Chide, Chode, Chidden

Transformation

2011-07-06T21:19:00.003-06:00

She was dead, my sister. A fever, a day, a night, and she was dead. She had been laid out on our large trestle table, awaiting her burial in the morning, bathed, dressed in white linen, a chaplet of plaited daisies ornamenting her brow. We mourned her then. Father kept brushing his fingers gently along her cheek, as if she slumbered, and that such a motion might rouse her; when it didn’t, he seemed each time surprised, and he withdrew his hand in silence. Mother drew her body across the corpse, and held it, sobbing softly. I just stared.

She was pale, so pale and so beautiful. More beautiful even in death than in life. More solemn too, her imp’s smile vanished, and brow uncocked. Serenity given human form. Her dark brown hair had been carefully combed, which caught and reflected the flickering light of the candles. She reminded me of a statue I had once seen of the Virgin, marmorean, somber, white.

***

The morning was bright and warm. The men of the village, my father among them, let my sister’s enshrouded form into the earth. The priest intoned his prayer. I took up a cool glebe of earth into my hands and cast it into the pit.

***

A cow of our nearest neighbours sickened and died. An accident caused the blacksmith to lose an eye. More cows died. Last year’s grain spoiled in its bins. “Bad luck,” I heard. “Bad omens.” Then the neighbor whose cow first got sick saw my sister in a dream.

“She came at me,” the neighbor said, “just as she was alive, but claws instead of hands, and mouth red as blood.”

Father looked angry. I was scared. “Don’t tell your mother,” Father said.

It was after that the whispers began, the evil glances. I think Mother found out, because she cried and cried one day after she had visited our friends.

***

The priest came to us in our field. Father and I followed him. When we stopped, we were at my sister’s grave. Around it idled the men of the village. All carried shovels. One of them gave Father his. I watched as the men and Father digged out my sister’s grave.

We all, I think, expected a corpse’s stink, but none came, even as the covered body lay before us, pulled out of the hole. Even as Father used shears to cut away the shroud.

As Father stepped back from his work, a gasp passed the lips of all present. No change of decay had touched my sister! She was as whole and pretty as the day of her interment into the earth’s bosom. But neither was she so pale as on that day, for it seemed her cheeks now held a ruddy bloom, like one of the living, and her lips were red, very bright red.

The priest and Father now argued, while apart from them the other men spoke quietly, in small groups. At last Father nodded and turned from the priest. He seemed somehow heavier than before, and moved ponderously, taking up again a shovel and approaching the still form of my sister. He set the blade of the shovel at her throat, then paused a long time, before thrusting down with what seemed to me an almost demonic force.

My memories of what happened immediately after this scene are confused and I cannot easily relate them.

***

We stayed on in the village till the end of harvest that year. Father rarely spoke. Mother cried. We left our home that winter. My sister remained behind.

[Cross-Posted at: http://beautifulcrunchers.wordpress.com/2011/07/06/163/]

Silence

2011-07-06T21:15:00.002-06:00

Gabriel saw again in his mind the image of a dense arcing of stars, a bow drawn taut by some Uranian god at time’s dawning, and the black disk suspended in space before it, a satellite of a dead sun. Only part of this celestial arch was now visible to him through his enviro-suit’s visor when he turned upward his gaze, and at an altered angle; the rest was severed at the horizons of the unillumined satellite, upon which he now stood, awaiting the unloading of the massive machines he would use to divest this world of its mineral wealth, which would then be used to feed the material appetites of men in a thousand far-flung worlds, across hundreds of galaxies.

Gods drawing bows in the sky. A poetic trifle. Michael smiled. It was known, of course, that men had once had gods. But that was long, long ago. It was in the time before man had taught himself to span the endless sidereal gulfs at a single stride. Before the golden, vernal sun that had succored man in his utmost childhood had ripened, expanding like some baleful gourd, then rotting at last into a cold, hoar-rimed disk. But even long before that had man abandoned his first home and the gods that dwelled there. In those first slow ships he had begun his peregrinations, seeded more youthful worlds, impregnated the cosmos.

What had man hoped in those ancient days? What had driven him into the illimitable inane before the sun’s dimming necessitated an emigration? The thrill of exploration? Discovery? A love of novelty? A certain loneliness? The desire to encounter intelligences kindred to man’s yet alien? If the latter were the case, he would have found himself disappointed. All of the calls men had cast into the darkness had gone unanswered. Or yet unheeded.

In Gabriel’s visor display a symbol flashed which indicated the extraction equipment had finished unpacking itself and was waiting for further input. Errant ponderings would have to be put aside. There was work to be done, and money to be made.

[Cross-Posted at: http://beautifulcrunchers.wordpress.com/2011/06/28/silence-2/#more-82]

[Fragment]

2010-10-03T23:23:00.000-06:00

For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of Man.

[Fragment]

2010-09-25T18:53:00.000-06:00

I want for nothing save for time.

[Fragment]

2010-09-23T07:45:00.002-06:00

What greater curse than mere existence? Or, if I must exist, why could not the gods have vouchsafed me a ruder form than that of man? Surely the misery of some plant, or insect, or beast cannot compare to that of man, who, knowing more, more suffers.

[Fragment]

2010-09-17T08:27:00.001-06:00

... I have dwelled on earths forgotten to the ken of man ...

Conceptions of Deity

2010-08-10T15:41:00.003-06:00

Sometimes I like to imagine God as an insect-queen. His grotesquely distended abdomen would be filled with unborn soul-eggs, and, surrounding Him, worker-angels would attend His every need.

Image source: http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic-art/588027/14753/Queen-termite-surrounded-by-workers

Notes for 9:27 P.M.

2010-07-15T21:27:00.000-06:00

Thingdom leads to thralldom!

Suffer Gladly the Fool

2010-07-09T19:43:00.006-06:00

The great God that formed all things ... rewardeth the fool.

- Proverbs 26:10 KJV¹

Every now and then the creature man becomes unbearably self-important, sober and serious. This often happens, I have observed, when he discusses some issue - his opinion - that he holds to be of grave or consequential import (which designation, depending on the matter at hand, I may agree with or not).

Now I am willing for a time to discuss earnestly those weightier matters that afflict mankind; but there comes a point when these dreadfully serious exchanges have so prolonged themselves that any pathos is become bathos and arguments seem more full of farce than force. It is then that I find I cannot help but jest, lark and laugh. Who is this coxcomb, man, that he should speak so somberly about such burdensome matters? In short - though I clutch no marotte, nor don a particolored costume - I play the fool.

Like the jester in days of yore who balanced the majesty of the king with his frivolity, I countervail conversations of gravity with japes and comic turns. I prevent my fellow from taking himself and his opinions too seriously - a sin greater than many I can think of. After all, it seems to me, through his folly, there is no greater buffoon than man. Who is he but the most comic of the apes? In mimicry, cleverness, inventiveness can no beast or god surpass him. Who is above laughing at himself, is indeed beyond any redemption.

So, let us suffer gladly the fool.

1. BibleGateway.com
Image source: "Mark and Dagonet" Medieval and Renaissance Material Culture: Jesters: A Fool and his Clothing http://www.larsdatter.com/foolwear.htm

To Flip the Bird: A Philosopher's Tool

2010-07-07T15:11:00.021-06:00

Do you not know that Diogenes exhibited some sophist in this manner, by pointing with his middle finger; and when the man was mad with rage, Diogenes said, 'This is the very man; I have exhibited him to you.'
- Epicetus¹

In the above passage Epicetus concerns himself with the objurgation of philosophers who do not act as they advise - talkers of talk, not walkers of walk. Diogenes, as Epicetus tells us, upon encountering a philosopher who advises against strong passions, uses a vulgar gesture - one immediately recognized by the modern American - to unhinge this philosopher and to prove him a vain sophist.

Now before reading this passage I hadn't realize that flipping someone off encompassed such a venerable and ancient tradition; that it does certainly increases, to my mind, the gesture's value. Also, however, I like the idea of using rudeness to try a philosopher's philosophical mettle.

1. Epicetus and Thomas Higginson. Epicetus: Discourses and Enchiridion. Roslyn, N.Y.: Walter J. Black, Inc., 1972. 179. Print.

Ken Baumann: Son of Saget?

2010-07-06T10:49:00.007-06:00

Can it be true? The Hollywood rumor-mill is spinning once more and this time the grist concerns the parentage of actor Ken Baumann, recently made famous for his portrayal of Ben Boykewich in ABC Family's popular drama The Secret Life of the American Teenager.

Who is the parent in question? It's Baumann's bio-father. "I mean, just look at them," says a confidential source. "Same hair, chin, nose, ears, grin, eyes--everything. If he's not Bob Saget's kid, then no one is." Indeed, Bob Saget, famously known for his portrayal of uptight every-dad Danny Tanner on the late 80s, early 90s sitcom Full House, is now considered by some to be the most likely candidate for Baumann's baby-daddy.

Though nothing is yet confirmed, sources close to the matter think there was opportunity enough for Bob Saget--an itinerant comic--to have met and impregnated Baumann's mother; however, no legal action is yet pending. "The American public have a right to know--is he, or isn't he?" stated a curious member of the American public. "I think genetic testing is the only way to solve this, and the sooner the better."

A scientist specializing in genetic inheritances puts it this way: "Either he [Ken Baumann] is Saget's kid, or he's a second-generation doppelgänger, or he's part of an experiment that is using Bob Saget's DNA without his knowledge."

Ironically, this news breaks just as Baumann's character on Secret Life discovers he is the father of an illegitimate child.

Neither party could be reached for comment.

To Die

2010-06-24T05:31:00.002-06:00

To die seems a trade of nothing for nothing--an easy trade indeed.

O Sleep

2010-06-18T07:20:00.001-06:00

O Sleep, why refuse you me now your embrace? Have we not lain together many thousands of nights, limb to limb and breath to breath? Is my company become to you something so abhorred? Pray, come! Pray, cast your lethean cloak about me, grant me your sacred oblivion! Oblivion!--how sweet the sound; it is the knell for all diurnal fears and anguish.

If it is worship you demand, I give it; if blood, I give it; if life itself, I give it. Would you send me naked into terrible day and leave me no memory of you? Be not so cruel, mistress. Pity your servant and grant him this boon.

Warts

2010-06-17T19:29:00.001-06:00

A worry-wart and a wiggle-wart sat trapped in an elevator. The wiggle-wart's wiggles worried the worry-wart, and the worries of the worry-wart caused the wiggle-wart to wiggle more frantically.

"Say," said the worry-wart. "Why don't you stop your wiggling? I fear your wigglings might bring down this elevator, and then we shall both be dead."

"Oh?" said the wiggle-wart, as he wriggled, squirmed and wormed.

"If I die," continued the worry-wart, "I shall miss a very important meeting; of course, the presentation I have prepared probably isn't good enough, but still..." the worry-wart paused as he incredulously watched the wiggle-wart execute a rather impossible series of undulations. "Still, it's very bad to be late, and worse to be dead, though, being late can go on one's permanent record."

The wiggle-wart seemed unaffected as his gyrations became more wild and pronounced.

"Watch out!" the worry-wart yelled. "You almost hit me!"

The elevator shuddered back into motion. The wiggle-wart stopped his wiggling. The worry-wart continued to worry.

Two Wishes

2010-06-12T03:02:00.000-06:00

Two wishes: to always know what I want, and, knowing what I want, to have the will to obtain it.

The Self-Confessed Madman

2010-06-09T19:48:00.147-06:00

After my brother and I had just finished watching a little piece of CGI-vomit called The Prince of Persia at the mall cineplex, we determined to repair thence to the food court, where we might to enjoy a deep-fried repast.

Entering the food court, we attached ourselves to the queue for Panda Express, and continued conversing about the film's merits (embodied principally in the form of the film's lead actress, the beauteous Gemma Arterton). As the line progressed, however, conversation nearly ceased, as the pressure to quickly and efficiently order impended. (If my reader will now allow a small digression, let me merely say, that a fit of self-consciousness often strikes me at a place of dining where I am unfamiliar with the ordering process--Panda Express happens to be one of those with an ordering structure unusual enough to launch within me a small tempest of panic).

