Clone High

Sometimes when I get particularly Emo and think back to my high school days I wonder why it never worked out like you see on TV or hear about from other people. I never had a strong group of friends to hang out with, I have few to no memories of strange hijinxs while we should have been in class, just the leftover memories of a surprisingly large portion of my life that I’ve mentally boxed up and shoved to the basement of my brain. It’s sad, in a way, you never can go back, and I’ve missed out on those iconic years.

One thing that always consoles me, however, is the old show clone high. It was perfect. The right balance of strange dark humour, intellectual observations, and reality combined with a soundtrack that was melancholy and yet bright. The opening song is the only song from a show that I listen to on a regular basis and it still puts a lump in my throat. Although 90% of what I say on a regular basis is pulled from some other source, I have yet to find a situation where a clone high quote is inappropriate. It’s usually the case that no-one knows what the hell I’m talking about, but the day that I am deterred by that is the day I hang up my gilded humour pants.

Now It’s not the case that I ever turned to it for problem solving advice, but on multiple occasions it did make me feel a hell of a lot better about whatever I was going through. It was on late at night, and just inappropriate enough that I wasn’t sure I should have been watching it, but I’d turn it down really low, and hold the remote the whole time, just in case (Don’t read that bit, k mom?) and I think that atmosphere contributed to the all-over experience of watching the show. It’s not a show you could watch with other people, it was something sort of consoling to your loneliness.

I even consider it, loosely, the first reality show from television. The actions and motivations were all human and understandable, even when it lost it’s train of thought and became completely ridiculous, it always carried the ridiculousness of everyday existence. Cause real life is ridiculous, and it really helped me realize that. Wish I’d taken more of it’s relationship advice to heart though. There really is no reason to blow them out of proportion.

Anyway the point I’m not making in any way shape or form is that the blog recommended for me recently has become the new clone high of my life. 2birds1blog is written mostly by a 24 year old college graduate who is funnier than a stick in the eye and seems to have the inside track to my brain and the ability to write it humorously, which makes me hate and love her at the same time. It’s just about one of the funniest things to read in the world and validates my life choices because she’s in almost the exact same place I am in life now. Shame her soundtrack is so poop. “I’ve never been to me”? I know she posted it just to mock it, but for crying out loud, really?
I want to be just like her when I age sideways.
Also; first post from mmy new eee pc!

The evening

Well, I knew this would happen, right from the moment Neal suggested it.
He had perfect timing, as always, the same timing he has when he's playing tennis; he knows I hate it when he uses it on me. It's why we can't play doubles anymore. Which might have strained the problem in the first place. But he didn't have to suggest it.

I'd just thrown my keys in the hand-made bowl we left on the side-table, barely taken my Gucci's off when he brought it up. So casual, so airy, so what-a-great-idea-y. He thinks he's clever, and I was so blindsided, so happy to be home that I agreed. I always go along with his stupid ideas, like that time we were taking a road-trip and I needed to pee and I was going to wait until we found a proper place to stop, but he insisted everything would be fine, we brought toilet paper, I could just relieve myself (like an animal!) in the bushes on the shoulder. I'd had a little chocolate cake for dessert, usually I'm on a diet, but I threw caution to the wind on this trip, so I was in a crazy mood and I agreed. There I was, fifty feet in the bush pants and panties around my knees, squatting when a whole bus-load of students on spring break drove by. Some of them whistled!

So I should have been more on my guard, I know the tone he takes, it gets a little high because he's nervous, but he shrugs more because he wants it to seem like it's not a big deal, but it really is, and I missed it, and I fell for it and so now we have the Bedermans over for supper.

Frank and Hernia (Who, honestly, names their child Hernia?)Bederman. Neal had known him through college and they had reconnected on the golf course. Thick as thieves my mother would say. She was so right. Neal said I'd "love" his wife, we were so similar, great personalities, huge hearts; I tried. Lord knows I tried. I extended the hand of friendship many times, but that woman is just so unreasonable! She's so deliberate and pushy and arrogant! Last time we opened a bottle of good white wine, and she just sniffed and said she didn't drink Pinot Grigio. Apparently since some movie came out it's been too mainstream. She sniffed a little as she said it, too. Wrinkling the lines around her mouth.

