Blank Page (Revised)

A lot of people have been asking for the speech I gave in its entirety. What was posted a few nights ago was just some random writing I was doing that turned into the speech. It's quite similar. But either way, what's listed below is the speech as I gave it.

Also, I never expected so many people to look at this site (it's always just been a place for me to blast of political opinions, experiment with new writing forms, and basically hold my creative writing), but if you want to read some of the things that I'm actually proud of and think I do well, read: Idle Conversation (I'm such a spaz with this site that I still can't hyperlink, but you'll see a link to it on the right of your screen).

A lot of my other stuff on here is political rambling, or poor Hunter S. Thompson impersonations that were never really meant for true public consumption (i.e., read at your own risk). And again, thank you all for the kind words, they've meant more then any of you will ever know.

Here's my speech from yesterday:

Blank Page

Sometimes the questions that we all can’t answer, and rarely want to ask, are thrown at us, chaotically, miserably, and without cause. And our only response must be to promise those who have presented these questions, through no fault of their own, that we’ll try our best to answer them and make our selves more whole not because of the answers we find, but because we’ll have searched for them.

The projector changes scenes when it deems fit. Grim slabs of misery can transition to bright bombastic stabs of ecstasy only with time, and only with hope. And our hope is something we cannot know, and my not even be real, but ultimately it’s our hope that is our greatest asset. Our energy is but random pulses, random connections that feel solid for as long as they last and just as vapid as they collapse brutally from below and above us.

But in the damp night sky satellites will continue on their orbits, connections will be made, and sometimes missed, and hearts will break and never heal. Our brother’s ashes will come back to their home, to the place they belong, to the ocean we, and he, all sprung from. And when all our ashes settle, as a true quiet absorbs the space around our beings like a thick jelly, we can only hope that we’ll all get the answers we seek someday, in sometime, in some place. Because that is the only true hope any of us can have, and it’s the greatest mercy we can possibly expect.

It’s only in this time of loss that the direction of our lives can be so singular, as we search our minds for reasons and answers we cannot know. And as thick drops of cool rain fall regally from above, we can only keep breathing every breath, and walking every step, and trusting every moment towards a destination we’ll never know. And for whatever reason, we’ll learn something along the way. And if there is no final score, no touch of grace and no healing contact, then the sad story would have a pretty poor ending. But a blank page is no way to end a beautiful tale; even if its one that hurts us so badly along the way. So let us hope this is a story, and not just an illusion.


Mike and I were as close as brothers could be. We were connected not by name or blood, but by time and experience. There’s so many times in the future of my life, and I’m sure all of ours, that we’ll wonder how we can be happy doing the things he loved without him next to us. But we must, and we will.

The message we choose for Mike’s bracelet fits him for million reasons. He carried us because he could. And especially me. Mike played every part of his life as hard as he could, not only because it was the only the way he knew how, but because it was the only way he wanted to. And he carried me. Sometimes because he had too. Literally. He’s broken my wrist, my nose, my finger, my teeth (twice), (sigh), my cheek, my toe (he’s knocked the wind out of me like I was a whoopee cushion) and he’s beaten me up and down every from field, basketball court and pinball table anywhere on this pale blue dot.

And now he’s broken my heart. And all of ours. But it only hurts so badly because I, and we, loved him so much. And I can’t say for sure if in death he’ll always be there for me, because I can’t know that for sure, but I am sure I’ll always be there for him. We’ll chase his spirit because he was the best of us.

And finally, from my family and myself, thank you all for the support you’ve given us over this week and in the future. There’s no way we could have made it through any of these days without it. I love you all, and all I’ll always love you Mike.

Blank Page

We float on these gentle streams as small red leaves and await waterfalls without much vision. These waterfalls, these dark holes, these rings in the cosmic fabric are unpredictable and uncontrollable. And they come to us, and at us, with a random poetry that cannot be written and is only pretended to be read. Separation is the cause of most of life’s anxiety, because its separation and the hollow cold emptiness it creates that we can understand the least of all. Strength and weakness, twilight and starlight, death and life.

The projector changes scenes when it deems fit. Grim slabs of misery can transition to bright bombastic stabs of ecstasy only with time, and only with hope. But ultimately, we have none; none that we can truly know of anyway. Our energy is but random pulses, random connections that feel solid for as long as they last and just as vapid as they collapse brutally from below and above us.