Now, despite my own misgivings, I manage to order my meal successfully, and follow my brother to a likely table. We sit and begin to enjoy our respective meals. I have ordered for myself the Beijing Beef and Spicy Sweet Chicken Delite (or something of a similar title) with the steamed rice, and my brother the same, save for some sort of mein (I remain uncertain whether chow or lo) in place of my plain steamed rice.

As we are eating, I become aware of an entity hovering next to our table, demanding, by his posture and appearance our respective attentions. He is a youngish sort, eighteen or nineteen I would think, wearing a white button-up, whose top button is undone, revealing a white, round-necked undershirt beneath. Jeans cloth his legs. His face is chubby, and is incongruously adorned by a small, pointed goatee, both features reinforcing the impression I received regarding the relative smallness of his years.

As my brother and I turn to face him, our dinner interrupted, he speaks, trembling with rage, or, perhaps, anxiety, or a combination of the two:

"I'm calling you out."

My brother and I exchange a brief look of puzzlement.

"I'm not afraid of violence; I'm not afraid of jail. I was just going to punch you guys, but my fiancée talked me out of it."

"Pardon me, but what are you talking about?" I say almost simultaneously with a similar expression from my brother.

"What you said about my fiancée," explains the rageful youth. "You were behind us in line, and I heard you. I'm not afraid of jail and I was just released from a mental asylum."

By my brother's look, and my own mind, I knew that we were both furiously recollecting the previous minutes, looking for any improprieties we might have inadvertently unleashed. Both concluding we said nothing untoward concerning the boy and his fiancée, we told him as much.

"I am afraid you accuse unjustly," I say, "you and your girlfriend were no part of our conversation."

"You said something to the effect of 'Why is it that fat girls always order the smallest portions of food?'"

My brother spoke, "Look, I didn't even notice you in line in front of us; besides, if you knew us better, you would know that such a comment would never issue from us."

I take a bite of chicken.

"I'm hard of hearing, so I know that it was you two. Let me say my piece, and I'm gone."

"We really are innocent of your accusation; we're sorry that anyone would make such a comment, but we really said nothing of the kind," says my brother.

"Are you going to let me finish, or not?"

"Finish, but know that you are being unjust," replies my brother.

"Alright, if I ever hear something like that again, if you give me a dirty look, I'm finishing this."

Those words said, the boy walked off again, leaving my brother and myself rather perplexed, and somewhat distressed. My brother then addressed my thoughts precisely: "So he's hard of hearing, and also insane. Half-deaf, delusional schizophrenic, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," I say, adding, "Of course, that makes me think it really must be easier than I think to get a girlfriend."

"Indeed."

Why this Dread Melancholy?

2010-05-24T17:28:00.001-06:00

Why this dread melancholy?

Is there no earthly thing upon which I may set a hand and firmly hold? All that is is rotted through, and crumbles at a touch. Beneath the very substance of existence the charnel-worm wends his undulate, undermining course. And, in moments of stillness, in the quiet spaces, I become ware the sickening sound of his greedily gnawing jaws: tear but skin from flesh, like bark from tree--and behold! Even there writhes this perfect instrument of pallid death.

* * *

I am an imperfect vessel: where there ought be substance, there gapes a void. Into this vessel one could pour the sum of all the oceans, and yet no part could remain preserved therein--only the wretched hollow would remain.

* * *

Will this winter never end? Will not the leaden sun unburden its heavy winter's ballast and describe a more empyrean course? Have the chthonic gods at last forged chains which no vernal god can burst? The cellar stands nearly bare as the belly screams its discontent--but in vain! This unending winter has seized me, and fallow lie the fields.

Notes for 5:52 P.M. (True Boneless Chicken)

2010-04-09T17:52:00.017-06:00

Accuse me of effeminacy, of squeamishness, of dissolution; but in this modern age, that I should ever have to rend greasy flesh from the bones of some domesticated pheasant, is wholly unacceptable. Simply put: I don't like chicken with bones in it. In fact, I don't even like the idea that my chicken has ever had bones in it. My solution? The utterly boneless chicken. The chicken I imagine is a slug-like invertebrate, whose locomotion is achieved by the excretion of mucus and the undulations of its muscular, tube-like body. This improvement on the chicken will advance the art of chicken preparation and consumption by light-years. I can't wait.

The Letter

2010-04-01T23:59:00.001-06:00

"If you're reading this letter--"

I found myself addressed by the very letter in question, so I read on, first finding my place.

"If you're reading this letter then what was most to be feared--"

I thought about fears; I didn't have many. Just those common ones everyone has. Bills that needed paying. End's meat. Susceptibilities to hereditary diseases. I continued reading.

"...most to be feared has occurred: I am now dead."

Well, death is scary to some, I supposed. The "most to be feared" outcome. I wasn't too worried about, though. I didn't believe in Heaven and Hell. Oblivion, that's all. Nothingness. It sounded alright. I had had a pretty good run, all and all. Hell, compared to some postulated cave-dwelling ancestors of mine--dead at 23 by some rock smashing my head, or gored by a shaggy mammoth--I had had a stellar run. And I wasn't even dead yet! The letter-writer was dead. My run could only get better.

"I have made provision that--"

That sounded suspiciously like more work for me. Work is inconvenient. I set the letter down and turned on the television. That's better, I thought.

Notes for 11:59 P.M.

2010-03-31T23:59:00.014-06:00

I don't know if anyone else has endured a similar horror, but doubtless some among my readers have. I speak, of course, of tortuously paired local morning news anchors.

These days, this grotesque pair is generally comprised of a male and female presenter of little charisma, who attempt to exchange cheerful banter, while at the same time barely containing the mutual contempt they share for each other.

So, I find myself in the morning, newly awake. The lethargy of sleep still clings like a dew to my little grey cells, when before me appears the local morning news. My sleep-sapped brain can scarce compass the dread thing that I'm witnessing. There is a report that likely concerns some crap local story--maybe about a hero dog--and the segment ends. The male reporter tries to make some terrible pun. The female reporter, barely containing her disgust, somehow manages to unclench her jaw and choke out a gurgling, putrid laugh. Awkwardly, riffing off his crudely minted bon mot, the male anchor segues into the next story. I vomit and collapse.

Awaking in my vomit some moments later, I see the news is still continuing. I reach out to turn off the TV, to kill the demons that haunt it. Alas! It is too late. The anchors are awkwardly bantering, striking a tone that would almost be flirtatious if one could not penetrate through its saccharine coating to the venom underneath. I go temporarily insane; I quite possible have a dozen mini-strokes. I really shouldn't ever turn on the television this early, I manage to think again for the umpteenth time.

Malleus Grammaticus (The Grammar Hammer): 'To Lie' versus 'To Lay'

2010-03-30T13:58:00.015-06:00

Many—even those well practiced in English—find it difficult to properly differentiate and properly use the verbs ‘to lie’ and ‘to lay’. Today, for my own edification, (and hopefully that of my readers), I shall attempt to explain the difference between the two, unravel any confusions, and offer tips for recalling when to use the one or the other.

Firstly, I find it helps somewhat to remember that one is transitive (lay) and the other intransitive (lie). Thus, 'lay' will take a direct object, which is to say, that the subject of the sentence will be acting upon something:

The man (subject) lays the book (object; thing acted upon) on the table.
The dog (subject) lays the ball (object) at my feet.
I (subject) lay me (object) down to rest. (This one is tricky!)

Which appear in the past tenses thus:

Past
The man laid the book on the table.
The dog laid the ball at my feet
I laid me down to rest.

Perfect
The man has laid the book on the table.
The dog has laid the ball at my feet
I have laid me down to rest

Pluperfect
The man had laid the book on the table.
The dog had laid the ball at my feet.
I had laid me down to rest.

Notice, that in all its forms, ‘to lay’ doesn’t change its stem-vowel: it has the long ‘a’ sound in the present and past tenses:

lay (long ‘a’ sound in the present tense)
laid (long ‘a’ sound in the perfect tense)
laid (long ‘a’ sound in the past participle)

This is because ‘to lay’ is what is known as a ‘weak-verb’. Weak verbs in English don’t change their stem vowel in the past tense. Additionally, one can see that the past tense forms of the verb end in a ‘d-sound’, called the ‘dental-suffix’, which is also a feature of weak verbs in English. Thus: climb, climbed; follow, followed; promise, promised; and lay, laid.

Another important aspect of the verb ‘to lay’ is that ‘to lay’ is a verb of action or movement. The object of the sentence, the thing being laid down, is moving from one place to another.

So, in summary:

The verb ‘to lay’ takes a direct object. The subject of the sentence will act upon something to complete the sense.

The verb ‘to lay’ doesn’t change its stem-vowel in the past tense: lay, laid and laid all have the long ‘a’ sound. Also, since it is a weak-verb, it ends with a ‘d-sound’.

The verb ‘to lay’ is a verb of action or motion.

Now the verb ‘to lie’, unlike the verb ‘to lay’ is an intransitive verb. It cannot take a direct object, which is to say, the subject will not act upon anything in the sentence.
Things that lie are not acted upon; they are static or stationary. Thus:

The book lies on the table. (There’s no motion and nothing is being acted upon).
The ball lies at my feet.
I lie on the bed.

Which appears in the past tenses thus:

Past
The book lay on the table.
The ball lay at my feet.
I lay on the bed.

Perfect
The book has lain on the table.
The ball has lain at my feet.
I have lain on the bed.

Pluperfect
The book had lain on the table.
The ball had lain at my feet.
I had lain on the bed.

Additionally, 'to lie' is a so-called 'strong-verb’, which, unlike weak verbs in English, changes its stem vowel in the past tense. Thus:

lie (long ‘i’ sound in the present tense)
lay (long ‘a’ sound in the perfect tense)
lain (long ‘a’ sound in the past participle)

Also, unlike weak verbs, the strong-verbs in English don’t add a ‘d-sound’ or ‘dental-suffix’ in the past tenses.

So, to summarize:

The verb ‘to lie’ is a static verb; there will be no motion.

The verb ‘to lie’ changes its stem-vowel in the present from a long ‘i’ sound to long ‘a’ sounds.
The verb ‘to lie’ will not have a direct object. The subject of the sentence will not be acting upon anything.

Thus the rule runs:

RULE: If there is a direct object or if there is motion from one place to another use the verb 'to lay' (lay, laid, laid). If there is no motion and no direct object then use the verb 'to lie' (lie, lay, lain).

Well, I hope that helps. If of my readers has any other grammar questions, I’d be glad to try and puzzle them out.

Author's Note: I would like to thank author Jon Armstrong for inspiring this post.

Against the Zipper

2010-03-29T18:00:00.001-06:00

Since the day that Adam and Eve discovered themselves to be naked, much of human fashion has devoted itself to the invention and perfection of those oft-overlooked devices necessary to close that which would otherwise be open. To this purpose mankind has invented numerous fasteners: belts; buttons with their corresponding button-holes; eyes and hooks; grommets with thongs or laces threaded through; and doubtless others I've failed to consider (or by my ignorance omitted). One of these devices, however, has insidiously encroached upon all these others, slowly squeezing them from their rightful prominence. I speak, of course, of the zipper.

Sure, the zipper seems, at first glance, to offer much—but be not deceived! These supposed advantages are but a sorcerous glamour, designed to lure a dazzled and complacent victim quiescently to his doom. Now, many are the inventions of man that have improved his fellow’s lot; but then, many too are marvels of man’s destruction—devices birthed from the febrile minds of hubristic inventors, who psychopathically charge at the very bournes of common human morality and propriety, and, transgressing them, vomit out their horrors upon an unsuspecting world. At the acme of this tortured, crooked column of wretched progress, is none other than the zipper. The other crimes of misguided creation I can forgive; but, the zipper, which—like some untreated and suppurating wound, gnaws on the very flesh of society—it I can never forgive.

