Edit 3/5/2013
This is bullshit: having to delete posts and leaving only links. What if some people are too lazy to click on links? Agh!
Link to Kansas State University webpage that hosts the retelling
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
What's Next
What's next often frightens us all. No. I take that back. Let me reword that more appropriately. The fear of the unknown will always, no matter who you are, bring you down to your knees with a deafening thud. It comes with a horrible sense of uncertainty.
It can make the strongest man cry like a baby. It can make the smartest man in the world look brain dead. Nobody really knows what's next. They know something new approaches but never exactly too sure as to what that something is. The first thing to has been to attack, never to understand.
Don't fear what's next. Just go forward. Like Bond in Casino Royale during the free-running scene. Drywall can't stop Bond! He can pull a long nail out of his shoulder and still kick ass! And bring down an entire building!
Don't fear what's next. Make it fear you.
As FDR said: We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Or more accurately: "...the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
and you can read his speech here.
It can make the strongest man cry like a baby. It can make the smartest man in the world look brain dead. Nobody really knows what's next. They know something new approaches but never exactly too sure as to what that something is. The first thing to has been to attack, never to understand.
Don't fear what's next. Just go forward. Like Bond in Casino Royale during the free-running scene. Drywall can't stop Bond! He can pull a long nail out of his shoulder and still kick ass! And bring down an entire building!
Don't fear what's next. Make it fear you.
As FDR said: We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Or more accurately: "...the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
and you can read his speech here.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Sickly Sonnet for the Sick
This sonnet took up too much time to write.
It doesn't help that I am sick and ill.
Drowned in water and OJ. What a sight!
"Being sick" is not synonymous with "thrill".
No meter, rhyme, or structure is found here.
Coughing is not a type of poetry.
Sneezing in crowds creates panic and fear.
"Under the weather?" Not my cup of tea.
Symphony of sickness, coughs, and sneezes
Drinking water, faulty immune system.
Oh, how I hate crawling with diseases.
Is this a defeated scrawny kingdom?
No. Here comes a wave of warm chicken soup
and another torrent of orange juice.
It doesn't help that I am sick and ill.
Drowned in water and OJ. What a sight!
"Being sick" is not synonymous with "thrill".
No meter, rhyme, or structure is found here.
Coughing is not a type of poetry.
Sneezing in crowds creates panic and fear.
"Under the weather?" Not my cup of tea.
Symphony of sickness, coughs, and sneezes
Drinking water, faulty immune system.
Oh, how I hate crawling with diseases.
Is this a defeated scrawny kingdom?
No. Here comes a wave of warm chicken soup
and another torrent of orange juice.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Bit of text regarding rarity.
It's rare to have a good day. Because the definition of good will always vary from person to person.
By that same token, It's also rare to have a bad day. The definition is subjective, you know.
So... go out there and make a day for yourself. Good or bad, it's up to you.
I, personally, would encourage you to have a good day. If we're using a generally accepted definition of "good" (or the one in the dictionary).
In the end, the decision is yours. But please, drink plenty of water.
By that same token, It's also rare to have a bad day. The definition is subjective, you know.
So... go out there and make a day for yourself. Good or bad, it's up to you.
I, personally, would encourage you to have a good day. If we're using a generally accepted definition of "good" (or the one in the dictionary).
In the end, the decision is yours. But please, drink plenty of water.
Monday, June 20, 2011
XV (Pablo Neruda)
Edit 3/5/2013
Pablo Neruda's Smash Hits! on Spotify
Pablo Neruda – Pablo Neruda Lee a Pablo Neruda (Unabridged)
Fun fact: Brazilian Girls put music over the poem. Check it out → here.
Pablo Neruda's Smash Hits! on Spotify
Pablo Neruda – Pablo Neruda Lee a Pablo Neruda (Unabridged)
Fun fact: Brazilian Girls put music over the poem. Check it out → here.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Pa
Today irks me to no end. No, that's not entirely true; it used to irk me to no end. Now, it's just another day... for the most part. I acknowledge its existence and the meaning it carries for other people, people who I see as lucky. I see them as lucky because they have a father in their lives and have had one throughout their lives.
Father's Day.
I think, in these times, it's actually an accomplishment and something remarkable when one's father actually stays beyond birth (or even conception) and actively works to help. There's a difference between saying sorry and apologizing, and there's a difference between being a father and being the sperm provider. Any male can provide sperm but it takes a special type of male to be a father. The father provides the sperm and stays to make sure it doesn't turn out to be a fuck-up or anything like that. The level of involvement makes the difference.
That's just how I see things. Maybe it's overly demanding. In the past, I've set up these really high standards for myself if I ever chose to become a father.
Maybe I was just so bitter thinking about mine not being around that I came up with this fantasy type scenario in which I would excel in an effort to destroy my father and destroy that hole I carried for years.
A girl I was dating pointed out that it's good that I have high expectations for myself in that arena, but that I should be careful about it.
Hmm.
Or it could be that I grew up with television fathers/father-figures like Uncle Phil from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and all those that they became my template and some sort of goal. That and hearing from my peers about how "my dad this" and "my dad kicked that guy's ass" and "my dad helped me" etc. Fuel.
I don't care anymore. I did at one point but as it happens nowadays, I don't anymore. It bothers me that he never made any efforts to raise me or genuinely stay in touch with me until I was 18/19. By then, anything he had to teach me or tell me, I had already learned myself or from other people. I was quite bitter about it growing up but now not so much. I get upset when I read/see/hear about boys getting girls pregnant and running off, or staying with them for a bit and then running off. If there's one thing in the world that pisses me off it's that level of cowardice.
And hearing about how kids pine for their fathers who they've never met (and will probably never meet) only enrages and saddens me further. Those filthy cowardly bastards.
On the other hand, when I hear about fathers who are still taking care of their kids, it restores in me some faith in humanity.
Just because I don't care about my situation, doesn't mean I don't care about others. I have great respect for the fathers I know who are actively involved in their kids' lives and continue to be there.