I hoped they would be busy as Neal dialed on our fabulous little spin-dial phone, such a steal at $300. I was sure they wouldn't pick up, and then, when they did, I just "knew" they would have plans, or be too tired (she blew us off once with that lame excuse) but accept they did, and show up too. Even just inside the door, she was criticizing the short-notice (She could have not come...) and making sure I saw her expensive new Jimmy Choo's that Frank bought her.

The food was, of course, over-salted, over-fattening, and under-done, but I was pleased when I saw her scarf down my dessert Tiramisu, she didn't have anything bad to say about that, huh? Then Neal suggested we watch the latest thriller on our new 3-D television, the Bedermans, inconsiderate boors that they are, did not bring their own set of glasses!

They laughed a touch nervously, said it might be a bit far to drive just for one pair of glasses, we don't have more than two pairs, ha ha? It took every ounce of strength I possessed to keep smiling and say that it didn't matter I didn't need a pair, I'd already seen the movie (which I hadn't).

So now, here we sit, clustered on our leather sofa, the three of them enjoying the movie, and I battle a headache. Some people just have no idea how to behave.

Medical call-out

Hey Mr. Lesner!
If you feel our health-care is inadequate because they didn't feed you while you had a hole in your intestines, feel free to come be a doctor! Were you expecting a country of pampering house-slaves? You are welcome for fixing you now get out of my country!
Perhaps if the thickened clot he calls a neck had not earned him so much money off people who admire his "talent" he would realize our health-care is more human to those who weren't blessed with fifteen inch biceps. We like it just fine.

Pay as you drive

So here's the idea, in case you don't want to watch this handy video

The first year, you pay your premiums, based on 20,000 kms, or so most insurance companies claim. They check your odometer. If in the next year, you drive less, you receive a rebate off your previous years 20,000. The next year, you can choose to pay the lesser amount, and assume you will drive the same amount.

Personally, I know I would strive to drive less if I knew it would save me more money. Studies show that people drive approximately %10 less if they pay closer attention to how much they drive. It would also help people who routinely carpool, but occasionally require a second vehicle.

If you like this idea, please sign the petition. You do not need to donate afterward, although ipetition automatically transfers you to a donation page, the shysters. After only three days it has seventy signatures. They've implemented this system in Ontario, let's get it here!

Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Ayaan Hirsi Ali grew up in some of the world’s most strict Islamist countries, but after running away from an arranged marriage and claiming refugee status in Holland, she flourished and become a powerful political force, with a steady personal perspective and a spine of solid steel. Her autobiography humanizes the struggles in many other countries, most notably Somalia, and awakens a zeal in anyone who has even wanted to make a difference in the world. Her story is called Infidel.
The most philosophical aspect of her story raises questions of cultural and moral relativism. My initial reactions include a feeling that it is wrong to intrude and judge other cultures, especially one I know little about.

One objection is that we may judge a culture if the culture itself permits judgment, but this is quickly reduced to absurdity. It makes the two cultures equivalent in that we must submit to a higher will, but excuses us from the notion that we are accountable to our own culture, in which judgment is unacceptable. This becomes a battle of cultures, the struggle of a hare and a fox on an epic scale. We must ensure that we preserve our essential hare-ness, for it is no good to become another fox.

Another objection was a cry to the loss of the culture, a cultural preservation so we maintain our humanity, and every aspect thereof, while we abandon notions that prove incompatible or counter to an acknowledged goal. Respect for other cultures is good, but our world is a world of action. It is a temptation of many nihilist to reduce all to a state of “true nature”, to find a basic sense of rightness or meaning reflected within the Zen nature around us; but as humans we are playing a new game now. As we make rules to play with our newfound intellect and sense of individuality, above all, we must be conscientious.

But our “war”, the new “game” is unique in that victory does not preclude destruction. This is not a decision of right or wrong, good or bad, but of fit or unfit. We may carry the parts of another culture with us, as a memory, to respect each aspect, but the majority must move on, evolve. To become stagnant is to perish.

This lesson can, of course, become internalized. As one passes stages in life, one must learn new, and abandon old, recognizing the stages in others, to lend assistance where necessary, but never to degrade or disrespect, but to honor and remember in fondness. But only to remember, for if we become mired in the past, we ignore our future.

life updates

It started at a black desk. I'd sat to write, sipping coffee and a small soup, running ideas like carrots across the cheese grater of my mind. The dogs were running, ridiculously, under my feet, their favorite game. When I asked if they would like, "outside?" they charged for the door like maniac children; I smiled as I let them out.
Only one returned.
The other, neatly removed from our lives like an unwanted afterthought, prised out of our delicate shell like a shot from a wound.
In brief glimmers now, I miss her, see her out the windows, can feel how a parent feels when their child fails to return home. Waiting for their safety, to see their haired head bob just above the window frame. Picturing them, forever looking away, and wondering.

