David Everett Fisher


The Time I Was Almost A School Shooter

When I was 16 years old, I almost shot up a school. I didn’t. Did someone say something to me to change my mind? Did gun laws keep me from being equipped? Did the law enforcement community catch wind of my plans? What saved people’s lives that fall of ’93? Heroin. I shot up heroin and fell asleep.

This isn’t a story that will make you know what the right thing to do. This won’t be A led to B and all was peaceful. This is a story that just happens over and over again, and unless you can make fundamental change to our culture, will just keep happening.

I was a little kid. I was short. I was young looking. I was in the showers in gym with hairless balls while the rest of the guys were sprouting forests to match their mustaches. They had defined muscles. They had angles. I was smooth and soft and hairless.

And boy did they notice.

It wasn’t like the bullying started in high school. I was always a tad too weird. I played violin. I didn’t like what other kids liked. They’d know if I pretended.

But high school was when I was supposed to learn to be a man.

A man must fight, scratch, fuck (only women), yell, muscle his way to the top of the pecking order. There is a hierarchy in manhood. I couldn’t seem to get up from the very bottom. If I even hope to glance at the light at the top deserved me getting punched.

The first day at Wilson High School, some seniors who knew me used me for a football game – as the football. I ran for it when they had to punt. It wasn’t my first bloody nose, and it wouldn’t be my last.

A man must be able to have sex with hot women. It would be weird if he didn’t. He would be questioned. A man’s whole existence is to have women have sex with him, or at least want to. Women owe that to men. If women don’t want to have sex with you, you are nothing.

Women confused me. I even considered that I might be gay. My parents and teachers thought it.

One day this very pretty girl asked me to meet her at the convenient store that the kids in my neighborhood hung out at. I was so excited. She was pretty and popular. It seemed weird that she wanted to meet me.

I was to meet this beautiful young lady after school and I got there prompt. And then I waited. And waited. And then waited some more.

(No cell phones in those days and I didn’t have a quarter for the pay phone – didn’t have her number anyway.)

The next day a group of kids, including the girl, started laughing at me. They made fun of me because I had tucked in my shirt and took my hat off.

The point is how dare I think I could even fathom hanging out with a girl like that.

I was a human shit stain.

I left sports and other extra-curricular activities for drugs. Who fucking cares if you’re high, right? Just me and my dreams.

I would wake up sober and just dread seeing anyone else. My dad would tell me it’s time to go to school. My parents, who loved me with all their heart, would drive me to school. I would walk right through the school, out the back, and on a bus downtown.

I gave up on the idea of becoming normal. I would never get to be married, raise kids, now my own lawn, make pancakes, argue mundane politics with Ron & Nance the neighbors. No sir, I would be a junky. I hoped to die by 18.

The thing about society is that it forces all of his citizens to participate, even if they don’t want to or can’t. Society kept picking me up and wiping me off and shoving me back into its bowels. I would be in school again. I would be told to not do drugs. I was told to be like everyone else.

My parents were beside themselves. They gave me everything I needed and even gave me some things I wanted. They were at their jumping off point with me. I had done therapy and treatment centers, but I kept self destructing.

One of their last ideas was to enroll me in a suburb school. They had no idea that a high school kid is a high school kid. These kids were worse because they had money to add to the hierarchy.

First day of school I watched a kid drive a Lamborghini to the front door, get out of the wing doors, and his father get out and get into the driver’s seat and roar off. I saw a kid with blonde hair so perfect and he had a sweater tied around his neck – like a bad guy in a John Cusack film.

I stepped into the front door and was immediately jumped by some seniors. I was supposed to be a junior, but none of these kids recognized me and due to my young look, they thought I was a freshman. And I just stepped on the high school seal. Tradition dictates that freshmen must pay with blood for stepping on the seal.

Another bloody nose, but I gave them a run for their money.

No one seemed to like me. The reality at this school was so much worse than anywhere else I had gone. I was pushed, shoved, slapped, and punched.

I was at my locker, which was in the middle of a bunch of cheerleaders, which you might think would be great, but it was horrifying. A guy, who had the same last name as me, brought both of his hands as hard as he could against my ears. It hurt so bad that I fell to my knees and then made the worse mistake of my life; I cried.

A man is stoic. A man doesn’t express a feeling. A feeling is something a woman does to annoy men. You are a hardened piece of meat who is an ancestor of hunters and conquerors. Show no mercy, no quarter, no tears.

When I was a kid, I liked poetry and classical music. I listened to Mahler’s 10th symphony when I was 12 years old and wept. I loved art, literature, politics, and music. I didn’t like popular culture. I couldn’t relate to my peers. I would try to pretend so that I could fit in, but kids can smell a fraud immediately.

I also would cry myself to sleep every night. I used to play R.E.M.’s Automatic For The People over and over and cry because the idea that I would have wake up and face this fucking world again was too much.

One time I was in the cafeteria when I was a freshman, and I had drunk some vodka with some bums downtown and then I had drank some cough syrup and I pissed myself. Everyone noticed.

15 years later a guy asked me if that was me. That’s all he remembered.

Not everyone was mean to me. There was these black guys that thought I was funny. I think they felt sorry for me. We would drive around in a Ford Explorer that didn’t have a windshield and smoke crack.

These guys were thugs. Thugs with a heart of gold, but thugs. The owner of the Explorer, who was a little older than us, had an assault rifle tucked into the back seat. They had said he had used it.

I asked him if I could borrow it. I was going to the rich suburb school at that time and I wanted to show those rich fuckers that they had fucked with the wrong guy.

