Whenever I read a book, or anything for that matter, my mind tends to keep an eye out for a quote or passage that stands out from the rest of the material. In the positive sense.
That particular quote (whatever it may be) will stick with me long after I've finished reading; or, more accurately, I'll remember it for some time. It may or may not change my way of thinking. It may just be some sparse food for thought. It might just sound cool. This unplanned strategy of finding a quote probably hinders me and my understanding more than help because my mind (or the part I can't control which seems to be in charge of this mission) becomes so focused on finding a quote that I can't enjoy what I'm reading or absorb any greater meaning.
The only times I can think of in which this strategy paid off for the better were when I read A Clockwork Orange and Brave New World for the first time.
"When a man cannot choose, he ceases to be a man." and most of what the Prison Chaplain said about choice, freedom, and the nature of man. Most of the Chaplain's speechery rang true (or so I thought) because I was in that awkward teenage phase of punk rebellion (minus the punk music, or any music) of "I know everything, goddamn it! What the fuck, man? Fucking government! Fucking society!" and comparatively mild teenage angst. I spent most of my time buried in a few books, bad tv, and/or video games. I've since become buried in more books and film and other stuff. What rang true in those days doesn't ring the same way now because I've obviously grown physically and mentally, at least I hope I have. If I were to think about it, it would ring on a different level by which I mean I would think beyond just my bubble of security and possibly a greater stretch of society. Possibly, not definitely. How we give up certain things for others. I wouldn't actually say trade because to me trade implies willingness and a small but strong possibility that what you gave up will return to you in some shape or form that is equal to or greater than that which you relinquished. Giving up, for me, implies just that- giving up something and not getting it back, and if you get anything back it's not what you want. But if we're going for some common ground- an unfair trade.
The Chaplain's talk implies that there is more to life than going from point A to point B. That one should do what they want rather than always doing what is demanded of them, which is a soul-crushing experience (like working in an office, trust me on this). And that one should be compelled to do good because they want to not because it is demanded of them, or forced. What good is good if it's artificial and not genuine? (Coincidentally, that's the same argument I used for volunteering. Oh, I'm a horrible person. Or I just despise those who volunteer to look good on paper and not to actually do a good deed.)
“I'd rather be myself. Myself and nasty. Not somebody else, however jolly”
I don't remember exactly when I read Brave New World. It was definitely after I read A Clockwork Orange and possibly when I had matured from my pseudo-punk phase. I really connected with Bernard Marx's quote because I guess I felt like an outsider as well, despite fitting in. Maybe I was part of this great machine but something about me was off and refused to fit in, or I couldn't. (I remember listening to the Velvet Underground because my peers were. I still listen to them... sometimes, every now and then, rarely. Turns out their music is good but not really my thing, or I'm not as fanatical about them as others.) I know when I came across Marx's quote, I was taken aback. You are presented with this guy who's supposed to be X but is instead Y and because of it, people step on him or don't treat him as they should. He's an alpha who by some accident has a shorter body than the rest of his alpha peers. As a result, he is treated like less despite being very brilliant and capable of the same things. He refuses to take soma and conform to the ideas everyone follows, even if his rejection earns him their hatred. That quote gives you this intelligent bitter bastard who not only hates his peers but relishes the fact that he's different and goes to great lengths to embrace it even if it hurts others. Magnificent bastard. Magnificent in the sense that he stays true to himself when all others would disregard their last shred of humanity for the fleeting sensation of feeling good.
I've tried to live by that quote because I've always been a bitter person of some sort. Which I find to be very odd when people tell me I'm a sweet person. I'll take it but with a grain of salt because I'll always doubt it, and always be suspicious. I've tried to live by that quote with varying degrees of success because the self will always be difficult to define given that one will always change. And despite how I change, I'll always be myself. I'll never be able to remove myself from my place of birth- in the sense that if I say I was born on Neptune and provide documentation for it it still won't be true. And as such, I'll embrace myself and who I am whenever I am.
Oh. If anybody tells you that people don't change, they are wrong. The only thing that's constant is change, and nobody escapes that. What they really mean to say is that some things are changeless.
"Some things are changeless. People love, and die, they dream, destroy, despair, go mad. They fulfill their destinies, live out the course of their lives. We fulfill our function, as they fulfill theirs... That will not change."
That's from The Sandman. And it's true people will always change and anybody who says otherwise is probably unable to come to grips with that, which is really sad because change can be a good thing. Actually, change is neutral; it depends entirely on the individual whether said change will be good or bad or ugly or weird.
I read to read and enjoy and think. If I learn, I learn. If I find a quote that hits me, I'll roll with those punches.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
50 Ways to Leave Your Lover
That Paul Simon song only lists 6~ ways to leave your lover. Without looking it up, I'm sure someone else has done this before but here's my facetious take on the song / adding to it.
Listen to the version by Simon & Garfunkel from Concert in Central Park to hear them getting funky. Awesome.
*Disclaimer: Most of these are terrible, terrible, terrible ideas.
1 Slip out the back, Jack
2 Make a new plan, Stan
3 You don't need to be coy, Roy
4 Just get yourself free
5 Hop on the bus, Gus, you don't need to discuss much
6 Just drop off the key, Lee And get yourself free
7 Simply walk out.
8 Go for a night out on the town, then just leave them in the middle of wherever you are
9 Move out to someplace else
10 Travel to another dimension
11 Pick up a disgusting habit
12 Give them a hard whack on the head so they forget who you are.
13 Give them a hard whack on the head so they decide to leave because you're too violent.
14 Fake your own death.
15 Write a libelous book about them; they'll have to leave you alone.
16 Send them to a hospital on Guerrero street.
17 Ignore them and they'll eventually piss off.
18 Go out to the store for cigarettes and don't come back.
19 Get abducted by aliens.
20 Travel back in time.
21 Give yourself amnesia.
22 Hypnotize yourself so you think you're a chicken.
23 Build an underground shelter with enough food to last for 10 years, hide for 8 or so years, then re-emerge. By now, you'll be considered legally dead letting you be free to start a brand new life.
24 Move to another planet.
25 Move to another galaxy.
26 If your lover has political views that conflict with yours, exploit those differences.
27 Join a cult.
28 Join an organization like the Peace Corps.
29 Force your lover to join a cult.
30 Force your lover to join an organization like the Peace Corps.
31 Magic.
32 Abuse science.
33 Give them money to leave.
34 Tell them they owe you money so often that they get fed up and take off.
35 Be uncomfortably clingy.
36 Be a real asshole/bitch.
37 Tie them to a chair and put them on the next train out of town.
38 Play a game you know they'll lose, loser has to leave town.
39 Make them think they're going bonkers so they end up in a loony bin
40 Brainwash them into leaving
41 Become so rich and powerful that your responsibilities ultimately alienate you from your lover
42 Run away to the forest and never come back
43 Become so passionate about a subject that it ultimately alienates you from your lover.
44 Sail to the Bermuda triangle
45 Join a religious movement that stresses celibacy as one of its core principles
46 Let your vices push them away
47 Tell them you don't love them anymore
48 Don't love them anymore
49 Change
50 Hate them so much you can't stand them.
Meh.
Listen to the version by Simon & Garfunkel from Concert in Central Park to hear them getting funky. Awesome.
*Disclaimer: Most of these are terrible, terrible, terrible ideas.
1 Slip out the back, Jack
2 Make a new plan, Stan
3 You don't need to be coy, Roy
4 Just get yourself free
5 Hop on the bus, Gus, you don't need to discuss much
6 Just drop off the key, Lee And get yourself free
7 Simply walk out.
8 Go for a night out on the town, then just leave them in the middle of wherever you are
9 Move out to someplace else
10 Travel to another dimension
11 Pick up a disgusting habit
12 Give them a hard whack on the head so they forget who you are.
13 Give them a hard whack on the head so they decide to leave because you're too violent.
14 Fake your own death.
15 Write a libelous book about them; they'll have to leave you alone.
16 Send them to a hospital on Guerrero street.
17 Ignore them and they'll eventually piss off.
18 Go out to the store for cigarettes and don't come back.
19 Get abducted by aliens.
20 Travel back in time.
21 Give yourself amnesia.
22 Hypnotize yourself so you think you're a chicken.
23 Build an underground shelter with enough food to last for 10 years, hide for 8 or so years, then re-emerge. By now, you'll be considered legally dead letting you be free to start a brand new life.
24 Move to another planet.
25 Move to another galaxy.
26 If your lover has political views that conflict with yours, exploit those differences.
27 Join a cult.
28 Join an organization like the Peace Corps.
29 Force your lover to join a cult.
30 Force your lover to join an organization like the Peace Corps.
31 Magic.
32 Abuse science.
33 Give them money to leave.
34 Tell them they owe you money so often that they get fed up and take off.
35 Be uncomfortably clingy.
36 Be a real asshole/bitch.
37 Tie them to a chair and put them on the next train out of town.
38 Play a game you know they'll lose, loser has to leave town.
39 Make them think they're going bonkers so they end up in a loony bin
40 Brainwash them into leaving
41 Become so rich and powerful that your responsibilities ultimately alienate you from your lover
42 Run away to the forest and never come back
43 Become so passionate about a subject that it ultimately alienates you from your lover.
44 Sail to the Bermuda triangle
45 Join a religious movement that stresses celibacy as one of its core principles
46 Let your vices push them away
47 Tell them you don't love them anymore
48 Don't love them anymore
49 Change
50 Hate them so much you can't stand them.
Meh.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Bottle, Part VI
"You're not here on a mission of peace and goodwill, are you?" said the figure inside the bottle, dressed in a cloak. He was humoring the mob, and stalling; he knew his time was almost up but wished things would proceed to end differently: he wanted to die old, or at the very least by his own hands.
"You sound strange. Anyway, you know why we're here." shouted the fox, over the crowd's deafening roars of "grind his dust to dust!" and "we're gonna murder your ass killed". He was fighting with himself on how best to end this now. He had offered the bear a swift death but now his hand was forced: the mob was bloodthirsty and riled up. They expected mayhem and carnage. He wanted things to end quickly so he could leave all this behind him. They wanted to take their time for all the time he made them uncomfortable and irritated and angry and so forth.
