Matthew R Moore

Hello.  Welcome to Blog Portfolio 4 for Writing For The Internet.  This might be the best portfolio I’ve done since Blog Portfolio 3.  These are bittersweet times.  The internet is huge place, so I hear, and I feel like we’ve only begun to scratch the surfaces for potential as writers in this age before the world ends in 2012.  The big undertaking this round was the development of my very own website using HTML.  Here’s my website that is still in development as I type.  Oh yeah, it's authored by one of my reoccurring characters (this will be the last time I break the wall).  </P> 

Interaction. I interacted with my short entry How Rainbows Are Made. It is finally apparent that my shorter entries gather the most responses.  I find this peculiar and ironic to everything I want to do.  However, the internet is a curious world that must be learned, even if it takes until the last week of class to grasp the most basic of concepts. For my interaction, I called out the absurdity of a life where we comment for three and half months on the internet but not once talk to each other in person.  Are we all wearing a technologic veil?

Depth. Dichotomy at the Dinner Table.  No one will read this because it's too long and doesn't involve side-collision car crashes.  It's a fictional piece about people who have died on one side of the thanksgiving table and people who are alive on the other side.  I am the mediator between the land of the living and the land of the dead, stuck between two worlds with reoccurring nonfiction characters fictionalized as part of the distortion of memory.  I'm glad you followed along.  

Interaction is discussion.  Discussion is interaction.  How Rainbows Are Made

Outside Material.  I wrote a touching and disjointed poem about the bots (hopefully humans aren't that disappointing) on Craigslist.  I posted a personals ad, maybe with only a touch of hope that I'd discover a belief in soulmates, and then I created a Bukowski-ish poem based on the results.  I sometimes wonder if all the internet bots get together and journey on vague romantic love affairs.  

I also included a video from one of my favorite artists, Jason Webley.  It was nice to include some hardcore rock and roll into my blog as a break from the waves of text my fingers tend to produce between midnight and five in the morning.  

Ethos. How Rainbows are Made.  I think this is a good example of my persona a blogger.  It's kind of surreal, kind of filled with anguish, uses efficient wording and imagery, and makes mention of the hairnet my great-great grandma dropped and chased in front of a vehicle in Boston 1942.  After that, she was never the same.

Convention.  A long time ago I wrote Blog Portfolio 4. It conveys my understanding of the intricacies of blogging on the internet. It ends with a line about my attachment to the blog and how it fits into my writing practices, and so I won't be giving it up unless if I receive some threats from the webmaster overlord.  

The information and understandings conveyed through classes such as ‘Faith Religion and Society’ are invaluable to students and prospective minds of America.  As per the Liberal Arts greatness, almost every semester I stumble or I am prodded into a class I wouldn’t have thought about taking on my own.  ‘Faith Religion and Society’ is such a class and I’m glad it’s established as part of the curriculum at Seton Hill. 
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An old man of bones and rags died after a lifetime of mediation and abstinence.  He never steered away from his self-denial of all the everyday activities that were offered to him.  This old man of bones and rags entered the afterlife and found that it is merely a waiting room for everyone to meditate on who they want to be in their next lifetime, nothing more and nothing less.  He fell to his knees and cried out for the first time in seventy years.  He cried for a thousand years after as people came and went and returned several times over while his tears turned into stalactites.  Finally, he was reinstated to the blue world and became a pimp.          

I hope everyone is enjoying their break.  I am blogging instead of doing an absolutely gripping paper for Hebrew Scriptures.  This is for your entertainment, my distraction, and convenient portfolio fluff.  "Eleven Saints" by Jason Webley and Jay Thompson.  Enjoy. 

They said Matthew was a worn-out gimmick.  They said his end was near and he might as well quit before they quit him. 

He climbed up onto the dinner table, kicked the turkey across the room, and vanished in a flash of blue smoke.  