But the zipper is so quick, some will say. It allows one speedy access to one’s organs of procreation and excretion. Bah! Rank impiousness! To the former, I mention the well known fact that to delay one’s gratification means to intensify the consummation of one’s pleasure. To the latter, I note that mortal man was never meant with such celerity to temporarily join and unjoin two edges of fabric; it is unseemly, vulgar, and beneath the dignity of our race. But what about— Let such a thought remain unspoken. Consider the zipper’s teeth, smiling a terrible ogre’s smile. Between those serrate fangs are caught loose fabrics, hair, and—horror of horrors—even mortal flesh! That so close to his most delicate organ a man allows a zipper is madness! The delicate, orb-cradling pouch of man has all too often fallen prey to these ravening jaws. But, worst of all, is the betrayal that is inborn in every one of these devices. A favorite backpack, blouse, jacket or coat—all are now useless; the zipper has failed. Do not buttons and such fail too? Even the most unskilled can repair a button; it is, however, a nigh-hopeless prospect for a layperson to successfully repair a zipper. Alas! My own favorite jacket has succumbed to this ill fate!

Very well, one might now say. I am convinced of the grievous error that is the zipper, but they’re everywhere! What can I do? I am glad for the question. I too recently found myself lost in this terra incognita. First, despair not. Second, begin ridding oneself of all zippered items; replace them with buttoned items, etc. Third, consider joining a group dedicated to the eradication of the zipper, like the League for the Eradication of the Zipper (LEZ), which can be found on Facebook.

Reciprocal Lies

2010-02-15T11:20:00.005-07:00

I brought my jar of lies, and she hers.

We sat across from each other, a low table between us. Our eyes shone flirtatiously, flickered with desire.

As we conversed gamesomely, each would draw from the jar of lies and present the other with what was drawn out--pretty things, baubles. Some were like ivory cameos, their surfaces an elaborate, delicate scene; others were mere abstractions, like confections of sugar, twinkling and gaudily twisted; some glimmered with the iridescence of mother-of-pearl; others still were dark, like polished, mirroring obsidian.

After we had examined the lie of the other, turned it this way and that, admired it, commented upon it, we would set it on the table. Soon our jars were empty and the table full.

There was nothing more to say.

Poem in Blank Verse which considers briefly the Lamia

2010-01-22T13:39:00.015-07:00

Upon the sleeper's chest she grimly sits,
With lolling tongue she laps the breath of life;
To him--unwilling lover--woe! Too soon
He finds eternal sleep's sepulchral kiss.

Cozy Perspectives

2010-01-12T01:20:00.003-07:00

"Gemütlichkeit," Tom said, pronouncing the strange word with only a trace of unfamiliarity while he gesticulated broadly at the room's décor. "That's what the Germans call it. It's like coziness, somehow, but more encompassing." Tom furrowed his brow. "Or so I understand." Tom smiled. "This room is designed to evoke such sentiments."

"What's the difference again? Between the German and English?" I asked distractedly, but not disinterestedly, taking in those features of the room that seemed most cozy to my mind. There was a simple stone-lintel fireplace upon whose hearth radiated a fire that could not have been more cheery had rosy-cheeked cherubim been used for fuel and not sharply aromatic boughs of pine. Upholstered in pale white leather--wrinkled and worn--two fleshy overstuffed chairs were splayed invitingly in front of the fireplace like a pair of nude, obese grandfathers. Between them stood a round table of wood, stained a dark ruddy brown, reminiscent of an abattoir's ineffaceable stains. Upon the table, like an inverted, crystalline mushroom rested a stoppered, cut-glass decanter, filled three-quarters full with an amber liquid not dissimilar in appearance to formaldehyde in an old specimen jar. To complete the image, two cut-glass tumblers squatted next to the decanter on the table. Very fine. Quite cozy indeed.

"...and that's the difference," Tom finished explaining.

"Ah, I see," I said, nodding knowingly, though I had sufficiently divided my attention between my perusal of the room's contents and Tom's explanation that I had as little understanding of the matter before as after. "Lovely, Tom. Simply lovely."

Tom grinned.

[Fragments]

2010-01-11T07:57:00.011-07:00

Less than motes passing across infinity's eye; a blink: ten thousand thousand æons are cast into darkness.

Stuff of stars they say: would that I had remained so. Insensate as the myriad parts of which I am composed.

Seeing my tiny thread amongst the innumerable that comprise the tapestry of existence, why could not the gods have plucked mine out? No gods exist. Bastards, orphans are we all of the amoral universe: fateless, heedless, compassless.

Each man is alone. Encaged in his flesh, he seeks out companionship but finds only compromise. He cannot see what his companion sees. Twain souls, ever divided, yet always reaching for the other.

In-Between

2010-01-04T11:59:00.010-07:00

"Seamless. Until you slow it down. Then there are spaces in between. Like the frames that make up a film. That's where they live."

That's what he had said. The man. Had it been a dream? It had seemed real. He had appeared. From the alley. The man's eyes, desperate, crazed; his skin taut and sallow in the dim light. Smell of piss. Cigarettes. Just another hobo? Some addle-brained dope fiend? Escaped mental patient?

"Interstitial beings! That's why we can't see them. Something in the way our minds process light. They live in the in-between spaces!"

Then the flash. Blind. Bastard did something to my eyes! A camera gone off? It hadn't been a camera. Was something there? What was that? A shadow. The man was gone. I rubbed my eyes. Pupils readjusted themselves. Everything seemed fine. Strange. Strange man. I kept walking.

* * *

Home. Bed. Sleep. I dreamt.

The man was there again, in the alley. "They live in-between! Look between!" he shouted. His eyes. Full of terror. "Interstitial beings!"

* * *

Awake. Still night. 3:43 A.M. Sheets a twisted mess. Clothes sweated through. Shuffle to bathroom. Light on. Pupils readjust. A face in the mirror. My face. Tired. Look like shit. A dream? A flicker in the mirror. Behind me. I turn. Nothing. Strange man, strange dreams. That's all. I turn back. Water running. Cold. I cup my hands. I splash my face. Squinting, I find the towel.

Someone's there! Adrenaline. Body goes cold. Numb. Something flutters at the edge of my vision. Turn slow. Turn natural. Weapon? No.

II.

Bad shit. Blood everywhere. Blood and bits. No two bits the same size. Bad shit.

"Detective?"

Detective Adler moved his gaze to the officer. "Huh."

"What do you figure?"

Adler looked away from the officer, drew his fingers through his hair. "Huh." No two bits the same.

Cosmic [Fragment]

2009-12-29T13:42:00.002-07:00

I woke up the other day feeling very finite. This was an entirely unpleasant experience, for, generally, I feel more cosmic, more infinite in my conception. During this troubling time I seemed to end right inside my skull, in the region of the forehead. Against this seeming barrier I probed, hoping that, perhaps, I might transpierce it, thus re-uniting my finite self with the vastness of which I generally feel myself a part. This cosmic, or oceanic feeling, and my feeling of separation from it, recalled to my mind Rumi's reed:

"Ever since I was parted from the reed-bed, my lament hath caused man and woman to moan...Every one who is left far from his source wishes back the time when he was united with it."¹

Gradually, fortunately, my feeling of separation abated, and my lack was restored.

Note(s):
1) Mathnawi of Jalalu'ddin Rumi, translated by Reynold A. Nicholson

The Gift of the Magi: Part 2

2009-12-24T11:59:00.007-07:00

Jim Dillingham Young looked away while his wife, Della, put the chops on. My hair grows so fast, Jim! she had said. Again and again she had said it. Damn it, thought Jim, she's right.

Jim looked at the fob chain--her gift to him--now useless. My father's watch; my grandfather's watch! And for what? Her hair would grow back; she could use the tortoise shell combs with jeweled rims in a few months. But the fob? The watch had been an heirloom, for Chrissakes!

Della smiled blissfully at Jim from the stove; Jim returned the smile. Inside him something dark was stirring.

Suffer Little Children...?

2009-12-23T08:00:00.003-07:00

Let me preface the body of my post with the warning that the material contained herein is likely to offend, and I have done little to mitigate such a reaction. Pray for me that I in future shall exercise more tact and wisdom.

I was pondering the other day why anyone would consider having a child. Is it out of some need to preserve some small portion of oneself from the grave? A hard won and uncertain immortality? Does one whelp to produce a tangible fruit of one's love for another? Does one breed because he is obligated by a religious or societal duty? Because of some other more or less obscure, real or imagined impetus? Or, as seems more likely to me, based anecdotally on casual evidences, are children principally the accidental product of a peremptory desire to rub one's genitals on the genitals of another?

My reasons for asking this are threefold: first, because I cannot fathom any eminently practical reason to procreate; second, because I cannot imagine subjecting an innocent human life to the abject horror of existence; and third, because the rewards of parenthood seem to me rather slim, insubstantial when compared against the resources that are necessarily expended on raising a child.^{1, 2}

To expand on this latter point: very few children become Mozarts or Einsteins, thereby justifying their worth.³ And, save for young children of speaking age, who produce delightful expressions concerning diverse topics, for which I would pay $5 a piece, children have, so far as I can see, no remunerative value. They are (and I speak from my own experience as a child) petty, cruel, contrary, belligerent, sticky, and, in general, pestilent (these in addition to some marginal charms, which seem incapable of weighting the scale in the child's favor). When I consider how little I have contributed against the debt I owe my parents, and, indeed, intend to contribute, I am appalled at the amount (an amount which seems to continuously compound itself).⁴ I posit as final evidence Jesus: this alleged Christ, famous for his supposed indulgence of children, never thought it necessary to have any of his own.⁵

In the end, however, I suppose that this phenomenon shall remain thoroughly incomprehensible to me unless called upon myself--God forfend--to take up that burdensome name of 'father'.

Note(s):
1) The furtherance of the human race hardly constitutes in my mind an eminently practical reason to procreate.
2)When considering life as an object of horror, I am considering things like rape, war, depression, loneliness, old age, &c. Though having myself only experienced a small percentage of life's horrors, my experiences with those few have been sufficient to cause me serious pause when considering whether or not I would be willing to subject another living being to them. I am not certain that the pleasures that can be had in life are worth such a gamble.
3) I realize, of course, the logical end of this kind of thinking leaves mankind with no one to do those contemptible manual and practical chores. In this case, I suggest automatons for these tasks.
4) There is some consolation in the fact that, ultimately, I did not choose to exist.
5) This, of course, represents the traditional view.

Holiday Tip: Candy Canes

2009-12-22T08:00:00.013-07:00

Today I address myself to those of my readers who intend to consume candy canes this holiday season.¹ Now, it is self-evident that proper removal of this sugary staff's plastic wrapper is essential to one's overall enjoyment of it as an æsthetic experience. However, as this confection is a seasonal treat, generally enjoyed but one time a year, it is no great surprise that during the long interval that passes between opportunities of its consumption, that one forgets how properly to denude it of its cellophanous jacket. Indeed, this blog's author is not immune to such lapses, and his first candy cane of the season was an entirely disastrous affair.

Now, to begin unwrapping, it is first necessary (and prudent) to locate the seam of the wrapper which runs along the the length of the candy cane's shaft. Once this has been located, one should then tease out this seam (with most wrappers this should be possible) until a flap of plastic running the length of the stave reveals itself. Without too much effort, one should now be able to pull apart the opposing sides of the wrapper down the length of the candy cane. In this step one should be cautious, however, for it is of utmost importance that one remove the wrapper beyond the apex of the crook; otherwise, it is possible that one might encounter that occurrence which is the principal cause of the impediments to, and the frustrations of, a candy cane's enjoyment, namely, when the wrapper becomes bunched up at the place where the candy cane begins to curve, and necessitates a superfluity of effort to achieve the last bit of candy, betimes requiring one to dismantle unnecessarily the elegant, curving architecture of the hook. This step having been completed one may, of course, choose to remove the wrapper entirely and begin to enjoy his treat; however, I find it elegant to leave the wrapper on the end of the crook as a grip, which prevents the hand from becoming too sticky, and remove it only when I am about to finish.

