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An attempt at an introduc(explana(justificica(flagella(introduction. My name Is Douglas Rubles and I am of a modern temperament to the point where I viscerally hate that first sentence but refuse to exclude it based very, very loosely on the basis of wit and based very, very strongly on the basis that I fiddled with the grammatical structure extensively and find this incarnation somehow beautiful. I stray from modern temperament in that I have no problem using words like beautiful without qualification or bleeding myself bone before the altar of self-awareness (but oh! there’s the comfort of that filthy old cawl. I take the greatest pleasure striding naked through the street, if I face barbs I assure you I have given myself worse and if I face warm-breathed nuzzles get the fuck away from me. My name is Douglas Rubles and I am lonely enough to write this and my name is Douglas Rubles and I am pleased with myself enough to write this. Hello. But dare I mention? My name; Doug by the way, pleased to meet you and pleased to end this paragraph, I Douglas Rubles, intend to tell the tale of this one time I met a dog.

So! To begin, my name of course, is not Douglas Rubles. I am a shy man. But my name is irrelevant, my shyness is not: for this tale begins with me walking down an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar city in typical shy-man manner: eye line closely calculated to reach the rough area of the collar-bone of an average height passerby,intentionally avoiding eye-contact in supposed unintentional manner, eyelids and facial expression formed to give the impression of being lost in lofty, light thought and actual thought being constrained to maintaining this impression. 10 or so steps ahead struts an English Bulldog, seemingly ecstatic about his inherent absurdity or perhaps just hot. I love bulldogs, and am immediatley brought back to my late-childhood to early- adulthood family pet, a stout Valley Bulldog (bred in Nova Scotia, cross between a boxer and an English), how soft and warm his cheeks were when I would press mine to his. He fucking hated when I did that. Valley Bulldog’s have a strange behavioral trait: when they re-enter the house from outside they will often sprint full-tilt all around the house, tongue hung carelessly to the side, ears aflap, often looping coffee tables or entire floors despite their lazy nature. The dog knew he was home, the dog was ecstatic to be home, the dog had an understanding of home I have never known and likely never will, reveling in the familiar and comfortable as we all do but possessing the bravery to admit it, flaunt it, to know that though the world may continue to roar round with daunting peaks and precipes, seemingly endless caverns with ancient stygmata, unknown caverns running unknown depths and unknown distances beneath our feet, above lie and live wondrous works ofarchitecture and architects, civilizations new and old, people old and new, liquor, drugs, women, neon lights, dark bars and damp bedroom lamps, empty words shouted or screamed in streets and clubs and words spoken to escape said emptiness whispered upon pillow cases or jit jot in journals, sprwawling streets with more illumed windows than stars visible through our own light to solemn dirt roads and solitary houses filled with people you'll maybe know but most never will, the ones you do always seeming to lack the allure of the ones you don't, I know not what drives nature forward but for man it will always be a singular thought, whatever ingredients be added to the individuals particular tincture distilled it always remains the same, a sentence branded to brain, mark of Cain, so all conscious thought unconsciously run through it, the current tracing in cursive through each syllable: "This is not enough". But for the dog it was enough, this couch and this table and this chair and these 3 miserable males were enough, the view of the kitchen and eventually the back of his eyelids were enough, not only enough but All. Home. Home. Enough.

Home holds primarily negative connotations for me, for the same old reasons. Worry not, details are not to be forthcoming. But still I’m drawn to it, the connected concept of family gripping me the more, but why? Venomous blood runs through my arteries, a sadistic streak inherited, when the conditions are met my tongue turns to a silver rapier and instinctively I know the point to the particle where to thrust, I grow excited when I know a blow has landed, the flicker of blood through the mail makes my pupils dilate as a I continue the frenzied assault. It feels good. I can never forgive myself for that. For enjoying it. Laughing. There is more light than dark in me, but in the fashion of a shadowed figure being lit from the back, so as you draw closer the light fades to the peripheral and the shadowed figure remains that, a shadow, dagger drawn, drawn in fright not ferocity, a warning more than a threat, but ignore the warning and threat certainly awaits. Here there be dragons, here there be dragons, here there be- not too close, never too close, please don't come close. But please, come closer. 

Hanging loose from the jolly dog's neck droops a multi-colored neon leash. Why is it that what would be tacky and comical on human is norm for pet, but spiked collars and the like alone draw ridicule? A flower print scarf is a joy for every passerby, but if the dog were to dare a decent pair of levi's the mockery would likely cause a life-long aversion to denim. Like, existentially and shit. Dog's should not wear jeans; it appears my tone has drifted so I would just like to reassert that I am not genuinely contemplating the hidden meaning that could be extracted between the relation of dog and denim. Aborting this paragraph. Or you should be so lucky!