His grandfather said, “He’s always pulling that misdirection nonsense.  He knows damn well that all eyes are naturally going to watch a dead turkey fly.”

His uncle said, “I told him a dozen times that if it says on the smoke bomb package ‘known to cause cancer in California’, it’ll likely do the same in Pennsylvania.”

His girlfriend said, “Get out from under the table.  We’ll make sure you are far enough away next time before we start talking truths about you.”

But while he was under the table he slipped back to that familiar spot.  

    I asked him if he remembers who I am.  In the cold rain of this lonely Thanksgiving Day, he turned his head to the left and peered like a dark cloud hung in the sky.  
    “No,” he says.  “You were someone different last time.  I remember that person.  Who you are now, the rain drives him away for a gap in recollection.”
    He turned his gaze back to the river.  He turned his existence back to the river.  
    “Why did you return?” he asked.  “I told you to never come back.  I told you to change history. There’s nothing here but me and the river.  My love is still gone.  My contemplation is still my house.  Rain or sun, you notice how I am soaked anyway.”
    I turned my head to the left.  Then I turned my head to the right.  The rain fell hard in rhetorical waves.
    “Just me and the river,” he said.  
    The raindrops parted for a portal of June sun.  My younger self came up and sat where I was sitting, faking like he was tying his shoes, but he saw the old man had that familiar gaze and felt connected.  
    My younger self, a little slimmer, a little more ignorant, asked the old man, “Why are you wearing that wet suit here in the summer sun?”
    I couldn’t bear to listen to the story again and see the old man weep tears of forever-repeated agony.  “I just came from a…”
    The rain drove me away.  

His niece asked, “Matthew, why do the dead have to sit on that side of the table, and the living on this side?”

His father told her, “You can join them anytime you like, dear.”

His sister condescendingly asked, “So, Matthew, are you still mainstreaming your life for public acceptance?”

Matthew put down his glass and stood up, “You have no idea, but soon you will.”  He walked away from the dichotomy table.

They decided to follow.  They all decided to get up and clean the table and wipe the turkey from the wall, but they immediately found their shoelaces tied to the table and to each other as they fell over within sudden confusion and shattering.  

They said Matthew was a worn-out gimmick.  Why would he quit when he’s the only one who can walk away from the dinner table without falling over?

Matthew was doubled-over in laughter in the next room.  They said Matthew was a son of a bitch, but they admitted, he’s the slickest son of a bitch on this side of the moon.  

I’m only here
     until the aliens find another planet for me with sufficient oxygen.  

Just moved to Pittsburgh
     do you have picture?

I would like to find company.  
     I would like to find a poetry lover,
          a poetry maker,
               one who understands a sporadic time traveler,

It is Thanksgiving weekend finally but Im here all alone....
     All i need is one guy to pleasure me on occasion.
          Im a real woman and im looking for a real man.

one who understands metaphor,
     a warrior for the eccentric,
         or none of these things for stead of vitality.

Just moved to pittsburgh
     Have pics?

I’m 27.  Awkward.  
     Like the gym, but not as much as books.
          Become fragmented when direct about myself.  

adorable woman acheing for capable man
     for sex only, no relationship,
          write me for some fun.

I also like pizza.  
     I’m worried my new planet will not have pizza.  

married and seeking burly fella,
     E mail if your down.

I have issues with seriousness,
     in a benevolent kind of way.  

hi there
     I am interested

I’m serious about this search, though.

Greensburg?

    I encountered an old lady weeping today in the alley.  I asked her if she knew she was weeping in the alley.  In response, she said this, “I have seen the end of time.  It was raining there.  It was raining a horrible rain that turned the skin to wax so it would melt off and collect in puddles.  I couldn’t find my hairnet.”   
    I sat down beside this old weeping lady, and I said to her, “I have seen the beginning of time.  It follows your end and is like the warm sunshine after a long chilly lonely night.  People were built from puddles, and got up and danced around their worried former selves.  It was a sight to behold.”  
    We turned to each other, as if to kiss and bridge generations, and we pressed our heads together until we merged into one being.  This being stood up and climbed onto the city rooftops, the last stop before the moon, and it jumped from building to building over the traffic far below.

