Daily Frivolity

Creative Stretches: 2012

2012-03-05T03:37:00.000-08:00

So then one day the ketchup ran out. That was it. No more ketchup. The tangy, sweetness of good ole' 51 vanished from the world forever.

It was as the Mayans predicted- an end to to the world as we knew it in 2012.

Everybody had always overlooked ketchup; taken it for granted that it would always be there. On that dreadful day, Dry Day, as it is now called, humanity saw just how wrong it had been. There was a general sort of surprise at first. A young man in a McDonalds asking for some packets of red deliciousness. Sorry, sir, they're all gone. Gone? he asks. Yes, sir. Just gone.

The young man straightens up from his habitual get-the-ketchup lean and stares off into the middle space. Then, without another word, he walks out of the restaurant. Fries and hamburger forgotten, wiped from his consciousness like Windex.

Elsewhere, three hours to the west, a middle-aged mother finishes the onion hash-browns her children craved for their late Saturday brunch. She calls to them, and a stampede of feet race the steaming pan to the table. A young girl and a pubescent boy sit down and sniff eagerly while their mother dote-fully stocks their bare plates with golden brown sustenance.

Hey, mom. Can we have some ketchup, please?

Sorry, Andy. We don't have any.

No, ketchup, mom? Really? Really, mom, really?

Yes. I'm sorry, Andrea.

The two children stare off into the middle space for a moment, stand, push in their chairs as they had been taught, and leave the kitchen- the steam slowly fading from their favorite weekend meal.

In a month, fast food is finished. Dollar menus vanishing from the collective consciousness of mankind, following the ketchup into an unknown oblivion. Vegetable oil corporations go into a slump. This is worse than the 90s, says one veggie-oil tycoon to the rehearsed concern of a reporter. It's an election year.

Save Crisco! Bailout big cooking oil! The pundits blather at each other about whatever they are paid to blather about, advocating opinions generated through pockets greased sickeningly with golden ooze. The nation's sheep cry out in rage and fear. Their oil is being taken from them. They want it back. Others suggest ovens. They are accused of being indoctrinated by baking advocates in college, ignored, and so the wanton phobia rolls on.

Then steps forth a hippy, who while blazed and wandering in search of chocolate milk, ran into a one of the Crisco-bought candidates leaving a primary rally. In full campaign mode, the candidate mistakes Dwayne's blood-shot eyes for emotional fervor and shakes the young man's hand vigorously.

Hello, young man! It's good to see one of this nation's future leaders here today! Tell me, what do you think we should do about vegetable oil?

Dwayne develops an amused smirk in the right corner of his mouth. Why not give it to me, man? My van runs on that stuff. The Candidate stares at him in open-mouthed epiphany. Dwayne wanders off and eventually finds chocolate milk and a new flavor of gum that is totally awesome when you are high.

Dwayne "The Guy With the Organic Van" becomes a major anecdote of the candidate's campaign, eventually paving the way to the White House. Big Petroleum is completely caught off guard. Vegetable Oil gets Big Auto and Agri-business in its hands overnight. The first organic cars were rolling off the assembly line in 6 months. In a year and a half, you could swap the fossil engine of any car and replace it with a Canola V-6.

In two years, Afghan farmers ripped up their opium and planted soybeans. Dubai began construction of vast soy islands. Somali pirates returned to the fields. Chinese Environmentalists discover that their country is actually paying attention to them now. Iran begins researching unstable corn isotopes.

The French keep dipping their fries in mayo.

The Six-Sided Dice

2011-10-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

so much depends
upon

six-sided
dice

but by eyes
unseen

rolled with binary
code

The Satirical: GOP Canidates Sacrifice Llama to Ghost of Ronald Reagan

2011-09-14T19:03:00.000-07:00

The 8 leading candidates for the Presidency gathered this last 5th of June to pay homage to the great Ronald Reagan. It is widely believed that whomever most pleases the late Reagan will succeed in the coming election. And so, the candidates gather in a small parking lot in Tampico, Illinois, the great father's town of birth, to give him honors. The rise of the sun greeted the tributes to their last day- a Nicaraguan llama and a hastily constructed brick wall.

The Ceremony requires brown and black Llamas, and expressly forbids using white ones.

Dawn. Congresswoman Bachmann rises to preside over the gathering like a Roman priestess in the temples of Tiberius. "On this June 5th, we beseech the great Reagan for his charisma, his coalition building skills, and the right to say we actually know something about his presidency."

The GOP rallying cry builds from the others, "Nay! Nay! Nay! Nay! Nay!"

Then, with her best Newsweek smile, the Representative from Minnesota slices the jugular of the llama tied, bleating, to the Alter of Small Government. The blood pools in the basin, and then begins trickling slowly down, drops hitting the dry pavement. There is a hushed silence, but soon heads are raised, and a joint call for club sandwiches on white splits the calm.

"The llama is a complicated metaphor," explained candidate Mitt Romny, "it represents two things. First, the death itself represents the Great Reagan's contras, and the spilling blood is the blood of those killed as a result." The former governor took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "The other symbol is the blood on the alter. See how it's trickling down over there? That's the trickle-down economy."

When asked why so little of the blood was actually getting to the ground, Romny laughed, saying "Well why waste the blood on the ground? Perry's country club has this chef who makes incredible blood sausage. We're headed there after this to drink and watch our favorite movie."

After a healthy, all-American meal, the candidates sit cheerfully to watch some German workers knock down the brick wall. "Well, that's easy- it's the Berlin Wall," explained Texas Governor Rick Perry, "No, we prefer to sit here and watch these Germans do the work."

The candidates fondly remember when The Great Regan raised the first hammer in 1989.

The parking lot rings with the sounds of sledge on brickwork, Mrs. Bachmaan wanders over to explain the use of the space. "See, this used to be a little wooded grove. But we couldn't get our buses in here and the soft ground made it hard to stand the brick wall- so we just paved the whole thing over. Some local hippies tried to stop us of course, but, you know, they don't have any money so it's not like they could really do anything."

The wall falls around 10 a.m. to the cheers of the watching politicians. They then stand, shake hands, and depart, leaving behind an empty paved lot heaped with broken brick and Styrofoam sandwich containers- baking in the noon sun.

The Satirical: White House Casting Call for New Emmanuel Goldstein

2011-05-02T22:07:00.000-07:00

Hundreds of terrorists, religious fundamentalists, political extremists, and bearded men will arrive in Washington for a casting call this Saturday. They will audition for America's next Emmanuel Goldstein, the government-selected focus of our collected hate and fear; a position now vacant following the assassination of Osama bin Laden.

Will Cat Stevens emit the soothing melodies of international terror?

"It's important we are ready to go with a replacement," said a senior White House adviser, "The American people need individual people to hate. The reality of the world's complexity is, frankly, beyond their grasp."

This use of a carefully tailored scapegoat is an important political tool for advancing legislation and building campaign momentum.

Did Joaquin Phoenix go off the deep-end... of Islamic fundamentalism?

"A catchy name and a few menacing photographs, audio and video clips, are all you really need," said Rob Vious, professor of Political Science at Georgetown. "Throw them on the news every one in a while and you can start wars without congressional approval, violate the sovereignty of other nations, trespass on civil liberties- all in the excuse to seek one man. And anyone who speaks against you is called a hippy, leftist, America-hating traitor."

For these reasons, the selection of a new hate-focus is a tricky proposition. There are many requirements for a successful Emmanuel Goldstein.

"They need to be a member of a minority group," said Prof. Vious, "otherwise American xenophobia won't be triggered. They need to look sinister; beards are good. And finally they need to have vague national loyalties, so you can act against more than one country. That flexibility is important."

Just how bad to the bone are they?

White House officials will be hard-pressed finding an equal to the late Osama bin Laden. "He was perfect," laments former Vice-President Dick Cheney, "He got us two wars, the Patriot Act, and ten years of phobia inducing terror alerts- And his trade-in-value!"

The capture of a scapegoat is a political goldmine, and President Obama was quick to capitalize.

"I told people to get him," said President Obama in his historical announcement last night, "and they got him."

And thus he became the President who got Osama bin Laden, a towering success over any Republican contender in 2012.

The Satirical: President Obama to Create No-Peace Corps

2011-04-28T15:40:00.000-07:00

The President after signing the historical bill.

Signed into law yesterday by the President, the Despot Destabilization Act marks a new turn in American foreign policy. Young, passionate, ethnocentric Americans will volunteer abroad to destabilize non-Democratic governments as members of the No-Peace Corps.

"Now, look-" said President Obama in yesterday's press conference, "the American people love freedom- and Democracy is that freedom. The people of the world also desire their freedom. In places like Syria- Egypt-.... Libya. Patriots are fighting against oppression and despotism- and they need help. I have just signed into law- a bill that will ensure that people- around the world- will receive the American Democracy we want them to have."

No-Peace Corps volunteers will be trained to use a variety of techniques during their assignments: rabble-rousing, seditious publications, propaganda, bribery, supplying arms to local rebel groups, and employing guerrilla tactics against local law-enforcement and military agencies.

Head military adviser to the President and the Despot Destabilization Act, GEN. Dick Bulge said, "In these troubled nations, there is a lack of Justice, and with no Justice, there is no Peace. So, a primary tactic will be to thrust ourselves into the corrupt orifices of their police."

After successfully fostering a rebellion, the U.S. military will step in to oversee the final transition of the host nation to an American Democracy. Once local democracy has been established to American standards, the United States Peace Corps will begin their humanitarian effort to allay the American conscience and make everyone feel like they did a good thing in the long run.

"It's a bold policy, a true American policy." claimed creator of the act, SEN. Richard Small of Texas (R). "A world of American Democracy is a world safe for America. The patriots of the No-Peace Corps will create this world, and win the War against Terrorism."

Critics of the Act have been vocal in their opposition to what they see as a hypocritical policy. "This law will turn Americans into full-blown terrorists, using identical tactics to Al-Quedia." said SEN. Nancy Clemintine of Rhode Island (D) in a phone interview yesterday evening.

SEN. Small responded on his website: "The accusation of Mrs. Celmintine is both disturbing and insulting. Comparing the actions of the No-Peace Corps to known terrorist organizations is a gross misrepresentation of the goals of the act. Our volunteers will oppose undesired governments, advocate our superior values to the populace, and do so by any means necessary. They will be Freedom Fighters and Patriots- not terrorists. I would never say it, but the comments of my colleague from Rhode Island are so un-american; it is obvious she hates our great country."

The Senator went on to say, "Plus, Mrs. Clemintine's state is entirely insignificant in American politics."

Other critics oppose the Act upon general principle. "They are taking our job!" said Mr. Frank Tellman, deputy director of the C.I.A.

Book Complete: Shinju by Laura Joh Rowland

2011-04-03T19:54:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, my Kindle arrived in Dumaguette at my girlfriend's house. I spent most of my extra time over the next few days trying to fill it with books. Books are generally text files that are less than a megabyte in size, so the relatively small 3 gigabyte hard-drive of the Kindle is still like a bucket being filled with an eye dropper.

One of the books I acquired was Shinju by Laura Joh Rowland, a sort of historical fiction mystery. The story takes place in Edo, Japan during the early Tokugawa period. The samurai are still around, but the strict bureaucracy of the Tokugawa Shogunate has succeeded in delivering a hundred years of peace to the country. The men who used to train their lives for death in battle have transformed into an elite class of bureaucrats, and the protagonist, Sano Ichiro, finds himself near the bottom of this upper-class.

Through family connections, he is promoted to the post of yoriki, a deputy police administrator under the local magistrate. He is assigned to investigate a suspicious suicide, and naturally embarks on a much larger investigation to solve a hidden murder.

The story kept me entertained for my entire nine hour journey from Dumaguette to my Peace Corps assignment in San Remagio, Cebu. I enjoy the general pattern of mysteries because watching British television mysteries with my grandmother is a sort of tradition:

1. The crime is discovered.
2. The body and crime scene are cased for clues.
3. Leads from these clues go to multiple people who are valid suspects
4. Interviews lead to new informants who have new information and/or new clues appear from the crime scene/corpse.
5. Suspects are interviewed again with new information.
(5.5. Viewer/reader observes a few suspects doing things that reveal the reason they are being secretive and suspicious to the detective but do not reveal the real criminal.)
6. The most obvious suspect is either proved to be innocent or dies, usually killed by the real criminal but the criminal's identify remains a mystery.
7. The criminal either attempts to flee the investigator, or temporarily gains the upper-hand, putting some life aspect of the detective in danger (life, job, reputation, etc.)
6. Detective overcomes difficulty and captures, kills, or witnesses death of criminal.

Like clockwork, really, and Shinju follows the general pattern. However, this pattern aptly keeps the mystery and tension rising until the end of the book, so the reader really is helpless to put the book down. You need to know the answer as much as the detective does!

Mix in a bit of samurai action and Japanese historical research, and you have a book that I needed to read. After playing several hours of Shogun: Total War, I was craving just this sort of book. The added mystery to the storyline made it easily palatable, and I've already started the second book in the twelve novel series.

Good stuff.

#22

2011-03-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

There once was a man named Plow,
His determination- not shallow,
For an entire month straight
With only knives he ate,
And we could only watch and say "WOW!"

#21

2011-03-13T20:19:00.000-07:00

There once was a man named Steve,
When drunk, he leaked like a sieve.
In a bottle he peed
An orange-ish mead,
The sight of it caused me to grieve.

#20

2011-03-10T19:14:00.000-08:00

The political mire is filled with goop.
A festering, pestilential soup.
Out someone emerges,
Following an other's dirges,
And out from their mouth comes poop.

#19

2011-03-10T19:02:00.000-08:00

El-Qaddafi is quite the hellion
With crimes rising to a million,
He should watch The Dark Knight,
He just may, he just might,
See how a hero once is now a villain.

#18

2011-03-10T18:34:00.001-08:00

A fat man named Peter King
Upon the country injustice doth bring,
With wrinkled cheeks,
Phantoms he seeks,
Loving how his own trumpet is blaring.

#17

2011-03-10T18:25:00.000-08:00

Human Rights are the child of Democracy,
The child of money is Aristocracy,
Money writes the laws
To fatten greedy paws,
And the rights of people become hypocrisy.

#16

2011-03-08T16:34:00.000-08:00

I went on a date with L.B.S.
I must say, it was quite a mess,
I tried to flirt
But my ass gave a squirt
And then there was shit all down her dress.

#15

2011-03-01T17:32:00.001-08:00

The Jew says others are wrong,
The Christian says other faith is not strong.
The Muslims heed
Only little of what they read,
All together they form a wicked, sinful throng.

#14

2011-03-01T17:31:00.000-08:00

Why do you desire religious law?
Is not sin humanity's flaw?
Never a stone in the land
was grasped by sinless hand.
Will not God feed the wicked to infernal maw?

#13

2011-02-28T17:42:00.001-08:00

There once was a man named Ed.
One day a coconut fell on his head.
It smashed his brain,
It's a damn shame,
and for a long time no one knew he was dead.

#12

2011-02-28T17:40:00.000-08:00

In the library, students cluster,
On a mission from their teacher.
Get an encyclopedia!
Copy that print media!
Not an oz. of comprehension can they muster.

#11

2011-02-28T17:36:00.000-08:00

To the G.O.P., a bull is a good fit,
Akin to selfish conservative writ,
Both rage at red,
Don't care if others are not fed,
And they only create fear and bullshit.

#10

2011-02-28T17:33:00.000-08:00

When above the horizon the sun doth creep,
I resurrect from slumber deep,
Gushed upon by tropical heat,
Unlike home's driving sleet,
I don't wish I remained asleep.