Sometimes the question that we all can’t answer, and rarely want to ask, is thrown at us, messily, miserably, and without cause. And our only response must be to promise those who have presented the question, through no fault of their own, that we’ll try our best to answer it and make our selves more whole not because of the answer, but because we’ll have searched for it. Humans have been searching for it forever, and we’ll never find it in this prism. The answers just aren’t offered.

But in the damp night sky satellites will continue on their orbits, connections will be made, and sometimes missed, and hearts will break and never heal. My spine sinks sadly into the comfort of this night as the ashes of my brother fly majestically over some foreign land towards their home, to the place they belong, to the ocean we, and he, all sprung from. And when all our ashes settle, as a true quiet absorbs the space around our beings like a thick jelly, we can only hope that we’ll all get the answers we seek someday, in sometime, in some place. Because that is the only true hope any of us can have, and it’s the greatest mercy we can possibly expect.

It’s only in this time of loss that the direction of life can be so singular, as we search our minds for reasons and answers we cannot know. And as thick drops of cool rain fall regally from above, we can only keep breathing every breath and walking every step towards a destination we’ll never know. And for whatever reason, we’ll learn something along the way. If there is no final score, no touch of grace and no healing contact, then the sad story would have a pretty poor ending. And a blank page is no way to end a beautiful tale; even if its one that hurts us so badly along the way. So let us hope this is a story, and not just an illusion.

Soft Tissue Much Softer

While watching Die Hard with a Vengeance, the Gallup Poll called. Right in the middle of it, right when Jeremy Irons is shooting SLJ in the foot with a gun that he somehow couldn’t understand the safety mechanism of (and then Jeremy Irons bites an egg in half!). And if you live in a Bright house, you know, that this call means interruptions to BW’s usual murderous poetry. Awful interruptions. Bad craziness. Things you can’t ignore. So I didn’t, and I picked up the phone and answered their questions.

They varied. Some where stocked (“Does Ron Paul’s form of Americana give you an erection? My answer: Depends on the weather), some were sound bites and others were personal. I didn’t like the personal ones. I answered them with flak; I wanted to bring down their questions, crash them into my own dirty enemy territory where I could fight them on my terms as opposed to the beautiful Beltway Tower from which I was being assaulted from.

”Does the oil spill effect you personally?” they asked. I gave them 4 seconds of silence and then in tone that wasn’t quite menace, but wasn’t quite my own, said: “Let the bullshit blow over for a while so I can run the casino, anything goes wrong the casino it’s my ass, its not your ass, it’s my ass”.

And then they hung up. But when you see Casino you should quote Casino. I guess the Gallop maestro assumed I was a loon, and I am. But that wasn’t a bullshit answer. And they didn’t let me expound. The fact was I had no idea what I was talking about, but when you’ve had three bottles of Merlot from some Serbian country the synapses will fire when they wish and not when you want them to.

Here’s the thing: I’m soon to roam. I haven’t posted here in a while because I’m hopeless. I.E., I have no hope. I’m marginally good at a good amount of things but not great at anything. Time to start taking pot-shots.

At my job this week the head’s of the company have come in to teach us about aspects of the new line of products. All good people, all fairly thorough, and all possessing something that I’m sure I don't want no matter how much it would benefit me professionally. At the same time, I could tell I was as generally as smart as they were. And it hurt me in a really strange way that I’ve never felt before.

And I’ve never been one to Brandon Fraser my ego (actually I’ve proven quite good at downplaying any ability I’ve ever had), but it was clear that I was a wasp sting. For twelve hours yesterday I was talked down to about new pieces of furniture from a bunch of people who I’d laugh at during Double Jeopardy. And each person that talked to us it became quite clear that although I may not have gone to as good of a school as they, but that I was working on a similar level. Long story short, we named one of our furniture lines the Louis the XVI collection, and so I raised my hand and asked why. As in why had we named that collection after that particular king. Our Senior Head of management said: “Well he was the Sun King, so I guess that is what we were going for”.

Sigh. So I said, sadly, and beaten as someone who is only slightly beaten can say, “Louis the XVI was simply opulent, Louis the XIV was the Sun King”. And in my interior I thought: "And I'm high right now".

But nobody in the class I was in heard the exchange; they were all sleeping. And the manager just ignored me (he said he couldn’t hear my mumbles, although I was spitting on him as I said it). And I’m only telling you this story in the middle of the night, drunk, and in the top an oak tree. I have no doubt the world will start spinning soon. But I'm getting close to telling what lines it will cross. And what was the point of all this:

Speed kills but beauty lives forever. Res ipsa loquitur.