I had dreams about it. I would walk into the cafeteria and open fire. I could picture the carnage. I’m not going to lie, my heart rate went up when I pictured those guys falling to their deaths.

I slept with the gun under my mattress the next day, but I had shot up that night. I went to school and was standing their smoking a cigarette and still out of it. I watched all the kids getting dropped off. I was too high and forgot my gun.

I had to give back the machine gun the next night.

I ended up going into treatment the next week and getting sober and finding a way of life where I never ever want to be that angry and malicious again.

I look back at that time in my life every time there is a school shooting. Of course I would! I was every one of those guys. The only thing that saved me was drugs. I got so high that I forgot to do it.

I can only imagine what it would be like now to be in high school with social media, fads that change faster than the speed of light, online bullying, memes, and the whole world burning into ash from the convenience of your phone.

The pictures and posts on social media that prove to kids like me that I don’t have enough, am not enough to exist. I can see everything I don’t have, relationships I’m not in, places I’ll never see, lives I can never love shove right in my face. And I thought MTV was bad.

And of course everyone is blaming someone or something why this keeps happening. Guns, mental illness, politics.

As an almost shooter I can tell you why. It’s the whole fucking thing. It’s Toxic Masculinity. It is what it takes to be a man in your eyes, your social media version of being a man, your politician explaining what a man is, and what media in general portrays as manhood.

Society in general is to blame. This Puritan American close minded idea of manliness and his relationship to sex, power, and emotions. The society that we created and keep creating is so restricting and stifling. It’s this black & white, masculine & feminine, and yin & yang bullshit that makes everything this impossible category to fit in.

It’s all fucking made up.

Offer the round holes for the round pegs. There are squares out there and you can keep that. You can have that yin & yang life. Just be okay with the gray. Just be okay with spectrums.

Just be okay with crying boys, violent girls, and thems that can’t be and shouldn’t be dignified by a black or white label. Be okay with not wanting what you want. Marriage and buying houses and Frappuccinos and going to Costco.

I won’t tell you if more gun control will help or if expanding mental health funding will change anything, but I can tell you that this, what we are doing right now, has never ever worked. It only works for very few and alienates the masses.

As a kid who almost shot up a school, give up on your precious Great America. Either change fucking everything or keep all the weird boys on heroin.

February 19, 2018 introspection, Uncategorized

Rabble Rabble Cheeseburger Baseball Podcast

Chef Andrew after bunting


Welcome to the second episode of Rabble Rabble Cheeseburger Baseball Podcast. In this issue we discuss why we aren’t the Triple Play Podcast anymore. We also go over the pace of play in baseball, Sean loses it over the pitch clock, Joe Buck, and the Yankees. We celebrate pitchers and catchers reporting and we pick the teams we hate.

February 15, 2018 podcast

Enter the Crocuses

I remember decades ago when I would get dropped off at night and I would become panicked with idea of being alone. I couldn’t wait to be around people again, for I could only think when I was by myself, and to think is to fear.

Now I cherish the alone time. We were going to record a podcast today, and then we had to reschedule, so I sighed a sigh of relief and went for a walk with my dog, Rufus.

Today I celebrate twenty-four years sober. Most of those twenty-four years were spent in the crowds of people suffering from the same thing I was. I was taught to build a fellowship. Create the fellowship you crave. (It only works if others crave the same fellowship, so sometimes it’s find the closest thing to the fellowship you crave)

I remember sitting with a group of guys yelling about one thing or another, and they were wearing similar outfits, and I was not into it. I didn’t want to be that anymore. I didn’t want an identity to be my badge. I didn’t want to belong to anything that requires a costume – except softball, because sports should be the only time an adult wears a costume.

I remember not wanting to be apart of that anymore. It’s not me. I was so scared of being alone. I was so scared not being apart of something.

I searched for friends and a community. I knew what I didn’t want anymore. I didn’t want to be a boy being boys anymore. I wanted to be a man, but on top of that, I wanted to be anonymous and an equal. I wanted to be me.

There was some growing pains. I was lost. I bounced around while I tried to find a place where I fit in. Sometimes I just didn’t jive with what people were up to or I wasn’t accepted. Luckily there is a home for everyone.

It also was about being able to be by myself. I think having a fellowship around you is great, until that fellowship isn’t there anymore. Some day the party is over. People move, have kids, die, or walk away. I would rather be happy with both.

It took a long time, but now I love being alone. I was so scared of it for so long, but now I crave it. I love solitude.

I think the dog is the motivator. I used to date a woman who had a dog, and I would walk that dog all over Portland with my iPod shuffle. I let me creep around neighborhoods staring into windows. All the dog wanted to do was walk and smell things.

Now I have a dog, and I have a better music device, and I have new neighborhoods to slither around in. We walked 3.5 miles. Portland is having it’s annual false spring. Crocuses were blooming everywhere. It went from cool to warm.

And now I can think when I’m alone without this heavy shadow smothering me. I can breath and let the thoughts rotate through.

Now don’t get me wrong, I can get worried, anxious, and believe you me, I fear for this world, but it’s not this selfish prison I built around myself, trapping me from any light of hope.

I still think about drinking. I don’t ever spend too much time wishing I could take a drink, but every once in awhile I would love to get shit faced. The idea of complete self-destruction crosses my mind once in awhile. Not when life is hard, or the news is too much, or if Nicole is grumpy with me, it’s when I am bored. I think oblivion will always be attractive.