Well, I hope this has been a useful reminder, and I wish all a merry Christmas, and a happy New Year, and good luck with your candy canes!

Note(s):
1) If it is anyone's practice to consume the candy cane from hook to shaft, rather than from shaft to hook (as is supremely proper), for him I have no words of advice, for I shall not condescend to address such a heathenish custom.

Sól Invicta

2009-12-21T08:00:00.004-07:00

A Poem on the Occasion of the Winter Solstice.

Beautiful Sól! Candle of the World, thou
Ebb’st and diest away, but I pray thee,
Bide, abandon not thy worshipful sons,
Thy worshipful daughters, to black darkness,
To the never-ceasing, chaotic night.

Behind thee do rave the red, foam-flecked jaws
Of Fenrir’s grim whelp; flag not in thy pace
Lest he catch thee, rend thee, devour thee whole,
For then, surely, is our last day on earth.
O Elf-Disc, hear my heartening prayer!

Live! Thou of the red-gold hair, Heaven’s bride,
for while thou liv’st, the gods are not yet slain,
Peace dwelleth yet in the kingdoms of man,
Son loveth yet father, daughter mother.
O Sky-Fire, hear my heartening prayer!

Notes for 11:59 P.M.

2009-12-17T11:59:00.001-07:00

I have thought for some time now, that human evolution seems, from my admittedly limited perspective, stagnated, and that, perhaps, our intellectual if not our corporeal descendants might be mechanical in nature rather than biological.

Εὕρηκα! [Fragments]

2009-12-15T16:41:00.020-07:00

I stand alone in the space of my mind. Above and all around, toward all horizons, arcs a vast firmament. Beyond the firmament shines an eternal sun. Its light penetrates but dimly, for seething across the face of this firmament are seemingly endless convolutions of grey-black clouds. As I watch the tumult of clouds, a cleft flashes opens among them, and a beatific shaft of light penetrates down through the mass, and briefly illumines the ash-grey world below. Sweet realization! I have understood! But it is gone again. Choked off. Veiled.

* * *

Parts and pieces. Parts and pieces. Disparate. Unwhole. How can I correlate them? Meaningless. Yet, before me, tenuous threads of golden light begin to bud forth, tendril-like, from the confused congeries of diverse facts. They lengthen. Eyeless, they reach, feel, search, grope. Shall they, blind as they are, find one another? In their blindness they nearly touch. Something is changed. Somehow they sense the other is there! They move more surely now, but not without some hesitation; a delicate, probing dance ensues. They hold back a tense moment, then leap forward, and ravishingly combine, and across my mind a web of coruscating lines blazes in the darkness.

* * *

I can sense behind a frictionless wall of unending breadth and height a great vastness. I try to touch the wall, my fingers slip away. There is no purchase. There can be no purchase. Have I reached the bournes of my understanding? Or can there be a gate in this seamless wall? And if a gate, a way to open and pass through it? And beyond this gate a further boundary?

* * *

Linear. I feel trapped in the self-imposed logic of the conscious mind. The illogical dream-state. Is the mystic right? To be drunk in love of the infinite. I desire the obliteration of myself into the universal consciousness. Meaningless sophistries? Perhaps. Emptiness gapes. With what to fill this void?

Notes for 6:27 P.M.

2009-12-14T18:27:00.006-07:00

Leftovers rob a man not only of his dignity, but steal away also a piece of his soul.* **

*Note: The author considers cold pizza an exception to this otherwise utterly eternal and immutable rule.
** Note: The author would also consider certain leftovers so long as the conform to the law of Moses, explicitly expressed in Leviticus 19:6-7: 'It shall be eaten the same day ye offer it, and on the morrow: and if ought remain until the third day, it shall be burnt in the fire.And if it be eaten at all on the third day, it is abominable; it shall not be accepted.' †
† Note for the note: The author realizes there may be contextual concerns with the cited biblical passage; however, the author does not find it necessary to address himself thereto.

Notes for 12:10 A.M.

2009-12-13T00:10:00.004-07:00

I just watched Saturday Night Live, which I normally don't do, because I have found, on the whole, that the generally quality of comedy there displayed is rather poor. Nevertheless, every now and then, because I respect cultural mainstays, I don't mind watching a few clips. I realize, that given various limitations, it must be difficult to... Be warned! If your belief in the comedic spirit of mankind is at all flagging, please, at all costs, avoid this program. As I watched, it was if a dark horror crept into the room, swallowing up all hope I had in mankind's ability to create buffoonery from topical events. Neither chuckle, laugh, nor groan escaped from me (a somber fact given that the average Disney Channel program all but guarantees that some ill-formed pun or impossible situation elicits from me at the very least a groan), and no smile broke my stony features. I despair! I truly despair! How is it that God has allowed mankind to so long suffer from this abomination?

Note for those who think 'classic age' SNL was good: You are wrong.

Christmas Album: The Yearly Resurrection of the Artist

2009-12-12T15:34:00.011-07:00

I'm glad that Bob Dylan has finally decided to seize at an immortality that would otherwise be denied him. Most of his throwaway songs would otherwise have been forgotten in less than a generation and his fame would have diminished into nothingness.

Why, might one ask, would have been forgotten and not shall? What I am attempting to say is, that superannuated artists (as Dylan shall doubtless be all too soon), whom no one would otherwise listen to, manage each year a small renovation in their fortunes. How do they achieve this? The Christmas Album. Indeed, all an artist must do to ensure the survival of his music beyond his death and utter obsolescence is to condescend to lay down, is his declining years, a few holiday tracks.

Consider Handel. He composed a bunch of stuff, but what gets all the airtime? His Messiah. Has anyone avoided hearing portions of it every holiday season since 1742? Only a very few, if any at all. Consider as well the now-defunct hip-hop group Run-DMC. When's the last time they were heard on the radio? Probably sometime this month, but the song? It's the classic Christmas in Hollis. Other examples exist in such profusion that it would be folly to note them all here. To convince himself of the truth of my words, one needs merely make a cursory examination of his local department store's holiday music display.

So again, I congratulate Bob Dylan on the momentous decision to become an immortal: Merry Bob Dylan Christmas!

Notes for 1:34 A.M.

2009-12-11T01:34:00.002-07:00

I'm fairly certain that I prefer erudite matters to be discussed in a vulgar manner, and vulgar matters in an erudite manner.

Tyrant Lizard King

2009-12-10T23:59:00.007-07:00

A black line of distant mountains uphove itself from the plain, forcing blue heaven from its embrace of loamy earth. From this distance, one could just make out a thin, grey thread of smoke, which, emanating from one of the peaks, spiraled lazily into the atmosphere. It whispered of the raging tempers which, unseen, yet seethed, and which, in some recent aeon, had torn from the body of the earth this serrate spine of stone.

On this day, if an observer had looked into the sky toward these distant mountains, he might eventually have discerned a dark mote moving toward him in the sky. Had this observer continued to watch this fleck, he would have seen it draw closer, resolving, bit by bit, into a form not dissimilar to a bird’s. Now, had the observer watched as this apparently ornithoid object moved closer still, he would be forced to concede the fact that none but the remotest similarities bound some common crow or pigeon to this great-pinioned behemoth.

The pterosaur clapped together her massive wings, and let out a screeching cry of blended exultation and hunger. From her heavenly perch she watched all that passed below, eyes constantly roving, seeking out some likely meal. As she passed between sun and earth, her body and great, membranous wings cast a dark shadow below. Within the limbic brain of those creatures that her shadow touched was unleashed a cascade of horrors; those that fear had paralyzed might have managed to look up and to see the cause of their horror in all her ruthless splendor: a nimbus of light around a black, roughly triangular form, save for the light-permeable wings, across which the sun illumined, as if upon some grim vellum, the blood-red capillaries which branched across her wind-taut, inter-dactylic flesh. Had she understood the fear she caused, she would have felt in it a cruel delight. Yet, had she been capable of so complex an emotion, she might also have briefly pitied those impoverished creatures of the earth, who could not spread wide their wings and unchain themselves from the tyranny of gravity. As the stalking she-pterosaur continued to arc her way through the air above the wetland plain, the orbit of her gaze briefly registered the existence of one of that species of lizard-kings, the tyrannosaur.

The lizard-king tried to catch sight of those diminutive limbs which the cruel weight of millions of years of natural selection had awkwardly appended to his torso. The lizard-king could sense them, operate them crudely, yet they were ever invisible to him. The young tyrannosaur, at last despairing, cast back his head, and raised his snout to the heavens. He filled is lungs, and let forth a long and mournful wail:

Notes for 10:18 P.M.

2009-12-09T22:18:00.002-07:00

Someday I hope there will again exist a generation of children that has never seen, nor will ever see, a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.

Bad Fantasy

2009-12-09T20:45:00.007-07:00

CHAPTER 1

WHEREIN SOME BORING EXPOSITION IS MADE, A PROPHECY IS REVEALED, AND AN ORPHANED COUNTRY LAD LEARNS OF HIS GRAND DESTINY.

Michael was awake, but he kept his eyes closed, enjoying a few stolen moments before he had to rouse himself from his warm, enswaddling blankets, and begin the day’s labors in the sharp chill of autumn. He thought of the cows he had to milk first thing: Betsy, Nan, Lady, Twigs and of course dear, playful, little Topsy. Topsy, now she was a beauty! Great gentle eyes, shiny brown coat, long eyelashes, well-made udder. Last year, she had even won Best in Show at the village fair. Then she had worn about her neck a garland of flowers that Michael had carefully braided for her. Such happy times! These joyful reveries, however, could not last for ever. Michael heard Zurd stirring in the main room of the well-built, thatched-roof hut, a room which served as kitchen, dining room, hallway, and living room.

Casting off his blankets, Michael revealed his half-naked form, rippling with well formed musculature, such as one might acquire in a life devoted to physical labor. He drew on his clothing, splashed his face with water from the bowl which rested on a table next to his bed, and exited his room.

Zurd sat at a rough-hewn table adjacent to the fireplace, slurping down a breakfast of cold porridge. As Zurd lowered the bowl of porridge from his lips, Michael examined the face illuminated by the low-burning fire. Porridge dribbled down the chin of a man as shriveled and wrinkled by age as an apple from last year’s harvest, forgotten at the bottom of a barrel. Yet, despite his apparent age, there was a playful gleam in his eye that betrayed the fact that though age had deprived him of any beauty he might have once possessed, it had not managed to deprive him of mental acuity.

“Michael?” Zurd asked, wiping his porridge-y chin with the sleeve of his tunic.

“Yes, Zurd?”

“I’ve got something to tell you,” spoke Zurd with great seriousness.

Michael’s heart began to beat nervously. What could it be? Did I forget to take out the trash again? Since Zurd had taken him in after his parents had been ruthlessly murdered and raped (and vice versa), Zurd had never beaten him for a mistake, though a stern look and some well-chosen words often felt to Michael like a lash. Thinking on these things, Michael again saw the horrible night of his parents’ death. The Orgs burst through the door. His mother screamed. His father took up a piece of firewood to use as a club, but to no avail. Michael hid under a bed as he watched as the Orgs raped and murdered, then murdered and raped his parents. Then it was all over. The Orgs left. Zurd came in and carried young Michael from the scene of carnage.

It was on that day that Michael had vowed to kill every one of that race of broad-nosed, large-lipped, gold-greedy, re-gifting, green-skinned, slant-eyed, fashion-conscious, lisping, raping, murdering Orgs.

Zurd continued, interrupting Michael’s dark thoughts: “I am no mere dairy-farmer, Michael.”

“Oh?”

“In the world outside this small farming community, I am known as a sorcerer of great ability and power. It is no mere chance that I came here and adopted you after I waited for the Orgs to finish raping and murdering your parents. You are at the nexus of a prophecy whose threads have been in the weaving since time immemorial.”