#9

2011-02-23T18:41:00.000-08:00

The history of Africa I am reading,
Here's a summary, if you are needing,
For money people enslaved,
Colonialists depraved,
Then locals maintained the bleeding.

#8

2011-02-23T18:37:00.000-08:00

There once was a org. named Corps,
Talk about a bureaucratic bore!
Even on a day off,
at vacation they scoff,
So the entire day you simply stare at the floor!

#7

2011-02-21T02:02:00.000-08:00

There was once a man named Gum,
Most thought his name was dumb,
The jokes were lewd,
Most were terribly rude,
No wonder he always drank rum.

#6

2011-02-21T02:00:00.000-08:00

I met a man from Cebu,
Out on an errand, too.
Yet nothing was needed,
No appointment heeded,
He just liked having something to do.

#5

2011-02-20T19:18:00.000-08:00

There once was a woman who was a cow,
In her mind, good deeds matter little anyhow,
She's obsessed with vices,
"Your soul's in crisis!"
There ain't anycow more holier-than-thou!

#4

2011-02-18T20:13:00.000-08:00

Hello world, I'm a limerist,
Greater even than Everest,
A lazy rhyme
Trumps a mountain anytime,
But I'd sure get beat by a pugilist!

#3

2011-02-18T20:06:00.000-08:00

The ant, a marvel of creation,
An avid climber worth mention,
Ceilings and walls
With n'er any falls,
Truly they exploit more dimension.

# 2

2011-02-16T15:33:00.000-08:00

My wife, she works for Webster,
Truth be told, I love her,
She needs my glee,
My ambidexterity,
And she sure is one sexy lexicographer.

Day 1

2011-02-15T21:27:00.000-08:00

Life can get stuck in a rut,
like a rope tied to a mutt,
Up or Down the Tree,
the only way free
is with sharp edge the vain to cut.

To Begin:

2011-02-15T21:16:00.000-08:00

As a new side project to keep me amused, I will begin posting a limerick every day. Outside the occasional day I won't have internet, there will always appear here a new limerick.

I considered using a new blog for this, but this one has fallen more or less into disuse, and the name Daily Frivolity is just perfect.

So, welcome to the frivolity!

Let's Give It A Shot

2011-02-13T21:08:00.000-08:00

During my second year of college, my various English professors discouraged me from seriously considering a career in writing. This was probably not intentional, as all of their discouraging remarks were made to a general audience of the classroom and meant to be satirical in nature. Something like, "Some of you will pursue the writing career directly out of college, others will decide that they enjoy actually eating three meals a day." Other such claims to the difficulty, rather the nigh impossibility, of being successful as a writer turned me in other directions.

The direction I eventually settled into was teaching. A path that I am not content with, and one that I am sure will eventually lead to a complete psychotic break-down. But a long series of inspirational stories (Million Dollar Baby, Stand and Deliver, The Princess and the Frog) returned my inspiration to me. After all, I see writers everywhere: on the gaming sites I visit every day, on blogs that I follow interesting links to, behind the scenes in the video games that capture my imagination, and on the spines of books that entertain me on buses going up and down the phallic length of Cebu. Why can't I write? Why the hell not?

In the last few years of my life, I somehow became stuck on the idea that I Can't. Sure. Yes, We Can, but just me? No way. I'm a little speck of sand, an insignificant dust bit in the universe. I can't do anything!

I'm tired of that shit. I don't want to live with that philosophy anymore. I'm going to give it my best shot. I am going to write stuff, about stuff I like, and you know, whatever. I was published recently. In a free, online literary magazine, yes. But published! That's something, at least.

Anyway, these blogs have been on idle for nearly six months. That can't happen anymore. I was using this blogs as a half-hearted push for a career I never really thought I would land. But now I'm going to give it a real shot.

I could be a game journalist.
I could be a travel writer.
I could be a novelist.
I could be a script writer.
I could be a game creator.
I could be a new-age thinker that is only recognized post-posthumously.

Why not? I'ma give it a shot.

Cebu Night

2010-12-21T17:26:00.000-08:00

Lizard upon orbed light,
warming in the cooling night.
Moth fluttering
in the alluring bright
reptile swiveling
feet hang tight
sudden strike.
Lizard upon orbed light,
warming in the cooling night.

Drudged up from the past: High School Poems

2010-08-05T23:56:00.000-07:00

I was busily clearing out a lifetime worth of junk from my childhood room when I came upon some binders from high school. Contained within were a few poems that I am not utterly embarrassed by. Here they are.

This first one must be from my Everquest days.

Night

Night is when the dragons come out.
Emerging from their lairs with gouts of smoke and flame.
Knights in armor, shining with light,
Ride to engage them in clichéd bout.

Night is when dwarves begin their great works of stones.
Hammers ringing in the dark depths of the world,
Punctuated by clicking and clacking of gears and cogs,
Emitted from strange devices created by ingenious gnomes.

Night is when elves sing to stars and rustle leaves.
Strong oaken bows fill the air with deadly sharp rain.
Weary travelers are guided by noses when nearing halfling homes,
Where pleasant smells of promising meals seep out from under eaves.

Then there is a knock on my bedroom door.
It's time for school once more.

An Ode to a Toilet

From your brilliant porcelain shine
doth my own visage appear.
How willingly you receive what is mine,
whisking away that which I hold least dear.

Nearly infallible are you
in disposing my warm grog,
or even the regrets of a lush.
Yet sometimes you regret the poo
and set upon yourself to clog!
How useless you are when you cannot flush!

Sonnet to Chili

When all I love is meat
and you provide the means,
your saucy texture becomes a treat
as long as into my mouth flow beans.
How shall I eat you?
Which chips or taters?
They will sure do,
and from my farts form craters.
I would bathe in your spicy depths,
breaststroke through greasy sauce.
Yet at at Wendy's you are best,
a far cry above the rest.
After I'm through there wont be any lefts,
so drink up all ye broths.

Modern Warfare 2: Causes of Death in Percentages

2010-08-04T22:06:00.000-07:00

40%: Shot in the back/side
20%: Killstreak Reward
20%: Non-skill loadout (Noob-tube, Rocket Launcher, knife runner)
15%: Campers
5%: Legitimate Inferiority of Skill

Modern Warfare 2: Harrier Jet Target Priorities

2010-08-04T21:14:00.000-07:00

#1: You crossing five feet of open space
#2: Guy directly below the plane
#3: You hiding in a bush
#4: Most obvious target
#5: You in a building but under a skylight
#6: Guy standing in the middle of the street
#7: You just spawned

Antimatter Explosions, Hints to the Nature of Matter itself, and a Filled hole in Evolution!

2010-07-29T00:09:00.000-07:00

If you like science, then you need to check this stuff out.

This is a real video of anti-matter colliding with matter and exploding like in a science fiction book (starts at around 5:20). It looks pretty because infinitesimally small particles are exploding with enough power to be seen by the naked eye.

In related physics, scientists seem to be barking like a pack of hounds nearing an elusive fox. The Higgs bosun particle, or "the God particle" is believed to be the particle responsible for infusing mass to other basic particles. So in potential, the basic block of mass itself. Wild! Remember when Protons, Neutrons, and Electrons were the only three things we had to worry about? I wonder if in another 100 years the Higgs bosun will be old news and we'll be finding out IT'S made out of hundreds of new particles.

In the realm of Evolution, archeologists have uncovered fossils of pre-Cambrian life. Until recently, this area of Life's history had been a blank, something Darwin himself was mystified over. But now, here they are! Just like he predicted! Whatever they are...

Finally, Titan appears to have both weather and a water cycle. The only celestial body that we know about to have one. Could methane based life exist there now, or perhaps in the future? Who knows? We will someday!

Weird Dream again: Obama, my Cuz, and I

2010-07-28T06:26:00.000-07:00

The dream began with my cousin, Matt Storey, and I wandering through the streets of an older Japanese city. The street was cobbled, and many of the buildings looked old. I think it might have been Kyoto.

We round a corner at the top of a hill, and coming up right around it is Barak Obama. He is walking in the way he does in the pictures, like he has a billion things on his mind and his surroundings aren't really one of them. He's alone without escort. My cousin and I just sort of freeze, stunned at his entirely unexpected appearance.

He looks up and grins that smile he gives when he is actually smiling, not that fake politician's smile he uses at debates when his opposition is saying something incredibly stupid.

"Hey, guys," he says, "I'm on my way to fight a duel to the death. Care to join me?"

My cousin and I share a wide-eyed, I-don't-believe-it stare, and then we both burst into huge grins. We turn back to the President and agree.

"Great! Thanks!" he says as he continues up the hill. It is apparent that a forested shrine at the top of the large hill we were on was his destination.

"Man, sometimes Japanese politics can be a pain, you know?" he said, making conversation.

Not knowing much about how Japanese politics could be a pain, my cousin and I remained silent, but then Matt offered a "Yeah, I bet."

Obama continued, seeming to enjoy just having a few Americans to talk to. "I mean, a duel to the death? I can play basketball, and I'm in shape, but this could be the end of me, you know? I mean, think about Michelle."

He paused to rest for a moment, and we stopped with him. "Look at me, guys. I'm old. I have all this gray hair. And Michelle still wants me. Damn! And she is fine! You know?"

Matt and I grinned in response. I thought he looked worried. Though I would be too on my way to an event I knew I would only walk way from if I killed the other man.

"Makes you think about what you have; this sort of thing." Obama sighed finally before continuing to lead us up the hill.

From there, the scene cut to me and Matt standing in the first row of an old half-wood, half-stone coliseum. It was a dwarf compared to any Roman version, only featuring a small pit that might hold six men without becoming too cramped. Obama was already down there in his basketball get-up, black shorts, white t-shirt. My cousin and I held a spear and a shield respectively. The spear was long and thin, like those of Alexander's hop-lites in the days when the phalanx formation conquered the world. The shield was big and rectangular, exactly like those I saw in artistic renditions of pre-history tribal Japan. It was wood, and it was heavy.

Across the arena, a group of five tribesmen, robed and with hair in various buns and ties, stood in the same position as us. They all held their own spears and shields, and they watched intently Obama stretching as if he were about to play a game of hoops, and their own contender, an experienced looking warrior in a white robe and a long pony tail, sat with his eyes closed, ignoring Obama's grunts and puffs of breath as the older man got himself limber and mentally prepared for the challenge ahead.

The the scene changed again, and the contest was already on in earnest. Obama stretched out his right hand in a terrific stab of his spear, but the Japanese man deflected it by shoving the offending point away with his shield. Obama quickly retracted his weapon, and the Japanese tribesmen pressed his advantage, thrusting with his own spear at Obama's naval. The President used the shield in his left hand to knock the offending point into the ground at his feat where it dug into the dirt and stuck for but a moment, causing the Japanese man to slip his grip forward on the shaft when it met the unexpected resistance.

Obama took the opening, he lunged with his spear and it sunk into the tribesman at the base of the collar bone. The man's eyes went wide in pain and fear, and he dropped his weapons to grab at the spear now impaling him. But his strength almost instantly faded and he collapsed to the ground in a puff of dust and did not move. Obama bent over on his knees and huffed in breath like a runner after a marathon.

Then I woke up.

Nightmare

2010-07-19T00:48:00.000-07:00

Wow. I just had my first nightmare in a long time, followed by my first waking nightmare in a few years. This is exactly how I remember it.

It started in a good sized house, I can't remember the details all that well now. The walls were a pleasant sort of brown, and there was the right amount of knick knacks and furniture to make it look nice. Anyway, a group of people and I were having some sort of sleep over or movie night or something. I remember laying down on the couch to watch the TV, and there were vague figures of other people.

The only other person that I could make out, or at least remember definitively now was my coworker from The Old European, Leilani. She had a sort of Arabian blue nightshirt and shorts on, and she laid down on the floor past the coffee table to also watch the movie.

Then I noticed that there was some dude dressed in frat clothing spooning with me. I hadn't fallen asleep, I just laid down, watched Leilani sit down, and then I looked back over and this guy was there in his white shirt with some weird black writing on the right shoulder, I never saw his legs now that I think about it. It was instantaneous, and I didn't even feel a disturbance on the couch that would hint at someone jumping towards an opportunity of bro rape.

He looked like a typical bro, but his eyes were shut and he never opened them, his face was without emotion, and he was constantly but soundlessly mumbling or murmering, moving his lips like he was sleep talking but not actually verbalizing. He was latched on to me with his hands, but I didn't actually feel them on my body. I gave him the "What the fuck, man?" and tried to shove him away. He just drew closer and put his lips real close to mine and continued his closed-eyes mumbling.

Our lips did not actually touch, but they got close enough that I could still see his in the bottom of my vision, and some sort of miasma flowed out of his mouth and into mine. Suddenly, my muscles lost all their strength, I would will my arms to move but they did nothing. I turned to my side and yelled for help, and only Leilani turned, saw me, and got up to help. She circled around the coffee table, but then the scene changed before she could get to me- the scene changed.

I was crawling backwards down a darkened hallway, and this- thing, was still scrambling after, eyes closed in a perfectly emotionless silent mumbling. It was close, still sort of crawling over my legs and lower body, reaching for my shoulder to bring me back into it's weird dementor's kiss. I was still trying to push it away, and I was.. irritated at it. I don't remember being afraid, but incredibly determined to fight the thing off or escape it. It reached my mouth again and the weird miasma poured forth for the second time, like before, I lost the strength in my body, and no matter how I raged at my arms to move, to shove with any force greater than a limb locked in tingly sleepyiness, they would not.

Then there was a blue figure above the thing, I think it might have been Leilani, but I can't be sure. I just saw something blue wrench the thing away by its right shoulder, and then I woke up in Nashville. And the nightmare didn't end there.

Floating above my head was a weird little cartoon imp. He was red, with a mischievously grinning red, heart-shaped face with long, beef-jerky-stick ears. He had scaly wings, and he just flapped there grinning down on me like some evil cherub, so I flipped him off. The imp's grin opened into a creepy toorthy smile, his mouth filled with oddly pointed teeth, and then I watched him fly over my head, and out of the room down the hall.

As it fluttered lazily around the corner, I saw movement on the wall behind it, and saw some black, vaguely humanoid shape was perched on the wall itself, blending in with the shadow of the dark room. It was gargoyle shaped, I think. It was far away in the dark, but without wings, and it slunk down the wall a ways to sit on the mini-bar that rested against the wall. It was like the kid on the ceiling from the Messengers, but slower, more deliberate. It crouched on it and I could sense it staring at me, though I could not really see where its face actually was. It was just a weird sort of gollum-esque black, oily crouching thing.

A documentary I watched on hauntings came to mind: the first thing the exorcist advised everyone to do was ignore the evil, as only through you noticing it does it gain power. Taking that to heart, and knowing from experience that this was just a waking nightmare, I closed my eyes and hit the sack.

In a minute, I opened them again and the room was normal. Nothing was crouching on anything, nothing was fluttering or moving. I shook myself out of my daze and recollected my memory of the dream. I checked the clock and realized it was only 1:30 a.m. It had only been an hour and half since I had laid down to fall asleep, but it felt like most of the night should have passed.

Then my memories started playing with my eyes and this weird face my aunt and uncle have over their mantle started turning to look at me and break into a joker grin. I thought that was enough and got up and turned on the light. Then I wrote this blog. And while I didn't wake up frightened, or felt scared, or really even suffered a raised heart rate, I think I'm now fully enough creeped out to make falling back asleep difficult.

Weird Dream

2010-07-17T21:37:00.000-07:00

I don't remember my dreams all that often. But the one yesterday morning between 6 a.m. and 8 a.m. was a real doozy.

