iPhoned In

Excuse this entry, I'm going to forgo philosophy and eloquence in favor of some idle musings in regards to the state of technology, social trends and profitable misconceptions created by clever marketing. This entry was sparked by something interesting a friend said to me the other day. Not good. Not bad. Just interesting.


"When are you getting a big boy phone, Brad?"


My friend said this jokingly, not meaning the remark to be rude in anyway, and I did not take it as such. However, it is--though unintentionally-- telling.

I have to hand it to Apple. They've managed to assert their product so far into the collective psyche of society that owning an inferior product has become characteristic to a lesser level of maturity. Maybe that's a bold jump to make from one man's offhanded quip, but just a little further down the road you'll find a growingly common public notion- who doesn't have a smart phone?

Well, actually, a great many people, and I intend to remain in that number for as long as my relic hailing from the dark ages of 2010 holds out. The iRonic (patent pending) part of it is that my cellphone will likely last me much longer than those of you with the iPhone 5 because you know you can't resist the allure of the inevitable iPhone 6. Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those people running around shouting, 'smart phone, dumb brain.' It's just not for me. Never will be.

Now I know what you're thinking (or at least I'll pretend I do.) Brad! How can you knock it if you haven't tried it? Oh, but I have. An iTouch music player came into my possession a Christmas or two ago. (For those unaware, an iTouch is essentially an iPhone sans the ability to make calls and have access to 4G networks, relying on Wi-Fi instead.) My iTouch + my phone (takes pictures, videos, surfs the net with a basic browser) = iPhone. Only difference is the fact that my bill is 25 dollars a month and I'm not considered a 'big boy.'

So what was my impression of the experience?

"Meh."

Tell the ghost of Steve Jobs, I'm sorry. I can't help that I'm not impressed. Not being stuck in my ways or snooty here so hear me out.

Let's list the draws-- what makes a smart phone so smart.

This Thing I Found

Recently, I've found something wonderful. It's awe inspiring, so much so I believe I'm at a loss for words -- an ailment that rarely befalls me. I won't say what this thing that I found is, but I will account all the feelings it has evoked in me. When I see this thing, I find myself relaxed and excited all at the same time. This thing makes me sing songs I never even heard. I hear birds chirping at night. When things are wrong I still feel alright. This thing is like a star in the sky seen at all hours. This thing is like rose in a world without flowers. Thing made me slip into poetry with a blog entry. And I find that strange-- so delightfully.

This thing is something that I cannot identify because I've never seen anything like it. It's like a UFO, and it's abducted my senses-- including my sense of direction. I'm lost in thoughts of this thing because with it came emotions I'd long shunned for reason. Why? Because it's beyond reason... and belief. It's like pulling up a rug and finding gold floors underneath. I'm inspired in a way that makes my mind melt. You think it'll be one thing but you'd never guess this.

This thing? I'll admit...

This thing is-



- B

Neighbors Called

then we say, (not too loud)
what gives
but the present, and accounted for
numbers off
on a holiday, free from calculators
turgid plots

hush tones power, over mono warm
fonts clash
sea foam spattering, rocks murder blood
iron tasted
like a good chef, stirring stewing boiling
pace marks

red blue nightmares, flash black hands
put up
posters over posters, town hall meeting
the end
bars bars bars, drunk dead stall
worth it

Maybe.



- B

Poet note: This is a form of poetry I've invented and am rather fond of. I call them "3-2-1" poems.

Dereliction of Deity

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of creative writing, and this is told from the point of view of a Catholic priest which I certainly have never been. I'm no hypocrite, I never force my opinion on anyone, so just read and don't be offended, okay? When it comes to religion, I'm all for freedom of belief and allowing individuals to find the truth that works for them (as long as it does not infringe on the inherent rights of others.) That said, I am an Atheist and damn proud of it-- willing to explain and defend my faith in humanity. Enjoy.



Dear Father,

Do not mistake this letter of concern for a prayer. Yes, when I was a much younger man I looked to you for advice-- even revered you above all else-- but alas, that time is no more. I now find your existence implausible, an angle I see as an optimistic one. If you do happen to exist, I'm terribly sorry... for you must be the loneliest creature in all 'creation.' I say this sentiment not as passive aggressive blasphemy, but out of a sense utmost and genuine pity.

Perhaps you're asking yourself why a lowly mortal would pity the great and glorious all-father, hands of earth and sky, know-er of the why and the all-seeing eye. Simple really. Your character is tragically beset by crippling narcissism, a condition made even sadder by the myth of perfection you desperately perpetuate. You say you've made man from your image, yes? Meaning our emotions are derived from your own? The Holy Bible accounts countless times when you display anger and sadness. There's no denying it, Yahweh.  The sin of humanity disturbs you, and causes you to isolate us-- damn us to hell even-- but who is really being isolated?

