Tag Archives: pope killdragon

March 21, 2011

Pope Killdragon

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

10. Pope Killdragon

I know this is kind of awkward, but I was wondering what your thoughts might be regarding a dramatic, volatile relationship between the two of us. I know, I know – it sounds ridiculous, but just hear me out.

My thought was that it might be somewhat passionate and also somewhat catastrophic. I don’t want to destroy you or corrupt you – I think we’re both too old for that. We’ve both witnessed too many things to go back to having any sense of innocence that could be shattered.

But I really like you. I like your teeth. They’re wonderful in their imperfection. And I think the things you dislike about yourself are absolutely adorable. Your diminutive size is something upon which you take umbrage but the way in which you carry yourself is remarkably strong. I can see where you draw your strength. It comes from your family and your friends. It comes from being independent.

Yet I feel this ache in my body. Deep down inside, past all the black stuff and whatever it was I had for dinner last night. Past the fear and the acumen I normally display. And this feeling (whatever it is) wants you to cut open my chest and crawl inside and seed my heart to grow a crop of fruit so rich that once you get out of my body and sew me back up and clean yourself off we can both enjoy it when it’s ripe. Just you and I. And never Eddie Rabbit. (But maybe Crystal Gayle?)

The skin is fresh and crisp and it has the sweetest, richest taste. Trust me, you’ll love it. Once you find the meat of the fruit it gets even better. It’s so brilliant and filling, but too much of it and you’ll groan in blasted sickness. Vomiting it up is something fiercely rotten. You’ll never want it again if you go too far. So take your time with it and enjoy it while it lasts.

See, I’ve read your book and you’ve read mine. I know your words and how you sculpt them to create the person I see you as. But they give me hope. Hope in romance and a future and a redemption outside of god. A salvation we have both separately agreed we don’t need.

I want us to read to one another like you used to read to him. Lounging sideways over the arm rests in our respective la-z-boy recliners. Our silence interrupted by the next person to say, “Oh! You have to hear this!” Or perhaps it will just be my loud, abrasive laugh or your giggle.

I don’t know much, but I’m pretty sure you have the same faults I do. We both can’t commit. We both desire our independence too much. We are suffering from the after effects of a twisted youth, trying to understand what it means without a social structure we once adored and a lack of cohesion of what we were told we needed to survive. How is it we’re still surviving? Maybe we just need each other? Or nothing at all? Or like I said, perhaps we just need something dramatic and volatile.

However, I know that after a continuous diet of this fruit that has blossomed from my heart, you’ll find yourself one day gorging on it. And you’ll be forced to release it up from whence it came and let it go. And you should. Just let it go.

I’ll hold your hair back behind your head and bring you a damp cloth so that you might wipe your mouth. But don’t think I don’t know what it all means. Even with my chest not fully healed from the harvest of the crop, you will no doubt rise from your posture of servitude to the porcelain throne and thump me in the solar plexus with the butt of your palm. I know how that feels and I’ve dealt the blow a few times myself.

It will be time for me to go. But you and I both know I’ll still be there for you. And I have no doubt that in spite of our faults and in spite of any once-sweetened and now rotten fruit we might partake in, one day when we are living in New York City and an apocalyptic event struck – the type we’d assumed would only be found in the movies – we’d find ourselves outside on the same street, looking up to a darkened sky at our impending doom and then at one another.

While there would be a brief questioning in each of our minds as to how we both ended up in our last moment on earth at the same time and place, we’d smile gently at one another. And we would both extinguish gloriously in an obscene event of gratuitous violence. And we’d be okay with that. We would expect that. And nothing less.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Fiction

March 17, 2011

Walking

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

9. Walking

The sun has already asked for permission to land at 4:30pm. It sees the lights and turns to key up for its landing.

They are Christmas lights decorating the homes around my neighborhood. This is its indication of where to land and how to approach for entry. Clouds wave at the sun as it makes its descent. They will see it again, perhaps. Maybe tomorrow. One can never tell what a new day will bring, however.