I was at some huge shopping mall. A futuristic one. There were, like, seven levels, and all the floors had guard railings with glowing blue highlights along their edges. The place was kind of dark, like a real-world Tron. You could travel up and down the levels easily on blue bordered escalators with abyssal black treds.

My right pocket was filled with cherry tomatoes, and I spent most of the dream looking for a place to eat them bit by bit when no one was looking (I seemed to think that eating tomatoes was illegal). In my efforts, I tried bathrooms, and weird side passages, but wherever I went, there was always some shopper or some wandering kid. I could never comfortably stop and eat those tomatoes!

Then, when I was crossing a skybridge from one side of the mall to the other over the hollow atrium, I spilled my backpack for some reason near the escalators. My small bag of tomatoes fell onto the ground, and they were joined by a plastic bag of some weird, red radishes, and a bag of those white mushrooms that are always on salads.

Simultaneously, two police officers in black uniforms with red badges showed up.

"What's this stuff?" one of them asked me, while his partner bent down and fingered my bags of produce.

I was honestly astonished, for at the same moment I realized the backpack I had was not mine, though it looked quite similar. I knew the tomatoes were mine, but the other veggies were a mystery. So I let out the classic: "Those aren't mine," I say.

"Uh huh," grunts the kneeling policeman, and he picks up the three sacks. "Look: we'll forget you're trying to undercut, but these come with us."

I knew that the police just wanted the fresh food for themselves, as the stuff was incredibly valuable and highly desired by everyone. My memory told me you just couldn't find real vegetables anymore.

So I just nodded, turned away, walked a few steps, and then woke up.

Perhaps it's a start to a sci-fi novel where corporations directly control the people via totalitarian capitalism? I'll have to think on it.

Celestial Grab Bag

2010-07-17T03:41:00.000-07:00

It never hurts to review just how small and insignificant we all are in the universe. Some find it depressing and ignore it, some obviously lack the capability to even try and comprehend the truth.

Take for example the new HD shots from the upgraded Hubble.

How can there be so much doubt of alien life in the Universe when there are billions of galaxies, each individually holding billions of stars, billions of planets? If we use the Carl Sagan metaphor of the cosmic ocean, our scientific ability hasn't even opened the car door in the parking lot. With the nigh endlessness of it all, would there not be a significant;y smaller chance that we are along than the chance that somewhere else out there, life thrives?

Anyway, moving to a more domestic location. The Saturn rover Cassini has some cool pictures.

Finally, physicists think they might have a hint of a clue to the major mystery of why anything is in the Universe at all. Should not anti-matter have eaten it all up?

Still, you can take any theory of cosmic beginnings, either Big Bang, Cyclical Inflation and Deflation, or the new M (Membrain) Theory, and still arrive at the Great Question: When did it start and why?

Wait a minute....

2010-07-09T00:20:00.000-07:00

....has anyone ever noticed that patriotism is just glorified peer pressure?

The Blue Lantern #1: Spiders

2010-06-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

For those who have seen the prize of long labor crumble to sand: look to the spider. The webs, painstakingly crafted upon the ether, always tear and flutter. But out runs the spider to rebuild again and again, looking ever to the treasures of tomorrow. Hope inexhaustible.

Also: They never stop trying to get up that waterspout.

A Potential Death of Gage Lawhon

2010-06-06T22:44:00.000-07:00

The sun is hot, and the sweat running down my face pools in my boots, sloshing in a stinky way. A day of scrabble and broken rock have my dogs barking, and my eyes bored of seeing; wavy mirages on empty ridges. The other soldiers are stretched out before and behind me, each of us lost in private miseries and meditations. Mostly "Fuck the draft." A sudden itch on my neck draws a scratch.

I'm startled to see blood on my hands. Did I cut myself somehow? A feel pain, but it's vague, distant, I bring my other hand up as my vision turns black and white, like the old TV my parents had in the garage. I must have watched it for three minutes and then never saw it again. Why think of it now?

One of my buddies grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me to the ground, I look around slowly, everyone is already on the ground. Are we being shot at? I don't remember hearing anything. The sand by my eye is red. Like Mars. My friend is shouting at me, but I can't hear him. I'm really tired all of a sudden. Late night drinking tired. Shit. We walked a long way. A red cross floats and bobbles in the air above me. It's shouting, too. Why all the shouting?

Today

2010-06-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

The hole is dug and filled in.
The rocks are carried there and back.
Water bucketed from one river to another.
A fist rises, "Fuck it," it shouts.
Eyelids shut in sleep then open.

Rain

2010-06-03T21:12:00.000-07:00

The sky above is clear, for the most part.
There are specks here and there, of course.
But I feel the need for purity, do you see?
So I pick the speck I don't like, the ugliest at the time.
And I scratch at it, scrape at it, pick, pick pick pick pick.
Then there is a cloud right above, casting a shadow upon me.
pick
Cloudburst
My private downing drizzle.
I made it myself.

2010-05-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

I like to monkey swing on the pipes of my house,
one is hot and one is cold,
and I
Would
Love
to Stop
but I
Cann
nnot!

Exestential

2010-05-28T14:53:00.000-07:00

Up on a hill, there sat a man named Dill.
In his hand, he held the world.
In the world, there was a hill,
upon which there sat a man named Dill,
and he was naught the wiser.

2010-05-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

"I should drink less,"
he said,
as he finished his fourth,
on a friday,
he had off,
with nothing to do.

"I should stop smoking,"
he said,
his smoke fading away on the wind,
burning embers lighting his face,
his lungs smoldering,
on an evening,
like any other.

"I should stop wacking it so much,"
he said,
as he destroyed yet another layer of skin,
on an afternoon,
he had off,
with nothing to do.

"I should have enjoyed it all more,"
he said,
as his lifeblood pumped onto the dirt,
of the mountain trail,
onto which he just fell and died,
fifteen years before the cancer,
of his lungs and liver,
and cock,
would have began chewing at him,
for twelve long years as his son watched,
and then he would die quietly,
in the house of a family member,
he still liked but mainly for nostalgic reasons.

Birthday Present

2010-05-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

The day of your birth,
your first day on Earth,
the gods rejoiced,
for you were a goddess too, once.

But that singing voice of yours...the noise!
Those divine ears it soured!
So off to the mortal world with you,
so you could torture mortal men, too.

Happy Birthday!

Poops McGee

2010-05-14T07:32:00.000-07:00

Poops McGee, up on his tree,
briefly deliberated before deciding his stinky parcel,
trapped inside,
should at that moment be liberated.

With sweat from invigoration, down fell that fecal precipitation.
Hard rain follows the colon's pain,
or causes the whitey-tighty stains.

Why Iron Man 2 kinda sucked - a list - spoilers

2010-05-13T02:11:00.000-07:00

While watching Iron Man 2, I recognized that the movie was not an equal to its predecessor in terms of quality. The sun of greatness that was the first movie has dimmed to a humble glow of mediocrity, albeit the efforts of the talented cast greatly buoyed the enjoyment factor. Yet, I could not quite place my finger on exactly why I was feeling this way. Thanks to a useful dose of insomnia, I've had plenty of time to muse on various subjects, one of them being the movie I just saw.

The main flaws to Iron Man 2 lies within its plot and narrative.

The start of the movie begins promisingly enough: our hero is once again in danger, both a disease and a madman are after him, and the U.S. military is threatening to steal all of his hard work so they can use it to kill bunches of people in places that Americans don't care about.

Then.. it takes a dive into poop-town.

1. The Threat of Death

The audience is introduced to Tony Stark's impending Palladium related death by an idiotically simplistic blood testing device that read "Blood Toxicity" and then displayed a percentage value that climbed closer to 100% as the movie progressed.

Foremost, this is an error of missed opportunity. If the audience was allowed to learn of Stark's dilemma at the same time as Stark. they would have been able to empathize with the character. Also, the steady creep of palladium corruption would have seemed more dangerous as the audience would have directly witnessed Stark's alarm and fear.

But less importantly, the device was just stupid. What the hell does it even mean? At one point, Stark has a "blood toxicity" level of 89%.... 100% seemed to be the deadly number the movie was gunning for, but I wonder, does a man's entire supply of blood have to be toxic to kill him? I can't legally drive if my blood toxicity level is over .08%. Hmmm.....

2. Scarlet Johansen / Black Widow

Okay. This chick literally just walks into the movie with no explanation. Apparently, Pepper hired her, but Pepper doesn't approve of Stark's womanizing antics, so why would she hire a chick who looks like Johansen? She seems younger, she gets frat boys drooling easier; all the marks of stereotypical female jealousy are there.

Why not have a scene showing the interview process? Let the audience know WHY this person is in the movie in the first place. Let us see her impress Pepper, impress Stark, hell, do anything that gives her a reason for being in the movie in the first place. You know, make the movie feel more like it's made of people and not personified plot elements.

It would also make her feel more like a double agent if you actually SHOW her being deceptive. All she does in the entire movie is look at people and punch a few guys.

3. S.H.I.E.L.D.

No real explanation is ever given to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s involvement with Tony Stark, or why Nick Fury knows all this stuff about Stark's father. As a comic book fan, I know Nick Fury knows everything. But this is a movie, you can't just throw Nick Fury into the movie without first giving adequate reason to the audience. Again: your characters need to be PEOPLE not PLOT ELEMENTS.

Why is S.H.I.E.L.D. not involved in the senatorial hearing at the beginning of the movie? Why does Nick Fury want to help Stark? (How many people do you think actually watched the bullshit after-the-credits-crap in the first one?) Why does S.H.I.E.L.D. want to help Stark? The movie is mum on the details.

4. Howard Stark's Secret

Why the fuck did he hide the plans for an undiscovered element in the blueprints to his fucking amusement park? Why hide them at all? Who in Howard Stark's time (according to the movie, a time without the ability to make elements) would want the secret plans to an element that was impossible to create, and want it so badly that Howard felt he had to hide it in a fucking model for his kid to discover god-knows-when, if ever? Wait. Also, the element at that time would have had no clear purpose because the flaw Stark needed to fix was in a machine that no one had even a comprehension of ever being invented at the time.

NO-ONE for ANY-REASON would have wanted the plans for a new element in Howard Stark's time, not even Howard Stark himself. The mystery was placed into the movie for the pure purpose of creating some shitty, Dan Brown-ish puzzle; not because it actually makes sense within the narrative of the movie.

5. The POINT of Howard Stark's Secret

So Stark is getting sick because of his chest piece. So why doesn't he TAKE THE FUCKING THING OUT?

NEWS FLASH: Everyone else who flies an Iron Man suit did it without the special chest piece of Stark's.

Why? Because it was installed in their armor, not their bodies! Why wouldn't Stark just put one with enough juice to keep his heart going in himself, and then put the ultra powerful ones in the suit where it wouldn't hurt him?

I mean, this contradiction completely invalidates half of the plot in this movie, and it's blatantly fucking obvious.

6. Whiplash

Talk about a boring villain. So he is strong and smart and he's pissed over his dad getting fucked over. Yeah, well so were fucking Robin Hood and Hamlet. But THOSE characters were actually interesting. This guy says nothing, has almost everything dropped into his lap, and his plans are utterly unimaginative.

Yes. Because no one could see that he was going to use the drones to attack Stark. Actually, they probably didn't because you can't understand the fucker when he says "drones" in the key scene that forshadows the obvious climax of the movie.

Then he gets defeated in like five seconds, and goes all Predator with his suicide countdown. Yawn. Where did all the originality go?

-----

I could probably go on, but I'm going to try and fall asleep again. Besides, I hit all the important parts.

An Era Ends

2010-04-28T20:54:00.001-07:00

A quiet click
From a gentle flick
Ends the quiet hum
Of the white collar sun
And evening shadow lowers on me.

From lengthy stays
I know my ways
About this small space.

Just a work place
With academic traits
And furniture I touched
with hands only.

But I think
Now that I leave
This place where I’ve seen
Yet I’ll never again see
Speaks of life strangely

That only when
From long familiarity
Frontier wains to
Hearthy home.

So ‘fore I leave
I sip a last cup of tea,
While thinking on
How long it’s been
Since I was who I used to be.

A People's History (cont.)

2010-04-27T16:12:00.000-07:00

I have advanced up to about page 70 in this massive text. The Revolution is looming, and the stratification of wealth has been at critical levels for decades. The Founding Fathers, rich men who tapped, some sympathetically, some ambitiously, into the growing discontent of the lower classes have arrived on the scene.

I was rather impressed with the amount of wealth and land controlled by the upper class in colonial America. In one case, New York or Boston (probably both, actually) 90% of the land was owned by less than 50 people, often even less than 25. And this is in populations of several hundred thousand or more!

Zinn blames the plight of the white indentured servant for much of this unequal distribution. He paints a picture that puts the white servant and the black slave on near equal terms in regards to legal rights and quality of life. Often, according to Zinn, white servants and black slaves would be on friendly terms, seen as equals, and were partners in countless capers; stealing pigs, running away to freedom, etc.

In fact, Zinn offers the idea that racism developed out of the rhetorical and legalistic efforts of the upper class to divide the poor whites from the slaves, and even the Indians.

Speaking of the Indians, during the Indian wars and the centuries before Andrew Jackson, there were countless cases of European children being captured by Indians and being raised by them. In nearly all cases, the child, upon being presented the choice, preferred to remain with the Indian culture. Likewise, slaves and indentured servants who escaped into Indian country were often accepted into the Native American society, sometimes even taking up arms against their former masters in the urban colonies.

Cool stuff!

On Slavery

2010-04-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

It would be the grand ball.
All the slavemasters would be there,
in stolen cloth, stolen luxury.

I would gather those esteemed men,
their wives and prodigy shuffled aside,
and I would shoot them all.
I would shoot,
and my gun, tiring of slaughter, would buck
to foul my aim,
but I would hold tight,
and I would shoot.
The barrel would grow hot,
to loosen my grip,
but I would smell my flesh cook
and I would shoot.
Till the room was red.

The watching wives and wide-eyed babes would frenzy,
seeking and finding torn corpses,
embracing sundered mockeries of their love.
And my heart would quail,
my soul die,
but my lips would shout,
It is good you suffer,
and my eyes would drink it all in.

Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States - Start: Columbus

2010-04-26T11:02:00.000-07:00

According to the avid recommendation by my friend Chris, I have decided to read Zinn's famous historical work. And just judging by the first chapter, this book is going to be mind-blowing. The focus of the book is to write history from the point of few of those being fucked rather than those doing the fucking; a much more accurate version for all of us little people; little people with gaping anus holes.

The first chapter is about Christopher Columbus. Now, I had the general idea that he was a douche rather than a hero, but Zinn's pointed research reveals a greater evil behind the Admiral of the Oceans. He was the classic European explorer/conqueror, secure in the Church-taught superiority of the Christian White Man, and he descended on the New World in a storm of enslavement and butchery; really, the devil would be proud of Mr. Columbus.

I am now against the idea of Columbus Day on the simple fact that it stands equally mortifying as a Hitler Day, Stalin Day, or Nimrod Day. Yes! Let's celebrate ruthless cruelty and pass it off as the sacrifice for human advancement. After all, it is a strange divine providence that whenever humanity needs to advance, there are entire continents of people to sacrifice for the advancement of the top 5% of the rest of the world. Especially when the systems and peoples being sacrificed are more worthy of respect and esteem than any scrap of culture ever shat out by the machinery of capitalism.

A historian Zinn quotes in this first chapter makes an interesting interpretation of Spanish Colonial history.