Reading something one does not want to read is always a challenge. There is, of course, the disbelief. An internal force of will so strong, so palpable, that it tears the psyche in two; one must remain in the truth, but the other is pleased to go into fancy, where life continues unabated as though a terrible calamity had not suddenly befallen us. But no matter how we cling, we must be pulled away.

I have a sore. Several across my body. Small round traces in my skin that sting to touch.

She put down the letter, holding her breath, 'lest the wind blow away the spider-web holding her to her past moment, her last second of hope, breaking the worst finish line ever, pushing her through it to, "another failure"
She felt like a pebble in a valley of tremendous monoliths. the minutes ticked by, she floated home, pulled by the dog, the letter dangling from one finger, as if she did not own it, it was not hers, this? No. Not mine.
Use it, was her advice, given like a crust from a man in a thick fur coat. But all the words were out there, used, and scrubbed, and reused, dull, they could never be new. Another failure, even her grief taken from her. Even sunk in the mire, her own personal horror was mundane, not worth anything. Glued to the dirt like a bug, thrashing stupidly in the bitter knowledge, feeling so foolish that a million tragedies were happening everywhere, and were so much worse, but they could not touch her like this, the spike in her bubble, the rape of hope., So ridiculous, then, to cry, wail, heave, but each light has a darkest hour, all united in sorrow. Tadpoles of misery, glistening in turmoil.
Fine. She bellows.
Throw me to ruin.
Complete loss.
Bring the horror.
Just do not consign me to wallow in this sick tepid nothing. Cast me to shadow or let me stand in the light. Just don't stand me in the twilight and promise me the sun.

Dada-ictions

It's a strange thing, then, addictions. the original inspiration for this article spurred from a reading of Cracked's "5 creepy ways video games are trying to get you addicted", and I will save myself time later by apologizing for the amount of times I am forced to use the word, or variants thereof, addiction.

When I wake, I try to cook something, breakfast I prefer to be varying and different, something original but familiar. The reason why is unknown to me, it's just a compulsion. Certainly I only require the base amount of nutrition but there is a feeling that I need a difference, a change, some control.

I try not to watch T.V. I read, instead, but even free magazines suck me in with the strange siren of meaning and autonomy. The thrill obtained just from accomplishing whatever goal (Bake the Perfect Frittata!) the hamster in my head tells me to aim for is momentary, until the horrible secondary voice in the back of my head tries to place the puzzle piece of success in the larger picture of the jigsaw I'm completing, which has no sides, no reference, and no end in sight; the puzzles of my youth where we had lost a few key pieces and were now ignobly stored in Ziploc bags.

Even eschewing the virulent sources of consumer pop-culture does not spare me the usual cravings for asinine garbage. I had the craving the other day for a new purse, for what reason I could not possibly document. Even as I write this, it is plugged into a laptop with freshly manicured nails. The woman who owned the salon the nails were duchessed at was a small-business owner, something you could sense about her within a few minutes of meeting her, the bustle and competence scurrying around her sensible shoes. Hearing her story, her history, a few words of interest made me think and wonder. As a child I was forever saying what I wanted to be when I grew up, but that nebulous time has undoubtedly arrived and I find myself disenfranchised.

When so much in life has been reduced to a series of drop-down selectable menus and replaceable facades, the overall governance of our own life is still shrouded in mystery and, dare I say, peril. It is the biggest game of poker you will ever find: the stakes, all-in; the rules, incomprehensible; the penalties, eternal. We array a platter of pop-ups, we construct mazes of challenges and struggles, we convince ourselves, froth ourselves into a frenzy, to appeal to the ruthless master of our internal measure that it matters, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about.

Even the culture we swim through, when we wish to break free of the presiding "reality t.v." or video game, or what-have-you, addiction, there is another culture there to catch us, to show us, that this - truly THIS- is what life is about. Even the conspiracy theorists, (Why the Government is Out to Get You) or the artists, (This Represents the Sadness of Love Lost) have a specially designed web, net, cradle, to hold us softly to spare us from what Sartre called Anguish; the uncomfortable realization that we are indeed, wholly responsible for our individual spiraling existence.