I learned a lot of things on my own, I didn't have someone to call "dad" or "pa" to guide me. If I'll have kids, I don't know. If I do, however, I'll do my best not to be my "father."
In closing, Happy Father's Day to all the real fathers and father-figure types out there. Keep on doing what you're doing.
Father's Day.
I think, in these times, it's actually an accomplishment and something remarkable when one's father actually stays beyond birth (or even conception) and actively works to help. There's a difference between saying sorry and apologizing, and there's a difference between being a father and being the sperm provider. Any male can provide sperm but it takes a special type of male to be a father. The father provides the sperm and stays to make sure it doesn't turn out to be a fuck-up or anything like that. The level of involvement makes the difference.
That's just how I see things. Maybe it's overly demanding. In the past, I've set up these really high standards for myself if I ever chose to become a father.
Maybe I was just so bitter thinking about mine not being around that I came up with this fantasy type scenario in which I would excel in an effort to destroy my father and destroy that hole I carried for years.
A girl I was dating pointed out that it's good that I have high expectations for myself in that arena, but that I should be careful about it.
Hmm.
Or it could be that I grew up with television fathers/father-figures like Uncle Phil from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and all those that they became my template and some sort of goal. That and hearing from my peers about how "my dad this" and "my dad kicked that guy's ass" and "my dad helped me" etc. Fuel.
I don't care anymore. I did at one point but as it happens nowadays, I don't anymore. It bothers me that he never made any efforts to raise me or genuinely stay in touch with me until I was 18/19. By then, anything he had to teach me or tell me, I had already learned myself or from other people. I was quite bitter about it growing up but now not so much. I get upset when I read/see/hear about boys getting girls pregnant and running off, or staying with them for a bit and then running off. If there's one thing in the world that pisses me off it's that level of cowardice.
And hearing about how kids pine for their fathers who they've never met (and will probably never meet) only enrages and saddens me further. Those filthy cowardly bastards.
On the other hand, when I hear about fathers who are still taking care of their kids, it restores in me some faith in humanity.
Just because I don't care about my situation, doesn't mean I don't care about others. I have great respect for the fathers I know who are actively involved in their kids' lives and continue to be there.
I learned a lot of things on my own, I didn't have someone to call "dad" or "pa" to guide me. If I'll have kids, I don't know. If I do, however, I'll do my best not to be my "father."
In closing, Happy Father's Day to all the real fathers and father-figure types out there. Keep on doing what you're doing.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
You are ultimately nothing.
You are ultimately nothing.
Conversely, I am everything.
We always change place though.
Please, never reduce me to zero.
Never commit yourself to nothingness.
Commit yourself to everything.
Same.
The universe carries no pretensions
of trying to see your point of view.
It's not going to ask
if you're feeling blue
if you're smile is cherry
or offer you a seat on the trolley or
throw you a rope should you fall from the ferry.
The universe has seen me again and again.
Will see you again and again, too.
As a man, a bird, a rat, a woman, a snake.
With long hair, short, bald, tentacles, tattoos, antennae, scales and gills.
Seen you burn down my huts, I sliced your wrists immediately.
Seen me rebuild worlds that you reduced to dust and cosmic debris.
Burned down my plantations, and set your slaves free.
Seen me shot the last of something
and smirk.
You grinned as you planted a tree tomorrow only to have it wither and die yesterday.
The end starts everything.
The beginning is the great equalizer.
Infinity and nothing are just two sides to a coin.
I'm just a rehash of the spaceships in the Stone Age.
You are ultimately nothing.
Conversely, I am everything.
We always change place though.
Please, never reduce me to zero.
Never commit yourself to nothingness.
Commit yourself to everything.
Same.
The universe carries no pretensions
of trying to see your point of view.
It's not going to ask
if you're feeling blue
if you're smile is cherry
or offer you a seat on the trolley or
throw you a rope should you fall from the ferry.
The universe has seen me again and again.
Will see you again and again, too.
As a man, a bird, a rat, a woman, a snake.
With long hair, short, bald, tentacles, tattoos, antennae, scales and gills.
Seen you burn down my huts, I sliced your wrists immediately.
Seen me rebuild worlds that you reduced to dust and cosmic debris.
Burned down my plantations, and set your slaves free.
Seen me shot the last of something
and smirk.
You grinned as you planted a tree tomorrow only to have it wither and die yesterday.
The end starts everything.
The beginning is the great equalizer.
Infinity and nothing are just two sides to a coin.
I'm just a rehash of the spaceships in the Stone Age.
You are ultimately nothing.
When my Dust is Dust
Sometimes (or often), I think about events and (phenomena in general) that I won't be alive for. Some of the things I think of are: the years 3,000 AD (if we're still using AD); 5,000; 9,000; and if applicable: 1 million, 10 million, 10 billion, etc. I also think of my greatn-grandchildren and what they'll think of me, if they know of me (or if my bloodline will extend that far, or if it extends at all); continental drift; how advanced machinery will become, if at all; and, of course, the end of the universe by which I really mean: the end of everything.
The end of the universe (or everything, as we know it) comes to mind the most. And it tends to hit me pretty hard, sometimes. Thoughts of my descendants only fuel my ego, mind you; as a result, I try not to think too obsessively on them (or think of them less frequently), lest they think me a megalomaniacal self-obsessed fiend (more so than usual).
For me, the end of the universe is a fascinating subject to think about. The idea of how the end will come is what fascinates me the most. I know Earth will end long before that. And assuming humans haven't mastered interplanetary travel, we will have perished as well. Be it by being scorched or engulfed by the sun, spontaneous combustion, perpetual nuclear war, vile biological warfare, machines crushing mankind, and a wide array of other possibilities ranging from reasonable to ridiculous. But! We are resourceful, cunning, ingenious, and stubborn bastards; we'll survive the destruction of Earth, somehow.