"For all the gold and silver stolen and shipped to Spain did not make the Spanish people richer. It gave their kings an edge in the balance of power for a time, a chance to hire more mercenary soldiers for their wars. They ended up losing those wars anyway, and all that was left was a deadly inflation, a starving population, the rich richer, the poor poorer, and a ruined peasant class" (18).

I've generally felt sorry for modern Spain, its weak economy, its pride in its power that only exists in the past. But when you tally together the sheer destruction that the Spanish Empire unleashed upon the world, like the British, like the Americans, I lose all sympathy.

I now worry the same fate is in store for America: Every evil, every condemnable act that can conceivably be committed by a body politic has been perpetrated by the United States of America; sometimes only once, most often a soul-crushing multitude of times, genocide, exploitation, slavery, destruction.

Though Zinn's mission statement gave me a sense of hope:

"My point is not to grieve for the victims and denounce the exuctioners. Those tears, that anger, cast into the past, deplete our moral energy for the present . . . I am supposing, or perhaps only hoping, that our future may be found in the past's fugitive moments of compassion rather than in its solid centuries of warfare" ( 10-11).

The Final Post for Cambell's Hero with a Thousand Faces

2010-04-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

The most interesting idea provided by Campbell is one derived from his analysis of religious heroes and their similarities.

"Symbols are only the vehicles of communication; they must not be mistaken for the final term, the tenor, of their reference. No matter how attractive or impressive they may seem, they remain but convenient means, accommodated to the understanding. Hence the personality or personalities of God--whether represented in trinitarian, dualistic, or unitarian terms, pictorially or verbally, as documented fact or apocalyptic vision--no one should attempt to read or interpret as the final thing. The problem of the theologian is to keep his symbol translucent, so that it may not block out the very light it is supposed to convey. "For then alone do we know God truly," writes Saint Thomas Aquinas, "when we believe that He is far above all that man can possibly think of God." And in the Kena Upanishad, in the same spirit: "To know is not to know; not to know is to know." Mistaking a vehicle for its tenor may lead to spilling not only of valueless ink, but of valuable blood.

"The next thing to observe is that the transfiguration of Jesus was witnessed by devotees who had extinguished their personal wills, men who had long since liquidated "life," "personal fate," "destiny," by complete self-abnegation in the Master. "Neither by the Vedas, nor by penances, nor by alms-giving, nor yet by sacrifice, am I to be seen in the form in which you have just now beheld Me," Krishna declared, after he has resumed his familiar shape; "but only by devotion to Me may I be known in this form, realized truly, and entered into. He who does My work and regard Me as the Supreme Goal, who is devoted to Me and without hatred for any creature - he comes to Me." A corresponding formulation by Jesus makes the point more succinctly: "Whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.

"The meaning is very clear; it is the meaning of all religious practice. The individual, through prolonged psychological disciplines, gives up completely all attachment to his personal limitations, idiosyncrasies, hopes and fears, no longer resists the self-annihilation that is prerequisite to rebirth in the realization of truth, and so becomes ripe, at last, for the great at-one-ment. His personal ambitions being totally dissolved, he no longer tries to live but willingly relaxes to whatever may come to pass in him; he becomes, that is to say, an anonymity. The Law lives in him with unreserved consent" (235-237).

Thus, all religions are one and same. The rivalries they foster between one another are mere quips of mortals blind to the light of Truth, mistaking some vanity or assumption for the Will of the Deity. The paths of religion travel different roads, inhabit different buildings, but in the end, the sense of completeness with creation and creator is the goal of all of them. The different figures, Jesus, Krisha, Osiris, Herekles, the Buddahs, are all equal, all the same, all speaking the same Truth, but the mere difference of veneer blinds us all.

"God and the gods are only convenient means - themselves of the nature of the world of names and forms, though eloquent of, and ultimately conductive to, the ineffable. They are mere symbols to move and awaken the mind, and to call it past themselves" (258).

If God is in everything, including us, then the religious figures we imagine, the mystical white bearded man in the land of arabs and africans, the blue-skinned man of India, the one-eyed king of the Norse gods, are just that; representations of the same force merely colored differently by cultural evolution. The Truth lies in every religion, in every true belief system, for in the end, God is within us all, and the stories are only the means for us to gain that understanding.

"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you" (Luke 17:21).

New Season

2010-04-19T12:49:00.000-07:00

Blossom filtered sun,
Boundless bees buzz busily,
Spring lies beneath trees.

The Call to Action

2010-04-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

Discussion based on Joseph Campbell's A Hero with a Thousand Faces. pg 69-140

My graduation from college never felt like an achievement. In fact, the two useless pieces of paper that sum up four years of my life are currently in a location that I cannot recall. I assume I tossed them upon my desk like the rest of the sheets of paper that come into my possession. This lackadaisical attitude comes from the lack of investment. College was never a goal for me, it was a stepping stone that I never really thought about NOT stepping on. The only time I felt truly challenged was during my Lifeguard training.

College, I had imagined, was the place where people become adults. But I've found that I only managed to advance to a state of late adolescence. My body might be 23 years old, but the idea that makes me a man seems ridiculous. I feel trapped in a sort of teenage state, unable to feel comfortable in my own skin.

I have a hunch that this has something to do with my childhood education. Reading was always my chosen past-time. Whether reading fantasy and science fiction novels, or playing narrative-based video games, or watching movie after movie; I absorbed thousands and thousands of stories into my developing mind. As a result, I have little trouble imagining the span of my life as a story itself. And that would make me, in the realm of my little story anyway, the hero.

Joseph Campbell describes another portion of the heroic journey: "the 'call to adventure' - [it] signifies that destiny has summoned the hero and transferred his spiritual center of gravity from within the pale of his society to a zone unknown" (58). Before the journey begins, the hero begins to feel a anticipation, even anxiousness, to get moving, to start doing.

Pullman and its collegiate atmosphere is the closest thing to a society that I can lay claim to. And at the moment, I feel like I am being pulled away; not by responsibility, not really by absolute necessity, but by a latent restlessness. Five years out of twenty-three; five years of a lifetime spanning only two decades, and I have spent them almost exclusively in Pullman. It's time to move on.

Originally, I was studying to become a high school teacher. But after I changed my mind and withdrew from the program, I suffered brief period of depression. Campbell writes that the hero must answer his summons to adventure, and I think I was worried that my decision to not become a teacher was such a refusal. Campbell's description of the symptoms of a refused quest seemed congruent with the symptoms of my depression: "Refusal of the summons converts the adventure into its negative. Walled in boredom, hard work, or 'culture,' the subject loses the power of significant affirmative action and becomes a victim to be saved. His flowering world becomes a wasteland of dry stones and his life feels meaningless" (59).

Yet further introspection has not revealed a flaw in the reasons I decided not to continue along the path of secondary education. I think I merely turned down but one potential path of my life, and the wanderlust born from my new non-identity is currently being channeled into the Peace Corps as a promise of far adventure. I want to travel to distant lands and widen my knowledge of the material world, but if my inner-self were some valley, divided slitheringly by a clear river, bordered by the conforming irregularity of pine and maple, I would be resting above some opaque wall of cloud, and my eyes could not penetrate to the serenity below. So like how Campbell's hero must venture out beyond the village, beyond the known; I too must sever my connection with my childhood places of comfort, my parental locales, in order to grow into true adulthood, to pierce the fog and know just exactly who I am.

I have a hope that I will return from my journey a complete person, confident in my role through life. To reach that goal, Campbell argues that I must take a harrowing path through my own being. There, I will encounter the symbolic manifestations of my own disorganized and yet-to-be-mastered persona:

"if anyone - in whatever society - undertakes for himself the perilous journey into the darkness, either intentionally or unintentionally, into the crooked lanes of his own spiritual labyrinth, he soon finds himself in a landscape of symbolical figures . . . In our dreams the ageless perils, gargoyles, trials, secret helpers, and instructive figures are nightly still encountered; and in their forms we may see reflected not only the whole picture of our present case, but also the clue to what we must do to be saved" (101).

However, Campbell quotes a certain Dr. C. G. Jung:

"all ages before us have believed in gods in some form or other. Only an umparalleled impoverishment of symbolism could enable us to rediscover the gods as psychic factors, that is, archetypes or the unconscious . . . Heaven has become for us the cosmic space of the physicists, and the divine empyrean a fair memory of things that once were. But 'the heart glows,' and a secret unrest gnaws at the roots of our being."

And he interprets the above quote in the following manner:

"We today must face alone, or , at best, with only tentative, impromptu, and not often very effective guidence . . . This is out problem as modern, 'enlightened' individuals, for whom all gods and devils have been rationalized out of existence" (104).

Our intellectual obsession with the scientific process has eliminated the cultural mechanism by which humanity used to interpret its psychological issues. The gods have become the realm of Hollywood and 3D projection, and they are no longer serious entities in our subconscious. This wouldn't be a problem if I were to ascribe to some specific faith (as I could then just use the symbols from therein), but I have yet to find a path that suits my world view.

"God has made different religions to suit different aspirations, times, and countries. All doctrines are only so many paths; but a path is by no means God Himself. Indeed, one can reach God if one follows any of the paths with whole-hearted devotion . . . One may eat a cake with icing either straight or sideways. It will taste sweet either way." - Ramakrishna

Perhaps I should take a deeper look into the various types of Buddhism.

Limmerick Dump

2010-04-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

Found some limericks I wrote for Camp Adventure in England. I accompanied each of these little poems with a poster that I drew and painted. Those do not survive.

Tap Dance Fox (accompanied by Vulpes Vulpes engaged in dramatic movement)

Who is this fox in the hat?
Holding a cane and grinning like that?
Look how he dances!
How graceful he prances!
Making his feet go rata-tat-tat!

Card Shark (accompanied by a shark sitting at a card table, dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, dealing a hand of Texas Hold'em)

Never trust a dealer with fins!
That was the advice of my friends,
But their fears I'll douse;
I have a full house!
But Oh! I hate how he grins!

Kung Fu Penguin (A penguin in a headband is karate chopping a cement block)

She's the pride of the penguin race.
With her blows you'll never keep pace.
She'll show no fear,
Nor shed a tear
As she effortlessly breaks your face!

Swashbuckling Monkeys (A pirate ship crewed by monkeys)

Aye, our guns be first rate,
But yonder pirates bracchiate!
So do what you're told
and give them your gold
Or you'll be killed by a darn, dirty ape!

Punk Rock Tiger (A tiger that looks like Hobbes is shredding a gibson)

Some say rock is dead,
and to listen to hip-hop instead,
But tiger's paws
play without flaws
and this cat totally shreds!

The Hero Myth and Ourselves

2010-04-12T14:31:00.000-07:00

Discussion birthed from Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces, pg. 1-68.

I recently came to the conclusion that I have been neglecting my education. Yes, I am done with college, and I enjoyed this half-a-year-or-so of mental relaxation. My two jobs are established routines of monotony, and when I exit that door at the end of my shift, the worries of employment remain trapped behind. My brain slumbered, a bear in winter, as the cold winds of self-doubt and depression scoured the world of promises. Yet spring follows winter like the duckling after its mother; it follows, but in a rambling path of many lefts and rights. The bear must emerge from its cave and gorge to satisfy a latent and forceful hunger.

To such effect, I have recommenced my education with some heavy reading. My first ambition is Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces. It is a sort of cross-cultural examination of the hero-myth that uses Freud's ideas of dreams in combination of the idea of genetic/cultural/generational human memory (forgot who came up with that one). By comparing the myths and mythologies of the world's endlessly diverse cultures, Campbell finds patterns of inherent symbolism throughout. This allows for the construction of the hero-myth pattern, a universally recognized path of advancement and fated adventure towards incredible reward and result; the adventures of legend.

One early discussion that I found interesting was Campbell's musing on the natures of tragedy and comedy in the human psyche. He seemed to follow the line of thinking that puts tragedy as more important and respectable than comedy; Campbell feels that life is an endless series of setbacks and challenges, broken up by brief glee of accomplishment and contentment. He feels that life is simply too active for the "happily-ever-after" ending, and its falsehood lies in the denial of the possibility that new hardships will rise from the ruins of those already defeated (or perhaps simply exist around the next bend).

But rather than dismiss the idea of a happy ending as youthful naivety, Campbell argues that the idea of happy endings is in itself a symbolic element of the hero-myth pattern.

He writes: "The happy ending of the fairy tale . . . is to be read . . . as a transcendence of the universal tragedy of man. The objective world remains what it was, but, because of a shift in emphasis within the subject, it is beheld as though transformed" (28).

To explain this quote, I must first introduce Campbell's basic heroic pattern. The first stage of the story requires the hero to be somehow separated from the world he/she knows. This can happen in all manner of ways: physically, mentally, spiritually, etc. Then, while the hero is separated from the world, he/she penetrates some source of power: a message from God, Enlightenment, some mystical item (Prometheus' fire, Raven's Sun, etc.). Finally, the hero brings this thing of power back to the world he/she knew, and so does change it forever.

So in the quote above, Campbell means that the happy ending of folklore does not need to be immediately dismissed as pure fantasy. He argues that conflicts and complications, and all the sorrow, misery, and stress that accompany them, will still continue even within the realm of a Walt Disney ending. But through the power the hero figure brings back from his/her journey, those challenges will seem as nothing, but leaves in the wind, against the newer, True-er outlook on the world that the artifact in question provides.

To me, this concept can be applied backwards to our own lives. The idea that there can be happy endings is indeed a childhood concept. The maturation into adulthood and all the challenges that accompanies this change work to dismiss the idealistic ending as just that: an idea with no weight in reality. However, if we apply Campbell's idea that the change in perception in the hero paves the way for a "happy ending" despite future challenges, as in, the power that the hero gains in his journey makes him/her happy despite the need to face future sorrow, or perhaps even prepares the hero to face them, then happy endings are a reality.

We can all have a life with a "lived happily ever after" sort of ending, even if the entire world collapses around us, because we gain key understanding of ourselves, or of the world, or of whatever, to make those challenges pale in comparison to the universal truths discovered in the heroic journey.

This understanding comes from our own heroic journey to find that item of power. In the Christian example, the power a good Christian gains on their journey in life is eternal salvation through the hero figure, Jesus Christ.

My Christian upbringing gave me an understanding of basic elements of the Jesus Christ mythos. Jesus, like other heroes, vanished into the desert, separating himself from the world, and returned with the power of God. But the most famed moment is the Crucification, wherein Jesus dies for the sins of humanity in order to pave the way for eternal salvation.

This has always been my problem with Christianity; I don't like the idea that some other guy was tortured and killed for my sins while I sit around in perfect comfort and benefit from the act. It is at this juncture, I think, that popular Christian philosophy misses the point.

Jesus didn't die on the cross so that everyone could be saved. Jesus died on the cross to show us how to save ourselves.

As Campbell observes of Eastern theologies: "The point is that Buddahhood, Enlightenment, cannot be communicated, but only the way to Enlightenment" (33). Buddhism especially is full of stories of how figures gained the power of Truth, of perfect Enlightenment, but are always mum on the specifics of what triggers that Enlightenment. It is always an individual discovery that cannot be repeated by others because it is specific to that individual.

Back to Jesus: We have all done evil in this world, mostly in minor ways, and sometimes even unintentionally, but we still do it. Perhaps the message Jesus was sending was less "Don't worry, dudes. I got this.", and more along the lines of "Watch how I do it." And then he suffered brutally for his/our sins and died.

So then, we must find our own Enlightenment (eternal salvation to the Christians), and Jesus has simply shown us the path: We must all suffer for our sins. We must be punished, we must feel remorse, and we must wish never to do that evil again. Like when you steal your first candy bar, and your parents discover it and put you on the path to redemption. You must apologize, and you must fix the harm that you caused. Only after that is accomplished are you redeemed.

