Of Men And Purpose

Posted: 25th April 2012 by seanfrierson in Poetry
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Ater a long hiatus, I’ve completed another poem a moment ago.  I’ve been thinking a lot, and that usually means nothing else gets done in the mean time.  On the other hand, if I don’t think, I am useless anyway.  So, yeah.  Here you go!

What if the animals thought as we do

Paint and write and sing as we do

Worship and fear

With a wary tear

That they were meant for something greater.

What if the animals feel as we do

Smile and lie and love as we do

Die and live

Nothing to give

And where would the world be without them?

What if we are the animals?

What if we are the ones who bite and scratch

Who act on instinct and rule the world

Consuming and pissing and fucking all over

And for what?

It’s Easy

Posted: 24th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Poetry
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Jim had found himself a quiet nook in Golden Gate Park.  It was deep in the there; the structure was close enough to the city to see joggers and pedestrians flopping by, but far enough to not bother anybody.  He lived by an old stone structure that had been forgotten, and covered by bushes and other random foliage.  There was a small opening through the bushes for him to crawl into, and he had built a roof from camouflage material that kept him both warm and dry from the cold, and foggy San Francisco air.  This is where he kept his collection.

Jim used to be married.  He was deeply in love with his wife, who had given him a son.  He had set up his hut to remind him of his family.  There were photos and drawings of his wife and baby set up about the place.  Some were hanging from the roof by twine and others seemed to be pasted on his makeshift walls of particleboard.  There were piles of what looked like small rocks way off in the corner and he had a hibachi in the middle and an opening in the tarp for cooking and keeping warm.  His house may have looked a dirty mess to most, but it was home for him.

The majority of his time was spent improving his home with trinkets he would collect by walking around the park or meeting new people.  There were old watches, broken cell phones, cans and bottles all over the place, sorted out in piles.  Just the week before last, he had a guest over for lunch that expressed a similar interest in miniature condiments.  This person worked at a hotel in the area, and said he would love to buy Jim lunch, and would like to bring the scaled down sauces to add to his collection of all things tiny.

Every couple of weeks Jim would meet someone like this who shared their life with him.  Having left his family, this was very satisfying for him.   He missed the comfort. In fact, it had become so satisfying that he didn’t want to leave the park.  He figured if he could get away with what he was doing, what’s the point in returning to the rat race?  His wife couldn’t take him back and he would never see his son again.  No, he was quite content where he was.

This day, Jim received a phone call.  Even though he didn’t have friends or family, he felt it was important to keep a cell phone on him in case of an emergency.  He could only use the phone outside.  He was getting hungry any way, so he went to get better reception.

“Hello,” he answered in a gruff manner. His mood always changes when he is hungry.

“Sorry to bother you, is this Jim?” The voice on the other line sounded like one of those radio show hosts who yell things and make absurd sounds.

“Who’s askin’,” Jim aggressively replied.

“Opportunity, Jim.”  You could hear the crooked smile in his words.

“What kind of opportunity?” Jim was suspicious.

“It’s a contest, Jim!  Just for you!”  The word “you” was drawn out and louder than any other word and made Jim cringe and shake his head back and forth violently.

“Okay, okay, I get it! Just stop yer yellin’!” Jim was holding the phone out to his mouth and shouting into the phone.  A couple walked by and it frightened them, so they scurried off down the street.

“Alright, Jimmy.  Do you want to play?”

“Sure, I’ve g…”

“Okay, Jimmy, here’s the deal: We put a locked box in your home when you were gone.  In that locked box is a check written out to you for one million dollars!  All you have to do is use the key to open the box.  The catch is you will have to retrieve that key from one of our associates who is posing as a regular citizen in the park!  That’s it.  Are you ready, Jimmy?  Go!”  The man immediately hung up.

Jim was more irritated than motivated.  He was hungry, and now he had to do this contest.

“Why do I have to…” He had started, but realized there was nobody there.  He began his search.  Jim was a psychologist and that meant he knew people very well.  He figured he could spot a liar from the crowd easily.  He put his phone away and waited for people to walk by.  His tactic was simple. He would try to jump and scare who ever walked by his hut.  If they ran, they were honest, if they stayed, it was surely the associate with the key he needed and then he could eat.

