Nietzsche, and of course philosophers like Alan Watts, Jung, Plato, and Laurence Fishburne. I love martial arts as well, finding balance. When I am running between things to do at work, constantly measuring and timing the smallest of things in accordance to their place on the list, I find myself repeating mantras, like, you can do this, concentrate, and just relax, and whatever else I happen to put into a single phrase that lends me a pointing place for my mind to focus on. Yeah. Most of the time, though, I just want a cigarette, and some weed. But…


Like I said, I look forward to getting to know more about work, and about pushing myself to the extremes in learning the art of culinary. I should be among the greatest chefs ever if I just keep it real. mad chef


The Hunt

It was as if all the grasshoppers had come out at once. The fields, when disturbed would lift up into the air in great waves, then settle back down again, like a gently unfolding blanket. The swarm would send a great racket through the air. Buzzing, clittering, the sound would swell up, like a thousand rattlesnake rattles, as you kicked through the tall grass. When I was a kid, I would spend hours hunting them, catching them, one by one, seeing if I could catch the biggest one I could find. One time I caught one as big as my hand, I swear. Sometimes, just to see, I would pull off their legs, and watch them react. Just a kid’s curiosity. I don’t think I ever thought about them feeling anything, but maybe that’s what I was trying to figure out–do they feel the same thing as me?

Many years later, I look back in joy at those times, running through my grandparent’s woods, unafraid of what would happen, enjoying the solace and perplexity of youth. Sure I had brothers, but they were little. What did they know? It was me, and nature. Me, wondering relentlessly how things worked, thinking hardly about anything but feeling the world around me. Understanding, even then how small everything was, and how big.

I hardly remembered those days of hunting grasshoppers, until today, when one fly out by my foot. I immediately shot after it, trying to catch it, like old times. After two or three times though, I gave up, and watched it fly away from me. It had won this time, like so many times before, and I sighed and went inside.


No Time-Zone

Stuck. In between the mattress. Like a whore gone rouge. Was my one-liner epiphany, stuck on repeat. No little darlings, Hemingway ewas right. You can’t fight nature, but you can understand it. Collective data indicates positive brain-wave inputs increasing. Suppressing zionistic caliphates, carressing neo-dictator mandates, processing nuor-catalyst substrates. Including the mirrors.  Writing on brickened walls, like a time capsule fly-by brush with the law. Would you even care? Zionistic ramblings including verbates.

Crimson tide-esque lawyers run the universe. Whereby allowing to venture outside their own rulings as if tested strickly for time. Positive encoding fractonares the latte’ of mass incarceration.


Ethics 2: Essay on Human Ethics

First, let us explore that notion. Like I had mentioned before, going off to war is a special kind of symbolic gesture for those being left behind. It reciprocates a feeling of “we are all in this together” type of feeling”, where one has a sense of belonging to a group, or a community, through hard times and bad, and all the while experiences the joy of living life on the full edge. The literal idea of war perpetuates us to move to action, either in defense, or in offense against those who we consider our enemies. This motion itself is captured in icon shots of photography, epic poems of war torn battles and the individual heart-felt journeys of millions of people across the planet displaced by war, disease, and famine. War, it seems is our story, as it is peacetime, but never so pungent and full of glory and significance. My argument here, is a simple one, whereby if we did not have war, we would have no peace. Without the thousands of soldiers over the eons marching off to battle, leaving their loved ones behind, for the hunt, for the conquer, we would have no stories to tell. Our lives, in short, would be quite boring. A middling of half-truths, sad remises, and stories left only partially told in sleepy corners of quiet little towns. And maybe that’s what we have now, in our perceived era of peace time, where old veterans recount the days of glory and the struggle to survive the ethical battle of annihilating thousands of Japanese, German, or Vietnamese troops, but what is also left is a knowing that, war, though inevitable, is only temporary, like many of our daily disagreements, and tribulations that come and go, and leave us only by to wander the time, sigh, then go about our daily lives.