Perhaps it is, then within this overarching sand heap of ants, that we are found, we can rest assured that everything does matter within the larger context. But many days it feels as though I am breaking the game of truth or dare, that I have peeped behind the massive curtain behind the sets, and instead of production gear or lights, have found - nothing, but my fellow actors keep playing, and I have lost my part, my lines, where's my mark? The query now, do I keep playing, hold my breath, hope the magic holds, assume it matters not, or do I acknowledge the empty, hold to it, to what end? I suspect I know the end of that route, and I like both my ears. Oddness, for certain to assume my place is to be some sort of traveling meta-player, rollicking across the stage while the audience, (is there an audience?) tries to ensure I don't spill their cosmic drinks?

Scarier still, is the thought of the realist, non-realist debate. If a realist perspective holds, this angst has no point other than to keep me awake for sleepless nights, which no doubt, makes the problem worse. But should a non-realist perspective hold, my answer is solved, within the relief that the only things which exist are those that I choose to focus on, 'meaning' can go stuff itself, and I can sleep soundly with no worse fear than should I die in my sleep everything I've ever known would be obliterated (buh?), which will likely keep me up.

It is to this problem I return, like a dog to a rope toy, time and again, with about as much success. Elegantly simple, yet fiendishly engaging, with no end in sight, no way off the hamster ball of this obsession. I shelve it, time and time again, like a book that I read which has contented itself to seat one the main character in a bland room with no theory as to why or when it will cease. I have hurled it across the room, but faithfully return panting.

When the Loss was Noticed

Out of my mouth
a sound
only part of me cares to own
a hollow roar
from the small child in my belly
who has never truly silenced
wailing like a barrel
the grief of the young
smuggled away as an adult
coughed out in tiny burps
this cry
like a plucked string
resonance from my bones
from the holes in my marrow
the cosmic pulse
my own existence exerts

Hide and go seek life

I remember, on occasion, an incident when I was young, sleeping-over at my girlfriend's house. We had decided to play Truth or Dare, and I, having nothing interesting to report, chose dare. I was instructed to borrow ice cubes from a neighbor, who turned out to be a young girl close to our age, who handed me some with a minimum of fuss or odd glances. When I returned to triumphantly throw them in my drink, my compatriots wailed that I had 'done it wrong' by revealing to the unwitting neighbor that I was under duress, in the form of a dare. This, of course, made no sense to me; the confession had made the whole affair easier, and I didn't poke fun at a neighbors ignorance, taking advantage of the innate hilarity of others confusion. This caused my girlfriends to pout, and declare we should play another game, since I had obviously ruined this one, by my insistence that I had done nothing wrong.

In retrospect, I suppose it was not really entering into the 'spirit of the game', since without ulterior explanation she would assume that there was 'something wrong' with me, in the finest tradition of the fundamental attribution error, this result being the intention of the game truth or dare. But the feeling that someone, somewhere, thinks I am a lunatic, without a cause I have wholeheartedly embraced, is one I have never been able to come to peace with. Sometimes I wonder if, since the concept of who a person really consists of, is shrouded and subjective, that it may be also defined by what other people think. Certainly the primary energy left behind by an individual when they depart this world, is encapsulated within others memories. The difference between a fond, correct remembrance, and an unflattering, false one is invalidated when the potential to correct the unflattering one is erased by the removal of the original subject.

Whether one believes the opinions of others matter when 'evaluating' self-worth, is negotiable, but the dynamic at work between the girl's and their beliefs of the 'spirit of the game' is undeniable. It seems, in life, especially in relationships that too many times we try to play 'a game', where the rules are not defined, other than by sheer subjective speculation. We cannot let others win, so we hide, we equivocate, and scheme. When a goal is identified, we will strive, and endeavor, through any means, to achieve it, and then look down on others who refuse to play the way we play, because it does not validate and justify our actions, and we begin to wonder and guess, if there is a better way to play, which perhaps could achieve more. The games we play in childhood just teach us the steps required to play the bigger games in adulthood, to deny ourselves, tease ourselves, even misinform ourselves. We live in a world of self-delusion, and it is all set in motion so others can dance to the steps that everyone knows, in a huge coordinated two step of activity. When someone begins to waltz, there is chaos as things become disorderly. Our society is increasing becoming obsessed with the streamlined, the efficient, the ordered. And this obsession drives out creativity and seeks to squash novelty. But whether it is good or bad, is again, subjective.

