Big Al
Project

I despise Tik Tok and reels more than corporate jobs and the 9 to 5. I would rather collide my Subaru head on with an oil tanker than spend a single day in a cubical. I can reach the entirety of mankind from the palm of my pathetic little hand, joy to the world! Record one video a day you say, one itsy bitsy video. It won’t kill you, and at least it’s not as bad as everyone’s crippling social media addiction that consumes the first hour (at least) of every single fucking morn

The glory of true love, peace to all, and I want to see the whole world burn. It is the quiet shadow world that intrigues me, the dark places that sit in my soul. I have a difficult time with joyful moments, for they come so easy, and then I need more. There is no end to the craving, I could consume the entire earth and still feel my tummy rumble. I am the very hungriest caterpillar, and I am never happy. It is the singularity of this idea that enraptures me, as if that small

Death below and life above. Millions of correct decisions, then judgement slips. The equalizer of man reaches from beneath and fastens his sinister claws around my ankle. Heaven, once so close, sets like a fiery star. Rules remain the same everywhere, keep moving forward and do not fall. The falling irony is you must be presently attuned to avoid it, but you can never think of it. To see is to do. Many world class climbers have been struck down by the glacial peaks of the No

I am the lowest common denominator. In this moment of singularity, in which all are, I am driving drunk. Headed South bound on BC-99, I do not plan on making it to the US border. It was not through an accumulation of these of these singularities did I get here, but one. This instant of time was so brief I cannot pinpoint it precisely. I do know that it happened, and that is what matters. Can one kill themselves if in the instant of the action, it is no longer? The act is in

I woke in fright to the intro riff of Kickstart My Heart. It is 2:30 in the morning and the last thing I want to do is to put crampons on my frozen boots and stumble around like a March bear. My climbing partner is fast asleep, and I do all in my power not to rip him out of dream land to join me in my cold suffering. He may as well get some more shut eye while I dick around with my gear. Is that pitter patter rain? In secret delight, anything for more sleep, I toss on my puff

The house is on fire, and I need to get the hell out. There is no plan or time, motion is of primary importance. Goals must be of rapid motion and swift execution. Life changes fast but I will be faster. My plan to “get in shape” this year will fail unless I strike it with such ferocity my neighbors flip shit and their ill trained pit bull runs for cover. Next my new job, house payments, kids, parent’s death, and finally the nail, my all-consuming business venture. I never ha

Dreams drift into expectations, expectations into another whipping post to flog myself on. My writing has held true for 61 short weeks. I understand the normality of my human folly and furthermore, it was intentional. One late day to remind me of the beautiful rock I have conjured into my existence, but no sooner did I find refuge on this rock did I notice the island beyond. My little rock is no longer enough, and I hate myself for achieving such puny dreams. Back to the vast

My love for birdwatching found me in the impoverished neighborhood of Warrendale, West Detroit. I Ubered to Rouge Park, a local birding spot. My reddit research foretold of a colony of Great Blue Herons, and I, came for the gold rush. Surrounded by trailer parks and abandoned homes, I asked my driver if I would be safe here. He hesitated, and responding distractedly, “You will be fine. Just mind your own business.” The conversation fell to weather, and in his distracted tone

The fear of death is killing you. It flies under no radar and the number game has collapsed. Airplanes are the safest in history, yet they are cracking down on the “intoxicated” passengers for the “safety for the plane”. Freedom verses safety, you pick. Safety hangs low on the branches of the society tree, and us smooth brained plebians gobble it up. We are suffocating under the flag of safety, which has completely eclipsed the freedom banner. The middle class is dying; old m

The old man was kicked to the curb. Stomped out on the streets of Portland, he takes his final stand on 23rd Avenue, out front of Barista Fine Coffee. All bathrooms are off limits, so the smell of urine and grime is profuse. No matter, he will be treated like a used tissue all the same. Except we acknowledge a used tissue. In complete coherence he yells “Can someone please help, someone help me please!” A victim of crippling medical debt and no family. Maybe in the thicket of