See, we don’t live in an era of peace, or war. We live in an era of ongoing life, whereby no one action contains in it a single meaning, but all meanings, to be discerned by the ones lucky and careful enough to uncover them, and learn from them. When we talk about the ethics of war, of mass genocide, more often that not, we come to agreement that it was horrible, and should never be done again, but look around you. What other forms of mass genocide do you see taking place before you now in this world? There are thousands being slaughtered in the streets in Syria and Iraq, thousands upon thousands fleeing the Russian borders for safer lands, and conflict after conflict thriving up on the African Plains on a daily basis. The tune never changes, yet ebbs and flows with the current of a collective consciousness that binds us to strive to survive. That is our Great War. It is the daily struggle for aptitude and recoverance in a land pulling no strings nor punches, and where are children are left in chaos to defend for themselves in a barren wasteland disguised as a civilization. But is that what it really is? Have we tamed our ethics? Have we defined their essences, and written them down in stone, or, are they ever in flux, a constant contradictory evanescences caught on the winds of time, never playing the same soft tune more than once, but for ever the murmurs of distant man across the space of time for us to pick up on?

That is the true question of what is moral, or what is ethical about anything? When we look back on pictures of piles of shoes abandoned, besides the horror, does it not influence us to look beyond ourselves, and strive to do better next time? If not for the pile of shoes worn by women, children, and men, would we have been able to further define our ethical purpose in a world drastically changing? Can one picture save us all? I think maybe not, but I think it might hit somewhere deep down in the human soul, and let us recapture something special, that we might have felt, some freedom we might have found somewhere along the way of belonging to a special place and time that we can only call our own.

Facing our times today, we have a few instances of human degradation affronting our human sense of morality and ethics. We have North Korean prison camps. We have child slaves working in diamond mines in Africa. We have the sex trade of living human beings occurring on an international level. We have entire cities under siege by renegade marauders hell bent on reintroducing Armageddon to the entire world–groups like ISIS, hardly aware of themselves as the tragic ending of their own making. We have trusted officials; priests, caught up in sex scandal, famous t.v. show stars and spokespersons out front and center under public scrutiny for their crimes against the weak and vulnerable. To put it bluntly, whatever we imagined the old Roman empire to be, whatever has been written about their subsequent debauchery towards fellow man, is still in play to the this day. And why? Is it because we have failed to fully define ethics, or are we caught up in the play against ethics? Do we consider it a game that must be allowed to coexist with our efforts to thwart it? I believe it is a little both. After all, this world is no Eden. It might have been at one point in time, in some distant, far away era, before mankind left such a footprint in the sand, but not now. Now, our industriousness has led us to new heights in our battle to balance progression with morality. And where is the line drawn? I think we struggle with that everyday.

Finally, what is ethics? Is it something that is only an afterthought that comes into play when something that seems too good to be true, starts to become that way. Is ethics a sort of restrained self-imposed function to keep us from going too far, to keep us in check from overrunning the structure that has helped us reach the top, and keep it from crumbling beneath our feet? Is ethics a safety net, of sorts? Is it a way to reach for the top, without having to apologize for finally getting there? Is it an apology for the way things are, and explanation for something less permissible with words and only in action, or is it something that contains only in itself its own explanation? It may be just the simple fact of looking out for one’s self by looking out for the wellbeing of others. Because ethical action takes place on such a small scale, it has great implication over time, it’s effects are felt even miles away. When Gandhi refused to eat, when Martin Luther King refused to fight back, when *the russian soldier refused to fire the nukes back at America during a computer glitch that could have started world war three, it was a personal choice of ethical value that kept a certain structure of faith in place for the benefit of mankind on a whole, and not just in a certain room, or situation.

Ethics is small. Ethics is doing the right thing, no matter the cost afterward. Judging by that caliber, one could say that practicing good ethics is the foundation of a civilization itself. It is a constant buildup of presupposed, and agreed upon action that ultimately builds up to a standard that is agreed upon in society as something beyond human capacity, meaning, it seems to thrive on its own, from some otherworldly realm, a god sent maxim, a commandment, a sacred code that must not be broken. This is the importance of ethics. It keeps shoes on their respective feet, grants them new paths to walk down, opens doors, sends them into grassy meadows, instead of muddy paths, and erases our history one step at a time.

I sincerely hope that we as a people are able to reach a moment in our existence where we do forget the atrocities of the holocaust, and the vietnam wars, and other wars going on right now.