Recent Ruminations

At the heart of an onion
I was born
wrenching open layers,
silky filaments
coat my lips
which, when ripped
burst forth a spring of new sorrow
filling my old cocoon
with tears


I thought of
nothing
today, threw it
behind my face
thinking it would stick
to the billboard of my thoughts
but watched it drop straight down,
past, into the vast dark pool
of my eyes with a tremendous
gasp

silver shoals
darting in
a brown stream

Now that November is over, while the National Novel Writer's Month novel I created is being edited, I'm unsure whether to post it online, or simply post parts.

More Haiku, etc.

My stomach turns
Tepid greasy dishwater
left by men

Neat bic,
Beatnik.

Camp(y)

The battery in my walkman has died.
pulling the phones out of my ears
i raise my head
looking into the face
of unfathomable weight, power
rock god titan.
a mesozoic eye regards my size
the moutain has found me wanting.

Typical

Cruising down the road in a thirteen ton truck, with a dish of butter chicken, an unhinged frenchman at the wheel, "stuck in middle" on the radio and my honey waiting for me with shakesphere at home.
Alright I'm bragging, but I didn't want to give readers the impression I was emo.

Lapis Lazuli harmony

The heron's beak
is an arching spire
piercing the tinfoil-bitter-blue.

He provides the path
from the Thunder God's fury
through the crown of my skull
through my vertebrae
My feet rooted.
My ears are open.

Fill me with dirt,
I have cleaned my plate.

Carpet Dentum Appointment

Carried in my mouth
I held angry-metal
in my teeth, dagger-sharp

Late night Titus

My mouth is full of teeth
and veins filled with tiny stars
edged bits of sand
as the waves heave
over and again rolling
across the lace of my spine

I, Titus,
a sorrow dispersed
into the blackness
the stars lay witness

Socket Wrench

There was a socket danging down from the sky. It was white and simple; a place to put a bulb. I stood, agog, in the middle of the road. I walked to it, touched it; there was no switch, but a long cord, all the way up, until I lost it in the sky, swingin with my touches with a great weight. I plugged my head in, screwed it up in, messing my hair; my face blushed, my cheeks flushed. How odd.

Life's Haiku

bitter verdant spade
solemn in spring's ecstasy sends
new roots of desire

Lunar Orb

There is a moon in my sky tonight:
large yellow fat hanging hovering
like the eye of some Godzilla
waiting with baited tongue
teeth covered in fly bits
turning towards
flicking lightning
gulp

Ironic apocalypse soap

In my purse I have a small bar of soap. I keep it there in case anything bad ever happend, because few things make me feel better and more capable than being clean. But then I thought, "What could ever happen that would be so bad I wouldn't have access to soap?" Naturally, the apocalypse. But then I realized, if the apocalypse happens, noone will care what I smell like. Thus it is ironic apocalypse soap. The soap is ironic, not the apocalypse.

(P.s. Roots: I intended to post a comment replying to your last comment, but after 7 tries, couldn't get it, I decided to wait until I had access to a computor. I'm not sure how long that will be...)

Bill 44

Oh for heaven's sake.
The newest hot button issue being debated around tables of the socially- conscious is Bill 44, a bill to include into Alberta's human rights law the right to exempt their children from classes teaching concpets the parents disagree with (for example evolution, religon, sex and it's orientations). Many liberals are declaring this would "[strike] another blow against critical thinking in schools and extend one of the bleaker elements of its history".
I do not have children. I'm not sure I will ever have children. But I know, between my parents and the revolving door of "grab-bag" teachers (some of whom were excellent, others...less so) who I would trust with my upbringing. I may not believe in what you say, but i will defend, to the death, your right to teach it to your children. This is being touted as a way to eliminate discrimination that many parent pass on to their offspring, but this is not the vehicle to do it in. To do so, we need to eliminate discrimination in the adults, not estrange children from their parents. Society today has enough things ripping the family apart, we do not need another one causing children to question the first authority they will ever know.
Furthermore, teachers are not all the overarching bearers of unbiased information that we would love them to be. Some have feelings. Some are politically motivated. What can be done to combat the uncomfortable suggestion that a teacher may have access to hundreds of fresh minds? At least parents only have access to their own child. A bigoted parent will do less damage than a bigoted teacher.
The common objection, here, is that knowledge is better than ignorance and that children should be aloowed access to all schools of thought to encourage tolerance. This is true, and I agree, but this is not the place to do it. If a tree is rotten on the inside, do we cut off the leaves, grafting them onto an already burdened tree? The proper step would be to nourish the base of the tree and watch the branches heal. Children are in difficult enough situations. Lets not make them worse.