There is no mercy in food poisoning. The street meat beat down hits home, lights out, I am now considering the suicide option. Do I have the cajónes to keep moving forward? One sock, two sock, despair. Tetris blocks falling round, there is no cohesive option. My flight is in three hours, this is very bad. I lunge for the cool stainless-steel bowl and hurl out my dinner’s final stand. Not much left, I’m on the ropes. Punch in, punch out. I feel much better, but this calm state

My long weekend ends in skiing down Middle Sister, following the two days of Smith Rock. I'm tired and don't know what to write, so here is a cover letter of a bird counting job I applied for. Better luck next year. In a single serendipitous stroke, I stumbled upon this job opportunity. Just today during my post-work kayak tour, I was lucky enough to spot a Great Horned Owl, as well as a great number of Belted Kingfishers, Great Blue Herons, Double-crested Corm

A whimsical day in the mountains, a ski tour delight! Arc’teryx will keep you dry and an 800-fill down puffy maintains perfect bodily homeostasis. A low angle tour of Artisan point, top of Palmer, or a local groomer keeps you fit, happy, and safe. Ski touring is all fun and games, until those little voices start. They don’t bounce among all craniums, but if you hear them, they can’t be shaken. A little farther, ignore the pain, satisfy the itch. No road is faster to hell, no

Six hours ago I bagged Mount Adams, skiing down 7500 feet of volcanic vertical. Now home behind the keys, I am in the valley of death. The brain storm tonight is dark and gloomy, passing more judgements than thoughts. I’m happy she moved on, I never will. I never do. The old game of cat and mouse and I am the mouse. The cat’s whiskers tingle down my spine. My small, fragile spine. It would take nothing to break it. I swing for the stars, running in circles, just to return to

I retreat to the bottom of my lonely milkshake. The straw and I probe for the sickening sweet feeling of certainty. Long gone empty, we wilt under the weight of regret. How the rush had filled our emptiness within, how it left us nothing but sorrow. A second milk shake, one more time. Oreo cookie, classic vanilla, strawberry cheesecake, they are all the same. I weep as they tip the shake upside down. I cry for them, I cry for me. Sometimes this makes me feel better. They mus

Of all the dry spots, I sat in the puddle. I didn’t want my jeans sticking to my ass for the next hour, but through the tunnel all I could see on the other side was the corner. There just happened to be a puddle on the edge of this picnic bench. I chose to die on this hill a long time ago. Growing up, I never frolicked with the other boys. Daydreams drifting from wallball to hopscotch, but alas, I was in my own obit. I never had the courage to break this matter of course, reg

One year ago, I had it. Flipping the hourglass, it was like deja vu all over again. Eat, ski, work, repeat. I was surrounded by fractions of men, tar oozing from all orifices, trudging down the long road ahead. I was not to become a La Brea mammoth, frozen in time for all to laugh at. I decided to think for myself, by myself. Who do I wish I was, and what would he be doing? A writer, and he would be writing. I am a hopeless romantic and the most uncommon, what a pity. I put m

Stop signs (all six!), college ruled, single spaced. Concrete, filled with unwavering rebar, nobody gets through. How do you know? The whimsy of today blotted out by the demands of tomorrow. Who do you answer to, the royal lineage? Light streams into our cage, faithful guiding bands. Lined up in front of the prison bars. You crossed the line! This is my lifeline! I’m at the end of my line! Now in a single filed line I ask you, where did this ever get anybody? You know where.

I am surrounded by Savannah on all sides, since when? The bachelor beach party went accordingly, the boy’s war on Bush Light and Chatham County ended in triumph. I was on my way back from Tybee Island to catch the Greyhound when I was intercepted by the gauntlet. Ambushed by my friends, was quietly slipped a small square of paper. It is only 10 am, but you know how these things happen. Next, a round of Irish car bomb at Sorry Charlie’s. You know what is next. Whisky shots. Oy

The hardest part is dreaming. The pigs wallow in the mud and invite you in. You are splashed with mud, and the pigs insist you are one of them. The filth! Is it possible? I look back at the field of muck and indistinguishable lards, with snouts made for pillaging the earth. Squeals of insecurity. Fat and comfortable, they consume any morsel within rolling distance. They fuck anything that moves. Violent undertones rumble from the sty, they feel resistance. I have nothing aga