I spend more time wishing I was a social hallucinogenic drug user or that I was impervious to cigarettes’ side effects.

Weed never crosses my mind, despite it’s legality. The culture seems pretty Sacramento to me. When I say Sacramento, i’m talking about jeans with glittery crosses on the butt pockets, a fedora, and anything to do with MMA, motorcycles, or that hillbilly meets gangsta culture that Idiocracy warned us about. (Lot’s of offense, Sacramento) Remember that guy Jesse James that did the choppers and was married to Sandra Bullock? He looks like a weed shop clerk and owner.

So what I’m saying is that I’m not interested in becoming that after a few tokes of the weeds.

Here is what I have at twenty-four years: I am fine being alone. I am fine with people. I have an awesome relationship with someone that I love and loves me. I have the best fucking dog ever. I am going to Europe. I have a great job. I have a great family. I have an awesome host of friends. We work together to find a way out. I like where I live. I get to hate shit without it not destroying my life.

I get to have integrity today. I get to be me. I get to be comfortable by myself, with my friends and family, and with strangers. I get to be me.



February 12, 2018 introspection

Triple Play Podcast

Good evening.

I have become involved with a new podcast called Triple Play. I am going to talk about baseball with my friends and sometimes teammates Chef Andrew and Sean Power.

It’s only a tad over 45 minutes, we don’t talk about stats or fantasy, and we are probably the three most charismatic people you have ever heard.We are hoping to do one every two weeks.

Next time Sean, Andrew and I chat, pitchers and catchers will have reported to duty.