"I've given this some though-" the cloak started, hoping in vain that they would listen to him. The crowd interrupted him. "We don't care! Off with your head! I'll wipe my ass with your fancy coat!" and they quickly moved forward, only to be stopped by the fox shouting "Stop, you stupid bastards!"
The response was disappointing but not surprising.
He had indeed given himself time to think. Moving himself past the tears he cried over the mistake he made regarding his only friend (or the closest thing he had to a friend), he came to the conclusion that he had in fact been a rotten creature. It was just his way, however; nobody took the time to make any effort to help him. And nobody wanted to help him now.
"Can I say something?" he started.
What happened next people chalk up to both idiocy and providence. Idiocy because it caused more damage and destruction than desired. Providence because it ultimately got rid of the bear.
A cat, who claimed to have been wronged financially by the bear, burst forth from the crowd with a sword in hand and leapt to the bottle.
The mob could only stare in shock as the cat flew, bloodlust and all the hatred in the world swelling in his large amber eyes. The fox closed his eyes in disappointment and turned around. The cat's sword hit the bottle with a strange clank sound. It made a crack in the enormous bottle. A sharp cracking noise followed which split the ear drums of various mob members. The crack spread throughout the bottle as every stared in silence.
"If that's how you want it." Before anyone knew what happened, the bottle burst into a thousand explosions. The shards letting loose liters of blood from whoever was unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast. The bright green grass drowned in the blood of innocents. After all the shards had finished raining and claiming victims, those who were strong enough surveyed the damage. The figure that had been inside the bottle was a dummy with a speaker; the bear had escaped. The fox took the cloak and ripped it up in anger.
"Find him! Now!" he snarled, trying to hide his amusement and admiration. Unfortunately, everyone was writhing in pain or sobbing in mourning. Nobody paid attention to the figure standing behind a tree: the bear, obviously. The bear could only glare at this sight of creatures writhing and crying and cursing him for having "made a pact with Satan". He convinced himself that all this harm was their doing. He originally wanted the explosion to be small enough so it'd look like only he had died but their hostility and unbridled hatred made him crank up the explosion to 11, rather than the 2 he had planned. He wanted to leave them in a definitive and entertaining way as a way of not only letting them and the past go but to give them something memorable. "Remember when that fucker died?" "That was quite an exit." they would say, or so he th-
"Yargghhgh!!" A cry of pain laced with agony and rage. There was a sword sticking out of the bear's stomach.
"I got 'im! I got the hell spawn!" A weak cry of triumph.
The deranged cat had survived... mostly. He had been at the very front of the explosion and caught most of it. His amber eye now reddened with blood. The explosion had claimed a good chunk of his face leaving a war zone of cuts and gashes that no amount of stitches could put together.
The bear couldn't believe this. They weren't content with letting him die a false death. Nor were they able to get the message that he was indeed a dangerous individual. They wouldn't respect him in life or death.
He could not let this stand.
The bear placed a firm grip on the sword and pulled it out, letting out a terrifying roar of anger and pain. He took the blade in his paws and before the cat's eyes, tore it to pieces. He took the cat by the neck and squeezed as hard as he could, the cat turning all sorts of colors and spewing blood and spit and swear words like a broken fountain. When he heard the faintness of a crack beginning, he dropped him to the ground and stood above him returning the very same look of hatred the cat had given earlier.
"I beg of you, kill me." the cat wheezed, looking fearfully up at the furry killing machine. That anger from earlier had evaporated into something resembling a hesitant plea for mercy: the sweet release of death.
"I should tear you limb from limb with my claws. I can do that you know. You saw what I just did."
"Please... finish me."
"No. You're going to go back to them and tell them to leave me alone. I just want to be left alone, I want to harm nobody in any way anymore." the bear was trying to be as calm as possible.
"Kill me, please." the cat continued. He was too weak to do it himself, he needed the bear to do it.
"Don't be self-" the bear wobbled; the stab was finally getting to him. "Do you see what you did?" The bear picked up the cat once more. "I want to be left alone." and he flung him to the mob.
"Get him." the cat begged as he hit the ground, feebly pointing at the trees. The mob did not hesitate, despite the injuries and deaths. They charged, in varying speeds. The bear responded in kind.
"Why couldn't you bastards get it through your heads that I wanted to be left alone?!"
A massive paw broke a beak with tremendous fury. Said claw proceeded to rain down upon the beak's face, each time splattering blood and swears. As this went on, others gathered whatever energy they could and came to his rescue, hoping that strength in numbers would overpower one pissed off savage bear. It wasn't. The cavalry was crushed. The same paw that had flattened a beak now rained upon a shell. Each thud and boom inching closer and closer towards a great cracking sound which spelled death. The shell was on its back, unable to move or defend. The only thing it could do was pray and hope for the paws broke before the shell, or that death would be as swift as possible. The tatters of the cavalry gained a second wind and this time, almost toppling the bear over. They succeeded in keeping him in a semi-permament state of wobbling, but only truly pissing him off even further. A set of sharp teeth, belonging to a meek tiger, tasted the bitter wine-flavored hide of the bear, releasing not only cries of pain but blood. Each bite subdued and enraged the bear as another beak drilled into his hind legs, hoping against all hope that he could finally knock him down and bring his end closer and closer.
Surprisingly, and stupidly, nobody went for the stab the cat had made earlier.
The bear didn't actually want to kill anyone anymore but he knew he had to defend himself. He reasoned with himself that "the explosion was what they wanted! They brought it upon themselves!" He reassured himself so he wouldn't have to think about the 15 or so deaths and hundreds of lacerations. Was it really their fault? That particular moment: yes. The events leading to that particular moment: perhaps. Perhaps the populace acted out of fear and greed: a perfect opportunity to finally get rid of the scum that had threatened their comfort for so long was gone but he'd eventually return. He really had no intention or returning, not for a very long time anyway. That bottle was sort of a liberating experience, for everyone. They didn't have to put up with him, and he didn't have to see anyone but himself.
He was not falling down. Instead he was working on shattering another set of bones and giving out samples of his bitter flesh. And- KRAKOOM!! SPLFFTSHT!! "Yarrrgh!!!" another cry of agonizing pain. A heavy thud following by a cracking whimpering growl. More snarling as he realized he had been shot. He stood only to collapse with another deafening thud followed by a great torrent of pained wincing and groaning, not just his but those who had just been beaten within an inch of their lives.
"Oh, god, what have I done?" cried the weeping crane. She had betrayed her friend.
"You pulled the trigger, now I'm going to finish the job." said the fox.
Normally, the crane would have protested but she was stunned by the fact that she had actually shot him. She promised she'd do anything but she never thought she'd have to pull a trigger to prove it.
The fox sauntered over to the bear, stepping over and around corpses and wounded warriors. From his pockets, he produced a set of prosthetic razor sharp fangs and put them in his mouth. The glare of the teeth was sinister enough to make even the corpses shudder.
"It ends now." he said, with a mouthful of metal. As he proceed to kneel down to bite down on the bear's jugular, two claws came together and gripped his head with a powerful grip.
"You shot me." he whimpered. "Why?" he added, squeezing with more pressure.
The fox could only whimper and howl and make noises, unable to respond to his questions.
"Answer me or I swear by god I'll be able to touch your thoughts!"
Before the fox could answer, the iron grip was broken as the bear fell down again. He had been shot again, this time in the stomach, not the shoulder. And from close range. He collapsed onto his back and wheezed.
He felt his vision fade in and out but stayed conscious enough to apply pressure to his wound and see a crying crane walk towards him and kneel at his side. He had to turn away because he couldn't handle it. But when he did, he saw the fox, holding his head and snarling. She knew the bear was doomed but she couldn't collect herself enough to do anything.
Nobody stood up, they all lay still on the ground. Shards of glasses having torn many apart, opened many. There was a sea of corpses and seriously injured creatures.
And the fox towered above the wounded bear who lay sobbing blood and tears, trembling.
"You sound strange. Anyway, you know why we're here." shouted the fox, over the crowd's deafening roars of "grind his dust to dust!" and "we're gonna murder your ass killed". He was fighting with himself on how best to end this now. He had offered the bear a swift death but now his hand was forced: the mob was bloodthirsty and riled up. They expected mayhem and carnage. He wanted things to end quickly so he could leave all this behind him. They wanted to take their time for all the time he made them uncomfortable and irritated and angry and so forth.
"I've given this some though-" the cloak started, hoping in vain that they would listen to him. The crowd interrupted him. "We don't care! Off with your head! I'll wipe my ass with your fancy coat!" and they quickly moved forward, only to be stopped by the fox shouting "Stop, you stupid bastards!"
The response was disappointing but not surprising.
He had indeed given himself time to think. Moving himself past the tears he cried over the mistake he made regarding his only friend (or the closest thing he had to a friend), he came to the conclusion that he had in fact been a rotten creature. It was just his way, however; nobody took the time to make any effort to help him. And nobody wanted to help him now.
"Can I say something?" he started.
What happened next people chalk up to both idiocy and providence. Idiocy because it caused more damage and destruction than desired. Providence because it ultimately got rid of the bear.
A cat, who claimed to have been wronged financially by the bear, burst forth from the crowd with a sword in hand and leapt to the bottle.
The mob could only stare in shock as the cat flew, bloodlust and all the hatred in the world swelling in his large amber eyes. The fox closed his eyes in disappointment and turned around. The cat's sword hit the bottle with a strange clank sound. It made a crack in the enormous bottle. A sharp cracking noise followed which split the ear drums of various mob members. The crack spread throughout the bottle as every stared in silence.
"If that's how you want it." Before anyone knew what happened, the bottle burst into a thousand explosions. The shards letting loose liters of blood from whoever was unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast. The bright green grass drowned in the blood of innocents. After all the shards had finished raining and claiming victims, those who were strong enough surveyed the damage. The figure that had been inside the bottle was a dummy with a speaker; the bear had escaped. The fox took the cloak and ripped it up in anger.