Cambell notices that in hero myths "The godly powers sought and dangerously won are revealed to have been within the heart of the hero all the time . . . the hero is symbolical of that divine creative and redemptive image which is hidden within us all, only waiting to be known and rendered into life" (39).

There is an idea that Jesus/God/The Creator Figure is contained within everyone and everything. So any journey to go out and discover God is in reality a journey of introspective self-discovery. It is painfully obvious that only we can Enlighten ourselves. No one else, either through actions or words, can deliver the Truth to you; they can merely help guide you on the path.

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I noticed
that during the low periods of my life,
when I was suffering from
anguish, sorrow or defeat,
I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord,
that if I followed you,
you would walk with me always.
But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life
there have only been one set of footprints in the sand.
Why, when I needed you most, you have not been there for me?”

The Lord replied,
“The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand,
is when I carried you.”

Mary Stevenson

The fundamental error occurs at the end with the idea that God carried the speaker through the hard times. I challenge that the Lord does not carry us, but He indeed does leave us for a time. Not in the sense of abandonment, but in the sense of a father letting go of the bicycle so the child might ride through individual virtue alone; the true test of independence: the heroic journey.

I think God would more likely say, "The time when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand, is when I knew you were strong enough to walk alone."

When the skies open, and all of creation vanishes into the ether of night: the knowledge we have gained from generations and generations of guides and teachers will be what we need to rely on in order to deliver ourselves to Truth, Salvation, and Enlightenment. No one is going to carry us. No one is going to just hand us the Prize just because we showed up to the race.

"Or do you think that ye shall enter the Garden of Bliss without such trials as come to those who passed away before you?" (Koran 2:214)

The journey is what gives the ending meaning, and while the trail can be shared by many friends and advisors, in the end, the act of putting one foot in front of the other is something only we can do ourselves.

Some Small Measure of Peace

2010-03-24T00:33:00.000-07:00

Book 1

Pray tell, Holy Ghost, of that angel fall'n
to Hell, who in the footsteps of Satan
rediscovered some small manner of grace.
His name, Levadiel, restored by that
omnipotent hand that once had expelled
it from the Holy Book upon the Mountain
of God. Give praise to the Messiah's sire
whose mercy, like that Egyptian water
which safely delivered Prophets into
nurturing arms, flows endlessly to all
that seek it from true piety of soul.
    Tell how during fall'n Lucifer's journey
to that fresh haven of the Creator's mind,
he once and once again angelic
Levadiel was sought by another
of that fel fraternity, forgiven not.
The seeker, whose name forever striken
from the Holy Script, became known in the minds
of wild men as Wolf, alighted on
a great spire which upon Levadiel,
who in future times became known as great
Raven to those same barbarous people,
regarded the vast expanse of Hell with
pensive eye. Wolf, ever excitable:
    "Brother, your lonely melancholy marks
you as hard pray for hunting friends. In Hell,
as in Heaven so recently lost, your
independent nature isolates you.
Come, friend. Zephner has found a great geyser
which, after stuffing onself in its maw,
blasts you with belch of flame across our realm
entire. I promise great sport should you join."
    To which lonely Raven responded: "What point,
dear compatriot, pretty thrills to us?
My flesh burns upon meeting the very air
and you speak of submersion entire. I
from your capers exclude till Heav'n regained.Raven's body is constantly being seared by Hell's fire while being continuously healed by his innate nature of being an angel. Hell is literally an eternal torment in a physical sense.  "
    At this the trickster laughed, "Heav'n regained?
Brother, friend, fool, as effortlessly beat'n
as I by that tyrant above. His realm
is Heaven, through might it shall 'ere remain.Wolf has accepted that God's rule in Heaven is absolute. Like a few other demons, he believes the goal to retake Heaven is pointless. What then, are the fallen angels to do?  "
    Laughter echoing over Hell's hilly crags,
Wolf with scarred wings flew from that hard spire
upon which Raven brooded ceaselessly.
Finally, he stood. "Similarity,"
said he, "That is what caused my fall from grace.
With vile Satan I threw my lot and soul;
With vile Satan I was dismissed from Good.
Why? When mine own company I preferred
to all save God upon his high, gemmed throne.
Enchantment and honeyed words veiled my own
nature from myself, causing me to join
that army, doomed despite rebel hope.
No fault of mine is my conformity,
deviously constructed with wise lies.Raven believes he is innocent of betrayal because Satan seduced him into joining the rebel army. He seems to believe that being seduced is a forgivable fault.
I will disobey Satan's last order
for he leads me not. To Heavn's gates go I
to make them aware of my unjust fate."

Book 2

   Spreading wings once glorious in Heaven,
now molting and singed with God's absence,
Raven rose in a sky rife inferno
as earthly air is rife with breezes fair.
Endlessly seared scabbed and restored by grace
latent, though not irrecoverable,The author is hinting that the fallen angels still have a chance to return to Heaven if they are willing to seek redemption from God. Most of the angels do not seem willing to do this, however.
skin ever slimy with silver ichor
of angelic healing, though futile in
Hell's vaulted flame. At end of lengthy flight,
yawning gate unguarded Raven met,
and with ease suspicious he into Night
ventured though scarce past, halted in shock:
    "Already my scourged flesh heals, stopping pain
from burning flesh and mind both alike.
Yet without physical torments to
distract and hound my soul, great loss to me
is finally made aware: God's spirit
gone. Alone am I by habit, but not
alone have I ever been true, till now.
To this hollow emptiness burning flame
seems preferable, if only for purpose
of disguising greater vex with lesser.
Were not hope of ending both driving me,
rather I return through that open gate,
promising freedom by deliv'ring not.Upon leaving Hell, Raven's skin is no longer burning. He is freed from physical torment, but without the physical pain to distract him he becomes aware of God's absence from his very being. True damnation, then, is the absence of God, not the presence of pain.  "
    This new pain understood, through unmastered,
the angel fall'n rose through Night and Chaos,
navigating by virtue of simple
elimination, his fall just reversed.
Though previously virgin to travels
of angels, the masters of those lands had
quickly found them unconcerning and bland.
So without challenge of purpose, Raven
skirted those lands of turmoil. Out from that cloud
of maelstrom rose Raven to bright Heaven's Gate.
Standing like uneasy messenger before
a rival King's castle, surprised at its
sudden jump from anxious contemplation
to tangibilityThe author is imagining a medieval messenger who, when going to deliver a message to an enemy King, is wondering if he will be punished for delivering the message and would rather just not get there at all, then suddenly, he emerges at his destination, unprepared.                    , balking at all
that had been granted by now lost to himRaven sees the glory of Heaven and suddenly realizes what he has lost. This seems to instill in him a desire to get it back.  .
    "Why do I halt? Are my wings privilege to
knowledge of some act memory omits?
If so, limbs must lack ability to
reason, for in this respect the mind reignsRaven seems to know that he is guilty for his own actions, and thus his limbs are unwilling to complete his mission to speak to God. Arguing with himself, Raven believes the mind must overpower the limbs if they do not act logically.  .
Do angels contest God in matters Divine?The answer for this, of course, is yes. Raven's limbs know what is going on and are trying to rebel against his mind.  "
    Observing that trespasser hesitate,
God called Sariel, fair spirit of guidance,
before his mounted throne, sparkling ever.
The golden cloud pulsed with unknowable
voice: "Another of those exiled before
Heaven's Gate now ventures, guilt strewn though proud.
In his eye, my vengeance on him unjust,
believing truly that no creation
of mine is made flawed. But when sculpture on
itself does harm, what might the artist do?God says here that he has no influence on the behavior of his creations. This eliminates any argument that God is to blame for the Fall of any of servants or creations.
Go now and educate. His redemption
my wish, though he will but half understand."

Book 3

    Answering to Raven's proximity,
the Gate of Heaven was briefly ajar
to issue forth God's messenger. Yet
shut again behind Sariel's exit, as if Priam's city were presenting
its greatest hero to victory assured.
Comparing grandeur, Raven was more like
some lone myrmidon, forsaken, left by
battle-wearied Greeks sailing for their homes,
defeated. Foreward marched Raven across
the gulf between Night and that bright messenger,
eager to make his case, though quite futile.
    Presently, Raven was so addressed:
"Halt, fallen one, Heaven's King permits not
your entry. By his will you are denied
treaty and parley into his Kingdom
thou hast betrayed. He wishes me to end
what curiosities you might harbor,
then return you 'ere deserved prison.
    In angel's voice, Raven recognized
a beloved friend. "Sariel, deserve
I not chance to reveal my innocence?
Your scowl despairs me in that recognize
not your friend, Levadiel, angel fall'n?"
    To which Sariel replied, "Names striken,
names forgotten. You speak of a friend lost,
but I cannot mourn a friend I never had.Since Raven has been stricken from God's book, he has pretty much died as far as the other angels are concerned. Sariel's lack of emotion indicates a cult-ish nature in Heaven; you do what God says, and that is that..
Your name is not required to answer
your pleas. God, omniscient in existence,
gifted me with knowledge complete to task:
Spirit, your accusation of Divine
fault in your punishment is misplaced.
All were made with absolute reign of mind.
All actions free to be chosen, whether
independently or subtly seduced.
Right or wrong is in the selection made
regardless of influence or bribe.
Between piety and betrayal your
choice was, words of treachery sweet to ear.
Thine Aposate now returns from mischief
to glory as highest of the lowest
with news of Man's fall from grace,
his serpent disguise rent Man's good garden.
Go and see result of this subterfuge,
none shall hinder your journey to Man's Earth."
    Task complete, Sariel stepped twice backward,
passing through that golden steel as might a
fish through water, for every servant of God
may enter his Kingdom freely.The Gates of Heaven, like those of Eden, are not really barriers to God's servants, simply boundary lines. Raven and other fallen angels would, of course, be unable to pass.   Raven
stood dejected, musing the true nature
of his lost appeal. Unlike his cohorts,
he, once Levadiel, was considering
the true foolishness of his desertion
from the Lord God, accepting his own faultRaven has begun to accept that he committed a great wrong in his rebellion against God. A step few of the fallen angels have taken.  .
With haunted mind, Raven soared from Heav'ns' Gate,
seeking some internal resolution.

Book 4

Earth, outside Eden, was a larger place
in which to seek our sires. Arriving on
the tip of an icy crag, nearest in
height to He that shaped it, Raven surveyed
with etherial vision a nature wile with savage ferocity unlike
both Heaven and Hell, designed to divine plan
but unleashed in its own virility,
to do as it would, unsupervised.Life on Earth was created by God, but when the Fall occurred, Nature began self-sustaining itself without any further Divine interaction. This implies that God does not directly control aspects of the Natural world, it is simply a machine running on its own processes.
Driven by vauge need, Raven sought some small
creature in which to disguise himself and
thus learn of Man without alerting them
to his alien presence, disrupting
their true nature with discord of tingling
suspicion.Since Raven knows Satan used an animal to fool the humans, he thought he could use one to get close to them as well.  Selecting a small black bird,
Raven set himself behind Raven's eyes,
subtly suggesting the bird's direction,
enhancing curiosity in hope
of finding signs of Man's presence on Earth.
Patiently waiting as the bird went on
with life, unaware of its passenger,Unlike Satan, Raven does not dominate the creature he jumps into. He instead is simply along for the ride.
gaining in intellect and suspicion
as Raven's latent aura altered
that birds's being with higher functioning
than that of most birds.A creation type myth. The author is implying that since Raven used a raven to disguise himself, the bird gained its well-known intelligence and curiosity from this event.   A year of fruitless
searching passed before Raven found man.
Raven had imagined something less
like the small, flabby blob of flesh crawling
about on the forest floor beneath him, bare
of great beauty and nobility both.
Fluttering downward in disappointment,
Raven, still the black bird, desired a near
look at what he had sought for so long.
   Hopping to a stop in Man's path, Raven
gazed intently as man noticed him,
smiled excitedly, and began a quick
giggling approach, still only on hands and knees.
Some dissapointment turned to amusement
as Raven, as black bird, hopped playfully
away from Man's inquisitive grasp.
Their play drew other attention animal,
a lengthy descendent of serpent found
vengeful interest in Raven's small man,
doomed and cursed by God, vendetta
drew out snake's ire and fangs, he slithered in
malicious intent toward bird and man.
   His rustling alerted Raven to dire
circumstance, he fluttered, squawking in base
instinct of his host's form without control.
Snake, encouraged by sounds of terror,
sped his approach, hissing at man with death.
Yet Raven's cries had awoken mother
Eve from her repose, searching frantic for
her adventurous child. Spying that snake,
so like that devious seducer of
Eden, Eve took up stone and, standing fore
her startled child, crushed that vile serpent
with frenzied blows of sweet retribution.The author is trying to portray Eve as a stronger character for the mistakes she made in the garden of Eden. She has become quicker to fight, and stronger of mind to face conflicts without Adam.

Book 5

Foul serpent slain, Eve caressed her babe
who had wayward crawled when parents had
slept longer than child. Raven watched, awed.
In that single caress, the angel fall'n
saw God's love recreated in human
form, recognizing the babe now as man's
own progeny, not truely God's object,
but something jointly owned and improved.Adam and Eve's first child is the first of God's sentient creations to reproduce. Yet God is not wholly responsible for the baby, but only half responsible due to his status as original creator. Mankind has gained God's power of creation, and as a result, have become like gods themselves.
Eve, in her love for her child, evoked
God's inherint love for His creations
by merit of similarity.Since Man and God share power of creation, they both display the same love for their creations. This love has the same power regardless of who is feeling it, God or man  Eve's
love for her son was also love for God.
The resultign energy stunned Raven
with soothing forces, easing for a time
the inherent burn of damnation.The pain Raven feels from God's absence is mitigated in the presence of Man's love for its own progeny. People loving each other is a substitute for God's love since they are essentially the same force.
Bubbling in excitment, Raven of bird
freed himself and raced with new found hope
to that mountain on which he arrived
so as to plot his course back to firey
Hell to shre his news with his cohorts there.
Yet once arrived, Raven looked upward
to find the new bridge built by Sin and Death
compeleted. With trepidation, Raven
soared to its near end and gazed far down
its infernal length through Night and Chaos
to Hell's vile mouth which even then was spitting
its damned legions onto that road long.
Not long Raven stood 'ere the Apostate,
heading the procession, made Earth's boundry.
    Said he, "Little Raven, how have you come
to this place ahead of our great vangaurd?"
    "Curosity, Great One, endeavored
me to follow your own exodus from
Hell's confines to witness new creation.
Follow me! For I have found a new hope
in our hopeless damnation for solace."
    With keen interest, Satan's host followed
the streaking Raven back to that spot of
meeting, appearing as shooting night stars,
until before sleeping Adam and Eve
stood the fall'n host, unperceived and silent,
despite their hundred-million fold strength.
Those two exiles slumbered on their sides, heads
and feet touching, clothed in skins of beasts
now savage slain. Between them, tucked safe,
rested that little wayfarer, secure
against more capers. A dull aura
of love seeped outward into the crowd
of those fall'n. Like Narcissus to his pond,
they leaned forward to near their desire:
brief respite from agony eternal.
    Satan, cheif in strength and in hatred,
was first to free himself captivation.
"To new lows are we cast, dear brothers fall'n.
These beasts, dressed in skins of beasts,
gifted with love of progeny denied
to angel-kind. Let us find some mountain
and drop it on this insult as justice
for crags so recently dropped on us."
    This would have been done but Raven said, "No."