February 1, 2018 podcast , , ,

The Wizard Who Wanted To Be A Witch

I watched the tower across the valley as the wizard there became a lich. The black clouds came over the hills and blacken the land as the lich attained perfect power.
A Lich is undead. This a wizard attaining immortality and ultimate power. This has always been the end goal for a wizard. A wizard gets to a certain point in there magic where there is only two choices: die or become a lich.
I am a wizard and this is where I am. I am Rufus the Retched. I either wait to die, or I harness all my powers and studies to call the darkness to grant me immortality.
I was a young boy when I started my journey to become a wizard. I grew up in a small timber village in the forests where the mountains were always in mist. In a clearing on the other side of the river lived an old wizard in a tall crooked tower. Most of the time he would stay to himself.
There were witches that lived in the misty hills above our village. They would stay to themselves except when we needed a healer or a midwife. Sometimes a witch would curse us if one of the woodcutters cut down an oak, birch, ash, or wild apple tree.
I wanted to be a wizard for as long as I could remember. I would try and become the wizard’s apprentice, but he wouldn’t have it.
Then one day he let me in. I hindsight he must have been where I am today: ready to die or become a lich. He had me do small remedial tasks as he experimented and studied books and scrolls. I swept, dusted, cooked, washed dishes, and sometimes washed his robes.
For years he wouldn’t teach me anything. I kept my interest by watching him perform magic. Things floated, disappeared, glowed, and changed. He would disappear and come back changed. He would be older and full of mania.
He kept a giant book. Every time he casted a spell or he would come back from one of his trips, he would write it all down in this tome. I couldn’t decipher what it said anytime I’d steal a peek. All I could make out were his illustrations.
Then one day he called me in to his study. I walked in and he sat in his comfy chair and books floated all around him. He was smoking a pipe.
“Sit down Rufus,” he said, “Here have a toke.”
I took his pipe that he offered me and I took a pull. The smoke was herbal and musty. I was about to say thank you and hand the pipe back, but then I went into a dream.
I saw the very cube that makes up our time and space. I saw that I didn’t need to stay in the very center of the cube if I didn’t want to. I saw other cubes outside mine that had me in the center of almost everyone. I saw some mes in different parts of the cube. I also saw some cubes with many mes. I also come cubes with no me in them.
I saw all my futures and pasts. I saw me dead before today. I saw me immortal.
I saw me in a witches hat lying in a meadow with a witch blowing dandelion blowballs.
I was then back in the study with the wizard circled by floating books.
I think I’m supposed to be a witch,” I said.
The wizard blinked and his face became angry.
“You saw the very universe in all it’s beehive glory and you decide you want to become a witch!?!” He yelled.
All the books fell to the ground.
“A wizard is a master of bending the very rules of nature. We can be in many times at once. We can walk along the very halls between space and time and watch a century as if it is a painting. We can harness the energies of the astral planes and shoot fireballs from our fingertips!
“A witch lives in the mud. She crawls on her belly like a snake. She uses weeds and small animals to make potions. She chooses to stay in the very timeline and space that imprisons all mortals.
“You can either smoke weed and birth babies or you can harness the power that only Gods harness.”
I couldn’t disagree, so I blew out the smoke and handed him his pipe back. He beckoned me to his laboratory.
He led me to his book. When I looked down at it I could read it now. I flipped through the pages and saw the gibberish turn into words and ideas I could understand.
“I must go now. You will now study my book and then begin your own.”
He then vanished.
I spent the next several centuries studying and continuing his book into my own book.
Being a wizard is about knowledge. It’s not enough to know trivial things, but to know the name of a thing. To know a name of a thing requires learning all there is to know in this timeline and in this space.
Knowledge is deeper when learned near a black hole or a near a high energy collision. Several of the mes that became wizards congregate at the edge of a black hole and compare notes. Sometimes we all have the exact note, but a success is when one of us has something new and informative.
I sometimes will travel to a timeline where I don’t become a wizard and see if the dumber me have anything to say. Sometimes I’m crazy enough to think of something brilliant. Most of the time I let myself down. I let me go back to cutting down trees.
I come back to my experiments and spell creations.
So now I am standing at the top of my tower and know that I must become a lich or die.
Becoming a lich means you are energy for ever, but your body still rots away. Most liches I have seen are skeletons draped in strips of cloth and rotting flesh. They try and feed on living energy for more power. Liches spend a lot of energy to keep their awesome powers.
Unless a lich observes his living past, a lich won’t remember it. They spend their centuries playing god. A demi-lich is a lich who has vanquished a god and replaced it.
Choosing to be a lich means the fear of death and the thirst for ultimate power. If I choose to not become a lich, I hang on for another hundred or so years before my body gives up. My timeline ceases.
One day I was floating in the clouds meditating on my decision. I noticed movement in the tall grass down below. It was a tall pointy hat moving through the grass near my old village. It was a witch.
She was a little younger than me (100 years in wizard years is 10 years in human, I must be about 60 now). She was carrying a bag of weeds and looking for more.
“Hello,” I said to her, “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for more feverfew for a woman in the village.”
“Why?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was a bad person.
“I am trying to help with a woman’s headaches.”
“Why are you helping the woman?”
She sighed and walked off into the tall grass again. All I could see was the top of her pointy hat weaving through towards the misty hills. I felt something I have not felt in over 600 years: loneliness.
I went back to work trying to cure my loneliness. I searched far and wide, and I mean several spaces and several times, for a cure for this awful sickness. I met with myselves on the brink of black holes. None of the notes helped. There became fewer and fewer of us and we one by one decided to become liches.
I went and talked to some of my mundane selves about loneliness. They all talked about their spouses and friends. Some found the cure for loneliness in religion and communities. Once again I disappointed myself.
Spouses and friends took time away from knowledge. They get sick and die. Gods were fickle and demanding. Besides gods also got sick and died and then replaced by the lich that killed them. You can’t rely on anyone or anything else.
A dragon is a perfect being. It can live in simultaneous spaces and times in harmony with itself. I sought Bah-mut the Platinum Dragon for her sage advice.
I asked her about this pain in my heart. She listened as I described the feeling in my stomach and the lump in my throat. I explained the emptiness I felt as I watched the pointy hat disappear into the tall grass.
When a dragon laughs, you can hear the infinite amount of possibilities also laugh. This can be a tad unsettling. Then her voice only echoing in my head she spoke,
“My dear poor child. You are in want of a companion.”
“I don’t want a companion. A companion will slow me down and take time away from my studies and then as I grow fond: die.”
“You are looking at it from the entire timeline. You have the power of seeing outside of your point in space and time, but you have forgotten the single moment.”
And for someone that is considering immortality, a moment can last an eternity. I have complained that a century had gone by too fast.
I spent my next little while watching the little witch. She spent her days in the woods collecting plants and flowers for her potions. She also sang songs which animals would join in. She had a whole singing and dancing number with a black bear named Gus. She spent a lot of times helping animals and the people from my old village with small medical problems.
Villagers would awake her in the middle of the night so that she could come to the village and deliver a baby. She never said no. Between the babies, the sick, and the animals, she didn’t have any time for herself.