"Find him! Now!" he snarled, trying to hide his amusement and admiration. Unfortunately, everyone was writhing in pain or sobbing in mourning. Nobody paid attention to the figure standing behind a tree: the bear, obviously. The bear could only glare at this sight of creatures writhing and crying and cursing him for having "made a pact with Satan". He convinced himself that all this harm was their doing. He originally wanted the explosion to be small enough so it'd look like only he had died but their hostility and unbridled hatred made him crank up the explosion to 11, rather than the 2 he had planned. He wanted to leave them in a definitive and entertaining way as a way of not only letting them and the past go but to give them something memorable. "Remember when that fucker died?" "That was quite an exit." they would say, or so he th-
"Yargghhgh!!" A cry of pain laced with agony and rage. There was a sword sticking out of the bear's stomach.
"I got 'im! I got the hell spawn!" A weak cry of triumph.
The deranged cat had survived... mostly. He had been at the very front of the explosion and caught most of it. His amber eye now reddened with blood. The explosion had claimed a good chunk of his face leaving a war zone of cuts and gashes that no amount of stitches could put together.
The bear couldn't believe this. They weren't content with letting him die a false death. Nor were they able to get the message that he was indeed a dangerous individual. They wouldn't respect him in life or death.
He could not let this stand.
The bear placed a firm grip on the sword and pulled it out, letting out a terrifying roar of anger and pain. He took the blade in his paws and before the cat's eyes, tore it to pieces. He took the cat by the neck and squeezed as hard as he could, the cat turning all sorts of colors and spewing blood and spit and swear words like a broken fountain. When he heard the faintness of a crack beginning, he dropped him to the ground and stood above him returning the very same look of hatred the cat had given earlier.
"I beg of you, kill me." the cat wheezed, looking fearfully up at the furry killing machine. That anger from earlier had evaporated into something resembling a hesitant plea for mercy: the sweet release of death.
"I should tear you limb from limb with my claws. I can do that you know. You saw what I just did."
"Please... finish me."
"No. You're going to go back to them and tell them to leave me alone. I just want to be left alone, I want to harm nobody in any way anymore." the bear was trying to be as calm as possible.
"Kill me, please." the cat continued. He was too weak to do it himself, he needed the bear to do it.
"Don't be self-" the bear wobbled; the stab was finally getting to him. "Do you see what you did?" The bear picked up the cat once more. "I want to be left alone." and he flung him to the mob.
"Get him." the cat begged as he hit the ground, feebly pointing at the trees. The mob did not hesitate, despite the injuries and deaths. They charged, in varying speeds. The bear responded in kind.
"Why couldn't you bastards get it through your heads that I wanted to be left alone?!"
A massive paw broke a beak with tremendous fury. Said claw proceeded to rain down upon the beak's face, each time splattering blood and swears. As this went on, others gathered whatever energy they could and came to his rescue, hoping that strength in numbers would overpower one pissed off savage bear. It wasn't. The cavalry was crushed. The same paw that had flattened a beak now rained upon a shell. Each thud and boom inching closer and closer towards a great cracking sound which spelled death. The shell was on its back, unable to move or defend. The only thing it could do was pray and hope for the paws broke before the shell, or that death would be as swift as possible. The tatters of the cavalry gained a second wind and this time, almost toppling the bear over. They succeeded in keeping him in a semi-permament state of wobbling, but only truly pissing him off even further. A set of sharp teeth, belonging to a meek tiger, tasted the bitter wine-flavored hide of the bear, releasing not only cries of pain but blood. Each bite subdued and enraged the bear as another beak drilled into his hind legs, hoping against all hope that he could finally knock him down and bring his end closer and closer.
Surprisingly, and stupidly, nobody went for the stab the cat had made earlier.
The bear didn't actually want to kill anyone anymore but he knew he had to defend himself. He reasoned with himself that "the explosion was what they wanted! They brought it upon themselves!" He reassured himself so he wouldn't have to think about the 15 or so deaths and hundreds of lacerations. Was it really their fault? That particular moment: yes. The events leading to that particular moment: perhaps. Perhaps the populace acted out of fear and greed: a perfect opportunity to finally get rid of the scum that had threatened their comfort for so long was gone but he'd eventually return. He really had no intention or returning, not for a very long time anyway. That bottle was sort of a liberating experience, for everyone. They didn't have to put up with him, and he didn't have to see anyone but himself.
He was not falling down. Instead he was working on shattering another set of bones and giving out samples of his bitter flesh. And- KRAKOOM!! SPLFFTSHT!! "Yarrrgh!!!" another cry of agonizing pain. A heavy thud following by a cracking whimpering growl. More snarling as he realized he had been shot. He stood only to collapse with another deafening thud followed by a great torrent of pained wincing and groaning, not just his but those who had just been beaten within an inch of their lives.
"Oh, god, what have I done?" cried the weeping crane. She had betrayed her friend.
"You pulled the trigger, now I'm going to finish the job." said the fox.
Normally, the crane would have protested but she was stunned by the fact that she had actually shot him. She promised she'd do anything but she never thought she'd have to pull a trigger to prove it.
The fox sauntered over to the bear, stepping over and around corpses and wounded warriors. From his pockets, he produced a set of prosthetic razor sharp fangs and put them in his mouth. The glare of the teeth was sinister enough to make even the corpses shudder.
"It ends now." he said, with a mouthful of metal. As he proceed to kneel down to bite down on the bear's jugular, two claws came together and gripped his head with a powerful grip.
"You shot me." he whimpered. "Why?" he added, squeezing with more pressure.
The fox could only whimper and howl and make noises, unable to respond to his questions.
"Answer me or I swear by god I'll be able to touch your thoughts!"
Before the fox could answer, the iron grip was broken as the bear fell down again. He had been shot again, this time in the stomach, not the shoulder. And from close range. He collapsed onto his back and wheezed.
He felt his vision fade in and out but stayed conscious enough to apply pressure to his wound and see a crying crane walk towards him and kneel at his side. He had to turn away because he couldn't handle it. But when he did, he saw the fox, holding his head and snarling. She knew the bear was doomed but she couldn't collect herself enough to do anything.
Nobody stood up, they all lay still on the ground. Shards of glasses having torn many apart, opened many. There was a sea of corpses and seriously injured creatures.
And the fox towered above the wounded bear who lay sobbing blood and tears, trembling.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
El jardín de senderos que se bifurcan (Jorge Luis Borges)
Edit 3/5/2013
The story isn't in public domain so I had to delete it. It's a shame because I really like this story. I apologize.
However, I've left some information in case you're still interested in the story. Which I hope you are.
Originally published in
El jardin de senderos que se bifurcan (1941)
and later in Ficciones (1944)
Ficciones - Jorge Luis Borges - Google Books
Once again, I apologize.
The story isn't in public domain so I had to delete it. It's a shame because I really like this story. I apologize.
However, I've left some information in case you're still interested in the story. Which I hope you are.
Originally published in
El jardin de senderos que se bifurcan (1941)
and later in Ficciones (1944)
Ficciones - Jorge Luis Borges - Google Books
Once again, I apologize.
Bottle, Part V
Insert cliched weather and conditions here
add predictable elements of gloom and fear
Throw in the fact that the bear will suffer
the fox will fight
and the crane will cry
and that somebody will die.
And something about how anyone who survives
will actually be dead in some shape or form
or will be alive.
It's weird, but that's the norm.
Just like the frightful apparitions.
Cold air whispers of violence
and a warm gust of mayhem.
A dirge hits the opening notes
souls tremble with each beat.
They know in the time of the falling rain
little birds will sing again.
They're getting practice now
singing chords and stretching sounds
as a virus spreads through the veins of the town:
Rumors and calls to (h)arm(s)
Be ready all of you,
Somewhere, sometime, soon.
The bear is going down
to meet his doom.
Your kingdom must come down
I'll use your blood to paint the town
Soon, your hide will be mine
And I'll drink from your fucking skull!
We're unusually poetic
roses are colorful
something... kill the bear
A chorus of misery,
bloodshed,
triumphant pain.
To expel evil.
Wet and hammered
feathery and flawed
furry and clawed.
Squawking as crowds gather,
they'll assemble in bloodthirsty awe.
Hear drips drops landing on roofs and ground
creating a sweet melody
a tender sound.
Preparing the dirt for blood and bruising.
To be drowned by a symphony of crunching bones
and broken jaws
Melodious bleeding and seething.
Backed by tremendous booms.
Invisible horses thunder across the clouds with celestial hooves.
A poorly executed metaphor.
A splendidly executed feat:
The cosmic dance.
Or a kick in the ass.
How it continues.
The hushed voices, the pleas for punishment.
Spinning bright night into day.
A cure for insomnia and all our ills and thrills.
Spun by some invisible idol with too many identities and names.
Usurped the crown and made this a bizarre game.
Tame, lame, insane, inane, same, here come the thunder and rain.
Wash the world clean again and gain.
Sharpening axes and spikes.
Loading bullets, polishing knives.
Pacing, coughing, sneezing, sobbing.
Drinking, belching, weeping, losing.
Breathing, snarling, bleeding, seething.
I'm going to kill that bear.
I will! I swear!
the fox shouted at the angry sun.
Readying his mind,
making himself deadlier than any gun.
Delicate, tender, broken, battered and bruised.
The crane readied herself for the carnage that would ensue.
She had seen the rumors come to life
how mean-spirited thinking created strife and grief.
Mobs are organizing.
Crowds are gathering
Murders of murderers planning and scheming.
The fox dried his tears and drank in rage.
Glory be ours
the end is nigh
the bear will die
Please, sir, don't
she pled.
Get out of my way or it's off with your head.
I know who you are
I know what he did
and let me tell you, he's better off dead!
I will stand in your way, and defy you to the end.
You are our enemy if you are his... friend.
She stepped aside slowly.
There would be no stopping him now
nothing would break his iron vow
He'd slaughter the bear like a doomed cow
The sack of fur sat still.
Faced with death and the unknown beyond.
Trapped inside his bottle
his heart beating faster and faster.
In his mind,
A glimmering sea of fire, pitchforks and guns.
The bear was sober and trapped.
Quietly trembling, gathering rage.
I have come for your head.
There's a crowd coming soon
if you give up now, you'll be spared.
I'll grant you a swift death.
I've given this some thought
I understand your terms and what you mean
But I've decided to decline your offer.
Have you been drinking?
The bottle is empty.
Everything is clear.
There is nothing in this place that I have to fear.
You idiot, they're rushing over here!
Reconsider!
Live in the afterlife.