    Today I woke up and thought I had a solution to the NFL’s concussion issue.  I’m creative, sure, but I’m not a fool, and so I Googled my solution to see who already had the idea of exterior-padded football helmets. 

    It’s funny, in a sad kind of way.  According to ESPN, Mark Kelso, a safety for the Bills from 1986 to 1993, and Steve Wallace, an offensive tackle from 1986 to 1997, both wore helmets with a padded exterior.  Both were really good at football.  The drawback to wearing such a helmet?  It looks like a “conehead”.  They were poked fun at because it wasn’t so aesthetically pleasing.  To clarify, what I think is funny is that some players would actually consider a higher probability of concussion-induced dementia than wear a slightly-larger helmet with vague echoes of some SNL skit. 

    Without the Sports Science luxuries, if I put down my Dostoevsky book and come running at you with a football helmet on, as I’m prone to do, the g-force of the collision is going to be cut if my helmet has exterior padding that gives leeway.  If you have the same helmet on as well, there’s a good chance we can both stand up afterwards and remember the names of our mothers. 

    I love the game of football.  It’s our modern-day coliseum, with outside linebackers akin to the hunger of lions and quarterbacks with the sword precision of a Russell Crowe character.   Fines, hesitation from second-guessing, and an overabundance of rules are all taking away from the excitement of the game.  When the energy is drained from precautionary measures instead of implementing real and effective solutions, the coliseum becomes a petting zoo, and my one game viewing allotment per week becomes a time used for not listening to inane ads every five minutes.

Let me make it clear: this is the best third portfolio I've ever done.  

The learning highlight of this portfolio was the multimedia project.  I learned how to use, and overuse, video software, construct an attention-grabbing moving picture for ADD comrades, and also how to upload a video onto YouTube.  It was my first time uploading to YouTube.  I thought for sure I would feel a little bit different after it, but I'm remarkably the same.  With this project, I also learned a great deal about specific audience directed writing.  

Interaction.  Comments on The Fish Are On Our Medication I didn't get too involved here.  There might be a response blog entry in the future.  Then again, there might not be, because I hear the new Hello Kitty Adventure is coming out for PC.

Depth. Ten Drowned Sailors Walking in the Ocean. People apparently like the depth of my title.  Also, The Fish Are on our Medication  I wrote this as I ate a fish sandwich. 

Discussion.  Pat's Page About The Aerodynamics of the Frisbee Soul  Since then, Frisbeetarianism has gained in popularity by 400% on campus. 

Ethos. For my next portfolio, Skittles will be my downfall.  Prozac Storms

Convention.  The Unbearable Hunting Season.  Writing? Check.  Widgets? Check.  Subliminal messaging you'll never consciously understand.  Check?

(Hurrah.  Two hours later it’s 2:40 AM.  I have reached port and replaced the burnt-out lightbulbs in the dining room with forgotten gods dipped in candle wax.  The neighbors are banging on the walls as I dust off the music.  They follow along to the fervor of life with fists against expanding space, to rediscoveries in the night, and to fury where all fury was thought to have folded.)

2:40 AM.  I stumble out of bed, and on my way to get a drink I flick on the dining room light.  It explodes, burns out, and leaves me with a glimpse of the nine men who occupy the room.  They are silent, stern, and haunting.  I have only the vaguest notion who they are.  Their eyes follow me in the darkness like nine separate Mona Lisa sex-change operations.  I slip into the bathroom as a matter of misdirection and lock the door behind me.  Ten minutes seem to go by in silence while I expect to hear them leave, or at least expect to gather the sound of a puff-like vanishing act.  With timeless consternation I crawl into the tub.

When I lay my head down on the back of the dry tub they let out a furious laugh.