The time leading up to the end is a scary thing. To be aware of the end inching closer and closer is probably a terrifying feeling. For an entire group of people to know that inescapable truth and to know that they will soon be forgotten... kind of hard to put into words, isn't it? How can you sum up something that transcends the definition of fear and terror? To know you're going to be annihilated and that there's nothing you can do to stop it is too much for words. The closest substitution we have is "helplessness" and "fear" but don't those two terms imply a sense of hope? That whatever you fear can be overcome? Helplessness is only temporary? Not when it comes to the destruction of the universe and the ultimate fate of everything.
The end isn't that bad. It's how one gets there that presents a problem, or point of pondering.
I guess that old saying is true. It's about the journey, not the destination. To paraphrase.
I'm fine with the end, it's the path leading that irks me a bit. Makes me feel somewhat trapped, sometimes.
Just imagine being strapped to a conveyor belt. Strapped in so tightly that movement to any degree is impossible. The sounds of carnage, chaos, and destruction get louder as the belt moves. You cannot escape and all the while you're being hit with sharp little pebbles (reminders of what will come, and what you will eventually be free from). Each time the pebbles hit you, you gain some sort of perspective. You know you can feel, and you know you're going to die eventually. At least, it's expected that one would gain some sort of perspective if you're being pelted by sharp little pebbles. Eventually, it should be so the pebbles are a part of you... sort of, and a result you begin to understand each other. (Or you understand it; the universe and its vast mysteries are under no obligation to understand you.) What it means to be alive, what it means to walk and breathe and be.
You begin to understand why you're here, not why anyone else or we are here. Born to die is looking at things with a narrow scope, in my opinion. It's a fact that everything that starts, ends. Everything gets from point A to point B. But what about all that stuff in between? That's what really matters, I think. That's when and where sharp pebbles rain down upon on you. Tiny bites pushing you towards something. Understanding? Your role in the grand scheme things? "Close your eyes, you idiot; you're being hit by pebbles and will most likely lose your eyesight or have it really fucked up"?
The lesson the pebbles teach varies from person to person. I'm still not fully aware of mine. I'll get there, at some point. I accept that. And I accept that acceptance is part of understanding.
What does any of this have to do with anything?
Sometimes, I think about things that are far greater than myself. Out of my present reach. By sometimes, I mean often. I get very curious about things that I won't be alive to see. I've tried to understand why I keep thinking about stuff that's out of my reach- such as the end of the universe. And any time I start thinking WHY my thoughts go running to the end of the universe (and whatever I can connect to it), I'm left with no explanation.
At this point, I've learned to accept it.
The end of the universe (or everything, as we know it) comes to mind the most. And it tends to hit me pretty hard, sometimes. Thoughts of my descendants only fuel my ego, mind you; as a result, I try not to think too obsessively on them (or think of them less frequently), lest they think me a megalomaniacal self-obsessed fiend (more so than usual).
For me, the end of the universe is a fascinating subject to think about. The idea of how the end will come is what fascinates me the most. I know Earth will end long before that. And assuming humans haven't mastered interplanetary travel, we will have perished as well. Be it by being scorched or engulfed by the sun, spontaneous combustion, perpetual nuclear war, vile biological warfare, machines crushing mankind, and a wide array of other possibilities ranging from reasonable to ridiculous. But! We are resourceful, cunning, ingenious, and stubborn bastards; we'll survive the destruction of Earth, somehow.
The time leading up to the end is a scary thing. To be aware of the end inching closer and closer is probably a terrifying feeling. For an entire group of people to know that inescapable truth and to know that they will soon be forgotten... kind of hard to put into words, isn't it? How can you sum up something that transcends the definition of fear and terror? To know you're going to be annihilated and that there's nothing you can do to stop it is too much for words. The closest substitution we have is "helplessness" and "fear" but don't those two terms imply a sense of hope? That whatever you fear can be overcome? Helplessness is only temporary? Not when it comes to the destruction of the universe and the ultimate fate of everything.
The end isn't that bad. It's how one gets there that presents a problem, or point of pondering.
I guess that old saying is true. It's about the journey, not the destination. To paraphrase.
I'm fine with the end, it's the path leading that irks me a bit. Makes me feel somewhat trapped, sometimes.
Just imagine being strapped to a conveyor belt. Strapped in so tightly that movement to any degree is impossible. The sounds of carnage, chaos, and destruction get louder as the belt moves. You cannot escape and all the while you're being hit with sharp little pebbles (reminders of what will come, and what you will eventually be free from). Each time the pebbles hit you, you gain some sort of perspective. You know you can feel, and you know you're going to die eventually. At least, it's expected that one would gain some sort of perspective if you're being pelted by sharp little pebbles. Eventually, it should be so the pebbles are a part of you... sort of, and a result you begin to understand each other. (Or you understand it; the universe and its vast mysteries are under no obligation to understand you.) What it means to be alive, what it means to walk and breathe and be.
You begin to understand why you're here, not why anyone else or we are here. Born to die is looking at things with a narrow scope, in my opinion. It's a fact that everything that starts, ends. Everything gets from point A to point B. But what about all that stuff in between? That's what really matters, I think. That's when and where sharp pebbles rain down upon on you. Tiny bites pushing you towards something. Understanding? Your role in the grand scheme things? "Close your eyes, you idiot; you're being hit by pebbles and will most likely lose your eyesight or have it really fucked up"?
The lesson the pebbles teach varies from person to person. I'm still not fully aware of mine. I'll get there, at some point. I accept that. And I accept that acceptance is part of understanding.
What does any of this have to do with anything?
Sometimes, I think about things that are far greater than myself. Out of my present reach. By sometimes, I mean often. I get very curious about things that I won't be alive to see. I've tried to understand why I keep thinking about stuff that's out of my reach- such as the end of the universe. And any time I start thinking WHY my thoughts go running to the end of the universe (and whatever I can connect to it), I'm left with no explanation.
At this point, I've learned to accept it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Assorted haiku(s)
The sun sets once more
Ah yes, a bittersweet sight.
"Happy and forlorn."
-
Stupid smiling moon
Alert the authorities
Termina* will burn.
-
The swamp is ill.
Villainy inside, dancing.
Pull free the monkey.
-
Snow. Crying babies.