No.
You fucking idiot!
The swarm slithered and surrounded the bottle.
A deafening roar swallowed itself.
The most delicate and excruciating silence ever known.
The bear for the first time ever was truly alone.
There was nowhere to run.
add predictable elements of gloom and fear
Throw in the fact that the bear will suffer
the fox will fight
and the crane will cry
and that somebody will die.
And something about how anyone who survives
will actually be dead in some shape or form
or will be alive.
It's weird, but that's the norm.
Just like the frightful apparitions.
Cold air whispers of violence
and a warm gust of mayhem.
A dirge hits the opening notes
souls tremble with each beat.
They know in the time of the falling rain
little birds will sing again.
They're getting practice now
singing chords and stretching sounds
as a virus spreads through the veins of the town:
Rumors and calls to (h)arm(s)
Be ready all of you,
Somewhere, sometime, soon.
The bear is going down
to meet his doom.
Your kingdom must come down
I'll use your blood to paint the town
Soon, your hide will be mine
And I'll drink from your fucking skull!
We're unusually poetic
roses are colorful
something... kill the bear
A chorus of misery,
bloodshed,
triumphant pain.
To expel evil.
Wet and hammered
feathery and flawed
furry and clawed.
Squawking as crowds gather,
they'll assemble in bloodthirsty awe.
Hear drips drops landing on roofs and ground
creating a sweet melody
a tender sound.
Preparing the dirt for blood and bruising.
To be drowned by a symphony of crunching bones
and broken jaws
Melodious bleeding and seething.
Backed by tremendous booms.
Invisible horses thunder across the clouds with celestial hooves.
A poorly executed metaphor.
A splendidly executed feat:
The cosmic dance.
Or a kick in the ass.
How it continues.
The hushed voices, the pleas for punishment.
Spinning bright night into day.
A cure for insomnia and all our ills and thrills.
Spun by some invisible idol with too many identities and names.
Usurped the crown and made this a bizarre game.
Tame, lame, insane, inane, same, here come the thunder and rain.
Wash the world clean again and gain.
Sharpening axes and spikes.
Loading bullets, polishing knives.
Pacing, coughing, sneezing, sobbing.
Drinking, belching, weeping, losing.
Breathing, snarling, bleeding, seething.
I'm going to kill that bear.
I will! I swear!
the fox shouted at the angry sun.
Readying his mind,
making himself deadlier than any gun.
Delicate, tender, broken, battered and bruised.
The crane readied herself for the carnage that would ensue.
She had seen the rumors come to life
how mean-spirited thinking created strife and grief.
Mobs are organizing.
Crowds are gathering
Murders of murderers planning and scheming.
The fox dried his tears and drank in rage.
Glory be ours
the end is nigh
the bear will die
Please, sir, don't
she pled.
Get out of my way or it's off with your head.
I know who you are
I know what he did
and let me tell you, he's better off dead!
I will stand in your way, and defy you to the end.
You are our enemy if you are his... friend.
She stepped aside slowly.
There would be no stopping him now
nothing would break his iron vow
He'd slaughter the bear like a doomed cow
The sack of fur sat still.
Faced with death and the unknown beyond.
Trapped inside his bottle
his heart beating faster and faster.
In his mind,
A glimmering sea of fire, pitchforks and guns.
The bear was sober and trapped.
Quietly trembling, gathering rage.
I have come for your head.
There's a crowd coming soon
if you give up now, you'll be spared.
I'll grant you a swift death.
I've given this some thought
I understand your terms and what you mean
But I've decided to decline your offer.
Have you been drinking?
The bottle is empty.
Everything is clear.
There is nothing in this place that I have to fear.
You idiot, they're rushing over here!
Reconsider!
Live in the afterlife.
No.
You fucking idiot!
The swarm slithered and surrounded the bottle.
A deafening roar swallowed itself.
The most delicate and excruciating silence ever known.
The bear for the first time ever was truly alone.
There was nowhere to run.
Bottle, Part IV
In the inky black silent corners of a hushed and drunken universe, the bear gurgled and vomited. To the uninitiated, he was simply vomiting for he had been drinking too much wine, as he was wont to do as of late. But to others (read: the bear himself), he was asking: "What does it mean to be isolated? Is there a difference between loneliness and isolation?" In all earnest honesty, he was losing his mind.
If there was any difference between isolation and loneliness, the meanings were all lost on the grizzly. There wasn't a real point in asking himself these questions because he'd just tell himself what he wanted to hear. Maybe, that's what he needed because nobody would go out of their way to console him, even in the slightest. That said more about them than him. Yes, he was a vile creature to be around but if nobody is willing to help him out even when he was dying, well that says everything. This was probably what was killing him further. He was already dying, again, and this didn't help. The self-inflicted torture of pondering the nature of ideas was killing him on the metaphorical inside- the mind and soul and all that stuff. The outside world was killing him, leaving him a soul-less shell. He had a warped and cracked soul, which the Devil himself appraised during his stay in hell.
"Isn't not worth much now but later on..." he coughed, stifling laughter. He was playing a cruel prank on the bear. He was a notorious prankster, or so said the prisoners.
"Really?!" the bear, beamed as he found a slice of hope in the least likely of places. Imagine the satisfaction of actually finding a needle in a haystack, and multiply that by at least 100. Add the fact that it's hell (or multiply that by 4 billion), now divide that by 8. And you're still not that close.
"Yes. Definitely. Now, run along, I just thought of something funny, and my laughter would make your ears bleed, go. Now!" but he couldn't hold the laughter back. He thought it was just too damn funny. The bear inched away slowly; a part of him felt his sliver of hope wither away.
The devil's words were used to torture the bear further; he knew the bear's soul wouldn't be worth anything different after its appraisal. What a prick.
What continued to prick and butcher the bear were the ideas of loneliness that he could not distinguish. Catsup vs Ketchup. Any clear-cut lines keeping the two ideas (not the ketchup/catsup thing) apart were now horribly mangled and blurred. Recording a car wreck through lenses covered with vaseline while the one recording has astigmatism.
Everything was ruined for the stupid bear now. Everything! The sky was a continuation of the sea which frightened not only the sailors who slowly crawled into the sky, but the birds who had spent eons flying above the clouds. Now, the birds found themselves struggling to flee from the Kraken as it made its way slowly, as if mocking the flightless creatures in their new plight. Sailors rained from the heavens day and night. Each one cursing the sky they were falling from. Each one bracing themselves for their plunge into the cold eternal wet grave filled with hungry mouths, and jagged daggers of white stained with red.
Though the bear had no sailing experience or skydiving experience, he had been bitten by a shark once. As such, he felt every set of jaws dig into him. And the memories of that ill-fated 8th birthday came roaring back. His mind knew that what he was feeling, at the moment, wasn't real but he couldn't convince his body otherwise. Horrible pain embraced him roughly, and thoroughly. So much that he somehow convinced himself to further destroy himself. He was, indeed, inching towards insanity.
Frantically, he clawed away at himself, confusing everything he ever knew, or thought he knew, with every drop of blood and bit of torn flesh. He hadn't a slight idea of what damage he was doing to himself. His thoughts were so twisted he thought he was digging himself out of some small confined space. He was killing himself slowly. He excelled at destruction. Self-destruction was his speciality, or specialty. His expertise. His strong suit. "Yes," said the writer reiterating a point, "self-destruction was something he was an expert at. Not that he was particularly bright about it, he just knew how to make things worse for himself."
And in that moment of searing pain, the bear saw something. Something inside his screwed up, jagged, blistered mind woke up. The light poured into the gash and it revealed to him his greatest mistake. He thought he had banished it to oblivion, as he did with almost everything he did. But it came roaring back with the fury of a thousand angry gods.
His biggest mistake, or the one that he could remember, had to do with a crane that had tried to befriend him. This mistake killed him more effectively that being bludgeoned in the face with a thousand lead pipes. He pushed away the closest thing he ever had to a friend. No, not pushed because that implies that things aren't beyond repair. He threw her away.
-
She was like other cranes, delicate (in comparison), and intelligent. But unlike them, she was merciful and kind. Towards the grizzly bear, at least. It remains a mystery how he got into her good graces. Some say it was because he was so pathetic that while everyone despised him for it, she took pity on him. Some say that somewhere someone had placed a curse of some sort upon her and her punishment was to be nice to the embodiment of everyone's bane. Anybody else, she would ignore or treat with horrible disdain. This was a custom the cranes had: to treat non-cranes with unbridled contempt. There would be a shred of mercy given to certain creatures, or those who were well off. Birds were acceptable in their book, for the most part. Some say because of the beak and feathers. Others say because of their ability to fly, which would explain why penguins were mocked and ridiculed. The latter theory makes the most sense.
The grizzly was a different case altogether. He was a vile bastard but she treated him with respect. He was his usual stupid miserable self but it didn't matter to her, she kept treating him with respect. Even after accidentally breaking her arm in 4 places, she came back.
On a bright green day, the bear sat in a cave, doing nothing. He sat on an enormous, cold, and gray rock staring at the gaping hole above him as it covered him in a soft blue light. The crane wanted to study the drawings in the cave and exclaimed a cheery "Hello!" when she saw him. She tried to hug him, as a friendly gesture but he stepped back and shook her hand, instead. His grip was too much for her and somehow the pressure forced a crack in four different parts of her arm. "A medical mystery," said the incompetent doctor (or duck-tor, get it? Incompetent doctor? Duck? Incompetent doctor? Quack? Duck? Get it!?) who had paid for his degree online, "this shall put me in the books for sure!" he added as he waddled to a phone book.
The bear stood silently, analyzing the situation. He had broken her arm because she tried to hug him. "And choke the life out of me! That bitch! I better finish the job..." and the other half of him said similar... in a less vicious fashion.
She stared at him. Not with content but with curiosity. She knew it was strange that anyone would show him any respect or treat him with any shred of decency. But she did not fight it, she went along with it. She was not in love with him, she was just friendly. Even if she had been, it wouldn't have mattered because the bear was so thick, he wouldn't know it even if she carried a bright neon sign that said so.
The two stared at each other while the quack quacked about quackery to himself. There was a bizarre silence between the two as their eyes met in confusion and awe. He was confused as to why she wasn't blasting him with every swear she had ever heard. She was in awe at how little he cared, and how she could still not look away in disgust. Every now and then they blinked but continued their staring contest of some sort.