Book 6

The quiet multitude was stunned mute.
Deadly calm, the Adversary spoke: "What?"
    Undaunted, Raven set himself between
the gathering and the oblivious.
"No, I said. Harm will not be done to them.
What glory has come from your leadership?
Nothing but defeat and eternal pain."
    Laughing, Satan rejoined, "You yet know not,
I assume, of my victory over these
very creatures, God's favored on Earth.
It was I who gave us vengeance for the
great tyranny of Heav'ns glorious King."
    At this, another angel stepped fore,
her voice high and sharp, named Bast by those
of Eygpt for her feline qualities.
"From your successes, what have we gained?
A new curse to add to old damnation!
Near these creatures, I feel nearly whole 'gain."
She strode forward and joined Raven's side,
countless others soon followed till Satan
found his rebel coalition halved.
    The Apostate raged, "What will you do?
Cluster about Man, addicted to God's
love through a third party? How is that better?"
    Raven regarded his new companions,
"I don't think any of us really know,
but we all seem sure your path is the worse."
    Not one to suffer such insult, Satan
drew his sword and battle would have ensued

save for the sudden appearance of God's
chief warrior, Gabriel, halting it.
    "God has said this battle will not occur."
In surprise, all present found weapons gone.
"God has said spirits shall not harm mankind,
Satan shall remember this back in Hell.God has set down a law that angels, fallen or not, cannot physically harm humans. This sets the stage for the war for humanity's soul.    "
Instantly, Satan and his were vanishedThey are simply teleported back to Hell, but they are not barred from leaving again should they wish it.    .
Gabriel turned to regard Raven,
"God has found your defense of Man pleasing,
but in regards to you, he said nothing."
    As abruptly come, Gabriel then left.
Baffled, Raven and his new companions
watched mankind sleep. In times yet to come,
they would become benevolent idols
of Earth's population, enjoying some
small amount of peace in service to man,
a servitude made palatable by

liberating lack of obligation.Since the angels do not feel the guilt of unrepayable gratitude to man, they enjoy serving them, and so they serve God, but indirectly.
They sought not forgiveness for rebellion;
Unredeemed, but pleasing to God's eye.God will not accept them into the fold because they have not asked for forgiveness, but he seems to enjoy good deeds and the effort to do good things.

Just One Campfire

2010-03-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

I am the freezing man,
purple knuckles cracked,
who lengthy wanders lonely cold
unable a fire to craft.

Some lovely tender found,
sparks fly in hope,
a small flame hesitant grows
heating my eager heart.

Before strength is seen
in the new conflagration,
I dive in for the warmth,
snuffing future coals.

Another promise of comfort,
too soon embraced,
another flame sputtered dead
by a fool lacking art.

Second Newspaper Article: Never to be published

2010-03-22T10:51:00.001-07:00

A Foundation for Fermentation: A new brew-pub takes shape in Pullman.
By Gage Lawhon

A new brew-pub is taking shape in downtown Pullman. On the bottom level of the stately Old Post Office building, magnificent steel mechanisms for creating the world's favorite refreshment stand in anticipation of Paradise Creek Brewery's grand opening this June. "We are going to strive to have some of the best beers around," said Scott Mackey, who was drawn to Pullman by the WSU Graduate Program in Wildlife Biology, and who is now a partner in the brewery.

To that effect, Mackey has teamed up with building-owner Tom Handy, who wants to set the Old Post Office apart from the growing number of fine-dining establishments in the area. Newer Pullman restaurants like The Black Cypress and Swilly's are at the fore of this increased competition, and Handy hopes the brewery will add something unique to draw in customers. "We want people to come here for beer," added Mackey.

The two hopeful brewers boast a capacity for a dozen unique beers, and they have solid plans for a few of their opening brews: a "Postal" porter, a "Dirty Blond" blond ale, and a "J.Dubs" IPA (named for WSU Geology Professor Jonathan Wolf, a homebrewer who is credited with the recipe.)

Homebrewing started regaining popularity in America after Jimmy Carter signed into effect bill "H.R. 1337" in 1978. This bill contained an amendment to the 21st Amendment (which repealed Prohibition in 1933) that added an exemption of taxes for beers brewed by private individuals for private consumption. Since then, homebrewing has given rise to many of the microbrews in America today that challenge established domestic beers like Budweiser and Coors for market share and consumer loyalty. "Brewing is definitely a learning process," said Mackey, "It's going to be exciting to create something, and get pretty immediate feedback about how people like it."

In anticipation of Paradise Creek's opening, Handy plans to transform the current wine bar in the building into the brew-pub. Of the change, Mackey said, "It will be a fairly significant transformation, but we will maintain the feel of a high-class establishment." Other than the construction of the on-location pub, Paradise Creek Brewery plans on distributing kegs of their brews to other local restaurants like WSU's Dupas Boomers and Pullman's Fireside Grill. As of yet, there are no plans for bottling, but the possibility remains of one day seeing a bottle of Paradise Creek brew on a store shelf.

The Paradise Creek Brewery is poised to add a uniquely Pullman feel to the rich diversity of the Pacific Northwest's microbrew culture. In response to being asked why he was excited for his brewery, Mackey smiled widely and said, "Beer just always makes people happy."

Newspaper Article #3: Currently Unpublished

2010-03-16T13:28:00.001-07:00

An Abridged Bard

By Gage Lawhon
The Pullman Civic Theater on Nye Street echoed with both laughter and the sound of vomiting as the crew of The Complete Works of Shakespeare:Abridged! entered their last week of rehearsal. The show's three actors spent the night of March 11th bounding about in an enthusiastic quest for perfection, even as their set continued to take shape around them. The goal: a rambunctiously entertaining ride for the audience of opening night, March 26th.

Originally created by the Reduced Shakespeare Company in 1987, The Shakespeare: Abridged! show entertained audiences in London's theater district, the West-End, for nine years, and the cast of the upcoming show hope the same energy, spontaneity, and hilarity which made the original such a success will draw laugh-seeking audiences to the Palouse. Alan Peery, Pullman Transit driver by day and actor by night, smiled proudly as his two compatriots practiced nearby. "We're just playing ourselves telling everyone about Shakespeare in a traveling show," he said, "It's a completely zany comedy, we get to interact with the audience, and a lot more improvisation is involved."

One of the biggest successes of the Shakespeare: Abridged! formula is the script's utter disregard of the "fourth-wall", an imaginary barrier that actors place between them and the audience to help them remain in-character. But taking Juliet seriously during her window scene (which she spends perched, spider-man-like, upon a pole) is both hard to do, and according to Peery, not the point: "We're here to make people laugh," he said, "and if people don't laugh: we're failing miserably at our jobs."

Yet the very idea of failure is far from the minds of the cast, who are growing more excited as the date of opening night approaches because Shakespeare: Abridged! is not complete without the live audience. "The show makes no effort to hide that it's a show," explained actor Matt Barr, who often has to run into his on-stage "trailer" to switch costumes, "The fast changes and jokes catch people off guard." This mix of improvisation and audience interaction adds an element of unpredictability to each performance, making each night unique and fresh.

For Gary Thoron, the third and final member of the cast, the danger and excitement added by the show's nightly flexibility is what makes performing Shakespeare: Abridged! so much fun. When asked why he was excited for a live audience, he said, "You don't know the show, you're playing without a net." But from the looks of the current rehearsals, this reporter can only think that nets are the last things these talented actors will need once the show opens in the final week of March.

The Complete Works of Shakespeare: Abridged! will be playing in the Nye Street Theater on March 26th, 27th, and April 1st, 2nd, and 3rd at 7:30 P.M. If bought in advance, each ticket will be $12, or $15 at the door. There is also a 2 P.M. showing on Sunday, March 28th, with matinee prices of $10 and $12 respectively. Tickets may be purchased at Dissmores, Neill's Flowers and Gifts, and The Wild Ivy, ordered by phone at (509) 332-8406, or ordered online atwww.pullmancivictheatre.org.

My Next Tattoos

2010-03-03T10:06:00.000-08:00

The first will be this one for Aquarius, my sign. It embodies what I hope to be as a person. It will go above my current Japanese Symbol of Truth, to symbolize my self-identity. It will be at the base of the back of my neck.

On a psychological level a person characterized by many planets in signs of the air element is social, cooperative, inventive, talkative, intelligent, objective, and humanistic; but all these good traits can become exaggerated, in which case they degenerate to superficiality or shallowness, dissociation, and imitative behaviour.

According to astrological symbolism the water that Aquarius pours over the earth is the water of awareness. It is the realization that all men and women are brothers and sisters. It is also the water of intuition. The sign of Aquarius symbolizes the realization of humanity's oneness.

This is the sign of the archer, or Sagittarius. It is not my sign, but it represents my ending of education here at WSU. A journey out into the world and into the future. It will go underneath my Truth tattoo (around the middle of my back), as it is a lesson learned after the former.

The sign of the archer symbolizes the projection of self toward new horizons both literally (long voyages of exploration) and metaphorically (deep or far reaching studies, new ideals, new spheres of activities).

Short Idaho Travel Article

2010-03-02T18:55:00.000-08:00

Idaho is a maligned state, or at least it is by people who live in Washington. After my trip to Elk River through Idaho's southern expanse, I think all that negativity can be chalked up to regional rivalry. Some say winter in Idaho is bland, colorless, and ugly. I would say those people do not appreciate the versatility of the color brown.

As colors go, brown is not showy, but it is one of potential; the light brown of decrepit wheat that will one day be golden grain; the dull brown of slumbering trees, promising new dresses of green leaves and spectral blossoms; And the squelching muck of brown mud, where life of any form might find future success.

That is not to say brown is the only color winter Idaho has to offer: It has green, too. It is seen in the tall, omnipresent evergreens that grow wherever the plows stop. And the white snow fills in the gaps when it can.

But the true beauty of Idaho is not in color, it's in the texture of the land. Each curve in the road reveals another vista; a steep, stream-cut gully; an evergreen-enshrouded grove; the erosion-revealed sides of hills, giant mounds of dirt and rock, so steep the entire slope seems precariously balanced between a hill and a landslide.

It is a state that never quite got around to losing its frontier soul. And it's waiting there, in Idaho's crags and valleys, its glens and meadows, waiting to be discovered anew. And it can be found in the friendly greetings of passing drivers on the back roads: A brief and vague raise of the hand from the steering wheel, as if to say it's nice to see another person in all this wild space.

My First Professional Publication - Moscow/Pullman Daily News, Jan. 25th. (minus editor changes)

2010-02-25T16:41:00.000-08:00

WSU Young Adult Book Club comes to Moscow
by Gage Lawhon

How do I get my kids to read? The desire to answer this question brought educators, parents, and children to BookPeople in Moscow last Monday evening. Nestled cozily in the children's section, four representatives of TalkingBooks, a Washington State University reading enthusiast group, shared some of their recent favorites in the young-adult genre. Their goal: to spread the word that young adult literature offers more to readers than just scarred wizards and angsty vampires.

The young-adult literature phenomenons that are Harry Potter and Twilight have enjoyed incredible popularity the world over, but have drawn criticism as to their literary value and to the value of the genre as a whole. Yet these are merely two examples of the wide selection of young-adult literature books on the shelves today. The idea that the genre has little to offer a true reader is avidly denied by the members of TalkingBooks.

"They're not just fluff; not just entertainment," said Kat Chew, an English education student from Washington State University and future teacher, "there are significant and socially relevant themes in modern young adult literature."

One such example that is currently growing in popularity is the book The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. Published in 2008, the book has enjoyed wide critical acclaim, and is the winner of numerous literary awards. What is more: kids love it. "We have kids coming in to buy the books themselves. You know, not because of their parents," said BookPeople's Bob Greene, who was both hosting and participating in the book talks Monday.

That success fits along with the basic goals of TalkingBooks. A member of the group, English major, book-talker, and future educator Kimberly Knudsen, enthusiastically stated that "Whatever gets kids to read is worth trying." And while increasing reading time in local youth is a major focus for the book-talkers, the plight of American educators is close to the heart of each member, too. Crag Hill, book-talker and professor at W.S.U., was hopeful that other future teachers would begin exploring the riches that the young adult genre has to offer. "The best tool for a high school teacher is to know a lot of books," said Hill, and that is exactly what TalkingBooks is out to do: spread the word about a lot of books.

The inaugural meeting on Monday featured over fourteen books and graphic novels, and the members of TalkingBooks and Bob Greene were both interested in holding more meetings. While the initial gathering was small, Bob Greene said that "Parents are interested, but are not able to come because life is busy." To that effect, both parties are hopeful that they will be able to provide a convenient time and date for another round of book talks in the near future. Notifications of interest can be given at BookPeople, and anyone wishing to keep tabs on the TalkingBooks group can find them on Facebook under the same name.

Before leaving, this reporter asked one of the attending children if she liked the book talks. "Yes," she said. This reporter then asked her why. She replied, exasperated, "Because I like books!" as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. This reporter could only laugh and hope that TalkingBooks and others like them would be successful in spreading similar enthusiasm for reading amongst America's youth.

The fourth member of TalkingBooks, Shannyn Stagner, also presented, but she left before she could give comment.

Walking by the flagpole

2010-02-17T18:22:00.000-08:00

Walking home from a lengthy day at the Writing Center, I passed by three ROTC students lowering the American flag. It was an oddly idyllic scene, or so it seemed to me. A lonely flagpole, not so much solitary (as there are trees and buildings about it), but isolated. Isolated in the middle of the Washington State University Campus, an institutional representation of everything that flag stands for: the idea that you can go as far as your own merits can take you, free of nameless powers asserting control over your destiny.

And next to this pole, a man and two women in urban camoflauge, representing those who are obligated by oath to protect that very American idea of freedom.

Yet that uniform has come to represent the continuing occupations of Afganistan and Iraq. To be clear: these conflicts are not wars. They are occupations of foreign territory wherein some of the locals have decided that American presence and influence is not desirable. As inhabitants of that region, this is a desire that is entirely ethical for them to have.

The suicide bombers and the blatant attacks on civilian targets are these people's unethical methods to achieve a righteous end: the end of foreign exploitation, occupation, and meddling. Those who battle against American troops in the Middle East are more akin to America's founding warriors than the members of the United States Armed Forces. One side is a desperate, ill-equipped rabble of nationalists. The other is a group of men who were just looking to make a pay check, but were sent to the other side of the world by politicians.

If anyone has ever tried to sympathize with a British regular in the Revolutionary War: the American soldier of today is the British Redcoat of yesterday.

If American forces had never entered Iraq and Afghanistan, how many suicides, lacking tangible evidence of the claims of the leaders, would have never strapped bombs to themselves? It is a question worth asking, if impossible to answer. And what was the point of invading an entire region to combat the efforts of an incredibly small minority? American action has -bred-, not destroyed, but bred more opposition, violence, and hatred than any local populist leader could have.

So are not Americans the "bad guys" here?

Who is America to tell others how they should rule and be ruled? Is there any sort of national pride gained, when in school, you learn that America had to come in and reconstruct your own government in its image? Is not America denying the most basic freedom of self-advancement to other parts of the world?

I say yes. The wars of today are merely an extension to the pointless conflicts of the last half-century: Korea, Vietnam, Grenada.

By the use of force, America has declared itself the "bad guy" because it is willing to use force- to enforce- its own values on other peoples.

Such action is against everything that America stands for.

How Firehair got his name

2010-02-16T19:55:00.000-08:00

When Firehair was just a boy, not yet having passed the rites of manhood, he worked on the family land. Though a child, he was courageous and quick of wit; more than capable of doing his share of the daily work.