Drums. Giant bulls. A ghost king
who cried, now slumbers.
-
Hey! Look at the sea.
Something is drowning again.
Or breathing water.
-
The dead and living.
Blood. Sand. Love's the upper hand.
Courage is a giant.
-
Oh, you're so clever
by referring to that game
Cheers, Majora's Mask.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Double Great or: on Walk Hard
If you know me in real life, you'll know that I have what some would call "an unhealthy obsession" with the movie Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. "An unhealthy obsession" just seems totally inaccurate. I do not obsess movies. I just really like the movie, and the soundtrack.
I think it's a funny movie, albeit a tad low brow every at some points. Aside from the humor that evades some people, I also found it inspirational/motivational, believe it or not.
Why?
I think it's a funny movie, albeit a tad low brow every at some points. Aside from the humor that evades some people, I also found it inspirational/motivational, believe it or not.
Why?
Mainly because the main character rises from nothing to having great success and overcoming his obstacles and personal demons. It's archetypal but in a movie that lampoons biopics (and movies that are generally obviously aiming from some prestigious awards), it's surprising.
Dewey Cox (played by John C. Reilly) goes from simple country boy with nothing in particular to set him apart until tragedy strikes and he is forced to be "double great." in the wake of his hyper-talented brother dying. Dewey goes through life without love from his father, a sense of smell, and pressure of being "double great." But through all his struggles, he finds the power to overcome his demons, kick his drug addictions and makes some of the best music ever heard. (Really, the soundtrack is one of the best I've ever heard.)
Why is this movie special for me?
Dewey Cox has no sense of smell. I have no sense of smell. Well, that's not entirely true; I have a very weak sense of smell that seems to have a mind of its own. It's very weak and in order for me to actually smell anything, that smell has to be very strong- rotting corpse a foot away from me, or walking in front of a bakery as fresh bread is being baked, along with pastries and other goods. This is no exaggeration: often, I've found myself with a lady and near flowers, roses in particular. Under varying circumstances. I've been asked to smell them. I couldn't. I even held the flower as if covering my nostril and inhaled as deeply as I could.
A doctor said I'm very heavily congested. While he knew his stuff and obviously didn't get his degree online, I still have my doubts.
Of course, there's more to that bizarre similarity that makes the movie speak to me. It's how Dewey went through life. When things took chaotic turns for the worst, he had his faith shaken and gave in temporarily, only to climb out of his dark place just as quickly. Everything he worked hard for would be tossed aside by some turn of events- sex, drugs, rock and roll, etc. But he always managed to come out on top with a goofy smile on his face somehow. Each time he went through hell, he came out a wiser man ready to take on the ever-changing world. He always learned and he always fought to keep going.
This post seems a little scattered because I'm thinking about the movie and what stuff may be relevant to what I'm trying to say. Ha.
In a nutshell, the movie entertained me thoroughly and unexpectedly taught me (or reminded me) that anything can be achieved through hard work, dedication, believing in oneself, and always trying hard.
It's even in the lyrics to the title song, Walk Hard*
One part in particular stands out to me:
When I meet my maker on my dying day,
gonna look him in the eye
and, by God, I'll say:
I gave my word and my word was good;
I took it in the face and I walked as hard as I could!
* I'm quite partial to the punk version, by the way.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Poem (Jack Kerouac)
Edit 3/5/2013:
I hate having to go through every non-public domain entry and delete it out of concern. But I'll leave some info for you to check out. This sucks. I'm sorry.
Pomes All Sizes: Pocket Poets Number 48
I hate having to go through every non-public domain entry and delete it out of concern. But I'll leave some info for you to check out. This sucks. I'm sorry.
Pomes All Sizes: Pocket Poets Number 48
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Reflect on Steam (A String of Queries)
I find it sad how steam tends to run out of trains, or people, after a while. I have ideas in my head throughout the day but by nightfall, they don't always flesh out to anything substantial (or what I feel to be substantial). Therein lies the rub, or to speak normally- the problem. The problem is that I tend to believe that anything I create is not worthy. Maybe it is to someone else and that's all that really matters: a certain type of altruism, doing things not strictly for the self but for a general overall well-being for everyone, or at the very least not just for oneself. Maximize good for all? Maybe. Maximize good for more than just the self? Yes, that could work.
If altruism is the goal I reach for without thinking, why do I carry a sense of self-loathing when I scratch the surface of the surface? Is the feeling of self-worthlessness in regards to writing, or a general sense of self-loathing normal? Have I run out of patience with myself if I seem to loathe myself and my writing?
Running out of steam is normal, I suppose. The fact that it's normal doesn't change the fact that it's sad (or that I find it disheartening) or that it could be avoided (for the most part) or delayed to the point that it carries the illusion of evasion. I say it takes effort, and being willing to make it work. But can altruism be abandoned or set aside if there's no motivation? Does that contradict everything? Does the house of cards then come crashing down?
Or do you have to accept altruism in order for any of that stuff to apply? Can one be justified in saying, "no more" and walking away from the situation if there's nothing there?
If altruism is the goal I reach for without thinking, why do I carry a sense of self-loathing when I scratch the surface of the surface? Is the feeling of self-worthlessness in regards to writing, or a general sense of self-loathing normal? Have I run out of patience with myself if I seem to loathe myself and my writing?
Running out of steam is normal, I suppose. The fact that it's normal doesn't change the fact that it's sad (or that I find it disheartening) or that it could be avoided (for the most part) or delayed to the point that it carries the illusion of evasion. I say it takes effort, and being willing to make it work. But can altruism be abandoned or set aside if there's no motivation? Does that contradict everything? Does the house of cards then come crashing down?
Or do you have to accept altruism in order for any of that stuff to apply? Can one be justified in saying, "no more" and walking away from the situation if there's nothing there?
Monday, June 6, 2011
Bottle, Part III
"What a fucking headache," groaned the grizzly bear, "I feel like shit." he said once more, stating the obvious consequences of having a headache.