A few people walked by and he lunged and made a face, he farted on people and just yelled obscenities. He didn’t want to bring this much attention to himself, but he needed to eat. Then he saw a man with a stroller.  He was younger, like he had been once.  Jim forgot about the contest for one moment and wanted to see the baby.  It had reminded him of his son he had before he was living in the park.  His hunger shocked him back to life and he figured this contest would be enough to get him food now.  He went back in to start his hibachi so it would be ready by the time he got the key.

“Besides,” Jim got to thinking, “he’s probably the guy, ‘cause what man pushes around a stroller? “  He made his decision that this man with the baby had to be the associate.  The man approached the place where the park met with Jim’s humble abode.  Jim lunged out at the man, who then in turn, with no hesitation, knocked him deep in the face making his nose bleed inside and out.  The man just stood there to make sure Jim would stay away.

That confirmed it.

Jim hadn’t tasted blood for a while, but it didn’t matter, he found the key.  He just stood, slurping the dripping blood into his salivating mouth and swallowing faster than his throat could move, and he wiped the excess blood and saliva from his beard.  He just stared at the man who slowly went back to pushing his stroller up the street, past Jim’s home.  Once the man was fully turned around, Jim looked over his shoulders, left and right, and in one fluid moment, pounced on the man and head butted him directly on the soft spot on the back of his skull.  The man was thoroughly stunned.

Jim dragged him off the sidewalk.  He carefully took the baby out of the stroller and brought it inside.  He then came out and threw the stroller across the street where it fell into a pond.  He looked at the bleeding man who had crawled over to the grassy entrance next to the house.  Jim walked over and stomped on his head as if it were a giant spider.  He did this because it was easier to drag him in submissively than to invite him in as a guest.

By this time, Jim thought, he should be able to have some lunch.  First, though he would have to find the box.  He went to the corner where he put the young man and searched his pockets for the key.  After finding the man’s keys, he found the box.  He then went into his own pocket a pulled out a rusty, dull looking key.  He used that key to open the box and added the set of keys to his collection.  He locked the box back up.  It was soon that he was going to be able to eat, he thought to himself.  When he eats, it’s always messy.  He got ready by taking off his coat and covering the man up so he wouldn’t disturb his meal.  He takes his cell phone out of his pocket and throws it in the pile of other broken cell phones.  The baby hadn’t stopped crying yet, so he put on the cover to the hibachi.

From the outside, it looks as if nothing happened there.  It doesn’t even look like anyone lives there, except for the plume of smoke, which was normal for the people who frequent the park.  Many homeless people make their own fires in the park and as long as it doesn’t harm passersby, they don’t really care.  They don’t really care when they smell roast pork or hear what sounds like a lamb sobbing for its mother.  To them, it’s just another walk in the park.

My first finished screenplay

Posted: 20th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Poetry
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So I have been really busy with my homework and haven’t been able to update often.  But now that I am finished, I can share it with you! It’s called Providence.  Enjoy!

P.S.  It’s in GoogleDocs, so you’ll need a Google Account to see!

She’s Blind

Posted: 14th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Stories
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She remembered who it was, but he was already around the corner.  Even with out the snow she won’t see him again.

Status Quo!

Posted: 11th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Cool Stuff
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Need more friends?  Buy my product!

Another Kony Perspective

Posted: 9th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Cool Stuff
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Recently, I posted a video produced by an organization called Invisible Children (Here is a link to a more objective view.)  I do not think it was the wrong thing to do.  Whether or not IC knows how to solve the problem, they at the very least have been trying to do something about it.  People who care don’t necessarily “know” how to fix the things they see wrong in the world; they just want to fix them.  I know this, and you can chose to believe me or not, because I also have a fire burning deep with in me that can’t be extinguished until it has a chance to incinerate hate.  I literally have no skills that would be beneficial in the capture of a dangerous person such as Joseph Kony.  I also don’t have the means to say whether or not arresting him, or killing him, would make any difference in Uganda.  I do have the power to see something I don’t like, say something about it and try to get qualified people to think about doing something.  Don’t you think it is better for a plumber to come in and fix a burst pipe than to either ignore your flooding home, or attempt to fix it; and because you don’t know anything about plumbing, it just makes it worse?  No, just because I posted a video does not mean I can really do something about it.  By posting the video, more people become aware of a situation they wouldn’t like meaning they may be able to do something about it, or they can pass it on to even more people, growing awareness exponentially.  Eventually, common awareness on the situation will reveal to the people who can make a direct difference, and then something will be done.