She would do rituals deep in the misty woods. She had an oak tree way up in the mountain that had feathers and crystals hang from. All around the trunk were candles and little trinkets. She would draw a sigil in the mud below and speak to the tree as if it could listen.
One day she knelt before the tree and placed her giant pointy hat on the ground. She lit all the candles and drew a sigil in the mud. She sat in silence for a long while.
As she kneeled there in silence I felt that lump in my throat and my eyes began to burn. The bottom of my stomach almost seemed to fall away.
I noticed that she was crying. A wind blew through the tree and the leaves hushed and the crystals clanged. The flames on the candles turned long and showered sparks. Some of them went out. She was crying, but she seemed happy and at peace. She didn’t seem to be suffering from loneliness.
That was the day I decided to become a witch.
The witch was in the tall grass again. Her tall pointy hat the only thing you can see zipping through the tall grass. She came out of the tall grass and rolled her eyes when she noticed me.
“I want to become a witch,” I said, “Will you help me?”
She stood there frozen. She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Why do you want to become a witch? You are a wizard. You understand life, the universe, and everything. You can live forever. You already have magics much more powerful than me.”
“I can’t stand this loneliness deep inside of me. It is eating at me from the inside. Yes, I know life, the universe, and everything, but I can’t seem to rid myself from this loneliness.”
“What makes you think being a witch can cure loneliness?”
He didn’t really know how to answer. He knew in his heart that becoming a witch would cure him of his loneliness.
“You don’t seem lonely,” he finally said.
She laughed, “I am lonely all the time.”
“I see you helping people and the animals all the time. You have birthed all the babies in that village for the last few decades. You have mended, cured, and cared for not just the villagers but the animals in the wood. I have seen you sing with the bears and the birds. I can’t believe that you would ever feel alone.”
I might know what ails you then,” she said, “I will teach you how to be a witch.”
They spent everyday out in the woods. She taught him different plants, roots, berries, and bark that is healing. Everything has magical properties. She also showed him that the magic in things are to help others.
People stopped by her hut all day. They all had ailments. She would mix up a potion and give the person very specific instructions and send them on their way. Everyone was grateful, but they also feared her. They were even more uneasy about his presence.
He had a hard time with such small doses of magic. He had destroyed whole universes and realities only because he could. Now he was spreading forest gunk on a villager’s burn. He was forgoing his practice for little nature tricks to help mortals.
He noticed that time had slowed down. When he looked at the universe from several different dimensions, time went by fast. Now he was looking under logs for a snail. This made a day go by slow. The small purpose had slowed time down.
He was finally living in the moment.
The villagers stopped being these no name actors in his world. They were now real. He got to know them. While their problems were small and petty, he learned to appreciate the villagers.
The witch explained how nature provided enough for life. She made sure that he understood how to repair what he took from the woods. She explained gratitude as an action not a feeling. She did this by worshipping the trees and the moon.
He had stood on the moon and looked at earth, but she gave the giant rock praise. He had floated close to the sun, but she worshipped it’s every sunrise. He knew the blackness between the stars, but she chose to be in awe of it instead. The complex universe was no match for the simple gifts it provided for life.
There was much difference between the magic he knew and the magic she taught him. His magic was harnessing great power and knowledge. Her power was healing and wisdom. She never wanted to know how to create what didn’t already exist. She didn’t want to see the space between atoms.
The witch and the wizard became friends. They had spent everyday together. He started to understand what she was teaching him. He began to become more of a partner instead of a pupil. They shared meals together. She would ask for his advice with a patient. He would make her laugh.
What he felt was love. Not the kind of love one felt for the forest nymphs or village milkmaids, but a unconditional love. He wanted nothing but the best for the witch. He wanted to add to her life and not take from her. He wanted to share life with her.
She had taught him the two things that he never could learn by sitting on the precipice of a black hole: love and purpose. He now saw the wisdom in his alternative selves who fell in love and work rather than take up magic. He had seen the many universes at once and the space between atoms and he had missed those two principles.
One day a black dragon found itself in their time and space. A black dragon is chaotic and evil. It feeds on the souls of the helpless and strengthens with the odor of fear.
At first it was several miles away destroying the seaports and the city. It ate it’s full of innocence and fear. It spewed acid all over the buildings and people fleeing for their lives.
Only the wizard could hear it’s evil laughter echoing across the multiverse.
Each day the dragon drew nearer. The lucky ones that escaped came through the village with horror stories. The dragon only left when all life extinguished. Then they kept moving knowing that the dragon would be there any day. An icy fear struck the village.
The witch didn’t know what to do. She knew that there was no hope. A black dragon is the eater of worlds. She had no solution.
He knew he had to do something. He loved her and the villagers. This was his home. He would lose so much. He knew he would be able to skip to a different dimension until the dragon moved on to a different world to eat. That would leave this world to perish, a world he loved.
He woke the witch up early one morning.
“I have to go,” he said, “I must face this dragon.”
“You will die,” she said with tears in her eyes.
“I know.”
They sat in silence as the world began to wake up. The birds started chirping. There was a morning mist wrapping around the trunks of the trees. It was peaceful. For a few moments there was no dragon. It was just them and a dawn.
The dragon swept over the woods and the mountains in search of new innocence and fear to feed on. It hated so much. It only felt hatred and rage for all things living. It would spot a rabbit in the middle of a forest glen. He would spew acid all over. Life is underserving of these small pointless creatures.
A man was floating in front of the dragon. The dragon could sense the arcane magic pulsing through the man’s blood. This being was no innocent, nor did it exude fear. This was a wizard on the cusp of dying.
“Go to another world, Dragon,” the wizard said, “This is not your world to destroy.”
The laughter shook the very foundation of creation. The dragon had never faced human opposition before. Man has ever slain a few dragons. A dragon usually wins a a fight.
“You are going to die today, Wizard,” the dragon said.
“I know.”
“Then why try?”
“Because I finally learned all I needed. I love this world. I love my village. I love the witch. I would rather die so they can get old and love more than live with the emptiness.”
The dragon considered the wizard’s words. Then the dragon lunged at the wizard with all it’s hatred and rage.
The wizard grabbed the dragon by the snout and they disapeared into the ether. They appeared at the precipice of a black hole. The energy, light, sound, time, and space sucking into the blackness. The dragon watched as it’s color and texture stretched towards the hole’s eye. Then the dragon ceased to exist.
The wizard fell to the earth like a rock. He fell from the atmosphere. He heard the air whistle past his ears. The dread of hitting the ground centered in his stomach, but he couldn’t do anything.
The witch and the villagers watched the wizard fall. They knew that the wizard had sacrificed himself for them. They wished they could save him. All they could do is watch him hit the earth so hard it shook the ground.
The wizard never became a lich. He didn’t get to live for eternity seeking power. He did become immortal. The village never forgot the wizard and the time he saved them from a hungry black dragon. The wizard died knowing love.