Michael’s face contorted itself into a mask of puzzlement. This was a lot to take in. Zurd was no dairy-farmer, but a powerful sorcerer? Prophecies and stuff? Thread? Michael decided it were better not to think about such things. He would leave such matters to his betters. “Well, I think I’d better go milk the cows.”

Zurd stared at Michael, somewhat nonplussed. “You’re part of the prophecy. You don’t have to milk cows anymore. I mean...”

“Well, I think I’d better, though. Cows’ll get peevish otherwise.” Michael turned to leave.

“No!” shouted Zurd angrily. “Get your things. We’re leaving.”

* * *

Michael, knapsack cast across his shoulders, looked back wistfully at small farm that had so long been his home. Why me? he asked himself. Why me?

Notes for 11:53 P.M.

2009-12-08T23:53:00.002-07:00

The search for God, I believe, is a search worthy to be undertaken by the best among us. But when some prophet props up an unlikely idol and says, This is God, and I see the masses bend their knee before the petty monstrosity, it is then that I despair.

How Strange! [Fragments]

2009-12-08T16:49:00.005-07:00

How strange I feel today as I gaze into the world from these skull-perched eyes. Am I the same as that being which observes the sky’s stark winter-blue? The brown grass? The horizon interrupted by the works of man and the deformations of nature? Am I the same creature that feels its body’s weight as it plods across the open field? The same that feels the boreal winds pass across its exposed flesh?

I am not certain. For the creature by which I experience the world seems today so alien to the consciousness that dwells within it. Can they possibly belong to each other? Can flesh and mind be one?

* * *

A hand moves to write these things, yet I cannot tell whether it is by the direct suggestion of my will that it does so, or whether first some intermediary power must relay my intentions to this house of bones. Alas! I can see that something is wrong: the perfections of the mind’s forms become distorted as they enter the corporeal plane. In beauty and strength of feeling are all diminished. The pattern which the hand attempts to reproduce riddlingly lacks somehow both in concision and expansiveness. I feel as if I were attempting to understand the world through the reflections in some unstill pool.

* * *

The mirror lies! I stand before it unrecognizingly, seeing reflected a mere thing of blood and flesh, sinew and bone. But I realize that I falsely accuse: the mirror can but mechanically reflect the outward manifestation of physical matter, and cannot hope to penetrate inward to those unseen operations of the intellect. The body has never seemed to me so distant from the mind.

* * *

We are told that consciousness is the product of the grotesque clockwork of biological machinery; nevertheless, I can’t help but feel that beyond this concatenation of parts roar vast and animating engines, willed by some unseen dynamo.

Hollow!

2009-12-07T15:59:00.003-07:00

'To Sluice the Deuce': A New Scatological Euphemism

2009-08-11T18:06:00.005-06:00

It is my wish to introduce into the vernacular of the English tongue the scatological euphemism 'to sluice the deuce', meaning, of course, 'to defecate'. Google has returned no matching entry, so I feel fairly certain the term is not in popular use.

The benefits of this new term are several, the principal among them being that 'sluice' and 'deuce' rhyme.

Additional related terms include the euphonious 'deuce-sluicer', which can refer either to the orifice the sluices the deuces, or a person who reminds one of a deuce-sluicer (analogous, of course, to the term 'asshole').

If this term pleases, please consider adding it to your repertoire of scatological euphemisms. Thank you for your time and attention.

Hiatus!

2009-05-26T22:44:00.003-06:00

Save for the coordinated content posts, the author of Chide, Chode, Chidden is, until further notice, on hiatus.

Monday Broodings

2009-05-25T22:30:00.001-06:00

The blade pierces. The rope draws tight about my neck. Black.

'Daisy-Dukes'

2009-05-24T11:18:00.004-06:00

So, the other day, I was out in my family's garage, helping to build a loft. The heat in the garage was terrible, and so I was determined to provide myself with some relief, by creating from some old jeans a pair of 'Daisy-Dukes'. I informed my mother of my intention, to which she said, "I thought Daisy-Dukes were intended only for women." To which I answered, "No, Daisy-Dukes are for anyone who finds himself in a state of extreme discomfort due to the inclemency of the weather." Dubious, my mother told me she'd rather I didn't carry out my plan.

So, in the end, I didn't make a pair, but only because I didn't have a worn enough pair of jeans. When I do, however...well, I'll post a picture.

Shoe

2009-05-23T15:55:00.003-06:00

Today I saw in the street an abandoned shoe. It was a croc, or a croc knock-off.

Star-Babies

2009-05-22T11:27:00.004-06:00

"Star-Babies!"

For a star-baby close-up, click here.

Spy In My Soup

2009-05-21T22:16:00.007-06:00

Imagine, if you will, a man who was born the size of a thumbnail, and in full adulthood was only the size of the average man's finger.

Now, wouldn't this man make one of the greatest spies known to man? He would. He could fit anywhere, bypass the most stringent security, and escape the most diabolical of traps.

One problem. He just fell into a bowl of scaldingly hot tomato soup. He's dead.

______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, and Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?. This week's theme: 'Espionage'.

Diagnosed

2009-05-20T23:58:00.004-06:00

"Yes, it's lycanthropy all right. Just as we suspected."

The doctor's professional and detached demeanour as he spoke these words aloud to me somehow made the situation worse.

"You mean, I'm a--"

"--Yes, you're a werewolf." The doctor finished the sentence that I couldn't bring myself to. "No need to worry, it's not fatal."

"But, what about the ravaging of the countryside?" I protested.

"Won't hurt you a bit. Werewolves have incredible regenerative powers."

"No, I mean I can't stop myself from slaughtering sheep, cattle and innocents."

"Oh. That. Well, not much we can do there. Lycanthropy tends to express itself in precisely that fashion. There's a cream we could try...?" The tone of the doctor's voice as it trailed off made it apparent the cream was not particularly effective in treating these outward manifestations of my werewolfism.

"Isn't there something about silver?" I asked, undeterred.

"Well, that's pure quackery and misconception!" answered the doctor, truly seeming shocked by my apparent ignorance. "No, this is something you will be dealing with for the rest of your life. In cases like these, it's sometimes better just to know the truth."

Defeated, I listened to the rest of his advice, and then he was done, and I returned to reception to pay his fee and schedule my next appointment.

Fish of Indignance

2009-05-19T23:59:00.000-06:00

New Wikipedia?

2009-05-18T23:44:00.004-06:00

Let me preface this post by saying that I don't normally do this sort of thing, but today I discovered an online repository of information that I am sure will one day equal or better even Wikipedia's extensive database. This website is the culmination of one man's extraordinary genius, and promises to someday rival any similar attempts to gather into one place the sum of all man's knowledge. It is the website of a society, founded in 1873 by a certain Lord Etterfirth, "...with the intention of providing data and historical analysis to prove one’s points, no matter how esoteric, or ill-understood."

Now, the database as it stands is hardly complete, and in many other ways betrays various deficiencies, but this in no way changes the fact that the promise of this site is incredibly exciting. I plan to continue to watch it grow in influence and scope, and hope you, my readers, will do the same.

So, without further ado, the website of The International Society of Proofs:

Giant-Buildin'

2009-05-17T23:59:00.002-06:00

"I've never built a giant before!" Jimmy blurted out excitedly in a too loud whisper.

The necromancer smiled, and looked down at Jimmy, who held in one hand a crowbar, and in the other a shovel. In the dark, moonless night the torch held by the necromancer cast weird shadows across the headstone-littered graveyard. "All you need is parts," replied the necromancer encouragingly, " Lots and lots of parts."

A Satyr Considers

2009-05-16T23:59:00.003-06:00

Robots Hate America

2009-05-15T23:59:00.014-06:00

I have long harboured suspicions that--despite their protestations to the contrary--robots hate America, and intend its destruction. This is why I have for years been collecting evidence against robots, with the intent to expose their anti-American cabal to the world at large, and thereby halt their insidious progress. Today, a video came to my attention which clearly demonstrates these automatons' contempt for America.

At approximately 1 minute 30 seconds into this video, is proof positive that robots hate America.

Penguins at the Gallows

2009-05-14T08:00:00.004-06:00

I don't know why, but the other day when I was considering the topic penguins, the above image entered into my mind. At first I thought it might be an odd, funny sort of thing--penguins as hanged criminals--but now that it is finished, I just find it depressing. Nonetheless, I hope my readers enjoy it to whatever degree they may.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, and Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?. This week's theme: 'Penguins'.

Yeah

2009-05-13T23:59:00.002-06:00

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Careless

2009-05-12T22:09:00.009-06:00

"What's the matter, buddy?" I asked.

A child--four or five--choked down his sobs and stared up at me with ingenuous eyes, clouded with tears. Loudly sniffling, he drew his sleeve-covered arm across his snot-streaked and chubby face.

"It got broked," he said, gesturing toward a disassembled toy fire engine, then turning again to look up at me, as if I could do something about it.

"Ah," I said. "Just curious."

With that, I walked happily away, with nary a care in the world.

Monologue of Evil Arrogance against a Protagonist for a Character of Science Fiction or Fantasy

2009-05-11T20:38:00.009-06:00

“You dare cast your puny might against me, who has destroyed numberless worlds? Can you really be so foolish as to believe that you have arrived here of your own prowess? It is I who has permitted you this far into my dominion, even unto my own palace where now you stand: those enemies which prevented your way were commanded to yield victory to you. Those who presented themselves as allies, and seemed to grant you succour? Those who enlisted in your hopeless cause, whom you called friend, with whom you undertook this adventure? These were my most trusted spies and agents—even unto those slain before you, for whom you wept.

"In my thousand-year reign, there have been many foolish enough to seek the usurpation of my kingdom, the destruction of my life, yet here I remain. You, fool—insect, are no different from these; indeed, your clumsy attempt has been less worthy than many score of heroes. You have lived this long, only for my own curiosity; now that it is sated, your death is all that shall satisfy me.”

Absence

2009-05-10T23:22:00.007-06:00

My brother called today.

Most days pass, and his absence does not cause me to feel any lack; my various strivings, and life's petty happenings occupy my attention, and protect against longing. But today, again, after the space of many months, to hear his voice--that lilt and cadence unique to him--made flower in my breast a small blossom of sadness. Nonetheless, time shall yet bring us together again, and in that I am comforted.

"Bee."

2009-05-09T22:47:00.002-06:00

Sketch 2

2009-05-08T23:59:00.002-06:00

A sketch I did while working on my finals. He's like a guy that could be a boss.

Anachronistic Nautiloid

2009-05-07T13:22:00.006-06:00

"Damn it! Am I too late for the Cambrian Explosion?"

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, and Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?. This week's theme: Explosion'.

Floosping the Swubble

2009-05-06T11:59:00.002-06:00

So, the other day I was floosping the swubble, when my friend Thomas dropped by.

"Sniggle-wup," I said in greeting.

"Sniggle-wup," he returned cordially.

"In floosping the swubble, I can always use a helper," I said, tossing Thomas a trizbin, which he deftly caught midair.

"I'm your man!" said Thomas.

Falderol's End: A Plea

2009-05-05T15:47:00.009-06:00

You know it. We all do. We often bring it upon ourselves. It is horrible stuff, yet we collect it with mindless abandon. Bric-a-brac, souvenirs, gewgaws, trinkets, knickknacks--whatever appellation one gives them, does in no way lessen the fact that they are a creeping and devastating horror.

It starts simply enough: one wants a keepsake, a memory of some trip taken, some memento of time happily spent--but this is foolishness! It is cheaply made garbage! These spurious objets d'art are tacky, tasteless eyesores, cheaply constructed in vast quantities by some uncaring factory employee in a country far from the one in which these abortions are vended. Once bought, we take them home, line our mantels with them, cover our shelves with them, or--horror of horrors--set them in curio cabinets, specially designed to display them!

There they sit, slowing exhaling a poisonous and numbing vapour, which clouds the mind, and with necromantically subtle influence, convinces one that he must add to this collection, grow it beyond all reason, clutter his shelves and then his mind with these trifles. Once begun, a collection will not allow itself to be diminished--the collector thinks himself possessor of a collection, but the facts of ownership are reversed! The collection holds the collector in oppressive thrall!