As an American, in America, I am confronted daily with questions about what to do about certain issues, when it comes to immigration, prison reform, voting rights, and social reforms. I see it on a daily occurrence on the news. Bill O’reilly spouting away, Rush Limbaugh rambling on about something he heard over the ‘grapevine’ about the democrats, or even Free Speech TVs Thom* libertarian views inciting thousands of viewers across the nation. All these questions raised by modern politicians and voters, are ethical questions. They all stem from the fact of wanting to do the best thing for right people. But, really, who are the right people? Our country, America, is every kind of people, from every corner of the Earth. Don’t we share the responsibility of creating a voice that can be heard by the millions listening, watching, worldwide? What if we turned on the television and instead of men in make up spouting the daily broadcast, we were encountered with raw, face to face images and stories of reality? Would we watch so closely then? Who would the nature of ourselves change then? What kinds of illusions can be lifted by rethinking what is ethical journalism, ethical reporting? Wikileaks founder Julian Assange has done what was considered at the time, unthinkable–disclose thousands of documents containing questionably unethical material that the united States had partaken in and disclosed it to the world; and he was ostracized for it. Private Eli Manning, an NSA employee, performed a similar action when he downloaded thousands of encrypted data revealing horrendous incidents that the US Government had participated in over the last decade preceding the 911 attacks on the World Trade Center. Where his and Assange’s actions unethical? Or, was the fact that the United States had attempted to cover up their tragic mistakes under piles of classified documents the unethical practices? You may look both ways in determining fault, but I look one way in determining that ethic nature stands apart on its own, and is owned by no one; not one faction or entity or country or alliance, but is ubiquitous in nature to be used by the ones who must use it to alleviate lies and reveal truth. so this is the true function of ethics. it is given to us by ourselves, as a safety net, for when things swing too far away from our usual standings, and keeps us from the hitting the ground, most of the time. But, sometimes, it is too short a net, too low, to keep us from brushing the ground. It is in these times, that ethics blend with necessity, and it is in these moments that we are tested the most to remember, to redefine what we consider to be the right thing to do. Because we always have to keep reminding ourselves, that we are human, and very small, and that everything we do has an effect, good or bad, for all of living kind.


Diary of a Shit-Taker Part 1: Nexus

The word ‘Shit Mongrel’ is being tossed around too much these days. You see the word scrawled out on bathroom walls, behind the stall door, the word ‘shit’’ in all caps, ‘mongrel’ written underneath, dangling like a piece of crap to the word, ‘shit’.

It’s a complex statement. Usually you find the word by accident, hiding near the tail end of a positive piece of poetry, faded over time by repeated efforts to scrub it from history, as if only arcane phone numbers leading to God knows who’s mailbox are allowed to exist.

And there are the numbers themselves, hastily written digits with a lone name attached to it.

“Call 555-5555 for a blow job. Ask for Robbie.”

As I squeeze out the first signs of a massive shit to come, I realize poor Robbie probably doesn’t want a dick anywhere near his mouth. This is what ‘friends’ do for you in their free time.

I suddenly find the word I’ve been looking for. There it is, halfway hidden, written in the chipped grout work enamel like a convict’s last testament to his poor, pitiful existence–SHIT MONGREL.

I inhale and hold my breath and push as hard as I dare, my anus feeling like it might rupture with the slightest miscalculation of pressure. I feel the heavy solid of my waste shift in my lower intestine, and I hunker back down to wait it out to move further down the tract. Too much effort and my anus will be too raw to finish the job.

Many folk like me have sat in this exact spot, pondering the universe in all its glorious glory. The last stall. The door doesn’t close all the way and opens up on its own random times, letting you scramble to reclose it, holding your pants up, keeping your ass cheeks cocked just so, so that the shit covering your ass crack won’t drip down on your shoes.

Finally, you jerry rig the bastard with whatever you can find, hoping that it’s a quick fix and the people coming in won’t come around the corner. Fuck ‘em if they do.

The word ‘Shit Mongrel’ flashes through my mind as I finish up. I’ll have to shit again soon and who knows where it will be, but there the word will be regardless, the same messy writing from a crack-addicted hand, the same nonchalant  effort to hide it in a special spot that you can only notice when you’re looking for something else.

I imagine the person who first came up with the idea, how bored he must have been, how he must have felt really lucky to have had a pen on him at that point in time.

‘Shit Mongrel’ must have come to him as easily as the runs as he just opened his ass cheeks up and let the water and shit blast from his anus, the pen sketching those first loops on the concrete wall.

I flush for the final time and pull up my pants and stand staring down at my shoes.

There is shit on them.

Now I know what the word meant.

It means you cannot escape the act of shitting, no matter how civilized you think you are. You will always be reduced back down to squatting over some hole, relieving yourself accordingly, covering yourself in it, becoming it–becoming the Shit Mongrel.