All I ask of all the people who are mocking the recent supporters of Kony 2012 to stop and think about it from another perspective.  What if YOU had something you cared very much about and a mass of other people came around and tried to make YOU feel guilty for following your heart, because you know in the depths of your soul, you’re doing what’s right.  How would you feel?  Firstly, what are you contributing to the argument by being condescending towards people who are simply expressing their opinion?  I haven’t seen any one opposed to the Kony hype offer up an alternative, realistic solution.  Secondly, so what?  I simply don’t see how participating in a viral event could possibly harm any given individual.  Show some humility and just as you would expect it, let others believe in what they believe.

-Sean Frierson

Thomas Flynn

Posted: 8th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Stories
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This story is based on Cece’s character, Thomas Flynn.  Cece is a fellow student in my degree program at Full Sail.  Hope you enjoy!

Thomas Flynn is a sheep farmer.  He didn’t always live in Ireland, and he didn’t always live alone.  He was a humble man who worked hard for everything he ever had.  He had a family.  He had a business.  He also had a pet that was very dear to him: Tim the wombat.

At the time, Thomas had settled in the outback of Australia where he could herd sheep and make a decent living for his brand new family.  He had twin sons and an endearing wife.  Often they would gather round the television and watch Sesame Street together so their 4-year-old sons could learn about their numbers and colors and such.  Besides the occasional jet liner roaring above, the television was one of the few portals they had to the modern world.  Everything else would be as you would expect it to be on a rural sheepherder’s farm.

Firstly, the water had to be pumped from the well about 20 yards away from the house from an old pump that screeched each time one would pull down on the handle.  There was the west field to the left and the east field to the right and one narrow dusty road leading straight up to the house, then around the house.  Behind the house, the road branched out in three different directions.  One led to their neighbor’s house about 5 miles away.  The one in the middle went farther to eventually meet with a deserted freeway.  Between that and the last road, about 100 yards away was a gigantic dead African Baobab tree with its branches twirling out creating just enough shade for the family to have a sit underneath during the day.  On the weekend nights, they used the same area to sit around a pit of fire and tell stories to one another.  The twins always looked forward to these nights because that meant they could both eat they candy that “melts in your mouth” and it was better than anything else they could ask for.

The dusty and bumpy third road, the one on the right side behind the house, led to their own secret oasis.  This is where Thomas found Tim.

Thomas was wearing his favorite sweater.  His wife had knitted it for him  when they were first dating, and he has worn the wooly thing religiously for years.  It had this generic looking kitty on it licking its paws.  He never knew the significance of the cat, why it was licking its paw or even why his wife decided to knit it specifically for him.  The only thing that mattered was that his wife loved him and wearing the sweater was his way of showing his love for her.

Thomas liked to go out to the oasis and read on his days off, for it was quiet and there were no children, or sesame street to bother him.  This day, he noticed there was a noise coming from behind a rock by the pool of clear water being fed by a small waterfall.  Thinking it might be a poisonous critter, Thomas slid slowly off the hood of his jeep, landing toe first, one foot at a time.  The noise got louder as he crept closer, clutching his copy of The Iliad.  It sounded like Elmo choking on the letter E.

Thomas, hearing this, decided it was not a threat and came much closer.  He smelled rotten white potatoes behind the rock, reminding him of home.  He saw a wombat gasping for air next to the water’s edge.  Thomas quickly knelt over the dying creature and thrust two of his fingers in to the marsupial’s stomach area, projecting out what looked like a giant snail from the wombat’s mouth!  From that moment on, Tim, as he was then named, and Thomas , were inseparable.  The Flynn’s had a new member of the family.

