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Stranded

6/26/2015

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                926 days, 14 hours, 32 minutes, 18 seconds.  That's not so long, about two and a half years.  It's not that long.  Besides, can't be helped.  Eaten away bit by bit the seconds keep ticking chopping down the minutes; sawing through the hours; the days piling up without anyone asking.  At least the years have been kind.  No doubt.  The advances we've made to stay alive better and better proof of what we're capable of.  No doubt... help is coming.  Jackson didn't think so, but why he kept begging me to stop stabbing him I'll never understand.  Like I said he didn't think help is coming, and morale is important -- critical to the successful completion of the mission.  Vital.  Vital organs from Jackson repurposed to keep the beacon running.  Otherwise they won't know where to look.  Find us.       The Void is so vast I get lost just looking at it.  Staring through the porthole days vanish gazing into that blank ink ocean Mercer went swimming in, space suit and all; not a minute later he's screaming something's got him.  Reel the tether back in like fishing line, it goes taut then slack, and we get the harness back empty.  Every so often the radio crackles.  We receive a broken static garbled message.  Sounds like Mercer.  2 and a half years we're still receiving: 

     "Hello?  I'm (static) the lightning speaks (static) speaks to me." 

     I record them all -- standard operating procedure -- but never really listens to them.  It's not just the fact they don't make sense.  It makes me miss him, and other things as well. 

     I don't like to look at Mary's photo anymore.  The way it cries blood isn't the way I want to remember her.  She's waiting for me -- smiles, kisses and hugs.  I know it.

     The computer is glitchy meaning it needs fresh fluid.  Down in the computer core unhook Robin from the main line, and attach the IV to George's spine.  Fresh cerebrospinal fluid for the computer's glymphatic system -- clear out the waste build up. 

     I let the crew know, "You're all doing a great job.  As captain I couldn't be prouder.  I'm sure I've said this a thousand times, but we wouldn't be here without you.  Plus, I've got a good feeling help will be here soon."

     Afterwards I check on the food supply.  Marc is healing nicely.  Trick is to shave off strips then apply a coating of med gel, so the meat can grow back.  And anesthetic of course.  No reason to be monstrous.  Carving slices for dinner should be painless.  Don't enjoy it.  I enjoy it a little.  Marc always questioned my methods.  I'm keeping everyone alive lieutenant.  That's all you need to know.  Now sedate the crew.  We need parts.

     I'd give up myself to keep things running, but someone has to remain in charge.  Who else is willing to do whatever it takes?  Not Jackson, or Lisle.  Goddamn Lisle.  He wanted to go out the airlock after Mercer.  Saying no knocked over the first domino setting off a long line spilling one after other until every fallen tile spelled out mutiny.  But I know he meant well.  That's why I feed him to the computer crew.  Pureed seasoned with a few mood stabilizers and tranquilizers then the whole slurry fed intravenously.  Has to be done.

     When we get back I'll recommend them all for medals.  Soon.  We're going home soon.  We're not really that far away.  Green across the board.  Confirmed, we are go to cross the bridge.  Take us in Marc.  Let's see what's out there.

     I blame myself.  I was in command.  I'm in command.  In control.  But crossing the bridge no one knew what to expect, so is it really my fault the exit collapsed ahead of schedule trapping us in the rift?  We were on our way into history -- the future of space travel.  I suppose, in a way, we still are.  No one's ever been in the Void.  Keep the instruments running.  Record everything.  Maybe we'll find a way out.  926 days in, and the instruments register nothing.  Kelly put it best, how the rift opened a hole in the universe, and dropped us in the world outside the world.  She figured out how to turn the crew into spare parts.  Killed herself not long after.  She tasted like the kind of person she was -- sweet.  Thank you Kelly.  You helped us last this long.  I'll take us the rest of the way.  Home.  We're going home.  I can get us there; I can save us... save us.

# 

     "Mission control, this is the Orpheus.  We are opening the rift now.  Keep your fingers crossed."

     "We copy Orpheus.  We're all rooting for you."

     "Mission control, this is Orpheus.  The rift is open, and we are receiving the beacon from the Shackleton.  Repeat we are receiving their beacon."

     "Copy, Orpheus."

     "We have them in sight.  I can see the ship now."

     "Roger Orpheus.  You are go to extend the bridge.  They've been gone 3 days, probably anxious to get back.  Let's bring 'em home."

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Electric Lullabies

6/19/2015

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I've been working on a two huge music projects, and every so often I come up with a piece that doesn't exactly fit what I'm trying to do.  However, that doesn't mean it isn't worth sharing.  So here's a number I cobbled together this week called Electric Lullabies.  I recommend kicking back on a fire lit patio with a cold drink, maybe a Lynchburg lemonade, and just letting this play in the background.  Enjoy, and of course, thanks for listening. 
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Sharing Stories

6/12/2015

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I wrote the following article for a magazine called Shadows Express, and they were kind enough to publish it a few years ago.  Unfortunately, that publication has since closed up shop.  As such the article is no longer available to the general public, so I figured what the hell I'm feeling lazy why not reprint some old material.  Well, that and it makes a salient point about the nature of story telling I feel is often lost on academics.