Irritated, I call out, “What’s so funny?”

One man says through the door, “You already used this plot line.  Remember when we were young and you woke up to find a dancing room of families, and so you danced with us until dawn?  Now all of our soulmates left us because we have no soul.  Our skin is old.  Our faces are silent, stern, and haunting.  You are burning out, and this is the only image you project.  You never play music at night anymore.”

“Life and the universe are cyclical as we fall apart,” I say.

“No, sir.  Only the universe outside of the self.  A cyclical life is a boring life.  The universe is allowed to be cyclical without being boring, because it has fury.  You do not have fury; you do not have a universal life.”

“Go away.  This is all I have.  Me and the tub.  I’m the captain of this damn ship.”

I heard their voices fade like collapsed sons holding a finger to funeral lips, but not before they wrote all over the walls of space to ensure I will never get my security deposit back on life, and not before the walls of space collapsed into a six-foot tomb to be buried in the darkness.  Not before nine merged into one nine-headed beast, and then each head ate the other until one was left.  Not before one broke the door to jump on board into the night.   Not before I started to fall back asleep on a ship going nowhere, stuck in a dry ocean of repetition and dismay, embarked on 2:40 AM with a razor lying restlessly on the side of the vessel like the last glowing star out in the voided horizon - all of the voices in the former-expanse calling out at the last moment for one final hurrah.  

My Aunt Allison makes my nervous ticks seem like a pleasant ballet.  I sometimes wonder if I learned everything I know from her, and I’m just a mere reflection of her neurosis, backwards and silent, like the world within a mirror. 

I visit her on occasion, and yesterday brought about the latest.  She stood in the doorway with wonder, the chain lock making a metallic mustache on her paranoid exterior.  “Oh, Matthew!  Come in dear!” Her eyes widened in scraps of recollection, and in all technical terms, the look of batshit insanity.  “I was just about to vacuum the cats.”

She always mentions her cats.  It’s a personal obligation she has to herself.  It’s like smoking a cigarette or sneaking into the neighbor’s garage to steal their scotch; it calms the nerves and makes the room light steady. 

She said, “I don’t know where they are.  They always hide in the walls when I get out the vacuum.  Will you go find them for me?”

“Oh, maybe later.  They’re probably just playing.  There’s no need to interrupt them.”

The thing is, she doesn’t have any damn cats.  I used to think she knew she didn’t have any, but lately I’ve begun to have doubts.  It scares me, because I can foresee a time when I’ll visit and go on a fantastic quest through the house, pounding on the walls, crawling through the attic, utterly convinced that there are paws around the next corner.  It runs in the family.  Time is a different entity within, and not on our side.

I sat down on the plastic covering the plastic-covered couch and she brought us in wine glasses filled with a Pepsi and Coke mixture, her longtime solution to world peace.

“Aunt Allison, how have you been?”

Just as she sat down she stood back up.  She wouldn’t look at me and I knew something was bothering her.

She started to pace.  “Doctor says I’m sick and I have a terrible case of insomnia.  It could be the worst thing that ever afflicted a human being.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I meant, how’s your cancer doing?  Did the removal of the tumor clear it all out?”

“I think this insomnia might be the end of me, Matthew.”  She sat back down on the chair across from me and gave me a long and serious look of worry.

“Did the doctors say whether they can cut it out like the tumor?  If they can cut out cancerous tumors, surely they can cut out evil batches of insomnia.”

“In all probability they can.”  She took a sip of world peace, letting some of the worry go.  “Science and medicine these days are incredible.  Mix in a little psychology and we have test tube babies with Freudian issues trying to crawl back into the comfort and security of the tube.  Do you know they shot an elephant into outer space to go find all the monkeys?”

She was a little scattered, but I love that about her.  Her version of reality is good for my version of the imagination.

“Aunt Allison, now how did they ever get an elephant into outer-space?”

I felt something at my feet.