The miserable fucking cur didn't realize his lungs had burst with so much wine in them. He had, in fact, drowned. His lungs burst with such ferocity. His ribcage exploded and pierced his body from the inside out. He looked so much like a dirty pin cushion with those jagged pieces of bone sticking out everywhere. This was all really unknown to him and had no idea of what had happened. Even the scars didn't tip him off. He shrugged off the excruciating pain he felt all over him. Rather miraculously he was able to do something like that.
"Just a headache." he said to himself, "that's all. It'll pass soon." But there was in reality much more than he could fathom.
He was unaware that he had died and had immediately gone to Hell. Or his version of hell: sharing a room with a raging alcoholic falcon. And given that he drowned, it all took place underwater, for the most part.
He was such a downer that they kicked him out and sent him back to the living world. Still stuck in his bottle. They gave him a powerful set of lungs and internal organs. Their intentions were to keep him from dying for as long as possible (without resorting to immortality) and thereby keep him out of Hell. Of course, he didn't get a clean break: once his organs started failing, they'd fail and really make him suffer slowly.
So the bear wallowed in his kingdom of wine, loneliness, and pathetic sulking. His majestic crown simply the matted down fur of the top of his head. His scepter... nothing really. His throne... none. There was nothing regal about him in this state, or even prior when he lived with his family. The very people who applauded his decision to leave. They now spoke with gruff and sore voices.
They cheered so loudly and so often they blew out their voices. They didn't care, they were glad to be rid of "2000 lbs of pathetic bitching." They were cruel in this regard but they felt justified and satisfied. He was drunk and depressed all the time and did nothing to help the situation. His employment, if any, was temporary and sporadic: he quit or got fired far too often. His education was lacking, as well. He dropped out during his last year of his post-secondary education. Never made any effort to explain his actions or return. He was absolutely fine with having everyone support him, though they couldn't support him anymore so it was a stroke of luck handed down by g-d in a neat fresh-smelling hand-basket that he climbed into that bottle.
The miserable cur was gone. The skies that day were a shade of blue previously unknown to any stretch of imagination. The wind carried a sweet scent of victory, joy, and love that day. Witnesses reported the clouds shaping themselves into smiley faces.
There was more breathing space and the family cherished that fact.
In some kind of desperation to rid themselves of his memory and presence, they took all his belongings and tossed them out. They figured the bear was never coming back, and if he did come back they figured if he had nothing there, he'd leave. "Call it insurance," said the sloth who lived across the street.
"If he does come back," chimed his brother- the one with a bad mohawk, "can I shoot him?" He continued to sharpen his fork. He was out of a job and had sold his knife to pay the rent.
The family pondered this on their comfortable leather chairs, eating the grizzly's cake and pastries. The only thing they liked about him was his ability to choose delicious cake and pastries without trying.
"He wouldn't come home every night raving about falcons and screaming 'what do American beer and sex in a canoe have in common?!' and all that nonsense." the fox said, his head in his hands. He was remembering the night the grizzly bear took a swing at him. He wanted him to go away forever but at the same time could not bear to imagine life without that fool. He provided them with fun with his misery. Nevertheless, he began to take a long hard look at their history. Especially "that one night."
-
It was a very warm night, the moon was relatively full for it had just come home from a cosmic buffet and had to be thrown out after finishing all the shrimp, twice. The bear had gone drinking, as was his hypocritical way. Sometimes, the fox would join in drinking but that night he refused to go. He wanted to sleep. The bear was enraged by the fact that the fox was missing when he started a fight and found absolutely nobody to back him up.
Prior to actually going to the local watering hole, the grizzly bear sauntered over to the fox' shack, wearing a hat (as was his custom). The fox tried ignoring the knocking at the door but the grizzly's attempts at rhythm were making his ears bleed. He shot up out of bed and ran to the door, opened it and yelled, "The motherfucking lights are out, you miserable fucking piece of shit! I'm trying to get some fucking sleep, god-fucking-damn it! What the fuck do you want, you stupid lumbering bastard?!" which was out of his nature.
He tried his hardest never to swear, save for "damn." Prior to that night, it had been 4 years since he had last told his ex wife to fuck off. The grizzly stood stunned for a minute, while the fox seethed. He grew angrier and angrier knowing he had broken his record; he was not a fan of swearing.
"Do you see what you made me do?" the fox snarled.
"I'm sorry." the grizzly said softly, with a shame that would vanish quickly.
"Yeah, you're sorry. What the fuck do you want?"
"I wanted to know if you wanted to go drinking tonight."
"I haven't been home in 3 days, I'm bloody fucking exhausted, and you want me to babysit you?"
"We-"
"No! Fuck off and don't come back!"
With those words, the fox slammed the door in the grizzly's face (hurting his nose), and went back to bed.
The grizzly wrote off that burst of anger as dark humor and expected that night to be normal. He reassured himself with memories of fox playing cruel pranks on people (mostly him). What he failed to realize is that the fox had come back a different creature after divorcing his wife those four years ago. Nobody spoke about it and nobody dared ask fox. Whenever she was mentioned in his presence, even in passing, he would glare for hours at whoever mentioned her. It was truly a scary thing to see that sight. Not necessarily for the fact that he was angry but because he missed her terribly. Tears would sometimes well up in his eyes while his hellish glare tried its hardest to keep anyone from seeing a wounded and vulnerable fox.
The grizzly didn't care. And it was evidenced by his behavior at the bar.
There was an air of betrayal mixing with cigarette smoke and vomit. Made only worse as the muskrat and kangaroo stomped the hell out of him. The rest of the patrons willfully ignored what was happening. They were glad somebody was doing what others had only dreamt of doing. Not that the bear was a force to be reckoned with but he presented a strange dilemma.
He truly was such a disagreeable fellow that neighbors and family members dreamt of cutting off his eyelids and covering him in barbecue sauce in the middle of the desert while hungry rabid dogs feasted on him. And they also held the belief that he was so pathetic that punching him would be sad and a waste of time and energy.