November 17, 2017 Art, Short Story

No One Gives A Fuck

No one gives a fuck. You know that thing you think people should give a fuck about? No one does. They give only fucks about things they give a fuck about and sometimes that thing is the same thing that you do, but if it doesn’t, they don’t give a fuck.

There are a lot of things happening in the world today. The whole internet is full of people claiming that they give a fuck, but they don’t really. It’s one thing to say you give a fuck, but it’s quite another to act like you do.

There are a lot of people men sexually assaulting people. People are saying they give a fuck. Unless of course it is inconvenient to give a fuck. If a comedian is funny, is it sexual assault? We need to accept that artists are truly tortured and is the side effect of creating great works of art. Some people give more of a fuck about politics than a little sexual predatory behavior.

It’s fine that Michael Jackson paid about $200 million to about 20 different victims of his affections for young boys. Billy Jean and Thriller won’t stop people hitting the dance floors at weddings and night clubs everywhere. This is because no one gives a fuck. These same people will bemoan the Catholic church since it’s easy to not go to church.

Uber is a terrible company. They fight laws that protect workers’ rights, and hide and fight sexual assault allegations. They have the ethics that make Enron blush, but yet when people need to get home from dancing to Thriller at the clubs, they will open their Uber app with no fucks given. Then they bitch about how terrible President Trump is for all the same reasons the company they choose to use is guilty of. It’s easier to not give a fuck for convenience, but give a fuck for the person you didn’t vote for.

A person will give a fuck about diamonds being conflict diamonds, but won’t give a fuck snorting a line or two of cocaine in the back of an Uber. All coke is conflict coke.

I’m not in any way trying to say you should stop giving a fuck across the board. I am saying that you should give a fuck across the board. Act like you give a fuck.

Giving a fuck requires actual action and accountability. Writing what people should and shouldn’t say and do on social media doesn’t actually mean you give an actual fuck. It just means you are a lazy person. All your friends who still follow you also think that. They give a fuck about the same things you give a fuck about. No one’s fucks giving has changed.

This “essay” doesn’t even mean that I am really giving a fuck. It might seem like I’m saying I give a fuck, but it’s just words. You have no idea what I say or do that would actually mean I give a fuck.

I want to give a fuck when people are hurt. I want to give a fuck if it’ll make the world a better place. I give a fuck about other people. I give a fuck about people I have never met.

It’s hard to give a fuck when your convenience is jeopardized. Buying from Amazon is really easy, but that means you don’t give a fuck about local businesses. Using Uber is really simple, but then you don’t give a fuck about sexual assault, corporate ethics, worker rights, and cab companies. Dancing to Michael Jackson is really fun and social, but that money from playing that song goes to hush money for the children he molested. Using Facebook to proclaiming your giving a fuck is really a great way to not really do anything, but you are not giving a fuck about political democracy, foreign interference with our sources of information, truth, advertising and marketing, privacy, the hegemony of our culture, the laziness of communication, and being addicted to online attention.

Say whatever you want, no one gives a fuck. Keep pretending you do.


November 14, 2017 rant

Logging Off Facebook

At the end of today I will be shutting down my Facebook account. I just don’t feel that there is anything good that happens on here anymore. It is just an advertising and big-media platform.

I think back to a time when I didn’t have Facebook. Some people I would never have relationships with if it weren’t for Facebook, and I’m not unhappy I do, but sometimes running into someone randomly, but already knowing everything about them passively is just gross. It would be awesome to be able to have a full conversation instead of, “Yeah, I saw that on Facebook.” Some people will need to require more work on my part, and their part, to keep a relationship going. Other people are in my life everyday and I want a pure active nourishing relationship with.

Yes, the events function make getting huge people together a lot easier. I just hope that if you really want me to go to your event, you’d ask. If me not being on Facebook is too much work for you to invite me to your event, then your event will have a great time without me.

I have been on the fence about taking myself off Facebook for about a year now. There have been many reasons. I am addicted, it has become too political, it has made the world too small and too fast, on its board sits Peter Thiel who is a supporter and contributed to Donald J. Trump making money off of me, and this last bit of news about Russian Trolls using Facebook to win the presidential election for Russia.

I just can’t in good conscience keep logging on to Facebook to see what opinions you are wrong about or a hundred of you saying the exact same thing. It makes me think the people I know are a herd of sheep. I don’t want that perspective. I want your unique personality when you and I are talking.

I can’t feel good about myself partaking in an advertising & big media platform that is actually changing our society for the worst. The world does look like it’s spinning into oblivion when you are glued to a feed that tells you so. I’m not saying the world is great, but Facebook is a megaphone for humanities’ worse selves.

When a hundred of you post the same link about how terrible something is, it makes it a lot worse than if one of you posted it. I get it, people need to know. There is one thing that I know is people don’t want to know what they don’t know and want to just keep knowing what they already think they know. The link and opinion becomes void except by those who are assholes and argue for funsies and those that feel the same way you do.

If Facebook had the amount of positive impact on society, and it does have some worth there, I would be less inclined to log out, but it doesn’t. Because I like you and you post about antifa, I get ads focused at me about balaclavas from Land’s End. Your struggle now has monetary value for someone else.

I’m going to post this on my blog, http://www.davideverettfisher.com for if you want to read this after today. I’m also going to post my email address, so you can reach me if you don’t already know. dfisher13@gmail.com. I am going to log off tonight.

Hey, I might be back, but until I hear that the pros outweigh the cons, I’ll be on Twitter and Instagram @defisher.

I hope I don’t lose too many friends, but this is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

September 7, 2017 rant

Marching into Summer a Guilty Man

Somehow I’ve left writing.

It didn’t leave me, but I am a child who waits for the perfect environment.

I need to be alone.

I can’t be tired.

I must have the perfect Jazz album playing.

I have to have had a good day.

I need to feel like I’m not being pressed for time.

Time is really the greatest enemy of mine. I don’t look at it right. It takes four hours to get to work. (It takes 15 minutes on average [but it takes an hour to get home]) I won’t start something I don’t think I can finish. I panic. It’s better to never try then to either miss a deadline or be late for something.

I read these essays on how other writers manage their time. Some writers wrote while working, parenting, spousing, and getting into other parts of life. Others didn’t do anything but write. Some wrote on napkins and small pieces of paper that they compiled into a great work of literature. Others wrote on a typewriter. Others use a MacBook Pro, and they write where the coffee is the color of toffee and the steamer interrupts the hip hop.