"Why isn't she threatening to rip out my insides?"
"Why isn't he apologizing? Why do I care?"
"I should rip out her insides- no, I should. Fuck. What do I do?"
"I should be furious that my arm is broken... but I'm not. I should say something. But what if he rips off my jaw?"
Unable to take the silence and background quack-babbling, the grizzly stormed out, shedding silent tears. I mean, the grizzly stormed out. The crane was left shedding silent tears that only she could see and feel. The quack was busy praising himself.
Her family came for her, concerned and confused and telling her to stay the hell away from the bear lest he go feral and dismember her. She listened to them but could not bring herself to care about them. She was fixated on her inexplicable goal of staying the course and being consistent. She was going to keep being nice to him.
So she did so, as much as she could. She would frequent places the bear frequented, each time running into him; and confusing the fuck out of him. She would bring him food, keep him company and never insult him. He on the other hand would defy common sense and reason. It was baffling. Spitting out large chunks of food, and (among other things) spouting inflammatory anti-crane rhetoric which came from his anti-falcon talk. Still, she brought with her fried ham sandwiches, or anything meaty and disgusting she could obtain. Never did he say thanks. Though one could argue that his thanks was in the way he wolfed down the food she brought him.
The grizzly's family could not wrap their minds around this phenomena. For as long as he had been alive, everything he touched, he destroyed. They couldn't understand how she could continue to keep coming back to him. Injury after injury, she returned. They were afraid of offending her, so they never bothered asking what everyone was thinking. That and her family were very influential people, more so than their neighbors and the fox. They had their theories and even had a betting pool of when and how badly the bear would derail his gravy train.
If they had placed a substantial amount of money on this betting pool, they'd be in debt beyond the grave because nobody could predict what happened.
She was recovering from her latest injury- food poisoning. The tortoise at the shop deliberately gave her spoiled meat with the hopes that she would give it to the bear and he'd die. Unfortunately, she got curious and ate some of the meat. Violent illness ensued. The bear though not guilty by any means really got reamed by the family as he went to her home.
He was broken. Nothing could repair him. As he walked away and let it sink in, something clicked inside, for the worse. Hearing how she was sick triggered a horrible deviation. Rather than feel guilt, or remorse, he drowned in rage. Stopping in his tracks, he took a deep breath, turned around and charged at full speed. Tearing the door down he made his way to the crane. He didn't care if he destroyed anything, he was bent on doing whatever the fuck it was he was bent on doing. He tore the place apart, nothing was left unshredded by his furious claws and teeth. The bottom floor looked like a thousand war zones- devastated, crumbling, hanging on by a thread, air of hope gone.
Upstairs he crept- one shred of himself trying to keep him sane and calm. But it was no use when he got to the coughing and vomiting crane.
He stared at her with the evilest look she had ever seen. For the first time, she was truly terrified. Not solely because of his immense power compared to hers, but because she was confused and had no idea why he was suddenly turning into the embodiment of hopelessness and absolute evil. She had done nothing to infuriate him, or encourage any form of violence against her. She had been the closest thing he had to a friend.
"I brought you food." she pleaded, but he roared and charged toward her. She thought she was done for but thankfully, he slipped and cracked his jaw on the bedpost. She took this opportunity to hobble away, feeling the nausea and vomit brew inside her. Infuriated, he picked himself up and marched toward her.
"I never hurt you." she whimpered. The bear followed her, slowly. Quietly snarling with the tears swelling in her eyes.
"Please, talk to me. What did I ever do? All I've ever done was be kind to you." She was right and he knew it. He knew it but couldn't summon any shred of humanity or reason to make him see her point, or the fact that she was scared beyond description.
She fell as she tripped over the remains of some paintings' frames. She resigned herself to her fate.
The grizzly bear towered over her, glaring at her. She could not see reason in his actions and as she tried for one final act of kindness, hoping to mollify the maniac, she knew it was hopeless. For the first time, she stopped herself from doing anything. She was raised high above the ground and immediately felt his claws sinking into her, piercing not only her body but her mind. She winced and let out cries of pain intermittent with sobs, drowned out by ferocious snarls and growls. His primal side took too much control and she was paying for it. She bled, cried, and wished for death. But she never wished him harm even when he was destroying her, stretching her tender body to its breaking points, painting the ground with drops of her blood and demolishing her faith in everything she believed in.
"This is it." she thought to herself, writhing in pain. Every bone in her body was snapping, slowly and quite painfully. And loudly, but not loud enough to distract from the bear's snarling and growling, and stifled sobs. She felt herself come close to having her spine snapped when he set her down, and he began crying. He tore away at himself. When she tried to comfort him, he backhanded her; he retracted his enormous paw, now drenched in her blood and tears. He sat silent as he absorbed the sound of her faint breathing and coughing.
The air remained silent until he picked himself up and with the dulled rage in his eyes made his way to her. He lifted her into his arms and cradled her for a moment. The air remained silent but the moonlight bathed them both. Every bloodied detail on her face sank in and made him tremble with self-loathing and things he could not understand. So he did the only thing he was good at: destroy.
The crane is a creature of flight. She knew this and figured she could escape her fate but she also knew she was far too weak to do anything and it killed her to know this. She flew through glass, plastic, and wood at a speed she never pushed herself to reach. She almost blacked out from how fast and how far she was thrown and hit the wall of her neighbors house and then the ground with a heavy thud. No. In addition to the heavy thud was a symphony of shattered bones and dreams and a quick sob before she blacked out.
He, however, ran off into the moonlight and wasn't heard from in weeks. The crane's family didn't offer a reward for his capture because they wanted to handle things personally though their crushed daughter refused to let them do so. Even when she went into panic attacks at remembering how she almost died. When she calmed down a bit, all she could do was sob.
-
Remembering his mistake, all he could do was pray for death's bitter kiss but death would refuse. It was more fun to torture him especially for what he did.
The crane swore that if it ever became necessary to do so, she would come to his rescue, or kill him. Anything to save him.
If there was any difference between isolation and loneliness, the meanings were all lost on the grizzly. There wasn't a real point in asking himself these questions because he'd just tell himself what he wanted to hear. Maybe, that's what he needed because nobody would go out of their way to console him, even in the slightest. That said more about them than him. Yes, he was a vile creature to be around but if nobody is willing to help him out even when he was dying, well that says everything. This was probably what was killing him further. He was already dying, again, and this didn't help. The self-inflicted torture of pondering the nature of ideas was killing him on the metaphorical inside- the mind and soul and all that stuff. The outside world was killing him, leaving him a soul-less shell. He had a warped and cracked soul, which the Devil himself appraised during his stay in hell.
"Isn't not worth much now but later on..." he coughed, stifling laughter. He was playing a cruel prank on the bear. He was a notorious prankster, or so said the prisoners.
"Really?!" the bear, beamed as he found a slice of hope in the least likely of places. Imagine the satisfaction of actually finding a needle in a haystack, and multiply that by at least 100. Add the fact that it's hell (or multiply that by 4 billion), now divide that by 8. And you're still not that close.
"Yes. Definitely. Now, run along, I just thought of something funny, and my laughter would make your ears bleed, go. Now!" but he couldn't hold the laughter back. He thought it was just too damn funny. The bear inched away slowly; a part of him felt his sliver of hope wither away.
The devil's words were used to torture the bear further; he knew the bear's soul wouldn't be worth anything different after its appraisal. What a prick.
What continued to prick and butcher the bear were the ideas of loneliness that he could not distinguish. Catsup vs Ketchup. Any clear-cut lines keeping the two ideas (not the ketchup/catsup thing) apart were now horribly mangled and blurred. Recording a car wreck through lenses covered with vaseline while the one recording has astigmatism.
Everything was ruined for the stupid bear now. Everything! The sky was a continuation of the sea which frightened not only the sailors who slowly crawled into the sky, but the birds who had spent eons flying above the clouds. Now, the birds found themselves struggling to flee from the Kraken as it made its way slowly, as if mocking the flightless creatures in their new plight. Sailors rained from the heavens day and night. Each one cursing the sky they were falling from. Each one bracing themselves for their plunge into the cold eternal wet grave filled with hungry mouths, and jagged daggers of white stained with red.
Though the bear had no sailing experience or skydiving experience, he had been bitten by a shark once. As such, he felt every set of jaws dig into him. And the memories of that ill-fated 8th birthday came roaring back. His mind knew that what he was feeling, at the moment, wasn't real but he couldn't convince his body otherwise. Horrible pain embraced him roughly, and thoroughly. So much that he somehow convinced himself to further destroy himself. He was, indeed, inching towards insanity.
Frantically, he clawed away at himself, confusing everything he ever knew, or thought he knew, with every drop of blood and bit of torn flesh. He hadn't a slight idea of what damage he was doing to himself. His thoughts were so twisted he thought he was digging himself out of some small confined space. He was killing himself slowly. He excelled at destruction. Self-destruction was his speciality, or specialty. His expertise. His strong suit. "Yes," said the writer reiterating a point, "self-destruction was something he was an expert at. Not that he was particularly bright about it, he just knew how to make things worse for himself."
And in that moment of searing pain, the bear saw something. Something inside his screwed up, jagged, blistered mind woke up. The light poured into the gash and it revealed to him his greatest mistake. He thought he had banished it to oblivion, as he did with almost everything he did. But it came roaring back with the fury of a thousand angry gods.
His biggest mistake, or the one that he could remember, had to do with a crane that had tried to befriend him. This mistake killed him more effectively that being bludgeoned in the face with a thousand lead pipes. He pushed away the closest thing he ever had to a friend. No, not pushed because that implies that things aren't beyond repair. He threw her away.
-
She was like other cranes, delicate (in comparison), and intelligent. But unlike them, she was merciful and kind. Towards the grizzly bear, at least. It remains a mystery how he got into her good graces. Some say it was because he was so pathetic that while everyone despised him for it, she took pity on him. Some say that somewhere someone had placed a curse of some sort upon her and her punishment was to be nice to the embodiment of everyone's bane. Anybody else, she would ignore or treat with horrible disdain. This was a custom the cranes had: to treat non-cranes with unbridled contempt. There would be a shred of mercy given to certain creatures, or those who were well off. Birds were acceptable in their book, for the most part. Some say because of the beak and feathers. Others say because of their ability to fly, which would explain why penguins were mocked and ridiculed. The latter theory makes the most sense.