Pink rainstorm

I remember
my mother
she made me
strawberry spinich salad
she made me
finish my homework
she made me
proud of myself
she made me
remember other's feelings
she made me
tall and attractive
she made me
dance to piano music
I remember
my mother
she made me

High Figs (a.k.a. update)

I wish I had something more exciting to post, but this will have to do. We passed the "fifteen day" mark within which to post our statement of defence (Saturday. I had a small party to observe the occasion. By party, I mean booze), but my lawyer assures me it's not necessary yet. Currently it's just talking; Not even official negotiating. However my friend, the driver of our errant vehicle, has not been served yet because the army has whisked him away. Not far away, just away. Teehee. I'm not worried though, I'm taking a criminology course! Wait'll the chief justices get a load of me! Carries a pistol and can say "Mens rea" without snorting! Able to leap medium sized sandcastles in a single bound with a running start and good tail wind! Now, where's my lasso?

In honor of my daddy, the mayor

There once was a man from High Level,
said "This weather can go to the devil."
He set out to be mayor;
His first edict declar'd?
"One summer shall now become Sev'ral."

Steep night misgivings

Ever since I was little, I've had nights where I got scared. At my youngest, I'd flee to mommy and daddy's room. After we moved, my sister and I shared a room, and things were easy for me.But when my sister was older she began to take showers in the morning. I used to follow when she went for her shower, make a bed out of towels on the bathroom floor and sleep for a little while longer.
We aged further and were given our own rooms, but still, a few times a year, I would wake up so scared that I would take my blankets to her room and sleep on her floor. Sometimes, though, I would be too scared to move, and would lie in bed in mute, catatonic horror.
She graduated and I tried to make due for a year. When she was home for christmas I crashed on her floor again.
I graduated, and was sure that such childish concerns were far behind me; yet my first night found me curled in a ball on my new bed, in a new city, crying my eyes out, desperatly trying to phone my sister to come home and save me from a faceless horror I didn't comprehend.
Eventually I cut horror movies and books out of my life, but the problem persisted. They did not produce the feeling, they just gave a vision to focus my terror.
I took on a night shift, to attack the dark, own it, and for a while it worked. I was a warrior hidden, using the shadows.
When that job ended, I took a more aggressive one. Now I was a creature to be feared; my mind to protect me from the non-factual horrors, my gun to protect me from the realistic ones. Striving to become an officer so I could control the night, I felt arrogant in my efficacy. Fear was a toy, meant for children and lesser beings. I would use my strength to protect others.
Until I find myself, curled again, on my bed, a grown woman, terrified.
There is no happy ending to this post.

Punchline

A guy walks into a police station and says,
"I'm looking for Michelle Ernst?"
and I say,
"Yes? "
and he says,
"You're being sued. Here's your paperwork. Have a nice day."


Okay so it's a lowsy joke but it makes me giggle.
I spoke with a lawyer (half an hour free consult) and they say to turn it over to my insurance company; they'll deal with it, but I do have a right to know what is happening, including how much is finally settled on. So I plan to document as much as I legally can here.
Enjoy!

Canadian Oasis

We are a land, improbably vast, almost sprawling (defying today's culture of restraint, frugailty, recession) populated by people too polite to take the middle armrest on a plane ("No, I really couldn't. I'm happier as a canape.")
Secretly we see ourselves more mature, more refined than our lower neighbors. Holding up our monarchy, hiding behind the Queen's skirts like a shy child, as proof of our regal nature. Their cowboys hats, massive towers, erected to their own grandeur. Down the street of life they are the rowdy college boys, laughing like boozey bubbles; we trail behind, our polished shoes tapping on stone, hugo boss parfum lingering over the smell of cheap whiskey. Our nostrils twisted in derision until you observe the building we pass.
Is that really just an old school?
It's alright; just don't think about it.