Let us all break the chains of this slavery! Let us cast into the midden our wretched enslavers! No more should we allow the selling of our souls for a few glittering trinkets! Freedom!

Core

2009-05-04T23:56:00.004-06:00

Let us tear away this fleshy Mask of Death, and reveal the living bone! The corrupting worm riddles, yet spares the nobler frame; that purer part remains, eborean, clean.

Bags

2009-05-03T23:59:00.000-06:00

Bags.

Prays the Crow?

2009-05-02T22:59:00.009-06:00

As I drove to work this morning, I caught sight of a crow standing in a neighbour's yard. Facing away from the street, toward the south, it made three obeisances--quick but elegant.

To what shall I attribute this strange action? I thought, untrained in the ornithologist's art. Perhaps some act of worship? A morning-tide invocation to the god of the crows? A hope for a plentiful day's harvest? A healthy clutch? A safe journey? Or something more esoterically corvine, unguessed at by man?

I cannot know.

Preparations

2009-05-01T13:42:00.004-06:00

The Empress of Stars examined the stepped glass shelves which displayed and nourished her collection of living genitalia. “Whatever shall I choose?” she asked aloud.

This evening’s engagement wasn’t strictly formal, so she passed immediately over her most elaborate pieces—exotic things of superlative genetic workmanship, confections of sensuous flesh: frilled, ridged, and tendriled. As she considered, the Empress lightly trailed her fingers along the glass, and below, inside the glass, this menagerie of parts seemed to sense their mistress’s close presence, and—as if to aid in her selection—began, each after their own art, to writhe, or snake, flutter, telescope, preen, open and close like a butterfly’s wings, or even to softly mewl.

The Empress smiled and exclaimed, “What pretty things you are!”

As she lifted out of the case for closer inspection a modest, yet excellently crafted, tri-pronged pudendum, the Empress reflected upon the history lessons of her youth, which described mankind’s benighted infancy, when each was depressingly confined to a single set of sex organs—male or female—which sex being dependant upon the caprice of the bestial and primitive binding of sperm and egg. The Empress shuddered at the thought; of course, she knew some of the poor still procreated in that dreadful fashion—but these were hardly thoughts worthy for one of her pedigreed and illustrious heritage. She set the tri-pronged pudendum down, and gently picked up another, which possessed delicate folds of origami precision. “Yes,” she said. “This is the one.”

Into the hollow cavity of her mons veneris she slipped the elegantly folded pudendum, whereupon the bio-robotic nerve endings of the cavity, sensing proximity, tentacle-like, found and attached to those of the of genitals, securing the piece as surely as had the Empress been born with it. This sensation was pleasurable and vivifying, and caused the Empress to gasp in an ecstasy which soon passed. Looking into a mirror, she admired how the piece well complemented her: “Indeed! Perfect!”

Symbiotic

2009-04-30T20:56:00.006-06:00

Underwater Scene

2009-04-29T20:09:00.002-06:00

Re: Re: To The Victor The Spoils

2009-04-28T23:59:00.018-06:00

Some days ago, I published to this blog, a brief essay, which revealed my distaste for religion using its sway to further jingoistic nationalism, and justify murder and rapine. Regarding this first essay, The Cogitator of FideCogitActio: omnis per gratiam had several questions which I answered in a second essay, which essay The Cogitator responded to here, and to which essay today’s essay is a response:

Now, with regard to the original argument, I must admit that I misunderstood which information you sought when you asked what rôle the crucified ‘Christ’ and ‘God’s preference for the poor’ play in my conception of religion and priestcraft. Nonetheless, I feel that I circumspectly gave a correct and defensible answer.

You argue, justly, that whether the Bible be true or a collection of myth and legend is immaterial; one must consider only that belief in the Bible (indeed, any real or imagined thing conceived of by man) has practical present, and historical implications. In my answer, which rejected the divinity of Jesus and the miraculous aspects of his story (and not as you suggest, his historicity); which also rejected the idea that God necessarily shows any special preference for the indigent; it was my intent to say that neither play a rôle with specific reference to the abuse of priestly power—a fact historically well documented within and without Christian denominations. It ultimately doesn’t matter that some believe in Jesus’ resurrection, nor does it matter that some believe God has a special preference for the poor, because—though such beliefs do, of course, have influence on adherents of the Christian faith—they have not in fact presented any major impediment for the abuse of priestly authority, under which mantle are still hid many sins (having room for many more). I fear this is a point you must readily concede. This too is historical reality—concrete history—whose dissolution is not so easily achieved; your argument that religion has acted as a rallying point for various peoples against oppression—a valid argument—changes this in no respect. History (in apparently un-Nietzschean fashion) supports in many cases the cynic’s view and conversely, or (more accurately) concurrently the view of religion as a positive force; thus, what must be concluded is that which we both already know: both views are to a large degree supported by the facts of history—in emphasis only do we disagree (or direct our divergent efforts).

You then argue, again justly, against my characterization of the priestly class as pertaining to my first essay, but meanwhile wholly ignore the expansion and clarification of my beliefs in my second essay. Your claim is, that, unable to understand the religious character of mankind, I have invented an sinister and inveigling priesthood, whose machinations have deluded the common man into willing slavery. This, is of course, absurd, and not at all what I suggested in my second essay (though I did—lazily—in my first, employing eloquent Nietzschean abstractions—as you have discerned—as a mere rhetorical and poetic device). Rather, in the expansions of my second essay, I suggested that the natural (and I believe inherent) tendency of man toward supernatural belief, in the course of history, became unwieldy enough in its exercise that it became necessary for a specific societal class to be invented—the priests—whose sole, and necessary duty was the propitiation of the gods. This, in and of itself, I find no fault with, but, again, when this power is abused for the justification of nationalistic goals, and the cleansing of murderous sin in the blood of the gods’ supposed approbation—this I cannot abide. (Oddly, you seem unwilling to address yourself to this argument). Now, lest I be further misrepresented, let it be known that I, of course, do not believe that all priests, regardless of faith, knowingly or unknowingly abuse the powers the layperson has granted them. Many goodly and noble persons of faith have demonstrated their compassion and goodwill to their fellow man, and for this we may readily attribute a part of the thanks to their religious convictions.

Again, in my second essay, which, in my mind, in no wise disparages the common man, I argue that the masses have little time or inclination for philosophical or theological speculation. Religion, therefore, serves as a quick and dirty morality, which reflects, generally, the values of any given culture, having resolved the complex questions posed by existence into the admittedly comforting formulae of religious duty.

Addressing yourself then to a bizarre argument which I never made—a clever ploy indeed!—you state that I argue that because religion maintains social order, religion is false. Rather, I argue that religions maintain social order, despite their falsity. You would hardly credit, I imagine, the gods of India, of Scandia, of Italy, of the ancient Americas, etc., as true gods, yet belief in them and their divinely given edicts has aided in enforcing social order in the various societies which worshiped them. (The admittedly hateful Indian caste system is a prime example of this). So, can a non-religious society successfully exist? Can man live happily and altruistically without religion? I am inclined to believe that man’s current state of intellectual evolution will not allow it in many cases—a fact, as you suggest—seemingly supported by history. But the world is vast, and time is long. So my answer to the first part.

Now, in considering infinities, I think that, perhaps, you purposefully misunderstand me; having a concept of something, even being able to use that concept to make predictions, hardly constitutes the intensity of understanding that the word ‘fathom’ implies. I can't even comprehend fully a million of something, yet I could use this same number I don't understand to solve an equation, or make a prediction. Luckily then, not being able to fathom something, doesn't mean the end of theology nor the end of the modern sciences; rather, it merely means that attributing conceivable infinite characteristics to something doesn't necessarily help one to understand it.

This segues nicely into my response to your next argument, for our different understanding of the word 'fathom' shows how easily a simple thing—a word with less diversity of meaning attributed to it than 'God'—can be interpreted differently enough to cause no small confusion. As well, as I understand it, in the history of philosophy, arriving at a common language to describe any one concept has been wrought with torturous difficulty, because of these variations of understanding between individuals. Can we in fact discuss 'God' unless we have some mutual place of understanding as to what we mean by the term? Can such a place be reached? I fear, ultimately, that we cannot. But, I would not take the argument so far as Quine's argument regarding the indeterminacy of translation. For all practical purposes, language being the only rough tool granted us, we can reach an understanding of one another that approximates this place of mutual understanding. (I imagine it as being similar to absolute zero: we cannot quite achieve it , but we can get pretty dang close).

So, I would in fact argue that it is impossible to understand another's whole meaning concerning anything, though a fair enough degree of precision is possible, that, for all practical purposes, it isn't an actual problem. So with that in mind, I don't suggest that the meaning of 'God' is so idiosyncratically expressed in each individual's mind, that one isn't able to discuss Him reasonably, but rather each person's understanding of 'God' is different enough—even if in the minutest degree—that, even if these various conceptions of 'God' almost achieved a very near semblance of this noumenal 'God', it still would not be God himself. Of course, God may well be the sum of these conceptions of Him—an interesting thought. Stove, then, I believe, sold his 'worst argument' too short, or perhaps, as I understand it, he realized the argument ultimately contained truth, but realized the absurdity of taking this truth to its logical extreme. With Hume and Descartes, I realize that I experience the world through my fallible senses, and that with such, I may never understand the thing itself; however, for practical purposes this is unecessary.

Ultimately, I admit less understanding of these things than have been betrayed by Mr. Bougis' erudition. Thank you again, Mr. Bougis, for your time and consideration.

Commercial Art

2009-04-27T23:59:00.004-06:00

Every now and then, those who create commercials decide--for reasons unknown--to create art instead. For those of you that haven't had the opportunity to see it, I present this beautiful short, whose only failing, which provenance I hope my readers can forgive, is that it was produced as an advertisement for Frito's chips and dip.

The longing of the film's protagonist--a light-creature--and his rejection by the world around him, is poignantly and silently portrayed, while Flacana 16 from Melodium's 2006 album, Flacana Flacana entrancingly provides a stirring yet simple soundscape for this elegant story of rejection and salvation. So, without further ado, Love and Sockets:

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Free Hug Coupon

2009-04-26T23:59:00.007-06:00

Some years ago, a customer who passed through my line gave me the below coupon, which I have kept ever since, whose glad message of human compassion has never failed, upon my seeing it, to bring a surge of joy into my breast.

I've also created a .PDF file, for my readers' convenience, which can be downloaded here, so you can make your own coupons, and get some of your own hugging into the world.

Leasing Utopias

2009-04-25T23:59:00.000-06:00

"I'm leasing a utopia right now," said the man who shared the elevator with me.

"Oh?" I said.

"Yeah, it's pretty great," he paused, then added, "Of course, it's costing me a bundle."

"I can imagine," I said politely.

The man furrowed his brow. "Don't get to spend as much time there as I'd like."

"Oh?"

"Costs too much. Have to put in a lot of overtime, here, in the real world."

"I see."

"Still," he said, "it is a utopia," he said, his voice and mien brightening.

"This is a fact."

The elevator doors opened, and the man stepped out. "Here's my floor," he said.

"Yep," I answered in reply, as the doors closed again.

I wonder if I could afford a utopia? I thought, as the elevator continued its smooth downward descent.

'Mirror-Friend'

2009-04-24T23:59:00.001-06:00

'The Ascetic' or 'The Greatest Day Ever'

2009-04-23T23:59:00.001-06:00

A certain ascetic, only minutes away from achieving unity with the universe, suddenly found his inner eye turned outward. “Odd,” he thought. He looked out of his cave’s entrance and into the world he had long since given up in the pursuit of his lofty spiritual goals.

Initially, his senses, unaccustomed to the bright material light of the physical world and the busy din and varied smell of things not eternal, took a moment to adjust themselves. First, he sloughed off the veil of eternity that dimmed his mortal vision; then fell away the mystic plugs that had dammed his smelling nose, and his hearing ears. It was spring in the outside world.