Thomas had fashioned a house for Tim to live in out of sheep droppings, mud and hay.  It was an igloo-shaped structure.  It was this way because of how cold it gets at night and Thomas had read somewhere that eskimos stayed warm in this kind of house.  He had built it right next door to their house in case there were some kind of flash flood where he would quickly then have to fetch Tim to save him from the waters.  Sure enough, it had happened a couple of times and the igloo washed away like it was never there.  But there was always a steady supply of dirt and sheep poop and hay to build the igloo over again.

Thomas had sheared the sheep many times by now and his sons seemed to never stop growing.  They were 14 now, and helping out with the family business and Tim was always there to cheer them up.  Mrs. Flynn, however, had never liked the wombat.  She had always thought the nasty rodent would die and leave her family in peace.  She thought about it everyday.  How everyone thought Tim was so cute.  Tim was so smart.  Tim could do anything.  Every time, which was all the time, Tim had a bowel movement, everyone would coo, except Mrs. Flynn who had to clean it up.

She couldn’t understand how the wombat could have lived for so long any way.  She thought to herself that it had been ten years since Thomas brought it home, surely it should have died.  But Tim lived on.

Thomas was going to the oasis that day and announced it as he was putting on his last dusty boot.

“I’m going to my quiet place for a while, is that alright?”

His wife was two rooms away in the kitchen.  “Enjoy yourself, dearie,” she had mumbled sarcastically.

“What?  Did you feed Tim?” It came off quite incredulously.

“Of course, dearie!” This came out louder and happier than Mrs. Flynn actually speaks.  Thomas picked up a random book and headed out to the oasis.

It was like any other day that Thomas would have gone to the oasis.  The sun spat stinging rays of sunshine down on the desert, no clouds, no wind and most importantly, no sounds.  The only thing that could be heard was the quiet trickling of the shrunken waterfall at the pool of water where he found Tim 10 years ago.  His mind wandered to that moment and he chuckled to himself, remembering some obscure moment only his warm feelings could identify.

Only a few minutes had passed and he was already thinking about that night when he and his family get to sit around their tree and eat M&M’s and spend the time with each other.  He hadn’t even started reading yet.  He looked over his shoulder in the direction of his home and noticed a pillar of black smoke rising up.  His entire body seemed to shift up gears too quickly and he could feel the cold adrenaline rush through his vessels.  He knew it was from his property, there was nowhere else it could be from.  He dashed to his jeep and drove home as fast as he could.  Even though it was desert, and there was no traffic it would take him 20 minutes to get there.  The tortuous thing about the drive was that his property was in straight sight the entire time, but he couldn’t see what was on fire.

What was it? He couldn’t see the flames coming from the house.  Could it be Tim’s igloo?  That is what Thomas decided it was.  The igloo caught fire somehow; the kids were playing with the matches again.  All he could hope for was that they were unharmed and that Tim was okay.  He figured his wife was safe.  She had dealt with fire professionally before they were married.

What he didn’t know was this:  His wife, feeling under appreciated for years, finally took matters in to her own hands.  She thought that if her husband and children would be able to see how useless Tim was, they would decide to love her instead of a smelly wombat.

She was able to borrow some jet fuel from their neighbor a few days before.  They owned a jet they rarely used and didn’t question Mrs. Flynn’s needs because they had plenty.

She had cornered Tim shortly after Thomas left and put him in a small cage.  Her plan was to restrain her sons and her husband to the Baobab, and burn Tim alive in front of them so there would be no reason for them not to give her attention any more.  After she put Tim in his cage, she saturated a cloth with some more jet fuel and searched for her boys.  One was just getting out of the bath.  She knocked on the door to lure him out of the room and forced her palm with the cloth in it into her first son’s face, using her other hand to push from behind is head. She brought him down softly as he passed out so she wouldn’t alert the other son who was coming up the hall at the same time.