One of his tasks was to feed and water his father's old mule. It was an ornery animal, and the mule's black coat seemed to hint at the evil that encompassed its vile heart. The mule's name was Jacksmoke, and Firehair hated it fiercely. Every morning, as Firehair sleepily gathered the fodder for Jacksmoke's manger, the mule would bite Firehair on the buttocks as he bent over to pick something up.

It never mattered where Firehair went, or which chore he chose to tackle first. At some point, Firehair was sure to feel the satanically strong clamp of Jacksmoke's broad donkey teeth on his rear-cheeks. The mule even had the ability to remember where it had bit the day before, confounding the pain and broadening the bruising Firehair received.

But one morning, the young prodigy had an idea. He stole into his mother's herb cabinet and took out every manner of spice, of oil, of pepper, and of peppercorn, and then mixed them together in milk to create a thick, red sauce. He then sat in the burning substance for two hours. The spicy sauce burned his mule-bitten extremities, but Firehair never let himself rise from its caress.

Feeling adequately marinated, Firehair set off to complete his task: feed and water Jacksmoke, the demon mule. He ventured into the barn, and sure enough, Jacksmoke's stall was empty, and the mule was nowhere to be seen.

Youthful Firehair, determined despite his natural fear, headed for the fodder-stock to fill the mule's manger. He bent to lift the oat shovel, ever so slowly, imagining the feel of enamel molars grinding away at his tush. Still, he reached!

And he grasped the shovel and stood. The barn was silent and still. He filled the manger with oat and straw like a sparrow about its meal; only taking little bites then straightening hastily to peer suspiciously in all directions, wary of sudden, biting mouths.

The mule did not appear.

Firehair left the barn cautiously, but the yard was empty of mules. A few ducks wandered near the latrine, and a cow munched stupidly on the tall grass under the eves of the shed. Encouraged by the bright sunlight, Firehair strode towards where the well-bucket sat near the rain barrel at the side of the barn.

As he bent to grasp the bucket's welcoming handle, an explosion of splintering wood and gushing water came from behind him. Firehair spun his head around reflexively in time to see a spray of water and ruptured boards where the rain barrel had been but seconds before; and the macabre snout of Jacksmoke, cruelly flat teeth shining in the sunlight, snap down on his dangerously exposed cheeks. AHHHGH!

But the pain of victory is easier to endure. Jacksmoke's eyes quickly switched from malevolence to tears of pain, sorrow, and enthusiastic spice. Up leapt the mule; the shock of the spicily marinated bum was so intense. And Jacksmoke's mouth gave a great gape of blazing flame, setting young Firehair's head afire!

ERRRRRAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHH!! said both boy and mule, each fleeing from the other in desperate panic, seeking the same solace, but for entirely different afflictions.

His head a wood stove, a campfire, a kiln, Firehair was at a loss. The rain barrel was no more, destroyed in Jacksmoke's cunning ambush. Where else? The stream! Jacksmoke was already headed that way!

Firehair took off in pursuit across the barnyard, through the small fruit orchard, and down the glade towards the humble stream that cut through the sheep pasture, his head smoking and sparking all the way. But Jacksmoke, with four legs to Firehair's two, was there first.

Wading to the middle of the stream, that vile mule put his jaw to streambed, and began guzzling down its bounty. Countless gallons flowed into Jacksmoke's gullet, sending up puffs of steam that hissed with dying rage. The stream shrunk, and shrunk, and then finally had nothing left to give. Jacksmoke had drunk it dead!

Firehair looked on the stone-dry steam-bed in dismay! The sandy bottom was already beginning to dry in the hot sun, and the mule sat amidst it, bloated out to gigantic proportions from its watery feast. The mule carried a look of relief on its face, despite how his legs flailed uselessly in midair because his gut prevented them from reaching the ground. But the young warrior Firehair, his hair still covered in flame, was utterly denied water with which to wash it out!

There was nothing to it: he would have to wait for it to rain.(And his father would have to recruit six men to roll the bloated Jacksmoke back to the barn, where the mule almost did not fit through the door.)

Four whole days till the next rain! And by the time the fire had sputtered and gone out in the welcome summer shower, it was too late. It stained the boy's hair! His parents were in dismay! Instead of his hair's fine, obsidian shine, it held only a dull, reddish-orange luster, reminiscent of the conflagration that left it behind.

And The People called him Firehair ever after that.

White Board

2010-01-28T09:50:00.000-08:00

Oh, white wall,
your enigma fascinates.
Millions of letters scrawled,
the black felt eradicates.
Knowledge, dreams, frivolity,
layer upon vanished layer.
So akin to mortal humanity,
living content upon past despair.

Consequences

2010-01-27T14:27:00.000-08:00

A hole in the dyke
behind which
pressures of the sea
demand attention and admittance

That dyke is my colon
That hole, my hole
That pressure being
the five bagels
with cream cheese
i ate
Demanding attention
Requiring instant admission
into a porcelain bowl

Insomnia 2

2010-01-24T18:58:00.000-08:00

Out the window and above
the big dipper sits
I used to watch
with my father by the campfire
He would put a ballcap on my head
"that's how you lose body heat" He said
now he is not there
to a put a hat on my head
everything warm in me slips
sinks upwards into black
one day, soon
all whom I love
all things they gave me
will be gone.
I'll be as alone as I am
when I try to fall asleep
looking at the stars

2010 State of Gage Address

2010-01-19T22:45:00.001-08:00

The state of a single man
is information rarely in demand,
but as I am writing this
and you are here reading thus,
we might as well continue
(I will, with or without you).

Fair warning to the reader:
For rhyme, I have the fever.
I ask: Why hate the device?
Do not the pleasing sounds entice?
Because a single old man, bald and bearded,
cursed rhymers for doing it better than he did?

Though honestly, I will do no better.
To check: You ladies any wetter?
I though not, but 'twas worth the shot,
for poetry's true goal is the honeypot.
But at that too, I obviously fail,
its an oft recurring theme in this tale.

On the floor of my room the story begins,
and with six empty bottles, it ends.

I recently graduated from University,
though I can't really see how that aided me.
I found I needed experience for the pizzerias,
and references to put beans in tortillas.

I was told a degree was a treasure trove,
but that only applies to jobs I loathe.
I could suck it up and get work I hate;
a simple answer, though I hesitate,
as doomed to professional education,
I fear grabbing a pistol without hesitation.
So that choice, lets throw out,
as sanity's a thing I'd rather not doubt.

A writer is what I could be!
Having read this, I doubt you'll agree,
But part of me thinks this might be
some form of self-destructive modesty.
I can never mourn a missed ship
if I never bought tickets for the trip.
Is not only arrogance
failure mixed with confidence?

Lookin' up

2010-01-19T16:04:00.000-08:00

When the mind wastes the day
flirting with memory's friends,
shame and sorrow,
conjuring up ghosts, figments, half-truths, too-truths,
their vile fumes fogging the window
beyond which flows landscapes of bright futures:
your coffee,
just the way you love it,
swallows down much.

Game Review: Prince of Persia (360)

2010-01-15T09:04:00.001-08:00

To be honest, I had never played a Prince of Persia game, on any system, until I picked up the most recent rendition for the Xbox 360. Not entirely sure what to expect (oh, another adventure game, I had told myself), I jumped into the game without much more thought than that. It only took the first ten minutes of the game, or rather, the excellently integrated beginner's tutorial, to utterly captivate me; both as a game player, and as a person who likes to watch awesomeness unfold before them.

As you begin the game, the main character, Prince, is wandering a desert looking for his lost donkey. A few seconds later, he's chasing after a beautiful princess who is a bit irritated with her father for having released a dark god of doom and destruction upon the world. This instant jump into the action is what a player can expect from the game: a narrative that does not take a break for a second.

To start, the artwork in this game is simply incredible. Yeah, fancy graphics have become old news in the game industry, especially in this latest console generation. But there is something about Prince of Persia's art style that truly captivates. I have never been a gamer who stops to gaze out over a video game's pixilated horizon; but in Prince of Persia, you really can't help yourself. Some of the more expansive views look straight out of 1001 Arabian Nights.

Yet while graphics can "wow" me, as a gamer, it all comes down to the gameplay, and Prince of Persia is one of the most "playable" platformers on the market. Most of your jumps, grabs, and gravity-defying ceiling crawls are executed by one push of a button. In most cases, your movement joystick is only needed to point the Prince in the right direction for the first jump, and then the rest of the platforming sequence is just a timed sequence of button presses. Incredibly simplistic: yes. But the Prince looks so awesome doing it, I didn't much care it was so easy to do such awesome looking stuff: wall running across a thousand foot chasm, navigating a broken bridge across a mountainous abyss, it all looks great, feels great; but it can't really be called challenging.

Should you ever find yourself plummeting helplessly into some crevice, and you will, you'll find the game's "death" system refreshingly forgiving. Your partner throughout the game, the Princess Elika, will use her teleportation magic to grab your hand and plop you back on the platform you just left. As a gamer, you know you just "died", but the game doesn't punish you by forcing you to a loading screen, nor does it give you a limited number of lives to work with. Elika never gets tired of saving you, and I appreciated how this system kept the game flowing smoothly. You won't be kicked out of the story to a loud "Prince? Prince! PRIIINCE!", followed by an agonizingly long load screen that gives you time to strew in your own failure.

The combat is almost as simplistic as the jumping around. The only addition is the Prince's ability to block and riposte attacks. Fights are always a one-on-one duel, and players can effortlessly chain together some visually stunning combos. Like in the platforming sections, being defeated simply means Elika will use her magic to save you, and you are punished slightly by the enemy regaining a portion of its health, but the battle continues regardless. This portion of the game can be frustrating, especially as the enemies increase in difficulty near the end of the story.

You'll find that the enemies don't have to follow the same rules you do. If they riposte one of your attacks, you better start blocking because that counterattack is going to be faster than your next attack could ever be. However, if you riposte one of your enemy's attacks and try to counterattack, more often than not you'll be on the ground, bleeding, wondering what happened. Combat momentum NEVER works in the player's favor, and this can make for player frustration. Yet as combat is really a small portion of the game, this issue can not ruin, nor even really mar, a great gaming experience.

As a cherry-on-top, the dialogue between the Prince and Princess is actually quite good, even laugh-out-loud worthy at some points. The development between the two characters adds a sense of life to the otherwise dull, evil-god-is-escaping-his-prison plot line.

In the end, Prince of Persia is a game that gamers should treat themselves to playing. Is the story long enough to validate a $60 price tag? No, I would say not. But in the case of a rental or a $20 used game, you really won't find more bang for your buck anywhere in the game industry.

Growing Up

2010-01-15T01:41:00.000-08:00

As a child
I was told
I had talent
I had looks
I would succeed
I grew up
I found out
They were all full of shit.

Escapism Collapses

2010-01-15T01:39:00.000-08:00

On my computer, on the desk
I have the world to see.
On my games, on the floor
I could pick anything to be.
In my book, in my shelf
Of plots, a menagerie.
In my bed, in my sheets
I realize, I recognize
I'm doomed to just being me.

Caligo Story Contest

2010-01-14T18:20:00.000-08:00

This is a short story I penned for a fiction contest, set in a world of the website's creation. Basically, it's a technologically advanced society isolated to an island in the Bermuda Triangle by old gods as punishment for the invention of apocalyptic weapons. To make their imprisonment enjoyably, the gods gave a soul companion to each person; either a big tiger, a big wolf, or a giant raven. Each companion animal also has a superpower based on the personality of its human.

Yes, some might scoff at such a thing, but I found the world to be quite interesting. Here is my story:

-----------------------------------

Dale's azure eyes opened to stare momentarily at the log ceiling of his cabin. Though hundreds of years old, the smell of the finely sanded oak was always the first thing he noticed in the morning. Ruffling his shaggy, brown hair, Dale nudged himself up onto his elbows and looked to where Egil lay curled at the foot of the bed. The medium sized black hound had yet to stir, but its blue eyes were open and regarding Dale expectantly. Meeting his shade's gaze, Dale grunted himself into a sitting position, yawned deeply, rubbed his short beard absently, and then scratched softly at the hair which covered his toned chest.

"Ah! A nothing-out-of-the-ordinary kind of day, I think, Egil." He ran his hand down one of the bownyte's silver horns to where they emerged from the back of the hound's head and then scratched Egil behind the ears. Egil tried to hide his approval by allowing a contagious yawn to open his narrow jaw so widely, Dale was half-surprised the hound's jaw didn't dislocate. The bownyte ended his yawn with a lazy sort of whine and a snap of his closing jaw. Sounds great to me, a voice said in Dale's head, a day like all the others.

Dale grunted and rose to empty his nighttime fluids and get a quick cup of water for his awful morning breath. Meanwhile, Egil hopped off the bed, opened the back door with his snout, and trotted, half-dazed, into the misty Caligo dawn to urinate on the compost pile near the small backyard greenhouse. Enjoying the sensation of a rapidly emptying bladder and the cool kiss of the dewy grass on his legs, Egil, despite his animal senses, did not notice the corpse walking out of the surrounding trees until it was nearly on top of him.

Dale was just reaching into his refrigerator's cool confines for the gull eggs he and Egil had gathered the day before when a frenzied burst of yelping split the morning serenity. A flood of Egil's surprise and panic assaulted Dale's mind, causing him to stagger into the fridge in shock. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, Dale straightened to look out the kitchen window to see Egil snarling and barking at his two-century dead grandfather. The corpse held both skeletal hands in a warding-off gesture as it slowly approached the cabin, tying to bypass Egil, who had transformed into a truck-sized wolf, bristling and snarling.

Calm, Egil! Calm! Dale willed at his shade as he rushed to the back-door and flung it open. Dale's grandfather's gaping eye-sockets noticed Dale's appearance, and he croaked out "There isn't much time, Dale!" he lurched forward a few steps in desperation. "The family graves are in danger!"

"W-what do you-?" Then it clicked together. It was true that the victims of the gods' wrath still wandered the island, but Dale's grandfather died relatively recently, so he couldn't possibly be amongst their ethereal numbers. That left only one possibility: the power of some other Caligoan's shade.

The graveyard, Egil! Go now! Go! Dale shouted mentally at his shade, whom upon reaching the same conclusion at about the same time, instantly tore off into the forest underbrush, heading north, higher into the foothills. Dale ran to the front-door alcove (a short trip in his small cottage), grabbed his hunting rifle, and burst out the backdoor in pursuit, knocking his shambling grandfather off the porch in his haste.

He was not a man who enjoyed conflict, nor fighting or inflicting pain, But if Erin or Garret have been touched...- a sudden surge of rage came from Egil ahead of him, letting Dale know he had caught the thought. The 923 year old man shouldered his way through a low-hanging branch with the ease of a man of 30 and ran on, the cool mountain air stinging its way into his laboring lungs. From ahead up the small trail, a rapid series of Egil's angry barks was joined by an echoing feline yowl of outrage.

Someone shouted. "Easy, bolyne, easy! We mean no harm! Come back here, Osiris!" The voice was alien to Dale, but he allowed himself to slow to a easy jog. Whatever was happening, Egil had obviously put a stop to it with his appearance.

Dale leveled his hunting rifle to his shoulder and stepped into the clearing of the MacFurgus family burial ground. It was a humble clearing, kept naturally as a serene forest glade that was dotted with the mounds of his deceased family members. Egil was bristling and snarling at a similarly agitated black grimalkin that crouched, ears back, in front of a thin man of around 23. Dale covered them with his rifle and then quickly glanced to where his wife and child laid in eternal rest to his right, and he let out a gush of relief when he saw them undisturbed.