Unfortunately for him, this apathy had made him believe himself to be untouchable. This could only go wrong when he decided to slap the muskrat repeatedly because of the obvious size difference. "You're shorter than me, shorty!" And use the kangaroo's pouch to store his alcohol, "Keep my drink ice cold, Bruce, and throw another shrimp on the barbie." These two, being strangers to those parts, were unaware that people put up with his idiocy because they didn't care anymore. So they did what sane beings do- beat some sense into him. He grew angrier not because of the beating he was taking but because nobody helped him.
How much sense was beat into him varies with witnesses. A barrage of punches to the ribs, repeated kicks to the head, lead pipes to the face, tied up in a chair and having his balls struck with a carpet beater, and so many more reports. The only absolute truth lay in the fact that everyone drank to celebrate somebody putting the grizzly bear in his place. He drank, too. Drank "being" a euphemism for "dove to the bottom of the whiskey sea. And then dove deeper."
While in his drunken haze, he stumbled back to the fox' shack and tore the door down.
The fox was sleeping until he heard violent vomiting and knew exactly who it was.
"There you are! You fucking traitor!" the bear snarled.
"Come back when you're sober." the fox yawned, walking to his closet to get his crowbar.
"I just got my ass handed to me by a fucking kangaroo! A fucking rodent!"
"I missed the part where that was my problem."
"And a fucking muskrat, man."
"Again, I don't care."
"Thought we were fr-"
"Don't you dare say that word."
The fox paused, not even grabbing his crowbar. If there was one thing he never wanted the grizzly to even hint at, it was any form of relationship between them- namely, friendship. The fox didn't care for the grizzly that much. He only stopped fights because he didn't want blood on his hands, or paws. And because he knew that he would be hurt financially from property damage by the bear. He owned a portion of the local watering hole.
The fox marched steadily towards the bear who was having a hard time keeping his balance. With each step the fox took, the more the bear sank into a combination of fear and rage.
"We are not friends, you miserable sack of shit. If I ever defended you, it was to keep me from getting blamed for your death. Nobody likes you. Nobody even wants you around. Hell, I want to bash your fucking brains in, to be honest. Get lost, you miserable bastard."
That last line snapped the bear into this alert murderous machine mode. He threw a left punch which the fox dodged, just barely. The bear kept swinging and swinging. Missing each time. The fox ran for his crowbar. As soon as he grabbed it, the bear picked him up and threw him clear across the room and out of his shack.
The bear charged with all his might which didn't faze the fox. He simply rolled out of the way, picked up his crowbar and snuck up to the bear.
As soon as he turned around, his face met with solid metal. Repeatedly. Finally, the bear collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. The fox rolled the bear off his property and left him by the side of the road. A driver saw the scene and pulled over, only to congratulate the fox. And kick the grizzly.
The fox returned home and fell asleep, ignoring the damage the bear had caused to his home. Nobody would ignore the scars left by the bear anymore.
After "that night" which would be known as "Bashing Day" among the townsfolk, the bear had truly become a pariah. He was immediately ejected from all establishments. When asked why, they gave him a very long list of reasons.
"I'm sorry." he would offer.
"Yeah, you are sorry." they responded with an air of scorn and smugness.
-
The fox pondered this and decided he would destroy the drunkard if he ever chose to return.
The miserable fucking cur didn't realize his lungs had burst with so much wine in them. He had, in fact, drowned. His lungs burst with such ferocity. His ribcage exploded and pierced his body from the inside out. He looked so much like a dirty pin cushion with those jagged pieces of bone sticking out everywhere. This was all really unknown to him and had no idea of what had happened. Even the scars didn't tip him off. He shrugged off the excruciating pain he felt all over him. Rather miraculously he was able to do something like that.
"Just a headache." he said to himself, "that's all. It'll pass soon." But there was in reality much more than he could fathom.
He was unaware that he had died and had immediately gone to Hell. Or his version of hell: sharing a room with a raging alcoholic falcon. And given that he drowned, it all took place underwater, for the most part.
He was such a downer that they kicked him out and sent him back to the living world. Still stuck in his bottle. They gave him a powerful set of lungs and internal organs. Their intentions were to keep him from dying for as long as possible (without resorting to immortality) and thereby keep him out of Hell. Of course, he didn't get a clean break: once his organs started failing, they'd fail and really make him suffer slowly.
So the bear wallowed in his kingdom of wine, loneliness, and pathetic sulking. His majestic crown simply the matted down fur of the top of his head. His scepter... nothing really. His throne... none. There was nothing regal about him in this state, or even prior when he lived with his family. The very people who applauded his decision to leave. They now spoke with gruff and sore voices.
They cheered so loudly and so often they blew out their voices. They didn't care, they were glad to be rid of "2000 lbs of pathetic bitching." They were cruel in this regard but they felt justified and satisfied. He was drunk and depressed all the time and did nothing to help the situation. His employment, if any, was temporary and sporadic: he quit or got fired far too often. His education was lacking, as well. He dropped out during his last year of his post-secondary education. Never made any effort to explain his actions or return. He was absolutely fine with having everyone support him, though they couldn't support him anymore so it was a stroke of luck handed down by g-d in a neat fresh-smelling hand-basket that he climbed into that bottle.
The miserable cur was gone. The skies that day were a shade of blue previously unknown to any stretch of imagination. The wind carried a sweet scent of victory, joy, and love that day. Witnesses reported the clouds shaping themselves into smiley faces.
There was more breathing space and the family cherished that fact.
In some kind of desperation to rid themselves of his memory and presence, they took all his belongings and tossed them out. They figured the bear was never coming back, and if he did come back they figured if he had nothing there, he'd leave. "Call it insurance," said the sloth who lived across the street.
"If he does come back," chimed his brother- the one with a bad mohawk, "can I shoot him?" He continued to sharpen his fork. He was out of a job and had sold his knife to pay the rent.
The family pondered this on their comfortable leather chairs, eating the grizzly's cake and pastries. The only thing they liked about him was his ability to choose delicious cake and pastries without trying.