I wrote a blog post everyday for a year. None of the above environments ever happened. I wrote a lot of those posts on my back and on my IPhone. It might have helped me write a lot, but it didn’t actually grab me that discipline I thought it would. I stopped.

Now I have rewritten this several times and I feel like everything I write is stupid.

I went from a Joe Henderson album to a James Chance album.

And why do I even care about writing well? No one reads unless it’s boy wizards or a book that vindicates a feeling. No one even reads the hours on a store’s door. No one reads a menu. It has to be obvious.

Sometimes I lie in bed at night and be watching TV or trying to sleep and I just think about how I wish I was doing something creative. I lie there thinking about the process. I see myself writing, drawing, painting, designing, but when I come down to my “office” and open the laptop, I stare at a blank screen for a few minutes before drooling on myself scrolling through Facebook.

Everyone is writing more than me.

So I left writing.

I didn’t have anything to tell you on Facebook.

No opinions.

No declarations of adulting better than you.

No kid pictures.

No selfies.

No links to questionable news sites.

I just hang on to the awful thing to be invited to things. It’s also handy for birthday reminders or any news from my softball team.

Honestly, if I wasn’t on my softball team, I’d quit Facebook forever.

It’s ruining my writing. It’s ruining my reading. It’s ruining the world.

So I lie in bed with my back to my computer while I think of what I want to write instead of writing it.

Some say it is just as easy as just doing it.

Just do it.

No excuses, bro.

Just fucking write!

I will sit and scroll through Twitter or Instagram instead of write. I will stare out the window and stare at the cars driving by. I will turn on TV. I’ve got Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, and I have the MLB package. I am savvy with YouTube. I will watch porn. I will do all of this instead of write. Draw. Paint. Create.

It sickens me. I have turned my back on who I am.

The world spirals and spirals closer to being something I don’t recognize, but I won’t write.

I have thought I was gonna die, but I won’t write.

I am on my second, third, or fourth chance at life, but I won’t write.

I am told on a daily basis that I am creative, but I won’t write.

So here I am trying to find writing again. Or something.

Mostly I am disgusted with myself.

I am better than this.

May 31, 2017 introspection

Sadness in the Time of Post-Reason

When you work in customer service, especially the retail version, a lot of people will point out what kind of weather it is. They will complain that it isn’t what they want or that it’s perfect, but they have to be inside at work. When weather is threatening to be awful, every single person will tell you the forecast.

“It’s supposed to snow on Thursday.”

Nobody wants it to snow on Thursday. One of the main reason that nobody wants it to snow on Thursday is that people will have to change the way they live to deal with the snow.

This is the season of depression. I have it. I have had this deep down melancholy since before I could remember. Life has always felt heavy. I have made peace with it. I try and take care of myself the best I can and know that this too shall pass.

This winter has found me with a different kind of depression. It feels heavier and everyday it is still there not passing. I stare out the window at the falling rain and the grey charcol colored low clouds and I feel the ceiling of reality smothering me like a giant hand. It is a feeling of being trapped with no where to go but the same way as everyone else.

If I look over at other people that are walking under this weight, I see no light in their eyes. What I see is a look of hopelessness and utter lack of self-confidence. I see a darkness in even the jovial of friends.

I think about that extra heaviness, that bonus darkness, and I wonder what it is. I evaluate and research the root of that sadness. I have had to deal with the dimness of light in my soul every year, year after year, so I know how to root around in that mud with skill.

I figured it out: I am mourning.

I am mourning the death of reason. I have watched rational thought expire and fall into the darkness of madness. We live in a world where feelings are marked as 100% fact. If one believes something, this makes it true. I am grieving the word of a person.

When a person used to put their hand on a bible and make an oath, even if that person has no belief in the myths and legends of that book, the person has sworn an oath to be honest and honest that person will be. Now that is either not true, or no one that disagrees with what that person is saying will believe that person. If you don’t agree with an outcome, then the outcome is false.

Belief is a strange and curious curse of consciousness. Philosophers and scientists have speculated for a millennia if what one person sees, all sees it too. Is my green the same green you see? For a long time, excepting those that suffer the hex of color blindness, but even then we can still agree that my green is your green because grass is often green. That has been true until someone needs a different thing to be green so will stop believing grass to be green and then dismiss all who claim grass being green.

Truth has become subjective. Our government and it’s conservative machine are now using the same tactics that hippies use, if I don’t feel that it is true, it isn’t true. Don’t say that, it is false news because I don’t feel good about the truth, so the truth needs to change.

Even with knowledge of all civilization sitting in our pocket, we are more subject to falling for a false narrative than it was when we had to rely on ourselves to be knowledgeable. Books, newspapers, teachers, professionals, and our elders were our guides to how the world was. Now knowledge is prefered to be found on an online forum that was originally built to help ivy school kids party and hook-up.

This land used to have giants walk it. Now there are none. Nobody is great anymore. All people are riddled with fault and sin that smother the greatness in the darkest of shadows. People read all the opinions of what the truth is, but nobody wants to find out what is behind that truth. How did we get to this point?

I am mourning the fact that while people have great intentions, people aren’t wanting to change their life to help change the way our world is now. It is snowing, but people are still leaving their house at the same time to get to work and then get so mad when other drivers are going so slow or that the roads haven’t been plowed or that their car is sliding all over the place or that they grew up having snow days and believe that as an adult should get snow days still!