The grizzly was a different case altogether. He was a vile bastard but she treated him with respect. He was his usual stupid miserable self but it didn't matter to her, she kept treating him with respect. Even after accidentally breaking her arm in 4 places, she came back.
On a bright green day, the bear sat in a cave, doing nothing. He sat on an enormous, cold, and gray rock staring at the gaping hole above him as it covered him in a soft blue light. The crane wanted to study the drawings in the cave and exclaimed a cheery "Hello!" when she saw him. She tried to hug him, as a friendly gesture but he stepped back and shook her hand, instead. His grip was too much for her and somehow the pressure forced a crack in four different parts of her arm. "A medical mystery," said the incompetent doctor (or duck-tor, get it? Incompetent doctor? Duck? Incompetent doctor? Quack? Duck? Get it!?) who had paid for his degree online, "this shall put me in the books for sure!" he added as he waddled to a phone book.
The bear stood silently, analyzing the situation. He had broken her arm because she tried to hug him. "And choke the life out of me! That bitch! I better finish the job..." and the other half of him said similar... in a less vicious fashion.
She stared at him. Not with content but with curiosity. She knew it was strange that anyone would show him any respect or treat him with any shred of decency. But she did not fight it, she went along with it. She was not in love with him, she was just friendly. Even if she had been, it wouldn't have mattered because the bear was so thick, he wouldn't know it even if she carried a bright neon sign that said so.
The two stared at each other while the quack quacked about quackery to himself. There was a bizarre silence between the two as their eyes met in confusion and awe. He was confused as to why she wasn't blasting him with every swear she had ever heard. She was in awe at how little he cared, and how she could still not look away in disgust. Every now and then they blinked but continued their staring contest of some sort.
"Why isn't she threatening to rip out my insides?"
"Why isn't he apologizing? Why do I care?"
"I should rip out her insides- no, I should. Fuck. What do I do?"
"I should be furious that my arm is broken... but I'm not. I should say something. But what if he rips off my jaw?"
Unable to take the silence and background quack-babbling, the grizzly stormed out, shedding silent tears. I mean, the grizzly stormed out. The crane was left shedding silent tears that only she could see and feel. The quack was busy praising himself.
Her family came for her, concerned and confused and telling her to stay the hell away from the bear lest he go feral and dismember her. She listened to them but could not bring herself to care about them. She was fixated on her inexplicable goal of staying the course and being consistent. She was going to keep being nice to him.
So she did so, as much as she could. She would frequent places the bear frequented, each time running into him; and confusing the fuck out of him. She would bring him food, keep him company and never insult him. He on the other hand would defy common sense and reason. It was baffling. Spitting out large chunks of food, and (among other things) spouting inflammatory anti-crane rhetoric which came from his anti-falcon talk. Still, she brought with her fried ham sandwiches, or anything meaty and disgusting she could obtain. Never did he say thanks. Though one could argue that his thanks was in the way he wolfed down the food she brought him.
The grizzly's family could not wrap their minds around this phenomena. For as long as he had been alive, everything he touched, he destroyed. They couldn't understand how she could continue to keep coming back to him. Injury after injury, she returned. They were afraid of offending her, so they never bothered asking what everyone was thinking. That and her family were very influential people, more so than their neighbors and the fox. They had their theories and even had a betting pool of when and how badly the bear would derail his gravy train.
If they had placed a substantial amount of money on this betting pool, they'd be in debt beyond the grave because nobody could predict what happened.
She was recovering from her latest injury- food poisoning. The tortoise at the shop deliberately gave her spoiled meat with the hopes that she would give it to the bear and he'd die. Unfortunately, she got curious and ate some of the meat. Violent illness ensued. The bear though not guilty by any means really got reamed by the family as he went to her home.
He was broken. Nothing could repair him. As he walked away and let it sink in, something clicked inside, for the worse. Hearing how she was sick triggered a horrible deviation. Rather than feel guilt, or remorse, he drowned in rage. Stopping in his tracks, he took a deep breath, turned around and charged at full speed. Tearing the door down he made his way to the crane. He didn't care if he destroyed anything, he was bent on doing whatever the fuck it was he was bent on doing. He tore the place apart, nothing was left unshredded by his furious claws and teeth. The bottom floor looked like a thousand war zones- devastated, crumbling, hanging on by a thread, air of hope gone.
Upstairs he crept- one shred of himself trying to keep him sane and calm. But it was no use when he got to the coughing and vomiting crane.
He stared at her with the evilest look she had ever seen. For the first time, she was truly terrified. Not solely because of his immense power compared to hers, but because she was confused and had no idea why he was suddenly turning into the embodiment of hopelessness and absolute evil. She had done nothing to infuriate him, or encourage any form of violence against her. She had been the closest thing he had to a friend.
"I brought you food." she pleaded, but he roared and charged toward her. She thought she was done for but thankfully, he slipped and cracked his jaw on the bedpost. She took this opportunity to hobble away, feeling the nausea and vomit brew inside her. Infuriated, he picked himself up and marched toward her.
"I never hurt you." she whimpered. The bear followed her, slowly. Quietly snarling with the tears swelling in her eyes.
"Please, talk to me. What did I ever do? All I've ever done was be kind to you." She was right and he knew it. He knew it but couldn't summon any shred of humanity or reason to make him see her point, or the fact that she was scared beyond description.
She fell as she tripped over the remains of some paintings' frames. She resigned herself to her fate.
The grizzly bear towered over her, glaring at her. She could not see reason in his actions and as she tried for one final act of kindness, hoping to mollify the maniac, she knew it was hopeless. For the first time, she stopped herself from doing anything. She was raised high above the ground and immediately felt his claws sinking into her, piercing not only her body but her mind. She winced and let out cries of pain intermittent with sobs, drowned out by ferocious snarls and growls. His primal side took too much control and she was paying for it. She bled, cried, and wished for death. But she never wished him harm even when he was destroying her, stretching her tender body to its breaking points, painting the ground with drops of her blood and demolishing her faith in everything she believed in.
"This is it." she thought to herself, writhing in pain. Every bone in her body was snapping, slowly and quite painfully. And loudly, but not loud enough to distract from the bear's snarling and growling, and stifled sobs. She felt herself come close to having her spine snapped when he set her down, and he began crying. He tore away at himself. When she tried to comfort him, he backhanded her; he retracted his enormous paw, now drenched in her blood and tears. He sat silent as he absorbed the sound of her faint breathing and coughing.
The air remained silent until he picked himself up and with the dulled rage in his eyes made his way to her. He lifted her into his arms and cradled her for a moment. The air remained silent but the moonlight bathed them both. Every bloodied detail on her face sank in and made him tremble with self-loathing and things he could not understand. So he did the only thing he was good at: destroy.
The crane is a creature of flight. She knew this and figured she could escape her fate but she also knew she was far too weak to do anything and it killed her to know this. She flew through glass, plastic, and wood at a speed she never pushed herself to reach. She almost blacked out from how fast and how far she was thrown and hit the wall of her neighbors house and then the ground with a heavy thud. No. In addition to the heavy thud was a symphony of shattered bones and dreams and a quick sob before she blacked out.
He, however, ran off into the moonlight and wasn't heard from in weeks. The crane's family didn't offer a reward for his capture because they wanted to handle things personally though their crushed daughter refused to let them do so. Even when she went into panic attacks at remembering how she almost died. When she calmed down a bit, all she could do was sob.
-
Remembering his mistake, all he could do was pray for death's bitter kiss but death would refuse. It was more fun to torture him especially for what he did.
The crane swore that if it ever became necessary to do so, she would come to his rescue, or kill him. Anything to save him.
Monday, July 11, 2011
![](https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-rYsvxv3WLtM/TgcLtCAItvI/AAAAAAAAGJE/8nb48wLUkhU/dali-atomicus.jpg")
Scattered Rambling Fable
Once upon a time, before time existed (or had any meaning), there was a boy who had absolutely nothing in the world but the clothes on his back and a stick which he used for walking and/or fighting. His life was a lonely one, for the most part; he spent his days wandering around, through rivers and over mountains and across deserts and out in space itself. He had a very active imagination which allowed him to breathe underwater, smoke cigarettes beyond the confines of our atmosphere, and change things deeply.
Every day, he walked through a small but generally fruitful bazaar in a city whose name is lost to the wind. This city might still exist but the name probably doesn't, or the place exists in memories and ancient texts nobody can read anymore.
There, the boy would gaze upon the various goods sold at varying prices. Fish, meat, ox skulls, leather, jams, spices, weaponry from "lands beyond our borders", and various useless trinkets. Hungrily, he marched through, leaving only with the dirty looks people gave him; he rarely had money to buy anything. When he did have money, it would generally go to one of three places: the local charity, a homeless person, or the stand that sold fruit. Despite his calm and comparatively gentle nature, scorn was always cast upon him. Unfazed as he seemed, every now and then, it stung.
In that same bazaar was a merchant who had everything a man in those days could need, or want. Money, power, respect, decent health, a harem of shapely beautiful women, food, shelter, and much more. They say that his home was made of pure marble lined with gold and silver so when the sun shone upon it at dawn, one could catch a glimpse of heaven, or go blind. This was not true. His home, despite his wealth, was a relatively simple albeit large structure. It was made of stone that had been painted to give the appearance of marble. Nothing was missing. He was healthy, rich, powerful, and surrounded by beautiful women.
He had it all.
Or did he...?
No.
He was unhappy.
He could not figure out why he was unhappy. By the standards of that time, he had no reason to complain. Everything was going well for him. But he could not figure out why something felt like it was wrong. He lost sleep thinking about what may have been missing from his life. This, in turn, only made things worse; not knowing was his ultimate torture. It made him feel even more miserable and poor. The cold bitter sting of desperation poured torrents of venom into his veins and into his heart making his soul writhe and wail.