Emerald, new-sprouted grass sparkled with iridescent dew as the morning sun rose; a wind—which bore from the distant, yet-frozen heights an invigorating chill, whose bite was made clement as it mixed lower down with the more terrestrial air, but nevertheless still carrying the barest whisper of that first, mountainous cold—frisked through hills covered in blossoming orchards, across fresh tilled earth, and new spring gardens, gathering, as it passed, their various scents: the near-cloying perfumes of the blossoming fruit trees, the loamy richness of earth, and the humble bouquet of the first wildflowers of the season, exhaling at last the concoction of this heady and halesome breath into the ascetic’s cave. From this long abandoned world the ascetic also began to hear—the cries of the birds; the distant lowing of kine; the now near, now far hum of insects.

“How alive it all is!” thought the ascetic. “How full of color and sound and smell! Truly paradise is on earth this day!”

A swell of longing rose in the ascetic’s breast, and he knew he must more closely examine this forgotten world anew. So, he lowered his arms, which he had held up all these years, and broke the loop of his thumb and forefinger, and unknit his crossed legs. Carefully, he attempted to stand, and, after several wobbling attempts managed it. Then, with a few stumbling steps, he exited his cave.

* * *

And the world welcomed him back.

______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'The Greatest Day Ever'.

Earth Day Post

2009-04-22T22:03:00.013-06:00

I'm sure what follows has been suggested by reasonable people for some years now, but I feel that it bears another iteration.

Now, since time immemorial, man has subdued the earth, ruling over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth. This, of course, as any can see, has not changed at all in our modern age, nor does it seem likely to change anytime soon, despite the well-meaning, but misplaced idealism of the environmentalists. So, we are left with a problem: mankind's destructive consumption of the earth's resources is causing the death of every living thing on the planet. The solution: let it all die. But wait! That would be madness, wouldn't it?

No, it wouldn't. You see, we need merely extract sufficient genetic material from all existing species to clone them in the future. Maybe we could even cryonically freeze two of every species, male and female--create a virtual ark-cicle! Then, after we are done using the earth, we can just start over! It's that simple!

Vlad Meets His Ex

2009-04-21T23:59:00.002-06:00

Wizarding

2009-04-20T21:16:00.014-06:00

So, I had just got done bathing in my cauldron of sorcerous fires, when the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver. It was Gebble.

"Hello," I said. Gebble was a wizard friend of mine, of some renown, who had recently disappeared several castles' towers. (And, as a notable fact, he had also successfully retrieved a good half of them back from the demon-haunted realm he banished them to, sometimes with the towers' residents still intact—a deed widely considered an all around phenomenal achievement by the standards of those who knew anything about the arcane arts).

"Hello," Gebble said. "I called at a good time?"

"Yes," I said. "Just got out of the cauldron. What's up?"

"Well...I hesitate to ask, but—"

"C'mon, Gebble, we're friends, you need but ask."

"It's a matter of some small, personal embarrassment—"

"We go back how long? These twenty odd years? Spit it out, man!"

"Well, you know the work I'm pursuing with regard to the enhancement of the male sex-organs, yes? Well, the work was advancing quite well, but I have recently been having difficulty in acquiring willing test-subjects—parochial, pusillanimous fools!—and so, not having proper subjects upon which to experiment, I had to resort to experimenting upon myself. You know how unwieldy and delicate a science is the practice of magic—hardly safe at all, really."

Magic, I knew, was tricky and dangerous mistress indeed, frightfully uncertain at its safest. With regard to test subjects, I was only too aware of how hard it was to find good help in this benighted age.

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“Well, using what I had gathered from my initial tests, I was easily able to grow my genitals to truly astonishing proportions.”

“That sounds good.”

“It was very promising, yes, but it seems a little something extra got thrown in the mix.”

“Oh?”

“It seems, in addition to their prodigious growth, I managed to imbue them with a will of their own—their own intelligence!”

“Oh my!”

“So, I was wondering if you might be able to come over and brain the creature dead; I haven’t the heart to do it myself.”

“Of course, I’ll be right over.”

“Good.”

I hung up the telephone and put on a jacket, grabbing my sorcerer’s bag on the way out the door. “God bless us wizards,” I thought.

Wonted Paths

2009-04-19T11:59:00.003-06:00

I find myself this evening disgusted by everything that I find pleasant; an ennui that I have felt creeping upon me for many weeks now. Yet, shall I change?

The track I follow is deeply rutted, and the cart upon which I ride, I think, will scarce allow any deviation. Were I to try to turn from my wonted course, the groaning axles should break, and the wheels' spokes splinter, and the blindered beast who draws me forward should wrench himself from his yoke, and continue forth, needing no guide, so well he knows the way. And I could follow after, but in the cart are the things I have imagined to be of surpassing worth, and I would not leave them to be scavenged by any passing thief. But again, I wonder if these things which burden my cart were not better lost to me.

It is then, caught in these imaginings, that I turn and look to either side, seeing the life which leaps and thrives alongside the barren and desert path I follow, and I am sorely tempted to abandon all those goods with which I travel life's roads, turn from this dreary track, and seek solace among the free.

"Guys"

2009-04-18T23:57:00.003-06:00

Re: To The Victor The Spoils

2009-04-17T16:20:00.014-06:00

I wrote a piece several days ago entitled To the Victor the Spoils, in which I presented some of my thoughts concerning the origins and nature of priestcraft and religion. Today, I received a comment from The Cogitator, a person whom I don’t know personally, but who seems a pleasant and interesting chap and a man after my own heart, asking that I clarify certain aspects of the piece—a piece that truly could be better expounded. As I sat down to answer his questions, my responses became the following essay which my vanity would not allow me to relegate to the comments section of my blog, und which my utilitarianism sees fit to fill my daily-content quota. So, if you haven’t read the original essay and wish to, please click the link above. Below are The Cogitator’s questions (in italics), and following them, my response.

Where does the Crucified Savior and "God's preference for the poor" in Christianity fit into this?

Further, is this meant as real historical argument, or more of a metaphor? The history of religious development is rife with complexity, so I don't know which priests your are referring to, nor just what "God in general" means across the scope of human civilization.

Lastly, what prevents this anti-Godism from becoming its own form of Godism down the line? (Cue Marxism's classless society eventually producing industrial capitalism eventually collapsing into a classless society eventually producing…, etc.)

Alles gut.

Good questions all, The Cogitator. First, I do not accept as true the story of Jesus’ life and supposed resurrection. There may well have been such a man, but we have no real evidence of him, but that some saw fit to venerate him (see Buddha, Zoroaster, Mohammad, etc.). Modern scholarship, I fear, has convinced me of the seeming fact, that we have no contemporaneous account of Jesus, nor any account by any who knew the man himself. That he (or some other religio-political figure mistaken for, or conflated with him) got himself crucified is no terrible surprise given the social climate of the Roman occupation of Judea at the time of his supposed existence.

To the second part of your first question—I see you put the relevant phrase in quotes indicating either a deference to God, perhaps, or rather a doubt concerning the truth of it?—I find it is hubris to claim to know the will of a god. A cheap argument, I will admit, but not without merit. We are told that gods are beings of enormous intellect and surpassing vision—what is our petty conception of morality to a maker of worlds? (I hope you don’t mind that I presuppose the existence of a god for this argument, though I don’t believe, nor can I know, whether one exists).

That religions have deigned to help the poor, the widow and the fatherless should not at all be surprising, given their common use as a means of social control. That is to say, that the poor form the bottom of a social hierarchy, whose agitation might mean the collapse of society. So—though this is an admittedly cynical view—religions exercise control over the poor to keep them physically and psychically content, which allows a society where the disparity of wealth is great to continue to function smoothly. Religions grease the wheels, as they say. The non-cynical view, is, of course, that it is inherent in man as members of a social society to sympathize with the suffering of his fellows (such sympathies being, of course, observed in many mammal societies, and hardly unique to mankind) and religion makes these natural sympathies part of divine law. I would argue a healthy mixture of these two exist in any religion, more dependent on the individual predilections of the practitioner of the faith, than anything else, and that regardless of intent, if the poor are aided, then I am satisfied.

(Having examined your profile—these modern introductions lack a certain gentility, no?—I see that you are active in the Catholic community, and so I can’t resist poking a bit of fun at the historical and present excesses of that faith, which, if it sold off its art, treasures and palaces, and donated them to the poor, would please Jesus greatly, perhaps, but would, I should guess, hardly please the Vatican! And please, do not take this impish aside as any impugnation to you or your convictions—firstly as the Catholic church has historically and presently done much good for the world, a world which would be poorer, indeed, in many ways, were it not for its existence, and secondly as I feel that no individual parishioner should be judged for the present or past actions of his church).

To your second question, whether this précis of my own philosophical thought is intended as a historical argument, or, more broadly, a metaphor, I would claim that my intent was principally to first argue the origin of man’s gods (in his mind), and second, to argue against the hierophants' use of this belief in a god to further and condone nationalistic goals (see the Israelite conquest of Canaan, which resulted in the ‘God-commanded’ slaughter of men, women and children, as well as the taking of slaves. Indeed, the Old-Testament can be viewed as a powerful document of nationalistic propaganda). As a bonus, I also argue that no man possesses in himself the same conception of god as his fellow, regardless of his ostensible claim to particular denomination or set of beliefs. This god who dwells in each individual's mind is of a necessity in idol, being, as it is, only a simulacrum of the attributes he believes his god possesses; man is, after all, incapable of fathoming infinities—infinity being a characteristic oft attributed to gods and in particular 'God', i.e. omniscience, omnipresence, omnipotence, etc.

Now, none of this is intended to make simple something so wrought with complexity as the genesis of religion. However, allow me to paint with a finer brush, that which my broad strokes have failed to convey, and make some accounting for the development of my thought, the distillation of which appeared as last Tuesday’s post. (I did not intend that the following section seem didactic, but hoped merely to offer more completely the source of my reasoning. It can be considered speculation on my part, but informed by my studies of history, religion, and human nature).

Many of the earliest religions seem to have had features in common with present-day animism, that is, that all nature is possessed by individual spirits, each requiring a unique propitiation to prevent the possessing spirit from doing harm or cursing the man or group who may have offended him. I speculate, that these, the ur-religions of mankind, developed out of man’s seemingly unique position in the world: he saw with startling clarity, that his position in the world was infinitely fragile, and that the world itself seemed full of confusing and marvelous happenings, which he was at a loss to explain. So, looking to himself, to his own mind, which seemed to act of a will, he similarly attributed a will, a consciousness, to all the things around him. This gave man a certain sense of control and security: if he were pious, and expressed properly the proper formulae of deference, he could expect the spirits to remunerate him with, for example, a bountiful harvest, or a fertile wife.

Somewhere down the line, as might be expected, it was realized that no one man, employed, as he was, with all the tasks of eking out an existence could be expected to recall to mind all the diverse ritual required to appease the multiplicity of spirits, which granted him some measure of power over his own bleak fate. Thus, the priest was invented, as a mediator between gods and men, whose profession was solely tasked with the remembering of the many ways to venerate and assuage the gods. It was to them, the priests, that mankind entrusted their mind’s gods, and investing them with the authority to make known the gods’ will, and, in so doing, assure that chaos would be held at bay.

Now, being the voice of god on earth is a grave power and responsibility, one ill-suited to the caprice and pettiness of the human soul. So it was, that religion, despite doing much good for society, also found ways to abuse the powers of its weighty office (see the Catholic inquisition, Islamic terrorism, Aztec sacrificial rites).

So, when I referred to priests, I mean merely the advocates of a god or gods and his or their revealed edicts (a definition which I feel is simple and can be applied broadly and accurately enough throughout the course ofhistory). God—I would argue—whether single, triune, or manifold, is the product of a human mind, and, if such a being exist outside of his mind, he likely bears little resemblance to our mundane understanding and description of him as expounded by priests and religions.