Part II


Church time. It’s five in the morning and I’m driving down Hilltop Boulevard pointing at the sleepy-eyed hookers swaying on the street corners in the morning light.

“You,” I say to them and tell them to get in the back.

“We’re going to church,” I say next.

I’ve got around five of them this morning, and God do they stink to high Heaven. Well, when you wash yourself in truck stops between fucks all day long, you’d smell like a decomposing corpse too.

Church church church. Church is a fucking mansion on 5th and 7th downtown beside the Opec Arena, and since it’s still so Goddamned early, we’ve beaten the Sunday rush hour.

I pass up the old fuckers just now scuttling to their cars in their Sunday best and I give ‘em the finger.

“Beat ya, Grandpa!”

I get the evil eye from some old fake Vietnam Vet.

He knows, I think. See, old people are human, too. No, they’re not all smiles and well wishes, like all the movies would have you believe. They’re lying sacks of turds is what they are. You can’t tell me they don’t take some kind of sick pride getting up that Goddamn early in the morning, before even the fucking cock’s got a chance to pick the crusty feathers from his butt to get up and crow? Fuck no!

Old people get up so early because they can’t sleep. It’s true. Grandpa and Grandma go to bed so early because they know they’re going to be getting up fifty times a night to pace, to eat, fidget and shit, and just fucking worry about being so goddamned old, and so close to ever increasing death. Anyhow, I’ve lost my point. We all die anyway, so…Grandpa’s pissed.

The church isn’t even fucking open. I take out my pills from my pocket and pop a couple Vicodin in my mouth and turn on the radio. Christian Hits F.M. blares over the speakers and the whores hold their heads.

One of them speaks after sitting in the car for an hour. It’s a whore’s classic voice. Scratchy, perpetually yawning, perpetually sticky from dehydration, and completely, utterly brainless.

“Yah knooow…like, we’re just sitting here.”

“I know, baby. Just try to get some sleep. Daddy’s gonna make it all better, okay? We’re almost there.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Well now, they have plenty of food in there, once we get inside.”

“What are you laughing at, bitch?!”

“They don’t got no food in there!”

“Yah know what?! You’re a dumb twat, yah know that?!”

“Shut up, both of yah! Now listen–”

“I dont have to put up with this shit–”

“Listen! Shut up. You hear me? I’ll reach back there and slap the hell out of you if you think I won’t.”

Do something.”

“Stop it!”

“I’m trying!”

Stop fighting!” The whore named Jenny turns to me. “Jimmy, what are we doing out here? The place isn’t even open!”

I pretend to be thinking for a second, running my finger in the beard hair under my lip.

“You’re a distraction,” I say.

“A wah…?”

There, I’d said it. Of course it was a lie, though. Five whores sitting spaced out between pews on opposite sides of the church was my way of perpetuating what I call Psychosocial Injection. The so called plan was to have the whores mock and berate all who they see as being somehow inferior to their own self-depraved ways. A challenge in itself, I know, yes, but I simply informed the gals that all they needed to do was think of it as a form of punishment for the normal congregation being too good for their own good. That you ladies are simply there for good moral support, to help the needy. That God looks down on liars and fools and laughs like a Navaho Indian.

The girls just looked at me. This was gonna be good.

So this church had a long and terrible name, Jesus Christ of Hilltop Scattering Faith Among His Flock or some shit like that. It was all bullshit and those pills were kicking in so I got out of the car and told the whores to get to work. They just looked at me dumb ass shit like, and I said go inside the church for Christ’s sake, and then they did.

I sat in the back and turned on an old tape recorder I’d bought at an old pawn shop. I flicked the switch and recorded the identifier.

“This is Jim Vlarney, reporting. I have five this week. Social data experiment test run number seven’s a go.”

I looked down the long pews as the elderly filed in through the majestic doors. Old shuffling feet, dead on the ground, but eyes that darted around judging everything in sight like a carnivorous hedghog.

I was not free from notice. I spied an old man looking at me. He was down there holding his cane in front of him like some sort of septor.

Clearly he wanted to confront me, so I saved him the trouble and got right the fuck up and went over and sat down beside the old codger.

“You fucking brat, I told you not to come back,” said he.

“Shut it, Grandpa. I got the dibs on you.”

“You lazy low life. I aughta punch your lights out for talking to me that way.”