"He wouldn't come home every night raving about falcons and screaming 'what do American beer and sex in a canoe have in common?!' and all that nonsense." the fox said, his head in his hands. He was remembering the night the grizzly bear took a swing at him. He wanted him to go away forever but at the same time could not bear to imagine life without that fool. He provided them with fun with his misery. Nevertheless, he began to take a long hard look at their history. Especially "that one night."
-
It was a very warm night, the moon was relatively full for it had just come home from a cosmic buffet and had to be thrown out after finishing all the shrimp, twice. The bear had gone drinking, as was his hypocritical way. Sometimes, the fox would join in drinking but that night he refused to go. He wanted to sleep. The bear was enraged by the fact that the fox was missing when he started a fight and found absolutely nobody to back him up.
Prior to actually going to the local watering hole, the grizzly bear sauntered over to the fox' shack, wearing a hat (as was his custom). The fox tried ignoring the knocking at the door but the grizzly's attempts at rhythm were making his ears bleed. He shot up out of bed and ran to the door, opened it and yelled, "The motherfucking lights are out, you miserable fucking piece of shit! I'm trying to get some fucking sleep, god-fucking-damn it! What the fuck do you want, you stupid lumbering bastard?!" which was out of his nature.
He tried his hardest never to swear, save for "damn." Prior to that night, it had been 4 years since he had last told his ex wife to fuck off. The grizzly stood stunned for a minute, while the fox seethed. He grew angrier and angrier knowing he had broken his record; he was not a fan of swearing.
"Do you see what you made me do?" the fox snarled.
"I'm sorry." the grizzly said softly, with a shame that would vanish quickly.
"Yeah, you're sorry. What the fuck do you want?"
"I wanted to know if you wanted to go drinking tonight."
"I haven't been home in 3 days, I'm bloody fucking exhausted, and you want me to babysit you?"
"We-"
"No! Fuck off and don't come back!"
With those words, the fox slammed the door in the grizzly's face (hurting his nose), and went back to bed.
The grizzly wrote off that burst of anger as dark humor and expected that night to be normal. He reassured himself with memories of fox playing cruel pranks on people (mostly him). What he failed to realize is that the fox had come back a different creature after divorcing his wife those four years ago. Nobody spoke about it and nobody dared ask fox. Whenever she was mentioned in his presence, even in passing, he would glare for hours at whoever mentioned her. It was truly a scary thing to see that sight. Not necessarily for the fact that he was angry but because he missed her terribly. Tears would sometimes well up in his eyes while his hellish glare tried its hardest to keep anyone from seeing a wounded and vulnerable fox.
The grizzly didn't care. And it was evidenced by his behavior at the bar.
There was an air of betrayal mixing with cigarette smoke and vomit. Made only worse as the muskrat and kangaroo stomped the hell out of him. The rest of the patrons willfully ignored what was happening. They were glad somebody was doing what others had only dreamt of doing. Not that the bear was a force to be reckoned with but he presented a strange dilemma.
He truly was such a disagreeable fellow that neighbors and family members dreamt of cutting off his eyelids and covering him in barbecue sauce in the middle of the desert while hungry rabid dogs feasted on him. And they also held the belief that he was so pathetic that punching him would be sad and a waste of time and energy.
Unfortunately for him, this apathy had made him believe himself to be untouchable. This could only go wrong when he decided to slap the muskrat repeatedly because of the obvious size difference. "You're shorter than me, shorty!" And use the kangaroo's pouch to store his alcohol, "Keep my drink ice cold, Bruce, and throw another shrimp on the barbie." These two, being strangers to those parts, were unaware that people put up with his idiocy because they didn't care anymore. So they did what sane beings do- beat some sense into him. He grew angrier not because of the beating he was taking but because nobody helped him.
How much sense was beat into him varies with witnesses. A barrage of punches to the ribs, repeated kicks to the head, lead pipes to the face, tied up in a chair and having his balls struck with a carpet beater, and so many more reports. The only absolute truth lay in the fact that everyone drank to celebrate somebody putting the grizzly bear in his place. He drank, too. Drank "being" a euphemism for "dove to the bottom of the whiskey sea. And then dove deeper."
While in his drunken haze, he stumbled back to the fox' shack and tore the door down.
The fox was sleeping until he heard violent vomiting and knew exactly who it was.
"There you are! You fucking traitor!" the bear snarled.
"Come back when you're sober." the fox yawned, walking to his closet to get his crowbar.
"I just got my ass handed to me by a fucking kangaroo! A fucking rodent!"
"I missed the part where that was my problem."
"And a fucking muskrat, man."
"Again, I don't care."
"Thought we were fr-"
"Don't you dare say that word."
The fox paused, not even grabbing his crowbar. If there was one thing he never wanted the grizzly to even hint at, it was any form of relationship between them- namely, friendship. The fox didn't care for the grizzly that much. He only stopped fights because he didn't want blood on his hands, or paws. And because he knew that he would be hurt financially from property damage by the bear. He owned a portion of the local watering hole.
The fox marched steadily towards the bear who was having a hard time keeping his balance. With each step the fox took, the more the bear sank into a combination of fear and rage.
"We are not friends, you miserable sack of shit. If I ever defended you, it was to keep me from getting blamed for your death. Nobody likes you. Nobody even wants you around. Hell, I want to bash your fucking brains in, to be honest. Get lost, you miserable bastard."
That last line snapped the bear into this alert murderous machine mode. He threw a left punch which the fox dodged, just barely. The bear kept swinging and swinging. Missing each time. The fox ran for his crowbar. As soon as he grabbed it, the bear picked him up and threw him clear across the room and out of his shack.
The bear charged with all his might which didn't faze the fox. He simply rolled out of the way, picked up his crowbar and snuck up to the bear.
As soon as he turned around, his face met with solid metal. Repeatedly. Finally, the bear collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. The fox rolled the bear off his property and left him by the side of the road. A driver saw the scene and pulled over, only to congratulate the fox. And kick the grizzly.
The fox returned home and fell asleep, ignoring the damage the bear had caused to his home. Nobody would ignore the scars left by the bear anymore.