There is no greatness anymore. It probably happened before I noticed, but it is hard to see that greatness is no longer a goal. We worship rich spoiled brats. There are people with millions of dollars that believe the earth is flat. Instead of outrage, it just becomes a joke. Ignorance is almost rewarded. Mediocrity can earn millions. There is nothing that talent can be showcased anymore.

That sadness is dripping heavy with a thick layer of grief. I am perpetually walking around with a lump in my throat. I want something to blame, but then I would just become them . . . you.

It was hard to disagree with so many, but there wasn’t this fear of the fundamentals ideals of what a human should be being completely disregarded. I am scared that we have turned a direction that we may never come back from.

I just read a book called The Mercy of the Tide by Keith Rosson. In the book there is this fictional book called the The Looming Error which was explaining the impending doom of nuclear annihilation. The argument was that since we dropped the bomb we can’t escape our destiny to drop the bomb again. We can’t take a step back.

This is how I feel about the world today. We have made ourselves a parody of ourselves and now we will never be able to be real or authentic again. Truth and knowledge will never be needed again to justify any decision, just feelings and fear will be the deciding factor. I don’t feel good when that happens so that needs to never happen again. Don’t say those words around me. Your opinion is wrong. I believe that to be true.

I feel extra sad because we are turning our backs on the one thing that actually made us great: Reason. If Reason can’t win, then we are just animals. Animals with religion.



March 2, 2017 introspection , , , , , , , , ,

You Have Been Bested By Nature Again

One of the best times of year in Portland is the false spring of February. The sun is out, it feels warm after so many cold gray winter days, and the idea of summer begins to be realistic. I love it for two reasons: one, it is the perfect temperature, and two, it is going to get shitty again soon.

There is something about people latching onto the sun like a lifeboat to only find that it has a hole in it and they will have to bob up and down in the shark infested waters that is late winter and early spring before the real lifeboat of actual good weather shows up to pick them up. Maybe it is mean to be so tickled by hope being demolished by heavy spring rains. Maybe I wonder why so many people move here to bitch about the weather day in and day out.

Mud can only be beautified by the crocus, daffodils, and hyacinths that sprout up during this week of sunny day delights. You start to see the little nubs of buds growing on the trees. Sometimes the cherry trees bloom to the delight by all only to be completely destroyed by the heavy downpours of March and April. The little shoots from the mud bulbs drown under the grey sky ocean. The hope of man drown as they stare out of their beautiful craftsman home that they assembled from the help of Kinfolk and Pinterest.

People try and walk the neighborhoods without jackets; instead they rely on hoodies or Pendleton sweaters, but they freeze everytime they pass a shadow. The shops on the dark side of the street wait impatiently for the sun to move across the blue faded sky so the herds of sun worshippers will walk on their side of the street and see their offerings. An hour or two before sunset, people who weren’t dressed for winter retreat to their cars to head home because the temperature has finally become lower than comfortable.

One of the best things about the false spring is that this is the week that coffee is perfect for. You can stand there in the sun only feeling a breath of warmth, but the coffee is keeping you warm. I guess tea can do that too, but I don’t mess with the empires that have risen and fallen to the whims of tea.

Soon the rains will return. Sometimes another winter will hit. Sometimes there is snow in March. It’s hard to put on the puffy vests and stocking caps again after being rewarded with warmth and sun for a week. This is the last straw for a lot of transplants and natives alike, the long stretch of eternal darkness that is a Portland spring. While other locales are worse for weather, the long mild grey spring has saddened even the most happiest of fools.

While those that bemoan the water falling from the sky, the forests become thicker. The sticks that stand straight up begin to show little buds. The ground turns from mud to a carpet of mass and ground cover. The dripping from the trees falls onto small soft fuzzy leaves that are so brightly green. When during late fall and winter you could see all the way across the ravines in the woods, now you can’t see to the bottom of the ravine, for the green is exploding.

Water is the very essential ingredient in life, but no one wants to endure it in there day to day life because it is inconvenient. I doesn’t allow for perfect days. It proves that while we have all this technology, nature still thrives and bests us. Being annoyed by outside is being bested by nature.

I picture people staring outside at the sunny day planning camping trips, trips to the beaches, and all the BBQs they will have in their backyard. I picture so much hope in a time that hope is an actual commodity. This is a blast of hope before we return to our regularly scheduled hopelessness. People are picturing what they will be doing instead of what is happening. People get a lot more out of doing than just having things happen.

I find a lot of delight in this week of hope because it has so much potential for so many, but I can’t help but to feel a little delight in the fact that it will not be for much longer. In fact I just checked the weather and I see that starting tomorrow there will be rain, and on top of that it all starts out with a wind advisory.

Did you do enough with your week of sun? Did you pack all you could in the time between winter weather systems? Did you believe, like so many believe every year, that this was the beginning of what was to become instead of a short commercial break between terrible TV shows? Some of you know to get out and do life like a Mountain Dew commercial, and others know that it is pointless to even try and enjoy what will be taken away so quickly. Other people keep falling for it and others haven’t been here long enough to understand that this is a soul crushing cruel joke played by nature herself.

Maybe you find me bitter with my enjoyment of people getting the happiness pulled from under their feet. Maybe you think I’m an asshole, but I assure you that without the returning of rains and colder temperatures, this false spring would not taste so sweetly as it does. I plan on going downtown and enjoying a cup of coffee and feel the sun on my face.

February 13, 2017 introspection , , , , , , ,