Sharing Stories

           Some of the greatest books ever written are inherently flawed.  They lack one critical element which makes them paradoxically imperfect.  On one hand they often are brilliant, insightful, belletristic examples of the human condition in myriad poignant expressions.  However, the other side of the coin is that they are inaccessible.  The average everyday reader isn't likely to ever pickup a book like Ulysses, and if they do they're highly unlikely to finish it.  I know few English majors who have the tenacity to scale the Everest-like peak of Joyce's prose, considering such quotes as:  

          "No question her name is puissant who aventried the dear corse of our Agenbuyer, Healer and Herd, our mighty mother and mother most venerable and Bernadus saith aptly that she hath an omnipotentiam deiparae supplicem, that is to wit, an almightiness of petition because she is the second Eve..."

            Many would immediately argue something akin to, "Ulysses isn't for everyone."  Well, that's the real shame isn't it?  At the heart of Joyce's novel is an exploration of humanity to which anyone can relate.  Ulysses overflows with characters looking for connections to other people while attempting to hide and/or radically embrace that which sets them apart from society at large; it's about how we affect people with everything we are, even the lies we only tell ourselves.  The significance of the novel's humanity far outweighs the artistic devices it employs, and I dare say the same is true for other mountainesque books like Gravity's Rainbow or Infinite Jest.  These are all novels about the human condition told with such depth and poetry as to make them life changing experiences.  Yet, the difficulty inherent in reading these novels makes them inaccessible to a wider audience.  As such, these works are consequently confined to a small circle of readers.  So it falls to those who have scaled these peaks to tell the rest of the world what lies at the summit. 

            Too often academics focus on the use of language in literature, the blending of historical allusions with contemporary events, and other critical dimensions which rarely share the real beauty of a story.  Alice in Wonderland may be an allegory about the madness Lewis Caroll saw in the emerging mathematics of his era, but most people want to hear about the adventures of a young girl in a strange dreamlike world, not the symbolic intentions of tea parties, March Hares, and linguistic riddles.  Therefore, it is the responsibility of those who love literature to share the emotional impact of great works with those who will likely never delve into them on their own. 

            I have a friend who enjoys Monty Python; however, what she loves is watching people retell episodes from the show.  The retelling may flub a few lines, or not have the same comical grace as the Python alums, but she says there's something more satisfying about the sketches in that context because people add their enjoyment to the telling.  I can't imagine anyone blissfully relating a breakdown of the comedic mechanics and satirical subtleties found in the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch.  However, I have seen someone ecstatically reenact the scene.  And that's what people should do with great literature.  After all, the purpose of storytelling is to share.

Bibliography:

Joyce, James.  Ulysses (the 1934 text, as corrected and reset in 1961).  New York: Random House, 1992.  pg. 384


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Ain't Seen You in a While

6/6/2015

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After the long winter come home alone, happy to be so free, no one to wake at three a.m. stereo blaring a slow sludge cacophony chiseling away at the little drywall left holding the ceiling up; acting as umbrella during the thunderstorm raging outside slashing the trees barer than any Fall.  Kill another hour to make time seem useless, and forget... something.  Calculate the decadal distance between human visits produced at the insistence of none then witness a silhouette emerge triggering an urge to purge with tongue and fist the violence pent up, battering ink pools to get rid of shadows.  Staining the floorboards with knuckle brushes dripping red. 

Raging bull stomping around feels a sharp prick stab into hoof.  Unable to ignore glance at the wound, and pull a bone shard out.  Recollect the silhouette felt hard as wood at first then soft as dough.  Slide a tooth out from between the middle and ring finger -- canine -- but don't risk a peek at the source.  

Take the chance.  Who the fuck is that?  Enough face to see it wasn't who had it coming.  The pieces missing are the best parts of the story.  They could be anything:

... a young girl first time away from home meets a lonely silver tongued bull in a bar, goes home with him, gets gored.   

... hired a hooker to act as a bed warmer, but she resembles too much the lost touch that used to soothe burning nerves, so gets wrecked -- murder in effigy. 

... buddies after a few shared beers.  Neither wanted to stop, so off to the closer home for refills, and it just seemed right, spoiling for a fight, since no one would miss one bar fly.   

... the good neighbor came to see what's the matter, music blaring this late, didn't want to call the cops; another five minutes might've walked in on tears instead of blood thirst -- wrong place, wrong time.  

... there's nothing there.  

... they're all here in different parts of the house. 

Pick your possibility, and consider what it says about you.
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    Author

    J. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards.

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