She leapt towards the unsuspecting teenager, knocking his head against the wall, struggling to keep the soaked cloth over his writhing face.  He was able to scream a little bit, but some of the fuel got in his mouth and it burned his lungs as he inhaled.  After about 2 minutes of struggling, her second son was passed out.

She dragged their rubbery bodies to the tree and secured them sitting upright with rope.  When she made sure that her sons would not be able to escape, she went back inside to get the cage.  The whole house smelled like jet fuel and shampoo.  She opened all the windows to air out the place and grabbed the wombat.

When she came back out, all she had to do was wake her sons up, explain what she’s doing to them and wait until her husband came back to douse Tim and set him on fire.  After the wombat burned, she would untie her children, she would make dinner and all of them could eat M&M’s that night around their fire pit.  Or so she thought.  She went over to wake up her sons.  She went to the first son and nudged him gently.  He slowly opened his bloodshot eyes and looked at his mother.  Then he looked at his twin brother, who was bleeding from his mouth and ears profusely.  Mrs. Flynn saw the gesture and panicked.  She started to shake her second son violently, yelling for him to wake up.  The first son hadn’t stopped sobbing.  He was biting his bottom lip, only opening his mouth to breathe, every time letting his saliva roll off his chin mixing with tears that seemed to burn his skin as they ran down his cheeks.

Mrs. Flynn realized that she had killed one of her sons.

She grabbed what was left of the jet fuel from the aluminum canister and started to weep tears of it all over both her sons and herself.  The first son starts screaming at her,” Ma!  What are you doing, Ma!  Stop it, Ma!  I don’t want to die! Where’s Da?!”

She reached deep inside her pocket and pulled out a book of matches.  “Don’t you see that I love you?”

“Please help me, Da,” her son was no pleading.  Every word was on the next breath, for between all the jet fuel and the crying, it was becoming very difficult to breathe.

Tim was still in his cage, watching everything.  Though Tim couldn’t begin to understand what was happening, he was screaming in fear.  He still sounded like Elmo from sesame street, except this time it wasn’t funny.

“I hate you!” She kicked Tim’s cage away from them.  She lit the matchbook on fire and threw it on her second sons lap and then knelt down and hugged her children.

After a few more minutes of screaming and pleading, Mrs. Flynn and son passed out from the heat and burned like kindling for the old tree.

When he pulled up, he found he was far from knowing what possibly could have been the problem.  It was impossible for him to comprehend the situation at that moment, and even now, after decades of living on his small sheep farm in Ireland, he could never understand what happened.

He saw three bodies against the old baobab tree and stood in horror as the tree lit up with brilliantly green, blue and yellow flames.  He watched as it grew hotter, it’s branches falling one by one to the ground, leaving the tree in a smoldering pile of ash.  Tim had apparently died from the kick Mrs. Flynn gave the cage and left Thomas Flynn with nothing

No one knows of what happened that day.  Thomas doesn’t even know why.  In his old age, he could now look back and be happy about his time with his family.  He now lives a solitary life on a small sheep farm in Ireland.  Everyday, he walks out to a giant oak tree and eats M&M’s, wearing that cat sweater, wondering if his family still loved him.  He’ll die under that tree.  He knows he’ll see his family again.

Kony 2012: Let’s Make A Difference!

Posted: 7th March 2012 by seanfrierson in Cool Stuff
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This video is not mine; I did not create it.  I do feel it is an important issue that does need to be shared as much as possible.

Please take the time to watch the video in full and then share when you are done.  At the very least, share the video, even if you don’t watch it.

Now is the time to to show the world we can change it for the better.  Let’s do the right thing.

Thank you.

An Original Scene (For Class)Pt. Deux!

Posted: 3rd March 2012 by seanfrierson in Stories
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This one is based on a fellow student’s original scene, but from the perspective of the sandwich.  Have fun with this one!

The stomping of feet and slamming of a heavy door alerted the humble white bread that his murkiness of the pantry would be lifted in time.  It had been waiting in anxious anticipation since it was brought there a few days ago, along with 12 other loaves.  It had no idea how or when it would be used, but it was it’s dream since leaving home­; the bakery on 3rd.  The baker had mentioned wonderful things it could be like toast, or croutons.  It very much hoped it could aspire to be something special; it had heard about the illustrious sandwiches of the big city, and though a loaf can dream, it knew it would never have any of it’s slices in a sandwich.

There had been a lot of rummaging going on earlier.  In the darkness, the bread smelled the cold air assuming it was from earlier.  Suddenly there was a crash that shook the shelf it was on.  A rush of musty air lifted the dust from the pantry door filling the small space with skunky body odor and wet dog smell.  It was time for the bread to go.  The hairy, smelly thing that had snatched the bread up caressed the loaf, searching for the plastic tab.  He rips the tab off and undresses the bread to reveal it’s naked form.  The bread cannot comprehend what is happening.  Its slices are set out next to each other.  French toast!  At least that’s what the bread thought.

A knife came down after a jar had been opened and started spreading the white and fluffy spread all over the slices.  Could it be?  Was the white bread from a simple bakery on 3rd really becoming something all at once?  Well, just like one piece of hail follows another, a storm of sandwich ingredients starts falling on each slice.  Turkey, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes formed square shaped puddles of satisfaction.  The bread felt a sense of vertigo as it was stacked one atop another.  The fully formed sandwich seemed to cry with accomplishment and pride as the tomato juice dripped from the sides.  The sandwich was overjoyed to say the least, for now it could be called a sandwich.  A toothpick with an olive was inserted on top of it as a crown.  By far, this was the proudest moment for a bag of white flour: to see its off spring be made in to something far beyond a simple loaf of bread.

An Original Scene (For Class)

Posted: 1st March 2012 by seanfrierson in Stories
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Another day had baked away and there was still no new prey.  He was a creature of shadows.  The hungry heathen let out a slow and steady growl as he prowled about the grainy floor that was his home.  Heat stuck to his furry neck, slipping down to his much cooler pads.  The growl became louder and more frequent as he got closer.

The light from the refrigerator revealed his dusty coat and his striped shirt seemed to ripple as another growl erupted. For the first time that night, he released his jaws releasing an ever-long howl marking his disdain for his tired, prey-less existence.

“Sandwiches again,” he thought to himself as he put his two front paws on the top part of the fridge to reach the loaf of bread with his mouth.  He opened the plastic wrapped brick and put two slabs on his counter.  He went back to his refrigerator and grabbed the mustard, the mayo, some leaves of rubbery lettuce; something that looked like meat, but wasn’t; and then a little jar full of black stuff.

With a single hugging motion, he toppled all of his ingredients on to the counter next to his bread.  He started with mayo, spreading its sour smell on one slice with a butter knife.  On the same slice he squirted out the rest of his aging yellow mustard, making sure to get the crusty bits on as well.  He enjoys some texture to his food.  With great reluctance, he tossed a shriveled shred of the lettuce, which might have bounced at least once before settling on the glue of mustard and mayonnaise. He couldn’t tell because he was too busy glaring at the mystery meat.  Even he wasn’t all around sure what it was.  It could be a soy product.  It could have been meat once.  It was his only option either way. He set a few of the round slices on top of the lettuce, his eyes still in a apprehensive, fetal-position-like squint on the spotty medallions.

At last, his favorite part of his least favorite meal.  With a special grace, he twisted the tin lid off the jar full of black stuff.  The air immediately was reminiscent of a clear ocean breeze mixed in with rotting pile of garbage and yeast.  Drool started pooling under his tongue, eventually dripping in the same manner as the heat was earlier.  After wafting the aroma in to his dripping snout, he took a fresh spoon and scooped a dollop of tar on to the clean slice of bread.  He spent his time rubbing it in with the back of the spoon in, what he felt was, consummate circles, evenly spreading the pitch-like substance with careful exuberance.  He swiftly lifted the slice and with a smersh, aligned his sandwich crust to crust.

This was the salty moment he waits for everyday: to chomp in to his sandwich, smothered in salty black stuff, oozing on his pads bite after bite.  His drool running black, he lets slip his inner dog of war, howling in to the night releasing a jet of sandwich particles and filling the atmosphere with the scent of his guiltless pleasure.