The clouds don’t get too lonely at night. I used to think they disappeared, but they exist in the sky. They are not lonely because the stars are their comrades. Stars are much higher than clouds. Together, however, they create beautiful combinations. Just as the sun disappears beyond the horizon (we’re assuming its’ landing went smoothly) the sun’s yang, the moon appears on the scene. The clouds like him, too. All is provided for us underneath the heavens. Sun, moon, stars, clouds, Christmas lights. We can’t ask for anything more.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , | posted in Fiction

March 13, 2011

Last to Swim

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

8. Last to Swim

There is a great gulf opening in my mind and in it pours everything I thought I could never know. It connects me to God and to all things holy.

My hands are trembling, my teeth are chattering, my knees are knocking and my eyes roll into the back of my head. I am learning everything I could ever want to know about the universe and it is killing me.

When the divine shares its mystery with a human being, there is nothing that can help one to survive. The only thing you can do is just make sure you are near a handrail and hold on the best you can. When the shaking stops and your mind caves back in like an avalanche filling in a gaping yaw, you will be better off.

God will come to you and touch you with an elongated finger. It is placed softly at your third eye, right on the brow. It is a gentle touch. I feel the air sucked out from me in that split second before his spirit touches my skin. My lungs flatten and I can’t breathe. My eyes scramble and all I can see are blurred shapes.

The bony finger touches with the perfect pressure. I lose my sight but suddenly see everything. I have achieved a gnosis and I can’t explain it. I can’t even hope to do so. Radical equations flow through my mind like the opening credits to Star Wars on speed. I can’t begin to solve them because I can’t begin to read them.

I’m worried now but Jesus Christ if God doesn’t remain by my side and offer me an encouragement that radiates from his presence. There is a metaphysical connection between the two of us now. Whereas I used to know in part, now I can know in full that which I was meant to know. I can attack life with a renewed fervor.

But I can’t walk anymore. My feet are blistered and my knees are shot. And I can’t see anymore. I gouged out my eyes when God touched me, his light too blinding for me to ever go back to viewing anything I previously saw. My hearing is non-existent. I put some sharpened sticks through my ears when all the sound never died, even when I tried to sleep. My teeth are cracked and rotten. I can no longer eat. I have rough, calloused hands and skin chapped from the blistering touch that I experienced. My hair is long and stringy, my beard unkempt.

But inside of me I have THE KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. The Knowledge Of God. the knowledge of god…

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , | posted in Fiction

March 7, 2011

Daniel’s Blues

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

7. Daniel’s Blues

You never know who might leave next, whose eyes might flicker in front of you before the life disappears forever. I don’t ever doubt that I will see eternity. I am sure John finds himself there right now. It’s a ringing endorsement of what might be to come: an afterlife in the presence of John.

I don’t believe that Elvis will make an appearance or that I will even find Chevy or Gilda. Instead I picture my eternity spent sitting cross-legged at the feet of John, as he espouses his great proverbs and specks of wisdom, the likes of which we, his disciples, will never fully understand.

While some might think they would find John in his College sweatshirt, I would prefer to think of him wrapped in his toga, with the olive leaves tied into his hair like a crown. His finger raised in a gesture that insinuates he has the answers. The location is never quite clear: are we sitting on clouds? The sky is clear and everything seems so clean and bright. But who knows what things will be like?

I picture him sitting on a short, ivory Greek column, telling us stories and jokes and smiling. That’s how I picture John: full of wisdom and insight but always with that great big smile that emerges from his scruff. His disciples – myself included – always desire to know more. Maybe John can explain a thing or two that has confused me all these years. I cannot wait to hear his words and know what we might glean from them in the hopes that even in the afterlife we can become better.

I have no idea how this intertwines with typical theology. Perhaps it’s blasphemous or heretical to think this way. But I keep having these dreams and I have ever since John passed. I don’t believe eternity is something we can fully understand here on earth. I don’t know what it will be like.