After "that night" which would be known as "Bashing Day" among the townsfolk, the bear had truly become a pariah. He was immediately ejected from all establishments. When asked why, they gave him a very long list of reasons.
"I'm sorry." he would offer.
"Yeah, you are sorry." they responded with an air of scorn and smugness.
-
The fox pondered this and decided he would destroy the drunkard if he ever chose to return.
Tub of Goo
If machines continue to maintain a firm grip on our throats (and the rest of our body parts), will the human race be reduced to nothing more than a tub of goo? As it stands, that may very well be a possibility sometime within the next 200 years, and that's giving a lenient (less pessimistic) estimate.
Evolution has already reached a standstill, for the most part. As humans our current state is pretty much it. This is the best we're going to do, it seems. There are really no more predators that force us to go into that often prized "survival" mode. If there are any, we can just vaporize them with our weapons. Mankind has asserted its dominance on Earth pretty quickly (given the age of Earth, and the universe for that matter) with no question or real opposition. The challenges humans have faced have been other humans, nature, and the conditions that are manmade- society, hierarchy, corrupt systems of government, etc. It's been a 2 steps forward, 1 step back.
This begs the question- is Earth doomed? Everything is doomed. Should humans become extinct in order to allow Earth to survive? No. Bad humans do not represent good humans or those with the potential for good.
Nothing is strictly black and white. There's a gray ambiguous zone that defines how we live. The theory of a binary universe is flawed based on the fact that not everyone follows the school of thought that everything can or should be classified as good or bad. There's "not good" which doesn't necessarily mean bad, and "not bad" which doesn't necessarily mean good. A constant shifting of definitions makes for fun- which is also defined by the individual though society tries to dictate it to you.
All this also begs the question- are humans killing themselves by relying on machines to do everything? This can be answered with that "yes and no" gray area response. No because some people do legitimately need machines- iron lungs, nebulizers, artificial larynx devices, and so on. Not to mention mass producing goods in order to sustain our economies. Getting more stuff done quicker = more money, basically. Which is the foundation of business. Like you needed anyone pointing that out, it was so obvious.
And in other cases, people don't really need it- TV, for starters. But I have a bias against television though that could be due more to the fact that I'm not a fan of present programming. But that's another story, for another time. It irks me to see people capable of walking, using scooties to travel short distances. Same goes for kids on leashes but that's also another story for another time. And the scootie thing is not so much envy but this bewilderment at how much could let their personal standards regarding their bodies fall. How lazy can you be? If it's a legitimate condition that causes your body to literally become a tub of goo, I can begin to sympathize but even then is any effort being made to not become a tub of goo?
So, will machines kill us? No but laziness will definitely assist. Laziness is the main killer, to be honest. Taking the escalator vs the stairs.
Evolution has already reached a standstill, for the most part. As humans our current state is pretty much it. This is the best we're going to do, it seems. There are really no more predators that force us to go into that often prized "survival" mode. If there are any, we can just vaporize them with our weapons. Mankind has asserted its dominance on Earth pretty quickly (given the age of Earth, and the universe for that matter) with no question or real opposition. The challenges humans have faced have been other humans, nature, and the conditions that are manmade- society, hierarchy, corrupt systems of government, etc. It's been a 2 steps forward, 1 step back.
This begs the question- is Earth doomed? Everything is doomed. Should humans become extinct in order to allow Earth to survive? No. Bad humans do not represent good humans or those with the potential for good.
Nothing is strictly black and white. There's a gray ambiguous zone that defines how we live. The theory of a binary universe is flawed based on the fact that not everyone follows the school of thought that everything can or should be classified as good or bad. There's "not good" which doesn't necessarily mean bad, and "not bad" which doesn't necessarily mean good. A constant shifting of definitions makes for fun- which is also defined by the individual though society tries to dictate it to you.
All this also begs the question- are humans killing themselves by relying on machines to do everything? This can be answered with that "yes and no" gray area response. No because some people do legitimately need machines- iron lungs, nebulizers, artificial larynx devices, and so on. Not to mention mass producing goods in order to sustain our economies. Getting more stuff done quicker = more money, basically. Which is the foundation of business. Like you needed anyone pointing that out, it was so obvious.
And in other cases, people don't really need it- TV, for starters. But I have a bias against television though that could be due more to the fact that I'm not a fan of present programming. But that's another story, for another time. It irks me to see people capable of walking, using scooties to travel short distances. Same goes for kids on leashes but that's also another story for another time. And the scootie thing is not so much envy but this bewilderment at how much could let their personal standards regarding their bodies fall. How lazy can you be? If it's a legitimate condition that causes your body to literally become a tub of goo, I can begin to sympathize but even then is any effort being made to not become a tub of goo?
So, will machines kill us? No but laziness will definitely assist. Laziness is the main killer, to be honest. Taking the escalator vs the stairs.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Rima XXX (Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer)
Asomaba a sus ojos una lágrima
y a mis labios una frase de perdón...
habló el orgullo y se enjugó su llanto,
y la frase en mis labios expiró.
Yo voy por un camino, ella por otro;
pero al pensar en nuestro mutuo amor,
yo digo aún: "¿Por que callé aquél día?"
y ella dirá. "¿Por qué no lloré yo?"
- Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
y a mis labios una frase de perdón...
habló el orgullo y se enjugó su llanto,
y la frase en mis labios expiró.
Yo voy por un camino, ella por otro;
pero al pensar en nuestro mutuo amor,
yo digo aún: "¿Por que callé aquél día?"
y ella dirá. "¿Por qué no lloré yo?"
- Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wave of Sorrow (Langston Hughes)
Edit: 3/5/2013
The poem isn't in public domain so I had to delete it. This sucks because I really like this poem.
I apologize.
However, I've left some information in case you're still interested in the story. Which I hope you are.
Selected Poems - Langston Hughes
The poem isn't in public domain so I had to delete it. This sucks because I really like this poem.
I apologize.
However, I've left some information in case you're still interested in the story. Which I hope you are.
Selected Poems - Langston Hughes
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