The Joys of Anonymity

My face is often seen
As a ballad within a scream
In hopes of getting dashed
The checks I cashed

Crickets are preferred to birds
Like taking dreams over turds
Forgive my mind so crude
But I am still... "just a dude"

Just some guy you'll never know
Planning trips on which he'll never go
Penning books you shall not read
Living for art and not for greed.

- B

My Most Magical Dreams

Today I awoke with this phrase dangling from the rafters of my dusty mind:

"Oh the things I see in dreams - the whimsy overwhelms and inspires. Yet the most beautiful ones are with you, when nothing transpires."

Of course that's the translated version for Twitter, within the dream world it went something like: "In dreams I see beautiful, convoluted nonsense like nothing I could ever imagine awake. Yet when you are in the dream and we do nothing but enjoy each other, I find those dreams to be the most magical." And I suppose it's true. Perhaps I am a romantic, and I've denied myself the ability to channel that nature for the sake of my art. There is indeed someone I love, and yet I refuse to act upon it... so uncharacteristically.

But this entry isn't about my personal affairs and the meaning of the dream itself-- I have a dream diary for that. No, this entry is about the strangeness of these simple, romantic dreams. How can an uneventful dream possibly trump the wild, reality distorting experiences? How can a mere person who exists within reality be more exciting than everything else in a world jammed with the impossible? In dreams, I can see colors beyond the rainbow. I can experience stories told by my mind firsthand without even making them. I can be heard. I can be microscopic.  I can be everything and anything... and yet I chose to be with you.

I suppose that's symptomatic of my cancer's stage. I'm a lover sans a lover, so my mind's malady pines for 'm'lady.' I slip into stupor and perhaps poetry. And for what? What can I express? Dreams exist to convey a message, and I hear it with the clarity of megaphone being shoved in my ear. The question then remains:

Does she dream of me, if she dreams at all?  Are they the most magical?


- B

Living Fiction

Fiction. 

The word is all encompassing, and perhaps too much so. The various breeds comprising the majestic art of fictional writing are so diverse that I'm often left questioning whether some genres belong to a different species entirely. The rules of reality shift with each genre-- and within them. When transitioning from one book to another, our minds must accept new physics and relearn history. The sheer dissimilarity of  each author's thought processes is palpable to an avid reader.  Like an immigrant, an individual work of fiction comes from another culture, carrying with it a unique language and appearance starkly different from its cohorts'. Fiction transcends its simple word casing. It's more than a mere category; fiction is a multiverse.

Whenever I tell anyone I write fiction, they usually ask, "What kind of fiction?" as if it were a question capable of providing a concise, one word answer. What kind of fiction do I write? What kind of person are you? Right now, harness your very essence and tell me absolutely everything you stand for in one word. Can't do it? Neither can I (with proper justice.) To a writer dedicated to his craft, being asked to pinpoint his precise niche within the unfathomable space of fiction is just as absurd of a request.

Medieval fantasy, modern magical, military mystery, Victorian-era period piece romance...  

These may seem like acceptable answers, but they really fall short by a significant margin. Sure, those tell you where you can expect to end up and give a hint to the style of plot, but -- and maybe it's just me here-- don't they make it feel a little cheap?  I feel like a slave-trader rattling off a sick list of selling points for a living, breathing person. That's perhaps too bold of a comparison, but the question offends my identity as a writer. You wouldn't assign dehumanizing categories to to a human being, so why would you dehumanize a book containing what should be representations of them? I toiled countless nights to give my characters and worlds life, so why should I rip it away?  

For me, my characters are alive-- so much so, that I actually feel their pain. I find myself apologizing for the ill I must inflict upon them in order to give their lives meaning and grounds for my characters to court a meaningful friendship with a reader. Writing isn't a job or hobby for me. Creating fiction is my life's meaning. My words are to be the manifesto of another. My plots and plans dictate and often end the lives of others. The word 'fictional' is the only thing separating my responsibilities from God's. Writers are the deities of their creations, tasked with forming ideal worlds for a stressed society to find refuge within.

Thiller, adventure, mystery, horror, romance, suspence...

A good story contains all these aspects and should not be categorized under just one. I write under the oath of no genre, and with each separate work I vow to uphold this philosophy and succeed in an entirely new way. My novels shouldn't be defined by concrete categories, but the outlooks, experiences and relationships they offer readers. Perhaps I'm alone. Maybe my fellow writers will not agree with the harsh expectations I have for my work, but it's my guiding principal nonetheless and I will never compromise the integrity of my art. But I'll be fair, I'll answer the question-- though perhaps only here to avoid sounding arrogant and overly idealistic.  

What is my genre?

Living fiction. 

- B