I just see glimpses of it from time to time. Little specs and bites that reassure me that John will be there. That maybe we can laugh again and shake hands – wait, John doesn’t shake hands. He hugs you with the greatest embrace you’ve ever experienced. It’s like being wrapped in love. There can be nothing better than John’s embrace that tells you everything is going to be all right. It’s reassurance in action.

And I don’t doubt that when my time comes and I pass on, John will be there, arms open wide, waiting to tell me stories like he always had. The best stories, the craziest stories. John always knew how to make me laugh. After all these years without him, I need a laugh like that again. Rock and roll may live on after John’s death, but it hasn’t been the same since he left. Celebrity ain’t all it’s cracked up to be without your best friend there with you.

3 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Fiction

March 3, 2011

Giant’s Despair

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

6. Giant’s Despair

My first kiss was a great experience. (Note: It actually took place across the street from Tim’s house.) It was filled with an energizing connection between endless Christian guilt and its counterbalance of what was surely demonic horny-ness.

The first girl I kissed was in 8th grade. Her name was Jen Stauffer. Jen was pretty cute but kind of an outcast. She wasn’t super popular but wasn’t some crazy kid, either. She was just one of those kids who flew under the radar. She wasn’t a horrible student, nor was she a brainiac.

But she was friendly and a flirt, which was about all I needed to have someone attract my attention in those pubescent days. She had brown, straight chin-to-collar length hair (although knowing the early 90s it was probably partially or entirely permed from time to time) and one of her teeth was a little crooked (I think it was an incisor) but it was cute and I didn’t mind.

We rode the bus together home from middle school, which was just a couple miles from where we lived. Jen had liked me for a long time but always had a boyfriend. In fact, she had a boyfriend when we first made out.

I went over to her house after school on a Wednesday (I remember that part because I had to go to church later that evening) to “do homework” or some such bullshit excuse but knowing that we were going to make out. I knew this because of her incessant flirting and interest in me, which didn’t seem to stop despite her being in a relationship. I don’t want to think that Jen had lost her virginity at this point in time (I really don’t know) but she was certainly the more experienced of the two of us.

We first sat on her front porch – it was the fall – and acted like we were going to do homework but instead just talked. Eventually we went back to her tree house. I had never seen it and it was pretty cool. The tree went right up through the middle of the square structure, its branches erupting over the top.

We sat there and even though I felt intensely awkward at what I knew was to happen, I also knew it’s what my penis wanted, so I did as the dominant part of my personality demanded and went through with the locking of lips. However, she slipped her tongue into my mouth, which was a surprise, but a pleasant one. It was warm and wet and seemed to add a bit more passion to the already dangerous situation (remember, she had a boyfriend).

The thing is, Jen was a good kisser. A really good kisser. As I made my way into high school, I compared the handful of girls I kissed against Jen and frankly none of them came close. There were some good ones in there but perhaps it was the surprise of the whole tongue in my mouth thing that made it so good. However, I do believe Jen had a passion and intensity in her. Perhaps it was her experience. Or perhaps I was just imagining things.

And then it hit me: an incredibly heavy, deep weight in the pit of my stomach. It hung there like a greasy, fattening meal, but it was entirely emotional. I thought I was going to throw up. And despite my erect penis I remember feeling just these waves of nausea and guilt as soon as it was over.

I was feeling weird. I left the tree house and got to the end of her driveway and she followed me. I rested my right arm on the mailbox and lay my head on it and felt as though I would throw up right there. “I gotta go,” I told her.

I know I felt sick and guilty partially because she already had a boyfriend, J. L., who was a really nice guy. I don’t think he forgave me for that for a long time and understandably so. But I also felt guilty because something told me that having an erect penis was wrong and weird and I had never been taught to masturbate or that it was okay to feel that way.

Afterwards I went home and continued my adventure into self-flagellation of the stomach and nerves. I don’t think I threw up but instead after an hour or two I went to church and ruminated on what had occurred for the rest of the evening.