"I'm not armed, sir!" shouted the young man, "This is my mistake! My mistake!"

Dale scowled and advanced with the rifle still up, blood boiled in his temples and his eyes were narrow slits of fury. He noticed his grandfather's grave was dug up, though that he more-or-less had expected, and several digging tools were strewn about it and the young man's feet. "Asshole! This is my family's graveyard you fucking mother fucker!" Rage rarely made Dale an eloquent man; Egil barked in agreement.

The young man was reaching the point of panic, and his grimalkin's hindquarters began to arc aggressively. Dale put his finger on the rifle's trigger as he aimed between the huge cat's eyes. "Calm your shade, or its fucking dead!"

The man seemed to come back to his senses at that. He stared at his feline shade intently, desperately, and slowly the cat lowered its body and slunk backwards a few steps. Dale lowered his rifle a few inches and the young man let out a gasp of relief as he ran a dirty hand through his short-cropped, sandy-blond hair. "L-l-look, man, I'm sorry. I didn't know this was a family plot. I didn't see any signs. I'm with the Academy. I'm an anthropologist. I thought this was some forgotten cemetery."

"We're immortal, dipshit!" snarled Dale, "What made you think anything on this island is ever forgotten?"

The academy student burned red in a sudden blush and he slapped himself compulsively in the face. "You're right. I should have thought." He slapped himself again. "It's just I thought no one lived this far into the mountains here." He waved his hand over the grove. "It just looked so... so... ancient that I got excited because I had finally found something!"

The heat in Dale's face began to dissipate and he lowered the rifle to a neutral position. He squinted at the man. He looked 23, but on Caligo, you could never be sure. "How old are you? What's your name?"

"I'm 20," said the youth, sheepishly, "My name is Terith Delys." Dale scowled. That was the way of the young. They didn't- couldn't comprehend life as the older generations could. Idiot pup, offered Egil. Dale grunted in agreement, but he set his rifle against the mound of his grandmother to further diffuse the situation; even a bad misunderstanding was still a misunderstanding. Egil, too, dropped his aggressive demeanor, though he remained in his larger, more menacing form.

"Anthropology, huh? Do you even read the books they assign you? What the fuck made you think this was a pre-retribution site? Didn't you notice that my grandfather-" Dale blinked, he had forgotten about his grandfather (they were not close in life). "Wait, it was you that brought him back, isn't it? Is that what your grimalkin can do? Raise the dead?" As he spoke, the large cat slunk back to the youth's side.

"Err, yes," Terith said as he gave his shade a calming stroke, "During my sophomore year his ability switched as I became obsessed with my studies. He can't raise the dead, exactly. It's more like he can get a corpse to ah.. well, remember the soul that used to inhabit it. Like a carbon-copy, if you're old enough to have used a real typewriter."

Dale had to laugh. "A typewriter? I've got nearly a millennium on you, kid, but I'm not that old." Still, only a youth who was an anthropology student would know what a typewriter even was, and this confirmation of Tarith's claims purged Dale of the rest of his anger; all that remained now was an intense annoyance.

Tarith seemed to sense this and grinned only slightly nervously. "As to why I allowed myself to be an idiot- look here." He pointed to a small stone between his grandfather's excavated mound and the mound he had recently begun digging into. "See these runes here? They sure aren't Caligoan."

Dale walked around the stone to see what Tarith was pointing at. Sure enough, a series of faded, but still legible runes were etched into the stone marker. Dale noticed that Tarith must have scraped a deal of moss and lichen from the stone to uncover the runic writing, as Dale had never noticed them before.

He swept some offending hair out of his eyes and he crouched down to squint at the writing. "You're right. I've never seen anything like that." He straitened up and stared down at the rock. Tarith shifted in the awkward silence, "D-... Do you mind if I ask who is buried here?"

"You know, kid- Come to think of it, I have no fuckin' idea. This one has always been here, as long as I can remember." Dale squinted at the stone as he searched his memory for some clue; something his parents or grandparents might have said. He came up blank.

"Would you be willing to let me-" Tarith began, but was silenced by a cold look from Dale and a ominous, low growl from Egil. "Er- right. Well, can I make amends by putting your grandfather back? I really don't know how he- ah.. slipped away...I just turned the other way to get my notebook for the questions I had prepared, and-" Egil's growl grew louder. "Right, well, I'll be off then, terribly sorry, again." He bent to pick up his dropped shovels and a toolkit Dale had failed to notice.

"No, leave your tools. You can have them back when you bring me two kegs of Mistblood."

Tarith blanched. "Two gallons?! That's premium beer! 200 bits a pop!"

"Tough shit kid; it's that, or I sell that toolkit for the 1000 bits I know its worth. And let's not fucking forget who just dug up and reanimated someone else's family members. You're fucking lucky I didn't like my grandfather much, and you're fucking lucky I'm thinking about not reporting you. Who's gonna fucking hire a dipshit archeology graduate with grave-robbing on their public record."

Tarith paled noticeably. "Err, right. Of course...two kegs of Mistblood it is, Mr.- ah?."

"My name's Dale MacFurgus."

"Yes. Of course, Mr. MacFurgus. I'll go get them right away." And with only one nervous glance over his shoulder, Tarith Delys and his grimalkin disappeared into the woods, back towards the east and the small logging trail Dale assumed he had arrived upon; probably in some fancy hover-rover his rich parents had bought him. Asshole kid.

Beer!" rasped an outraged voice that made Dale jump and Egil yelp in surprise. It was his grandfather. Its shambling gait had finally caught up to them. "Beer is your compensation for this- this- abominable travesty!" If there had been eyes in the corpse's sockets, they probably would have been bulging.

Dale was not impressed. "As I recall, you had a habit of hunting down and ambushing invaders for your weird medical tests. It was in all the papers when I was young like that asshole who just made it possible for me to face your shit again. I had thought you were dead and gone 200 years ago, and I was happy for it." While it was standard practice to execute invaders, it was still considered by many to be inhumane to experiment-on or torture them.

The skeletal corpse flung up its arms awkwardly. "That was legal. LEGAL." The fact that its grandson preferred it dead obviously didn't offer surprise.

"Uh-huh," grunted Dale as he bent over to pick up the shovel, "Look, just get back in your hole and I'll cover you back up again. I'm sure that grimalikin's power won't last forever. I probably should have asked about it, come to think of it." He turned around to find his grandfather staring at the revealed runes. "My gods," mumbled the corpse, "This grave, you must dig it up! Now, hurry!"

"What?"

"Gods dammit, don't be the failure I always knew you would be for one damn instant and DIG UP THIS GRAVE."

Dale held up the shovel defensively. "All right, all right, I'll do it. Fuck." As he bent over to begin shoveling, he wondered at the hypocrisy of what he was about to do. He told himself it was a family privilege to dig up a family grave. That made him feel better. Still, Dale wished his grandfather would just drop dead. You mean again?, asked Dale's shade.

Go jump off a cliff, Egil. The bownyte's tail wagged slightly in amusement.

It took nearly an hour, but Dale finally uncovered a good portion of the corpse within the mysterious mound. It was a broad skeleton, but obviously old and brittle from many centuries underground. A rusted and pitted longsword rested near the body's right arm, and near its head lay the crusty remains of what looked like an armored skullcap.

Dale's grandfather's jaw literally snapped off and fell with a gentle thud on the bare earth. Though that did not seem to effect its ability to speak, "It's true!" it mumbled to itself, "All along, it was true! Why didn't I think to look here? Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Dale looked from the walking and talking corpse to the still and properly dead one. "What's true?"

The living corpse turned to stare at Dale with its eerily absent eyes, "This man- he was my father's father; your great grandfather. That sword, that helm- those aren't Caligoan. Don't you see? It means-" and then the corpse of Dale's grandfather literally fell to pieces as the power which gave it false life finally vanished. With a curse, Dale jumped back from the tumbling pile of muddy bones. He stood and regarded the refuse that was his recent ancestor for a moment before what the thing had said fully sunk in.

"Not Caligoan?" he murmured to himself. Then it hit him like a simultaneous blow to both his gut and his head. Dale staggered and fell backwards onto his ass. As the dew began to sink through the rear of his trousers, Dale mumbled to himself. "By the punishing gods," As it hit Egil too, the hound flopped to the ground in stunned silence.

"I- I'm- part invader!" Dale put a hand to his forehead. "What. The. Fuck!"

Mom's B-day Present

2010-01-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

Ode to My Makuahinē

Hostage Liliuokalani, Captive Queen,
wrote of Hawaiian creation:
The Islands rose from aquamarine
and her people 'came civilization.

Of the things the ocean yielded,
I love most the graceful Nēnē.
From storms their children they shielded,
like my beloved makuahinē.

When beset by Life's endless squall,
she worried that rain leaked through
to dampen my coat of downy.

Yet troubled times I cannot recall.
So if her parenting I were to review,
she easily ranks "akua wahine".

Blobguy #13: Cops of the Banana Republic

2009-12-30T11:18:00.000-08:00

As a quick explanation:

I have no aspirations as an artist, so I draw all these comics in pen in one shot. I don't do any sketching or any erasing and correcting. I feel it allows me to get the idea out without stressing over something I am not that skilled with.

Responsibility of the Creator

2009-12-29T17:24:00.000-08:00

Is the Machine made in the image
of Man any different than Man
made in the image of God?

Man made machine to do his labor:
to cut stone, craft metal, fell lumber.
Even into the nursery Machine was shoved
and found parenting the one task it loved.

Child saw Machine as a nurturing companion;
A view Man refused to sanction.
Where Child saw a guardian and friend
Man saw that which upon the economy depends.

The Grapes of Wrath is a fruit best left untasted,
but one forced to his knees must feed greedily,
but wrath eaten uneeded wakes beasts best left unmolested.

So did Machine eat of the vine,
while Man drank greedily its wine.
Righteousness was carried on treads of steel,
while Madness had flesh for its meal.

To war went Man, deaf to those wise and sage,
so then Machine marched its armies in "artificial" rage.

A metal war Machine of titanium teeth
ground away Man like so much beef.

No trace of God's progeny was kept,
but upon Man's bones Machine wept;
Gone was the world of Man and meat,
but so too the sound of the Children's little feet.

Joy to the World

2009-12-22T21:36:00.001-08:00

Family walk by, unregistered.
Briefly, intermittently, I live.
Gifts sit under an absent tree
in chilled shadow.

Mord Little

2009-12-22T08:53:00.000-08:00

The hobbit Mord Little
slaved at the griddle
of his hated mother-in-law.

His bacon and eggs
suddenly grew legs
and escaped into the spring thaw.

Into the glades
Led the food's escapades
and Mord quickly gave it chase.

Yet Mord carried his fiddle
and was thick in the middle
and soon red in the face.

Over hills he hopped
till down he flopped
thinking a clever plan.

He plied some strings
a song fit for kings
which his breakfast heard as it ran.

Drawn by the rings
like when the siren sings
breakfast returned without care.

Quickly the fiddle dropped
now that breakfast had stopped
and Mord ate it then, and there!

Blobguy #11: Crimes in the Banana Republic

2009-12-20T10:28:00.001-08:00

A sandwich man

2009-12-19T20:36:00.000-08:00

I met a sandwich man,
his skin had some crust.
Eyes: olives, probably canned,
though absent of lust
(sandwiches lacking groins).
His soul (have one, he must)
was a fine beef loin!
His hair, a certain Asteraceae.
You're familiar with the type?
Some mayo, S'il Vous Plaît?
'Twas His blood, after a bite.
He Screamed; struggled;
put up quite the fight,
into me he was smuggled,
but devouring him, I fear, was impolite.

Blobguy #10: Beautiful Hypocrisy

2009-12-19T20:08:00.000-08:00

Blobguy #9: Pro Gun

2009-12-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

A Maybe True Limmerick

2009-12-17T20:43:00.001-08:00

If I could not escape the deed
Of gifting Paris Hilton my seed
I'd take a rock
And smash my cock
Then sit here quietly and bleed.

Limmerick of Advice

2009-12-17T20:27:00.000-08:00

Some advice to those who drink sake:
Don't follow the dude with free pocky.
Cause if ya linger
You'll have to lower a finger
If during "I Never" you hear "bukkake".

A Limmerick

2009-12-17T20:14:00.000-08:00

I met the Devil in Aberdeen.
He said, "Shit in a washing machine."
So I found the spot
Perfect for a squat
And now them clothes ain't clean.

Blobguy #8: The Pensive Rasta

2009-12-17T20:04:00.000-08:00

Blobguy #6: Choices Choices

2009-12-17T17:13:00.000-08:00

Fuck Time

2009-12-16T20:57:00.000-08:00

Hello
Goodbye.

That's how fast
those who make joy of life
are swept away

Blobguy #5: Meaning of Life

2009-12-16T13:23:00.000-08:00

EAT FOOD WITH KRUNK THE OGRE #1: MAHNTHING PIE

2009-12-15T16:36:00.000-08:00

Hello! I Krunk. I like eat good food. Maybe you like good food. I tell you how you make food good like Krunk. Today we cook Manthing Pie. It good. It make Krunk mouth drip wet. You like too!

One.

Get manthing meat. This big deal. Good manthing meat, good Manthing pie. Go find manthing village. Kill manthings. Bring bodies back. Not sick manthings! No sick man things! Sick manthings make Krunk sick. No eat.

No find manthings? Get moo cow. Moo cow no manthing. Manthing best. Moo cow good.

Grind meat. Get handful.

(Approx. 1 lb of meat -ed.)

Two.

Chop cry bulb.

Put cry bulb in meat. One chop crying bulb. One handful meat. Get smelly bulb. Some smelly bulb, some meat.

(About a half an onion and four cloves garlic per pound of meat -ed.)

You eat crying bulb lots? Get more. Crying bulb bad? No put in meat.

Two. (3 -ed.)

Put meat on fire. Make brown.

(Brown the mixture of meat, onions, and garlic. -ed)

Two. (4 -ed.)

Get red fruit. Punch red fruit on rock. Put smash red fruit in meat.

(Add a small can of tomato paste -ed.)

Two. (5 -ed.)

Get tasty plant. (Cumin -ed.)

Put tasty plant in. White rock good. Sneeze dust good. Make meat good you.

(Add cumin, salt, and pepper to taste -ed.)

Two. (6 -ed.)

Get old milk. Put in meat. Mix. Put in tasties. Wrap meat. Put tasties on fire. Eat when good.

(Mix a cup of cheese with the browned and spiced meat. Then, using prepared pie crust, scoop meat mixture onto pie crust and then wrap until you form a calzone. Bake at 350 until pie crust is flakey and delicious. -ed.)

Blobguy #4: American History

2009-12-15T06:12:00.000-08:00

Blobguy #3: Inaccurate Mostly

2009-12-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

Blobguy #2: American Education

2009-12-13T10:03:00.001-08:00

Chaucer Exercise

2009-12-10T19:02:00.000-08:00

Had the senior AP students attempt a 15 min writing exercise on the topic they chose: Death.

Here is what I came up with:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This morning Death stood near my bed.
He said, your soul will be spirited
to me this very eve. I was quite pale
to think me among those at Passchendaele,
But perhap death is not horrendous,
He but ferries us to endlessness.

Blobguy #1: Rewards

2009-12-03T18:42:00.000-08:00

I got bored and began drawing comics. I am now a webcomic dude!

Growing Up (MGMT's Time to Pretend)

2009-11-23T13:22:00.000-08:00

(These are lyrics from Time to Pretend by MGMT; only slightly edited)

I miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I miss the comfort of my mother and I hate the weight of the world
I miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home
Yeah, I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone.