Musings of JR Simmang

Suicide. Sometimes I wonder what the best way to go is. Plath stuck her head in an oven, baking her brains at 425 for 15 minutes. Hemmingway grew a new eye socket. I always thought I could if I had to. You know, you're there in a rickety old chair, staring at someone with an old car battery attached to jumper cables. I'd like to say I'd bite down on that cyanide tablet. But, then again, I think I would talk first and let them kill me. At least then I could have some closure. Russ and I were best friends in high school. He didn't like to capitalize his name, and in a way that was kind of him. He didn't like attention on the surface, but he secretly enjoyed every bit he received. He would always say, "I'm just insignificant compared to the universe..." And then he would put his head in his hands and sigh deeply. That, of course, made the girls think he was profound, that he was so sensitive. As a result, he got more tail than he could keep track of. In c...

Treat me as your oroborus. Devour me tail over head. Taste me and destroy me. Wrap me in your cocoon, driving me through and out your nostrils, digesting me from the outside. And keep destroying me, and keep destroying me, and keep driving me further and further into your sevenfold stomach. Where shall I go, then, knowing that my head is your head, that my tail is your tail, that we share the same beating heart and thinking mind? The problem comes when there is nothing left. Infinity becomes more than just a problem and becomes more real than the sun, transforming us both into eclipses. How does it taste, knowing that every bite you take takes you that much closer to your head? Is it comforting knowing that you can see the end? Is it comforting knowing that you can become the end? Is it comforting knowing that you can feel the wind and the sun and the frailty of it all makes you feel whole? I am still a part of you. I am still the part you that rides ...

I had the taste of something like cherries and disgust riding in the back of my throat ever since Stan Cooper and the Rag Dolls walked off stage. “Let’s get a beer. I think that’s the only thing that can wash this disappointment out of my system.” “Rudy’s?” Wallace was my best friend, and could consequently read my thoughts. “Yes.” The ride to Rudy's was in complete silence for fear that one of us would explode in anger. We pulled into Rudy’s, a small kick-back down on the corner of Dark and Phillis. Ron, the bartender, recognized us and shooed a couple twenty-somethings from our stools. “Evening boys. Uze?” He said only the first syllable of ‘usually.’ That’s the kind of guy he was. Wallace and I responded in unison. “Wow. I’m still not over it. That show was shit!” “Poor Stan. He used to have something. Now…” and Wallace shrugged his shoulders and balanced his hands. We got our beers and swilled them down quickly. We sat for another 45 minutes, just s...

The last time we spoke you were reclining in a sanitary bed, surrounded by the baby white wires and curtains made of lead. You were across from me, your sagacious eyes casting shadows, your breath drawing little fine lines in the misty haze of your slumber. I didn’t know you. Yet, I did, like the way people often do when they are thrust headlong into a maelstrom of pumping blood and aerobic lightning. Were we once friends, you and I, drifting along a banded causeway? For some reason I remember you there and not in that bed. I remember a newfound joy in company. I remember a smile full of teeth that reflected the memories of coffees in cafes, conversations about nations, picks and hammers and crowded buses. There were moments in your laugh lines where I could have sworn I became a part of you. Perhaps I have always been a part of you. Perhaps, though, I am thinking you another. Your hands, soft and translucent, used to hard labor, rest on your chest, p...

The Wisdom of Chopping Wood For those of you who know me well and think me eclectic and old-fashioned, this will come as no surprise. I have recently fallen in love with the simple and outdated art of chopping wood. No, this is not a euphemism. I seriously have fallen in love with chopping wood. I was out there today, swinging my axe, which my wife (thankfully) agreed to let me purchase. I guess I finally convinced her that an axe has more uses than self-defense during the Zombie Apocalypse, which I'm sorely disappointed did not happen last year (that's another story for another time). As my Austin friends know, it was disappointingly damp today with little to no sunshine. The day was abysmally grey. We just bought some chunks of wood for our chimnea, and they were far too big to put inside the pit. I needed to make the bits smaller. I gathered the wood, set them up, one by one, on my block, and started swinging away. About ten minutes into it, I was sweati...

From a Teacher I am a teacher. It is an ambitious career, one filled with tears and sweat and eurekas. It is composed of long hours, early mornings, and sore muscles. It is a dream job, but it is maddeningly nightmarish. I began my career with a thought. My mother is a teacher, has been for a long time, and I would watch her sit and plan lessons in the dining room on cool Wednesday afternoons (though by the time I was old enough to comprehend what she was doing, she already had enough lessons backlogged that she didn't really need to plan any more). I always thought to myself that her job would remain hers. I didn't want to become a teacher for the simple fact that my mother was one. But, that changed. I worked at Starbucks for a number of years equal to the number of years that it has sucked from my life. I was headed nowhere with no sense of direction and no sense of mission. I got to serve coffee to people. Yippee! Whereas I could impact one person for maybe four hours, ...