On the other hand, the boy, despite his own misfortunes, was content. This was evident by the smile on his face that he carried through the bazaar. A true and genuine smile, or smirk. Not trying too hard to do anything out of the ordinary, just an expression of contentment. The merchant, curious and aching with desperation, stopped the boy one day. The boy simply walked, whistling and admiring the sights surrounding him when the merchant spotted him and sprang from his seat!
"You there! Boy!" he shouted, in a manic frenzy that seemed to terrify the world! "Stop! I need you!"
The boy was startled and took flight! Or he ran really fast. He was not fast enough to escape the merchant as his maniacal glee gave him energy he had not possessed since he was young.
"Come with me, boy. I must pick your brain for I do not know what to do and I need your help."
And the two walked back to the merchant's tent where he asked the boy all sorts of questions regarding his lineage, home, profession, sexual orientation, to what gods he prayed and so on. All this in the hopes of uncovering his secrets and possibly obtain the answers he sought to cure his unhappiness. It came to pass that the boy answered all the questions willingly but could not help but feel sorry for the merchant as he was unable to provide him with a cure for his unhappiness. The merchant felt slightly better but still the merchant was dissatisfied.
The merchant's heart grew heavier as his smile faded. But desperation clawed at him, nagging him, egging him on, pushing to the edge. He offered the boy his vast wealth in exchange for his secrets. Everything within his power he offered, and begged. Even stuff he could not offer, he offered.
"My women! Take any! Take them all! Take my money! Take my tent! Just tell me!" he sobbed.
"I hold no secrets," he replied, "keep your women and power if you like or abandon them. They matter not."
Confused, insulted, and furious, the merchant cast him out. He didn't have to say anything after that but that didn't stop him from yelling at him some more. Foul things he shouted, enough to make the wind sob, and the earth weep bitterly.
The boy took this in stride and walked into the distance. The merchant back to his tent, where he wept.
Weeks went by and the boy did not pass through the bazaar. The merchant grew sick and felt death embrace him at every turn. But with a tiny spark of hope and desperation, he cast off death each time. "Not until I know." he coughed.
One day, the boy returned much to the delight of the merchant. And some degree of delight for the boy, he was just too... proud, or lazy, to admit it. The merchant pulled the boy into the tent and fed him and gave him new clothes.
"I... well, this isn't easy for me to say, boy. I've never been in this situation before. You see, I'm used to answering to only myself and having others tremble before me. For the most part. I've also never... missed anyone's company. There have been women I've longed for but I've found that they are easily replaceable. Until your heart beats for just one and when she's gone, y- well, a part of you is gone, too."
The merchant sat across from the boy, who was ripping a finely roasted chicken with his teeth.
"I'm sorry." the merchant said. "I real-"
The boy nodded, accepting his apology and without saying a word told him he didn't need to say anything more. The merchant was humbled by this, he had never had to apologize to anyone before. And he had really hurt the boy but the boy forgave him.
They talked for hours. The merchant felt miles away from death's cold black shores. He understood why he felt warm and content. He made a friend. He had actually reached out and made friends with the boy.
"Thats what you were missing, sir," the boy said, "friendship."
Those words sank deep into the merchant's jewel encrusted heart.
Getting up and gathering his belongings, the boy said, "I thank you but I must depart now. May you find friends and happiness. May the winds of fortune guide your ship far across the sea of life to something great."
The merchant knew he could not stop the boy from walking, and as a token of their brief-lived friendship, gave him not just one of his many horses, he gave him his favorite.
"May your journeys be less perilous, my friend." he said as he handed the boy the reins to the magnificent white steed. "Find what you seek and may you find happiness that exceeds mine."
As the horse trod off on the soft golden dust 'neath its hooves and into the golden glory of the sun (as they are wont to do in these kinds of stories), the merchant smiled. He knew what to do now and was content.
They say he sold his tent and wandered the earth seeking more friendship. Others say he built an orphanage to try to fill a need. Others say he was taken by creatures from a planet devoid of friendship. Despite writing this story, I really wouldn't be able to tell you because all friendships vary and have differing effects on the obviously different people involved. But I can tell you this: the merchant was happy. The boy was happy. And the horse didn't care.
фин
Every day, he walked through a small but generally fruitful bazaar in a city whose name is lost to the wind. This city might still exist but the name probably doesn't, or the place exists in memories and ancient texts nobody can read anymore.
There, the boy would gaze upon the various goods sold at varying prices. Fish, meat, ox skulls, leather, jams, spices, weaponry from "lands beyond our borders", and various useless trinkets. Hungrily, he marched through, leaving only with the dirty looks people gave him; he rarely had money to buy anything. When he did have money, it would generally go to one of three places: the local charity, a homeless person, or the stand that sold fruit. Despite his calm and comparatively gentle nature, scorn was always cast upon him. Unfazed as he seemed, every now and then, it stung.
In that same bazaar was a merchant who had everything a man in those days could need, or want. Money, power, respect, decent health, a harem of shapely beautiful women, food, shelter, and much more. They say that his home was made of pure marble lined with gold and silver so when the sun shone upon it at dawn, one could catch a glimpse of heaven, or go blind. This was not true. His home, despite his wealth, was a relatively simple albeit large structure. It was made of stone that had been painted to give the appearance of marble. Nothing was missing. He was healthy, rich, powerful, and surrounded by beautiful women.
He had it all.
Or did he...?
No.
He was unhappy.
He could not figure out why he was unhappy. By the standards of that time, he had no reason to complain. Everything was going well for him. But he could not figure out why something felt like it was wrong. He lost sleep thinking about what may have been missing from his life. This, in turn, only made things worse; not knowing was his ultimate torture. It made him feel even more miserable and poor. The cold bitter sting of desperation poured torrents of venom into his veins and into his heart making his soul writhe and wail.
On the other hand, the boy, despite his own misfortunes, was content. This was evident by the smile on his face that he carried through the bazaar. A true and genuine smile, or smirk. Not trying too hard to do anything out of the ordinary, just an expression of contentment. The merchant, curious and aching with desperation, stopped the boy one day. The boy simply walked, whistling and admiring the sights surrounding him when the merchant spotted him and sprang from his seat!
"You there! Boy!" he shouted, in a manic frenzy that seemed to terrify the world! "Stop! I need you!"
The boy was startled and took flight! Or he ran really fast. He was not fast enough to escape the merchant as his maniacal glee gave him energy he had not possessed since he was young.
"Come with me, boy. I must pick your brain for I do not know what to do and I need your help."
And the two walked back to the merchant's tent where he asked the boy all sorts of questions regarding his lineage, home, profession, sexual orientation, to what gods he prayed and so on. All this in the hopes of uncovering his secrets and possibly obtain the answers he sought to cure his unhappiness. It came to pass that the boy answered all the questions willingly but could not help but feel sorry for the merchant as he was unable to provide him with a cure for his unhappiness. The merchant felt slightly better but still the merchant was dissatisfied.
The merchant's heart grew heavier as his smile faded. But desperation clawed at him, nagging him, egging him on, pushing to the edge. He offered the boy his vast wealth in exchange for his secrets. Everything within his power he offered, and begged. Even stuff he could not offer, he offered.
"My women! Take any! Take them all! Take my money! Take my tent! Just tell me!" he sobbed.
"I hold no secrets," he replied, "keep your women and power if you like or abandon them. They matter not."
Confused, insulted, and furious, the merchant cast him out. He didn't have to say anything after that but that didn't stop him from yelling at him some more. Foul things he shouted, enough to make the wind sob, and the earth weep bitterly.
The boy took this in stride and walked into the distance. The merchant back to his tent, where he wept.
Weeks went by and the boy did not pass through the bazaar. The merchant grew sick and felt death embrace him at every turn. But with a tiny spark of hope and desperation, he cast off death each time. "Not until I know." he coughed.
One day, the boy returned much to the delight of the merchant. And some degree of delight for the boy, he was just too... proud, or lazy, to admit it. The merchant pulled the boy into the tent and fed him and gave him new clothes.
"I... well, this isn't easy for me to say, boy. I've never been in this situation before. You see, I'm used to answering to only myself and having others tremble before me. For the most part. I've also never... missed anyone's company. There have been women I've longed for but I've found that they are easily replaceable. Until your heart beats for just one and when she's gone, y- well, a part of you is gone, too."
The merchant sat across from the boy, who was ripping a finely roasted chicken with his teeth.
"I'm sorry." the merchant said. "I real-"
The boy nodded, accepting his apology and without saying a word told him he didn't need to say anything more. The merchant was humbled by this, he had never had to apologize to anyone before. And he had really hurt the boy but the boy forgave him.
They talked for hours. The merchant felt miles away from death's cold black shores. He understood why he felt warm and content. He made a friend. He had actually reached out and made friends with the boy.
"Thats what you were missing, sir," the boy said, "friendship."
Those words sank deep into the merchant's jewel encrusted heart.
Getting up and gathering his belongings, the boy said, "I thank you but I must depart now. May you find friends and happiness. May the winds of fortune guide your ship far across the sea of life to something great."
The merchant knew he could not stop the boy from walking, and as a token of their brief-lived friendship, gave him not just one of his many horses, he gave him his favorite.
"May your journeys be less perilous, my friend." he said as he handed the boy the reins to the magnificent white steed. "Find what you seek and may you find happiness that exceeds mine."
As the horse trod off on the soft golden dust 'neath its hooves and into the golden glory of the sun (as they are wont to do in these kinds of stories), the merchant smiled. He knew what to do now and was content.
They say he sold his tent and wandered the earth seeking more friendship. Others say he built an orphanage to try to fill a need. Others say he was taken by creatures from a planet devoid of friendship. Despite writing this story, I really wouldn't be able to tell you because all friendships vary and have differing effects on the obviously different people involved. But I can tell you this: the merchant was happy. The boy was happy. And the horse didn't care.
фин
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Chimney Sweeper (William Blake)
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! -
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind:
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
- William Blake
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight! -
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind:
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
- William Blake
Serious Complaints of the 21st Century
My facetious complaints hold no substance because they're mostly jokes. So, we're going to get serious for a moment. To be honest, my greatest complaint is that we've been squandering our potential as humans.
Instead of moving forward, we seem to be moving backwards. Fucked up, isn't it?
Well, then.
