No Story

Tell me how the one about the carrot boys goes again?



...yeah, I don't remember either.

Something like that.

How Funny

When I said, "Run, Bright Eyes"
I never thought I might have been talking
To myself.




"Bemis is the man."

Here We Go

Horrible Visions
Climb careful now, careful forever
Up my back and my up neckwear
Climb safely on little sister
Resist the urge to fall and muster
Your courage high and run around
There are beasts of men here that abound.

From my antlers high and safe
Observe my world and from it take
Many lessons, none the less
Being how to cry when times are best.

Stay like this until you can't
In teleprompt, from safety, scant
Remorse I feel when I observe
Your dark ring eyes and fonted words.

Ride on my back lest I should fall
Then drag me homeward, tail and all.

Clean It Up Boys.

Final hoo-ra from the doctor/surgeon. The band leader/ringmaster. The Incompetents follow behind of course, all the talent and none of the glory.

"Nice and easy boys, let's do this real careful like."

He smiles.

"Please stop..." from somewhere deep within.

Well Have You Seen My Baby Boys?

They're very lonely.

Gentlemen in hats, boys with rocks, kids with devilish grins betraying a truely premature understanding of their tiny world. How I feel for them. They cry out to a man who can hear them but is unable to assist. They pray for miracles and recieve tears. I am so sorry children. I didn't mean it. I thought you could take care of yourselves. I thought that I had it right. Now I have to watch, an anguished observer, as my baby boys cry over split knees and torn hearts.

Grow up as slowly as possible, expect as much as you want, take what you can when it seems right and please, please, never feel that you are alone. Sometimes the only way to teach a man is to let him teach himself. But I still watch, and cringe every time you stumble. Those stones won't break your legs but they still rend my cluched chest. They turn my stomach. Please be careful out there. I love you.

Do You Ever Get the Fear?

Oscar Lowe's Notes

Upon A Strange Dream

Two nights ago I had the strangest dream. I was exiting the forest outside of my house, but it was alive...with the sound of music! Not that blaring noise of popularity today, and not the orchestras of yester-year. But a mighty parade of sound that bounded across the boughs and slipped over the streams as smoothe as silk. I was leading it, a great figurehead ratta-tat-tating with chest out and shoulders back, chin up to the sky. The trees and were the brass and strange creatures of unknown origin were my marching companions.

I am unsure of them, these strangers. They seemed so familiar. They seemed to know me, why? Why would they follow me into this strange world in my head? Such honesty of emotion. How could we be so true? How could anyone?

I tried, last night, to resume this dream. It was like standing at the doorstep of a house you've only seen in a picture before. I was reaching for the bell but was suddenly twisted. Suddenly the woods were a cage to my men. The only thing in unison were our racing hearts as fear mused us along amongst the brambles. Why did my symphony betray me? This place that was a home was a prison. And these people that were around me were not my friends.

"Breathe Oscar, breathe. You can save us. You can end this," he says.

"Who are you?? What do you want from me?!"

Safe to say, I won't be revisiting that dream again...

God, what does it take to get a drink in this place?

-Oscar












(Bonus Round: What song did I just refrence?)

Let Her Sing To You

So, here's a story about a story.

I was inside of my old house, inside of my head. I was walking around and I sat down and pretended I was still walking. It was vacant, and although cold is usually the feeling, the Florida heat was making it ever so slightly above bearable temperatuess. I closed my eyes and felt a sweat droplet on the tip of my eye lashes. I tried to close them harder and make it fall off but it sat at it's perch happily and refused to vacate. I didn't open my eyes again for a long while.

I pretended I was still walking around the house, observing the rooms, dark and hollow. Everything was so much bigger, it's like the place ballooned out or warped unnaturally. The house seemed ill at ease.

I don't know if I got up or not, but I went into each room, and saw ghosts of my past inside of them. I watched a young me in the bathtub with toys, laying out at night by the heater, playing cards with her in the kitchen. I, even describing it now, can't help but feel that circular tingling sensation you get about your eyes when they want to start watering. I imagined every Christmas. Every god damn one. I watched us grow up at lightning speed. I watched us at our happiest, giving eachother trinkets of what we saw. In me they saw music or games. In her we saw cooking or literature. I imagined our various trees. It's laughable now, sitting in an empty house, pretending it wasn't empty.

I thought about Mr. Brightside, and how it's true, that someone will drive her down the same streets that I did. Someone will live in this place again. And I hope that I'm still around. I made a pact to break in. To tear all their furniture down and throw it out because it's not how I remember it. I will show my son where I grew up and describe it so that the ghosts I feel flickering in and out of my reality, will become real to him to. I want him to know what a place it was. Because let me tell you, it was.

I felt ignorant and selfish, but I tried to put it into a song, it's all I could do in a house by myself. And I showed that song to another girl. She said I didn't have to but I wanted to. I was so impressed that I could trap that emotion, bottle that sadness and reopen it at will. I almost didn't make it through the song for my voice breaking. We both stared at the ground for a long time afterwords and she said simply, "I'm sorry."

I've played that song so many times now I don't even begin to tear up. It's scary. It's like the only time you could ever understand what I was trying to say was the one time I couldn't even say it.

Maybe that's the point.

Anyhow, if you ever hear me play a song, you'll know what it's about now. If I seem tired or weary it's because I'm searching for that weakness again. I revel in the hollow walls. I live in that moment, alone in that house. I live in that place, watching endless scenes of myself and my loved ones at Christmas time.

And for me, that will last forever.