“You missed me.”

“Pshaw! Not in a hundred years.”

I stared straight ahead. “Low life…I’ll tell you what, Grandpa, you see these people?”

“These people?”

“Yeah, look at ‘em. They need some help, to me.”

“Help? Ha! Help…What you know about helping anyone?”

“You don’t get it do you, Gramps. It’s not about me, it’s about them.”

“Who?” He said it like a sarcastic tortured owl sitting on a shit covered branch. “Who’s you talking about, boy?”


I pointed at the old and young, the sick and poor and rich and irreverent. I pointed at the priest lumbering head held down to the pulpit deep in hypocritical prayer, I pointed at everyone in sight. I didn’t point at the whores.

“These people. These fake ones. These that are caught up in the glory of caring nothing about anything or anyone else other than themselves.”

“You can’t be serious,” said the old man. “You are but dumbfuddled, I do declare. Who do you think you are? Huh? Perfect? Shhhh…” the old man shook his head, “No, no, no…you are as guilty as the rest of us. Maybe a little bit younger, a bit stronger, but just as troubled and far from reason as the rest of us. Dumb little tramp. You got some cajones coming up in here to insult your elders like that. I aughta…”

But then I heard one of the whores scream. Two of them were fighting over the collection plate change. The preist was running down the isle trying to break them up, while people of good repute scattered left and right, the whores fell down in the isle fighting and screaming and cursing God’s name as women covered children’s ears, and men stood shaking their heads hands on hips.

My plan was bust.

Grandpa turned to me and smiled. “I told ya so, sonny. I guess you don’t belong afterall.”

Then I punched Grandpa’s lights out and the old yodel fell face first head hitting the pew.

Now my whores were being chased out the front doors of the church, high heels and giggling asses and all.



Biological Reflections

Biological Reflections By D. Randall McKay

A Personal Statement


In biology, we have Nuerons, this is what I understood from the lecture. These nuerons are responsible for how we communicate with ourselves, and with others. These nuerons are found in the body, all throughout the body, in fact. There is a lot in the stomach as well as in the spinal cord. The neurons ‘think’ about how to tell the body to react. They use neurotransmitters to do this. These neurons are responsible for who we are, and who we are to become.

I believe that these nuerons are responsible for evolution, and in the communication between the species, as a function.

    Without nuerons, there would be no memories. Nuerons ‘hold in place’ evolutionary adaptations ment for survival, and survive as chemical links in the nervous system. So basically, what I’m saying is that DNA is the ‘memory’ of our bodies’ minds. The complex DNA chains of the double helix indicate a wrapping nature, only found in nature, everywhere. At an angle of 1.16 degrees or so, the wrapping indicates a follow of the gravitational effects of the Earth, which translates to protein folding. So, when our genes ‘fold’ together, there is movement, so to speak, and the Great Dance begins. As we ‘reflect’ biologically our outside environs, we enhance this process, so to speak, once again. DNA mutation is the chink of the chain of DNA constants that applies to this criteria. Mutations lead to evolution, lead to our reactions in the state of nature.

    If you can see where I’m trying to go with this, I applaude you. You know more than I. But I am ‘reflecting’ what I have learned over the past weekend or so, so thank you.

    In summary, I think our DNA is the sum total of our biological processes, both mentally, and physically, which is the same thing in some kind of language. Nuerons and nuerotransmitters are the mechanism by which a species’ communicates between it’s ‘selves’ and other individuals, and hence evolves over time.

Being able to use this, practically, though to what measure, is beyond me. Which could possibly include ESP or some sort of telekenises to the degree it is able to actually move matter, just by ‘thinking’ about it. What if DNA were able to control physical, unliving material to the effect it bypasses all neccessary physical control in the systems? I don’t know, you got me. I’m just reaching here, but there is a way, I believe chemically that once species of atom is able to manipulate another by sheer will. This might have to do with gravitons, and the degree to which their in motion with a fourth dimension, but it might be such in saying that all electronic mechanisms function this way. So, will I be turning into an Xman soon? Probably not. Do I believe that it is in our innateness to strive to become telekinetic? I sure do. What the birds do is partly because of this instinct. To separate, or controls one’s substance from another more powerful one–the Earth–without actually touching it.

In summation, I think that science is evolving to include psychological and biological evidence to support that DNA can be linked to the mind, i.e…consciousness, in a way that lays foundation to a new principle within the field of psychology.