Among my serious complaints are: robots, flying cars, space travel that the average person can access. In all seriousness, science and technology are my biggest complaints. Fiction should reflect reality, to some extent, and sci-fi has set a standard that could have been met had we tried. Effort is the key to almost everything, isn't it?
Let's put it this way: For centuries, man had been obsessed with flight- imitating birds, and theorized and wrote about flying but could never experience it. People tried and failed miserably, or never tried and only wrote. Today, it just seems like all we do is talk and talk about how we're going to cure diseases and discover new worlds. All we're really doing is waxing poetic. This cartoon best illustrates what I'm trying to say.
History of Flight by Abstruse Goose
Sad, isn't it?
Human evolution has already reached a standstill, or so it would appear. There are no more predators that we can't easily destroy. Perhaps that's the area in which we've made significant progress- destruction. We can destroy things in greater numbers than we could before. But that's not really good progress is it? The fact that disease continues to claim countless lives shows we're going wrong.
If I were to summarize my serious complaints of the 21st century in one sentence, it would be this: My greatest complaint is that as humans, we've been wasting our potential.
And it's true. We could have met every goal we set for ourselves but something happened that caused us to care less and less and embrace oblivion, or smile as we fall further and further into the downward spiral. We could be greater than we are but we're letting ourselves fall back on the successes of the past that it's given us some horrible sense of entitlement.
We're so used to riding the coattails of those who have succeeded in the past that we don't feel the need to do anything which is heartbreaking because anything that anyone tries to do is drowned by the ocean of apathy generated by those who are content with destruction and laziness.
We're going wrong.
Instead of moving forward, we seem to be moving backwards. Fucked up, isn't it?
Well, then.
Among my serious complaints are: robots, flying cars, space travel that the average person can access. In all seriousness, science and technology are my biggest complaints. Fiction should reflect reality, to some extent, and sci-fi has set a standard that could have been met had we tried. Effort is the key to almost everything, isn't it?
Let's put it this way: For centuries, man had been obsessed with flight- imitating birds, and theorized and wrote about flying but could never experience it. People tried and failed miserably, or never tried and only wrote. Today, it just seems like all we do is talk and talk about how we're going to cure diseases and discover new worlds. All we're really doing is waxing poetic. This cartoon best illustrates what I'm trying to say.
History of Flight by Abstruse Goose
Sad, isn't it?
Human evolution has already reached a standstill, or so it would appear. There are no more predators that we can't easily destroy. Perhaps that's the area in which we've made significant progress- destruction. We can destroy things in greater numbers than we could before. But that's not really good progress is it? The fact that disease continues to claim countless lives shows we're going wrong.
If I were to summarize my serious complaints of the 21st century in one sentence, it would be this: My greatest complaint is that as humans, we've been wasting our potential.
And it's true. We could have met every goal we set for ourselves but something happened that caused us to care less and less and embrace oblivion, or smile as we fall further and further into the downward spiral. We could be greater than we are but we're letting ourselves fall back on the successes of the past that it's given us some horrible sense of entitlement.
We're so used to riding the coattails of those who have succeeded in the past that we don't feel the need to do anything which is heartbreaking because anything that anyone tries to do is drowned by the ocean of apathy generated by those who are content with destruction and laziness.
We're going wrong.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Facetious Complaints of the 21st Century
Captain's Log. Stardate 6497something...
The year (in AD) is 2011 and war spreads across nations like wildfire uncontrolled and with an insatiable appetite for destruction. People starve and die en masse. Families are torn apart by the warfare and various other manmade problems. On other parts of the world, people are gorging themselves and consuming the precious little resources available.
Fucked up, isn't it?
It's not fiction but it does bother me. It's 2011 and it's "the future". There are a lot of things that television and literature (and just about every other "creative" medium) have set expectations for but have not been met. Not even close. Or we've made advances in areas that aren't really our priorities.
Well, let's get started.
Among my facetious complaints are: robots, flying cars, space travel that the average person can access (even with some degree of saving up money).
These are somewhat joking complaints because all the sci-fi future related stuff I grew up on prepared me to expect stuff like this by now. So whenever I look at the sky and see no flying cars, I'm disappointed. Even more so when I realize that they won't be around in my lifetime. Or I'll be old and brittle by the time they're available even in their prototype stages.
I'm annoyed that there aren't any robots for the same reason- high expectations. Or more accurately, overly optimistic estimates.
Space travel same reason.
I say facetious because I like to joke around with a specific topic I'm focused on. This has gotten me in trouble several times in the past yet I persist on trying to find humor.
"Men of humor are always in some degree men of genius." or so says Coleridge, one of my favorite writers. Of all time.
And I take that personally because I like to believe the best about myself. And as such I'll think of myself as a funny person and a genius... to some degree. A heads-up: looking for that quote online will yield a variation that is meant to be more... universal: replace "men" with "people".
Those are my complaints because I grew up on television and a great deal of interest in science fiction- namely in stuff like Star Wars and the concept of outer space, interplanetary travel, and good ol' time travel which if reached would unravel everything we know. As I got older my interest in that particular area expanded, though I still like Star Wars. The original trilogy, not so much the prequels- wasted potential and poor execution. Which is why whenever I think future, I think of robots and flying cars.
While I try to find myself funny with my complaints, they hold no substance.
The year (in AD) is 2011 and war spreads across nations like wildfire uncontrolled and with an insatiable appetite for destruction. People starve and die en masse. Families are torn apart by the warfare and various other manmade problems. On other parts of the world, people are gorging themselves and consuming the precious little resources available.
Fucked up, isn't it?
It's not fiction but it does bother me. It's 2011 and it's "the future". There are a lot of things that television and literature (and just about every other "creative" medium) have set expectations for but have not been met. Not even close. Or we've made advances in areas that aren't really our priorities.
Well, let's get started.
Among my facetious complaints are: robots, flying cars, space travel that the average person can access (even with some degree of saving up money).
These are somewhat joking complaints because all the sci-fi future related stuff I grew up on prepared me to expect stuff like this by now. So whenever I look at the sky and see no flying cars, I'm disappointed. Even more so when I realize that they won't be around in my lifetime. Or I'll be old and brittle by the time they're available even in their prototype stages.
I'm annoyed that there aren't any robots for the same reason- high expectations. Or more accurately, overly optimistic estimates.
Space travel same reason.
I say facetious because I like to joke around with a specific topic I'm focused on. This has gotten me in trouble several times in the past yet I persist on trying to find humor.
"Men of humor are always in some degree men of genius." or so says Coleridge, one of my favorite writers. Of all time.
And I take that personally because I like to believe the best about myself. And as such I'll think of myself as a funny person and a genius... to some degree. A heads-up: looking for that quote online will yield a variation that is meant to be more... universal: replace "men" with "people".
Those are my complaints because I grew up on television and a great deal of interest in science fiction- namely in stuff like Star Wars and the concept of outer space, interplanetary travel, and good ol' time travel which if reached would unravel everything we know. As I got older my interest in that particular area expanded, though I still like Star Wars. The original trilogy, not so much the prequels- wasted potential and poor execution. Which is why whenever I think future, I think of robots and flying cars.
While I try to find myself funny with my complaints, they hold no substance.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Kubla Kahn (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Geniuses named Neil
I've been reading The Sandman by Neil Gaiman and I must say it's gripping stuff. I'll have a review of The Sandman by next week, I hope. I still have to finish up the next few installments of Bottle and some other stuff I'm working on, so I've got my hands somewhat full. I'll probably read Coraline and review that as well.
Anyway, this entry is to point you in the direction of works by Neil Gaiman, specifically the short stories on his website.
Short stories by Neil Gaiman.
I've read some of his stuff on there when I'm not reading The Sandman but I'll have to read them again because my attention is scattered and shot with different tasks and ideas dancing through my head. Distracting me further and further. And I look forward to revisiting the short stories.
Like I said in the first paragraph, I've got my hands full. How? Here is part of my reading list (in no particular order) after I finish The Sandman:
• Welcome to the Monkey House
• Life of Pi
• Volume 14 of The Walking Dead
• The Maltese Falcon
• reread Slaughterhouse-Five
• reread Einstein's Dreams
I know it doesn't seem like a lot but like I said- that's only part of my reading list. Not to mention my other projects like Bottle and others.
Anyway, enjoy the link to Neil Gaiman's work.
In case you're wondering about the title, another genius named Neil is Neil Young. To get a taste of his music check out Decade.
Anyway, this entry is to point you in the direction of works by Neil Gaiman, specifically the short stories on his website.
Short stories by Neil Gaiman.
I've read some of his stuff on there when I'm not reading The Sandman but I'll have to read them again because my attention is scattered and shot with different tasks and ideas dancing through my head. Distracting me further and further. And I look forward to revisiting the short stories.
Like I said in the first paragraph, I've got my hands full. How? Here is part of my reading list (in no particular order) after I finish The Sandman:
• Welcome to the Monkey House
• Life of Pi
• Volume 14 of The Walking Dead
• The Maltese Falcon
• reread Slaughterhouse-Five
• reread Einstein's Dreams
I know it doesn't seem like a lot but like I said- that's only part of my reading list. Not to mention my other projects like Bottle and others.
Anyway, enjoy the link to Neil Gaiman's work.
In case you're wondering about the title, another genius named Neil is Neil Young. To get a taste of his music check out Decade.
Friday, July 1, 2011
An Experiment in Color and Lunacy
Some time ago, I sorted my music library by album color. Or, more accurately, did so for albums that actually had album artwork. The following is a result of lunacy and curiosity. I think it looks pretty cool but I do admit it's teetering on the edge of ridiculousness.
*Click on each picture for the full size. (Links will open in a new window).
I think I did well with this particular color scheme.
And this one.
I was surprised to see so much red the first time.
As long as the music is good despite the names- Garbage, for instance.
I was surprised to see so little green.
Meh.
The first time I saw this one, I was taken aback. It had some sort of calming effect, to be honest. And interesting to look at.
Ah!
*Click on each picture for the full size. (Links will open in a new window).
I think I did well with this particular color scheme.
And this one.
I was surprised to see so much red the first time.
As long as the music is good despite the names- Garbage, for instance.
I was surprised to see so little green.
Meh.
The first time I saw this one, I was taken aback. It had some sort of calming effect, to be honest. And interesting to look at.
Ah!
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