The next day I went to school and Jen had told J. L. and while I didn’t get into a fight over it (thankfully J. L. wasn’t that kind of guy) I still felt horrible and it was very awkward and embarrassing. But like all things in life it passed and J. L. got married to a pretty girl.

Jen on the other hand…well, to put it bluntly, Jen is dead. She died the summer before our senior year of high school. She and I had grown apart as she fell in with a bad crowd and was going to the private, liberal Mennonite high school in our city for a while.

I don’t know where she was at in her life when she got pregnant by some guy I didn’t know, but after having the baby (a girl, if I remember right), evidently there were some complications from the pregnancy and she died. I want to think it was a blood clot that went unnoticed and then like that she was gone.

I remember we heard about it when I was in my summer government class and it was surreal. I, as well as a number of my fellow students, hadn’t talked to her in quite some time, but a lot of the girls in my class were crying. I think I went to the viewing although I don’t know for sure. And the daughter went to live with the father who joined the Navy or something of that sort. No doubt someone’s parents ended up raising the child to a large degree. That girl is about fourteen now, which was about the age Jen and I were when we first kissed.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

February 21, 2011

Alex Kona

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

5. Alex Kona

REVIEW

Fred Meyer
915 NW 45th St
Seattle, WA 98107

Strangely enough, stores such as Fred Meyer exist all over the U.S. but people in Seattle seem to think they’re just the CRAZIEST things. “You mean I can get underwear and groceries in the SAME STORE?!” Yes. Yes you can.

While much of the rest of the country is familiar with a chain of stores called Walmart, Seattle has taken up a state of siege against the forces of the corpse of Generalissimo Sam Walton. A man named Fred Meyer, a vassal to his master, the Kroger organization, mans a lesser army of superstores for the people of the Pacific Northwest. Even with the coffers of the Kroger group offering support, I don’t hold out a lot of hope for Fred Meyer in the face of trying to emerge unscathed from the battle with the corpse of Sam Walton.

This is the bulwark upon which the forces of Fred Meyer will defend themselves.

I try to only go here at odd times to avoid the crowds. However, if you are a glutton for punishment or want to add to your hate of the world or find a good reason to slit your wrists, go on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

I’m sure that beneath the oppressively bright glare of the fluorescent light, your blood would make an impressive display that under other circumstances might be mistaken for abstract art. The contrast between the red blood and bleached white floors would no doubt be quite stirring. I can see the blood staining the floor and despite repeated efforts to wax and buff it away it would likely remain there for good until Fred Meyer was inspired to utilize it as a promotional tool to rally the troops against the corpse of Sam Walton.

“This dull blood stain is a sign that our prices are so low and our selection so great that it can drive people to extreme lengths! While we don’t condone suicide, we think this serves as an excellent reminder that we have some of the most devoted customers and we appreciate their continued support – even unto death.” Of course their spin on the suicide would ignore how the crowds at Fred Meyer drove you to your death, but the raising of a shrine in your honor would slightly make up for it.

One time I went here on a Friday night after a yoga class. I purchased the following: two cans of refried beans, a pair of jeans, some licorice, a jar of pickles and a container of Drano. I told the cashier that this was no doubt the most diverse group of products I had ever purchased at one time.

She had seen it all. Her time served in the army of Fred Meyer had caused her great fatigue. It was unlikely she would last the remainder of the campaign. Perhaps she would go AWOL, be caught by Meyer’s forces and shot against the bags of mulch (which were on sale, by the way) for her desertion.

Ominous times are surely ahead for Fred Meyer.

In a dull, expressionless response she said, “Well, this is Fred Meyer, it’s kind of the whole point of the store.” Indeed. I no longer live in Seattle but I wish Fred Meyer well in his war against the corpse of Sam Walton and his forces of low-paid, demoralized individuals.

P.S. Years ago, before I moved out to Seattle, Maggie Vail from the band Bangs and the record label Kill Rock Stars told me that they sell babies here. (“Why not? They sell everything else there.”) I checked and they do not. Maggie, you’re a fucking liar and I’m calling you out on your shit.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

February 17, 2011

Bonfire

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here

4. Bonfire

Listen to me read this entry by clicking here.