To your third question, I would argue that I am in no way anti-God, nor in any way contrary to (all) the aims of religion. I see religion (though I have not always held this view) as a generally positive force. What I am against, however, is the use of religion to stir up nationalistic sentiments, foment discord, and justify indescribable acts of horror, cruelty and violence.

Whether or not atheistic sentiment—which, of course, encompasses a broad range of feeling and expression, just as religion—could become a religion unto itself remains to be seen. However, all the governments or religions invented by man, or so history has thus far shown, are unable—due perhaps to some inborn flaw of human nature—to continue to exist in perpetuity (though admittedly some have been pretty long lasting).

You lastly give as an example the failure of Marxist philosophy to produce a lasting and viable government, though you’ll find that even early Christians themselves (Acts 2:43-45; Acts 4:32-37) attempted such a society under the auspices of divine direction, and were no more successful. Could atheism become as a religion? Why not? I say. Would it it eventually fall as such? I don't doubt it. But so too all that man has built.

Now, in addition to all this, I must apologize for the original piece in attempting so much in so little space. Truthfully, the various parts of this essay—though I agree with their content—are only tenuously threaded together. The exigencies of time—a common affliction, I fear—often prevent me from properly developing my ideas to even my own satisfaction.

Finally, many thanks to The Cogitator for his time and the interest he has shown in my work. I hope that I can continue to answer my readers’ queries, and welcome them gladly.

Pax tibicum.

Sun

2009-04-16T23:59:00.001-06:00

Sun looked out at the vastness of space that surrounded him, and was lonely.

For untold millions of years he had watched as the planets were birthed from the swirling cosmic debris not consumed by his own violent genesis. He had observed them in their infancy, as the tumultuous hearths which seethed at their cores wracked their surfaces with great rents, through which was vomited up their molten bile. He watched as their surfaces cooled, and became quiet. But still he was alone.

Aeon superceded aeon. Sun still watched. Great atmospheres were belched up on some of the worlds. Towers of cloud streamed across the planets’ surfaces, and the pretty patterns comforted Sun somewhat. Other planets failed to become great lights like the Sun himself, and remained swathed in their primordial vapours. Through space came great storms of stone and ice, which battered the surfaces of the planets he watched, pocking and deforming them. But still he was alone.

Aeon superceded aeon. Sun watched still. Something was happening on one of the planets—strange lights had begun to appear across its surface. Sun puzzled, “What could it mean?” Some small time passed, giving Sun’s great eye hardly a chance to blink, when from the surface of the planet strange, regular signals began to emanate from this world, startling Sun: “They sound like speech!” Sun couldn’t understand them, but they were like his own voice, and he tried to answer them. Moments after these words began, from the planet little creatures began to escape its atmosphere, and Sun knew at last he was not alone.

“If only I could see them, speak to them directly,” said Sun. He began then to strive toward the little planet which seemed the only promise of ending his loneliness. He strove and strove, eating up rapidly the fuel which would have extended his life for many millions of years more—but what were these few millions for a chance not to be alone?

Sun became sickly and orange, but he was reaching the planet, and then he had it in his embrace! But from it’s surface Sun could no longer hear the voices of its people, and no more of the little creatures launched themselves into space. “Where have the gone?” thought Sun as he perished himself, his grasp around the planet slipping away.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'The Sun'.

Brotherly Love

2009-04-15T23:59:00.002-06:00

Man, my brother made me an ice-cream cone today. He makes the best ice-cream cones. His technique is superb, getting ice-cream even into the very point of the cone--a feat lesser cone-builders are unable to achieve. The top of the cone he molds and mounds into a pleasantly round ball, which overlaps at the lip of the cone, and though I haven't taken any precise measurement, I can only assume that balance between cone and the visible ice-cream must very likely approximate the golden ratio. Truly, his cones are a supreme aesthetic achievement. This is a good brother.

To The Victor The Spoils

2009-04-14T11:59:00.001-06:00

God is with the victorious. Greed, xenophobia, envy, boredom—victory can purify the black stain of all these ignoble causes of war and spoliation in the baptizing waters of a consenting God. Whom God favors, him He grants victory. What better conclusion can be drawn? We fight against our own natures in waging wars of ideology, where innocents are spared and plunder remains unravished. Victory justifies every act of rapine and cruelty against our fellows—God himself has decided against them, and who is mere man to question God’s divine will?

* * *

Each of us is an idolater, for each has built in his mind an idol, an amalgam of his prejudices, hopes, and desires for justice in a world ill-inclined to provide it. It is this idol whom man calls ‘God’, which man worships, which man hopes will act as intercessor between him and insensate Fate.

It was from these individual idols that the first priests, in their diabolical cunning, crafted for each nation, for each tribe a chimaerical deity, who shares in the disparate pleasures and disgusts of the people who have begotten him, with special attention to the predilections of the hierophants, for whom God is become a sinecurist’s livelihood.

This God too—invented by man and his priests—is the God of Victory, the God who decrees that any man who is successful in the getting of gain from his fellow through plunder is justified. Against this God—the God of our invention, of our prejudice—we must fight, for truly is he the Father of Lies.

Two Reindeer. One Not-Reindeer.

2009-04-13T11:59:00.003-06:00

Easter Celebration: Odin

2009-04-12T14:47:00.004-06:00

Every Easter, for the last several years, I have celebrated a different resurrected god, feeling, as I do, that many of the gods who have died and returned again from Hades' depths are neglected in favour of perhaps flashier, more stylish gods--a fact which I find saddening.

This year, I have decided to celebrate Odin, a god of the Norse pantheon, who, with his own spear thrust in his side, hanged himself from the world-tree, Yggdrasil: a sacrifice of himself to himself. For nine days and nine nights he was dead, and in that strange realm of death acquired powerful sorceries, that would grant him dominion over all the kingdoms of heaven and earth, but still not free him from his allotted fate. Thus, this first resurrection was not a victory over death, for, at the end of the the world, in the Götterdämmerung, even Odin would die a final death, despite the marvelous puissance of his runic magics. So, let us this Easter season remember Odin, and consider his place among the other resurrected gods.

'Eye of the Beholder' or 'Hot Twins'

2009-04-11T23:41:00.004-06:00

Dino-Tale

2009-04-10T21:56:00.003-06:00

"It seems to me, sir, that you'd make a delicious snack!" spit out T-Rex through his saurian lips, in a high-pitched staccato.

Pachycephalosaurus, upon whom T-Rex's gastronomic desire fell, replied, "I think you should find my bony skull entirely unpalatable, but being, as I am, I generous soul, my body is yours."

"You are a good friend Pachycephalosaurus, a good friend indeed."

The Last Supper

2009-04-09T23:06:00.004-06:00

[The above image is the product of a collaboration between Palma il Vecchio and Volker the Fiddler.]

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'A Last Supper'.

Mormon-style Joke

2009-04-08T15:23:00.005-06:00

So, the other day, I caught a bit of Conference (which, for those not in the know, is a big meet-up of leaders from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints and its members), where it was repeated that the Book of Mormon is not meant as a replacement for the Bible, but a complement to it. Add in a little malapropism, and you have the following Mormon-style joke:

If you have heard this joke before, I wouldn't be surprised, and if you know of another place on the internet where this same joke exists, please link it. We can get started on an awesome repository of this same joke told or depicted in various ways.

Unstitched

2009-04-07T08:00:00.004-06:00

I unstitched myself the other day, and from my abdomen spilled out the treasures of my body, slick with blood. In the sun they glistened prettily, and I lifted them, feeling their warmth in my hands, the animation of life within them, which, of course, was the same which animated me. I admired them each and ordered them in neat rows, and destroyed these rows and began anew, sorting them differently according to my whim. This I did several times. Though the exercise pleased me well, I had to abandon it eventually. But, when I tried to put back the organs of my body in their proper place, I couldn't remember where each went, or how, and they simply wouldn't all go back in, though they had fit very well before. Embarrassed, I sat on the ground and wept, realizing too late there is a good reason why we are stitched together as we are, and that one shouldn't go about unstitching himself, notwithstanding the treasures which are lain up inside him.

Prepuce Juice

2009-04-06T21:41:00.007-06:00

So, I had this idea to use up all those prepuces that get wasted every day, and all that, so I imagined this juice. Now, this advertisment admittedly sucks, but I needed more than anything to get this idea out there, though obviously I'm not the real man for the job.

It Was Christmas Eve

2009-04-05T23:44:00.007-06:00

It was Christmas Eve. I was a little drunk.

As had become my habit on this hallowed eve, I found myself walking toward Chez Plaisir, a brothel in a lonely, shabby part of town. Those who know it, know that this particular brothel is not necessarily the classiest, allowing, as it does, walk-ins—a fact prominently displayed on the sign at its entrance which reads, No Appointment Necessary—but is nonetheless clean, if a little dingy.

Now, normally my tastes are not particular, and it didn't matter to me which of the house's robust, indefatigable ladies attended to my carnal satisfaction. But earlier in the evening I had seen a play whose lead actress had beguiled me with her beauty, with the delicate manipulation of her features and emotions—a single ray of brilliance in a murky cloud of mediocrity—and she had put me in mind for something in particular. I knew the Chez had just the girl—a nice thing, an almost pretty blonde, who, despite her years in her demanding profession, could affect a sort of fresh innocence, which quality I imagined the actress must possess, and which quality would serve to lessen the feeling of melancholy which had afflicted me when I had quit the play, and which had resisted the vivifying effects of the alcohol I had consumed.

As I entered the Chez, I was greeted by the Dame of the house, a woman made ageless—if cheap—by the generous application of makeup. We struck up a pleasant conversation in the parlour, but at length, getting down to business, as they say, I asked after the girl, whose name I had forgot, but who, through my description, was recognized by the fine lady.

She was, alas, taken at the moment, but, said the Dame, she shouldn’t be too much longer. I said that I would wait, and we continued our conversation.

The Dame had been right, and some minutes later, the girl, whose name I have forgotten again, was ready to receive me.

I entered her private chamber, lit darkly, I assume, less to provide an ambience of any romance, and more to hide the cheap quality of its decoration—crudely executed paintings of erotic scenes from antiquity. I thought I recognized, perhaps, a buxom Venus enticing some mortal or immortal lover to her bower; a grove inhabited by satyrs, who were lustily raping some unfortunate women, fallen into their clutches; a rendering of some oriental king in among his harem. My attentions however were drawn to the living female who now lay herself shyly upon the narrow bed which filled most of the space of the small room.

She was less pretty than I remembered, but the dim light helped in that regard, and she assumed that demeanour of innocence which had made me choose her tonight, and not one of her sisters.

I sat myself on the bed beside her, and engaged her in that awkward sort of conversation which generally preceded these engagements, which were actually business, and perhaps should be conducted as such, but which possessed, for me at least, a social element (the girls being, after all, persons and not automatons) that demanded at least an attempt at a polite introduction of intentions. This concluded, I proceeded to satisfy myself with her body, after which I think I dozed for a bit. She woke me, and I knew it was time to go, time for some other person to possess her body. I dressed and left, saying good bye to the Dame on my way out.

I thought about the girl again, the actress, and decided she really wasn’t so good as I had thought—only pretty—and I began to walk home.

Cup of Tea

2009-04-04T23:17:00.004-06:00

Avian Delights

2009-04-03T08:00:00.001-06:00

For many years now, I have found myself jaded to the pleasure of waking to the cries of birds in the morning. Their seemingly raucous calls have served only to annoy one so ill-rested as myself.

They other morning, however, and every morning since, I have been listening to their chorus of warbles, chirps and clucks with marvel and intense enjoyment. So alive these flighted creatures seem--simply brimming with vivacious exuberance--and the beauty and complexity of their diverse songs combine to become melodies, and have ceased in my mind to be in any way cacophonous. I feel like some medieval poet, who is always harping on about bird-songs; nonetheless, I cannot help but feel a little prick of joy to hear them carry on so pleasantly with one another.

2009-04-02T23:59:00.000-06:00

COÖRDINATED CONTENT COMING SOON--AND ON TIME!