As I stood in the center of the room, I watched the crowds disappear in front of my eyes. You’d think it would be a more shocking experience but in the back of my mind I figured it was coming one of these days.

It was only natural that the rapture would occur. I guess I just figured my disavowal of God would keep me safe from it happening but another part of me – that part tied in to fear and paranoia, that part I had tried for years to suppress – knew it was true, knew it was happening. It was only a matter of time until Christians everywhere were taken up to heaven in a miraculous fashion – in the twinkling of an eye, as the Bible says.

The rapture may have been a recent notion in the two thousand year history of Christianity but that didn’t keep it from establishing a strong foothold amongst many in the faith, especially in the evangelical fold. I had grown up in church hearing all about it. Some pastors as well as other believers almost seemed excited about it.

“And Jesus is going to come down from the sky – with a great trumpet blast – and he will take his children home with him! Both the living and the dead! All those who ever have believed and placed their trust in Him will be rescued from the horrors of the Tribulation and all it will bring. Won’t that be wonderful?” This last sentence was often finished with a giant smile on the part of the pastor and the congregation was suddenly divided between those who were buying into it, those that obviously didn’t care whatsoever and those who had a look on their face that said, “Man, I need to get my shit together before all this goes down.”

I was once part of that last group. I had felt the pangs of guilt and fear in my stomach and my heart. My unstable mind said, “Uh oh – social conditioning does NOT want you to be left out of what your peers have!” And when the pastor would ramp up the description of the terrors of the tribulation: a portion of the sea turning to blood or the possibility of a meteor striking the earth – the knot in my gut twisted and rose. It climbed up to the top of my stomach and worked its way into the bottom of my throat. I felt as though I might throw up.

Instead, one night, as soon as the pastor gave the invitation – “Won’t you come down to the altar right now? You can avoid this fate and spend eternity with Jesus” – I wanted to climb over pews, shove aside members of the congregation as I leaped over their backs. “Out of my way! I HAVE TO GET SAVED!” I’d yell. My teenage hands planting on the tops of their heads and shoulders as I made my way like a slimy reptile trying to leap and crawl and scrounge my way to a torment-free eternity.

I had chosen to sit in the middle of the row and it was full on both sides so I had no other choice. I had to get there. To the front. To the altar. I didn’t have time for pleasantries. This feeling had to go and this man I spent an hour or two with every Sunday – this learned man, this man who had my respect – he had the answer. Hell yes I’m ready to accept it. Just get this lump, this churning heavy feeling that sits like an uncomfortable dead weight out of my stomach.

But in reality there was none of that excitement and determination on my part. Instead I rose slowly with my head bowed as I quietly said, “excuse me,” and made my way past the half dozen people on my left in order to get to the aisle. They swiveled their legs and I kept my head lowered and felt a giant weight trying to hold me back. It was only later that I realized that was Satan, trying to keep me from being saved. From turning to Jesus. I hesitated but I trusted the pastor. He knew what he was talking about. There were answers to rid myself of this anxiety and fear.

I got to the front and kneeled. There was a box of Kleenex on the altar for those shedding tears over this moment. I had joined an adult man and a girl a few grades below me.  Slowly a few others trickled down to the front beside me. My fear of large crowds was riled and I felt the eyes of hundreds in the congregation boring into the back of my head. But like Balki from “Perfect Strangers,” nothing was going to stop me now. I figured things would be cleared up once I got saved. Perhaps these fears would vanish. Like my appointment with hell.

So I made my appointment with Jesus instead. I felt tears stream down my cheeks and the snot in my nose loosen. The weight in my stomach dissolved over the next few minutes and I felt nothing but peace. A stillness and peace. Meanwhile the piano played a hymn and the pastor extolled us for making such a righteous decision.

I looked to my right and left and saw others crying and embracing their friends and family that had come forward. I hadn’t even felt the hand on my shoulder. I glanced up and behind me and saw my mom and dad. My mom’s eyes were red and teary. I could tell she was proud of me. Proud of the commitment I had made to my heavenly father. My earthly father was proud of me too. While my dad didn’t have tears in his eyes, he had a solemn look verging on a slight smile that even at thirteen I had come to learn meant that he was pleased. And despite the wide range of emotion I had just experienced, so was I.

As we left the church that night, I realized the pain in my stomach and heart had completely vanished. I felt healed. I felt like a new creation. I truly was born again. In the back of my brain a minor thought interrupted my otherwise upbeat disposition: what now? Where do I go from here? I paid it little mind and went to bed.

And here we are. It had come true just like the pastor said it would, all those years ago. I suddenly regretted having denounced god and belief in him years after my conversion experience. A product of my social conditioning, I said. God? Bullshit.

In hindsight, that had surely been a mistake. One that I was sure I would regret. Now that the apocalypse would no doubt soon be upon us I let out a sigh and walked to a pile of clothes on the floor. A person had been standing here just a minute ago. That should have been me. That was supposed to have been me.

And now as I stood in this room surrounded by piles of clothes and a few other dumbfounded people, I waited. I waited for the Antichrist and the mark of the Beast. I waited for all those things the likes of which I had been warned. I waited for plagues and war and Armageddon. And I waited for death. And hell.

Come Armageddon. Come. Let your work be swift and my punishment in hell severe. I surely deserve it.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Fiction

February 14, 2011

Sterling

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

3. Sterling

There’s a creek that exists in the mountains in Eastern Pennsylvania. I saw it once as a child and I have now found my way back there again. It’s secluded and the peacefulness I discovered when I viewed it the first time spoke to me and touched my heart in a way that I knew it would endear itself to me for the rest of my life.

You may come across hundreds of locations in nature but there are always those few that leave the biggest mark and it’s never easy to understand why. I’ve worn my favorite dress – the summer dress with the big pockets on the sides. And although it’s still spring, I don’t care. I want to look my best today. The snow has melted and the creek is overflowing its banks and has become a river with force. I take a few steps and wade into it.

I slowly glide out to the middle and skim my index finger across the water, tracing an imaginary picture as I swivel back and forth at the hips. Dresses have this habit of expanding when you wear them into the water. It makes it look like you’re emerging from the middle of a lily pad. Thankfully, the rocks in my pockets negate that.

The water is swift and freezing cold and I don’t know how long I will be able to stay out here. Eventually it will pull me under. My natural reflexes are to fight, to resist, but I don’t want to wait long.

My mind is blank and I meditate on my breathing, which is clear and even. I can feel my heart beat in my temples but it doesn’t distract me from what I desire. I wade further and find a pocket of deep water. My knees are literally knocking, but only for a moment and just as quickly my legs go numb. The water has risen above my waist.

The birds are chirping and the spring sun warms the upper part of my body to little avail, as the air temperature is still quite mild. I close my eyes and wait. I should have added more rocks but the pockets in the dress are bulging as is.

I see a squirrel in a nearby tree. It has dark fur and is running down a branch, its mouth a bulging mass of acorns. Will this be the last creature I ever see? Will something or someone cross my path in the next minute or five? How long will this last?

I raise my fingers to the back of my auburn hair and pull out the barrettes. Instinctually, I shake it out and pull it back to remove all the tangles. It lies across my shoulders. I need a haircut. I needed a haircut. I think of all the time and money spent on my hair.

That being said, although I can’t see it right now, I truly believe it looks the best it ever has.

1 comment   |  tags: , , , | posted in Fiction

February 10, 2011

Kill Dragon

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

2. Kill Dragon

My friend Jeremiah recently told me he had found a copy of the first issue of the first zine I ever did: Shelter. Considering that for some reason I didn’t save any of the issues of that zine (I can’t even remember how many I did) it was with great fear and trepidation that I asked if he could send it to me. He graciously obliged.

To say that it is bad would be putting it lightly. But it’s part of my development and we all have to start somewhere. However, I will admit I like some of the layout. It is a conglomeration of cut and paste words and photos. It’s much better than anything I ever did for the print issues of Welcome to Flavor Country.

The content of the first issue of Shelter included a review of Starflyer 59‘s Gold album as well as the re-mastered version of the Star Wars Trilogy (on VHS mind you). I also do a shout-out to a couple of other zines that I liked. My friend Lee wrote a poem called “Shelter” and Jeremiah (the same one who sent this to me) wrote some poems as well. Also included is a very poor interview with Jeremiah’s high school band, Directed Youth.

The rest of the content is me being VERY Christian. I won’t write it all here but allow me to share a bit of how ridiculous the content was (and what my state of mind was at that time). Please keep in mind I was about 16 when this was written and I’m cringing as you read this.

Sometimes, it seems that i get really depressed. Not like, “yeah, i had a bad day at school” type of thing, but all of the problems that i have seem to come to a head. i don’t know how to explain it exactly. And a lot of times i have to do things like write letters to my friends, write poetry, or just talk to someone to make myself feel better. But in the long run, it seems that i always end up back where i was before. And where i was before is a state of me feeling like i’m nothing. So, being the ignorant person that i am, i continue this silly game instead of getting to the root of the problem. And to be honest, up until a little while ago, i was still playing that silly game. But then, thanks to some friends (thanks, guys!) i got straight. i’m not saying that it’s all horrible to feel sad once in a while, but the constant deep depression is just so destructive. Why can’t we open our eyes to that? And while my friends helped me more than i could ever know, the real savior to my predicament was Jesus. i know some of you guys are going, “ah, man, screw Jesus, he’s never done squat for me!” But, from my personal point of view, i could never thank him enough. He’s the one who took away my depression, and it wasn’t hard either. All i had to do was ask. And if you feel that way sometimes, that’s what you need to do. Just trust Him. i know it sounds cheesy, especially if you are an independent sort of person but it’s the only way to make it. Put your trust in him.

There are so many things wrong with this piece I don’t know where to begin. First off, my depression never went away for good. It may have receded for a time around when I wrote this, but it came back again and again. My attempts in giving it to Jesus and trusting him just kept me thinking there was something wrong with me spiritually because the depression always came back in greater waves. If Jesus was taking care of this then why wasn’t I feeling better?

I didn’t know much of anything about getting help for depression. Medications, counselors or psychiatrists weren’t talked about in my family (just out of sheer ignorance, not for any spiritual reason) and by the time I started to understand what was happening to me on a psychological level I was too enveloped in my depression to be willing to go and commit myself to working through my emotional instability. The depression was just a shell for the anxiety that had tucked itself into my bones and was truly running the show whether I realized it or not.

“Just trust Him. i know it sounds cheesy, especially if you are an independent sort of person but it’s the only way to make it.” Actually it’s not. There are lots of ways to survive in life. I just didn’t know any better. And for all the “trust” of god, it didn’t exactly get me real far either. It’s only once I seriously started to question my belief in god that I felt like I was getting anywhere in my life – away from the depression and anxiety and really coming into my own.

I know that it’s a coincidence that both were happening at the same time but it certainly made things easier trying not to worry about fitting into some vague notion of what is right and wrong. Ironically, I am now that “independent sort of person” and agree – it does sound cheesy.

Despite my apprehension with the text, I did find a redeeming aspect in regards to the number of great pictures of my friends and I from high school. Pictures I hadn’t seen in years. Pictures of Jeremiah with makeup on, Directed Youth rocking it, me with a long wallet chain (back before it was cool and then wasn’t cool and was then cool again – yeah, that long ago) and a dog chain padlocked around my neck.

There are also pictures of my sister and I as little kids that are cute. I really loved seeing those old photos because honestly, a lot of my past is blank to me. And I don’t have any of those pictures. I remember some things here and there but these pictures are like a friend telling me what s/he remembers and thereby helping to fill in the gaps.

I forgot that I used to wear a Tooth & Nail Records stocking cap all the time, even when it wasn’t freezing out. Back when Tooth & Nail was good and put out all kinds of clothes. And music. It was good to see that despite my anxiety and depression at that time I was still enjoying myself. I still knew how to have a good time and smile and laugh and occasionally be content even if I was also dissatisfied a great deal of the time. And despite only rebelling against dressing a certain way and not thinking entirely for myself. These things take time.

I’d like to think my writing and zines have gotten much better. I see that from the first issue of Welcome to Flavor Country, let alone my writing with Shelter. There’s one thing I know that has been consistent through the years, though. I need a way to express myself. Always. And constantly. And writing it out is all I’ve got. Even all these years later.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

February 6, 2011

West River

By welcometoflavorcountry

I grew up in the same neighborhood as Tim Showalter.

Our families went to the same church for a number of years and I was in the same grade as his older brother. After I graduated college we got to know each other fairly well while we both lived in our hometown. We’re still friends although now he lives in Philadelphia and I live in Boston.

Tim is also a musician and under the moniker Strand of Oaks he has put out a remarkable album, Pope Killdragon. Having known Tim for a long time, I thought that connection made for a unique opportunity for my own creativity. I decided to take each of the songs on the album and use them as inspiration to write something. Hopefully you like some of what you read. You can listen to each of the songs off Pope Killdragon here.

 

1. West River

Listen to me read this entry by clicking here.

“Under the Bridge” by Red Hot Chili Peppers (RHCP) was one of those songs that was big about the time I was in middle school. It was the reason for the band’s propulsion into somewhat mainstream knowledge before they then seemed to disappear for a few years only to find, years later, their album Californication available quite prevalently in used CD bins all over the country (right near the excessive copies of REM’s Monster).

Beyond its prevalence on pop radio in the early 1990s, the other place “Under the Bridge” made a mark was at middle school dances. Tied with the pressure to participate on sports teams, school dances were always one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of what was already a considerably awkward time period for myself, and from what I’ve come to understand, every other American. Amazingly, I survived this all without getting braces, my perfect teeth being compensation for my balding that started at nineteen. Regardless, it did little to take away from my middle-ground position in the hierarchy of the early teens.

Neither popular nor a total outcast, my position in the academically accelerated classes with some of the other students who also happened to be popular enabled me to have a connection, however tenuous, with a number of the attractive girls in our grade as I had four classes a day with the same group of twenty-five or thirty students. While the position we were put in by being placed into what (for lack of a better term) was the smart kids’ classes is a story for another time, it did enable me to fantasize about having a chance with being able to date one of those beautiful girls like Sinead McGahan or Sarah Kanagy.

The other thing that “Under the Bridge” did for me was tap into a sense of introversion and melancholy that would often come to define my condition throughout middle and high school. The lyrics, although simple, seemed to suggest a longing, slightly mournful tone from Anthony Keidis. I’m not sure all the students at my middle school appreciated Keidis’ sense of loneliness in the midst of a metropolitan area or his interest in shedding tears. We just liked it because it was a good pop song with which we were able to sing along. But I could still sense something in the low-key nature of the music that made me interested in whatever deeper emotion that the RHCP were trying to tap into.

Thankfully, “Under the Bridge” was not a power ballad or cheesy slow song. And seeing as to how those were the types of songs that required awkward intimacy at middle school dances, I have no association with it and dancing with two of the most prevalent camps of girls of which I was aware of in middle school: those who were interested in me but which I wasn’t interested, and those with which I had no shot. Inevitably, dances were a place where, like much of middle school, unease reigned and emotions were thwarted. After dances my mom would come pick me up in the early evening (when all the dances seemed to end) and ask me if I had a good time. I always felt uncomfortable talking with my mom about anything that might involve boners on my part (as dancing with girls was likely to lead to).

But when I hear or think about “Under the Bridge” I often recall that drive from my middle school after the dances. While short in mileage it seemed to take forever. And the whole time I had my head filled with hopes and wishes of relationships, and so many things I didn’t understand about girls and dating and boners.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Non-fiction

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.