An open letter to my cat

My darling cat.
Although you are daring and adventurous, letme assure you there is no need to bolt, as from the depths of hell, out the apartment door everyday when I open it to arrive from work. There is the same twenty feet of smelley carpet that was there yesterday.
Also, I realize staying quiet while I sleep is impossible, but can we eliminate the glass- shattering noises?
My head is not a boost, stepping stool, landing pad, or launch dome. I am firm on this.
Finally, I know you appreciate when I fill your box with fresh sand, but a poop filled taj mahal is not necessary to show your love.
Thank You

Canadian pride, eh?

We Canadians don't have much identity. It is a scavenger hunt for pieces right now. Like a teenager growing painfully amongst hundreds of full grown adults.
There is a joke we tell; we believe we are better than Americans.
They have, through truth or artifice, a black president.
When will we have a native prime minister?

What I learned in the sink

Salt
on my face
crusted flaking
previous form of payment
the worth now infinitely diminished
the hourglass demands the rain sea ocean
leaking away with cool silk texture
reborn a mighty Venus
cleansed rippling
off my face
water

Going gentle into a good night

Come, fair sleep, and triumph o'r the fake night.
Plauged and rolling, no rest for my weary.
As though the God of sleep plays tricks on me,
and has wrapped the day in a dark shawl.
Come, fair sleep, else the new day dawn without a new morning for me.

Weather the weather

Drowning in fog, thick and heavy as sin, a precarious bubble are we; rushing, praying, pressing forward ever so forward so gingerly hoping, at any moment the tiny firefly through the muggy cotton, the little lamps of a big huge bug, bearing, threatening to squash us, doomed because we were not five feet up, to see, or five feet over, to miss, and so now five feet under, to lay blame in sterile paperwork, unable to capture the messy heart it describes.

Enough is enough!

Alright. I can stay silent no longer about this blatent disregard for human wellbeing! We must resist and overcome!
Tim Hortens. Why are so too cheap to provide paper towel in your bathrooms?? Those stupid air-dryers are worse than having someone lick my hands dry!! Are you grinding the towels up to make your coffee? Are you trying to be environmentally consciencious? Because you are FAILING; I get so annoyed I go outside and kick the poop out of any bit of nature unfortunate to get in my way!
From now on I shall be boycotting Tim Hortens! They can't treat us like this! In fact, I shall be picketting outside the nearest Timmy's! All I need is signs, a garbage can fire and some coff... oh. Oh they're good.

Name Game!

1. YOUR SPY NAME (middle name and current street name):
Marie 105

2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME (grandfather/mother on your dad's side and your favourite candy):
Sheila Chews

3. YOUR RAP NAME (first initial of first name and first three or four letters of your last name):
M-Ern

4. YOUR GAMER TAG (a favourite colour, a favourite animal)
Green Lemur

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME (middle name, and city you were born in)
Marie High Level

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME (first three letters of your last name, last three letters of mother's maiden name, first three letters of your pet's name)
Ern Hutxia

7. JEDI NAME (middle name spelled backwards, your mom's maiden name spelled backwards):
Eiram Tuhcalb

8. PORN STAR NAME (first pet's name, the street you grew up on)
Einstein Chinchaga

9. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The", your favourite colour and the automobile your dad drives)
The Green Jetta

10. YOUR ACTION HERO NAME (first name of the main character in the last film you watched, last food you ate)
Shu Soup

Work Circus

We are high-wire trapeze artists; skill, nerve, and luck weave together to make this tentative balance high above the crowd. I can feel people hold their collective breath as we move past and through each other. Trusting in our hands, clasping wrists. Should we falter, fingers fumbling, heart skipping, grotesque moments lengthend unnaturally, distended, waiting to divulge their private horror, like a rancid flower blooming. The floor miles below, sucking me down, arms waving comically, legs kicking, hair blowing in eyes clenched, spine curving against nothing, wind whistling past my ribcage. My head so heavy it tips me skull first down. Mechanisms in place, gears slowly, inching, like a train starting, the grate of continents, pinions falling, doors sliding, ropes pulling, making a net, like the arms of an angel, my savior, salvation. "There are systems in place."

Please sir, may I have some more?

I think I've lost the ability to relate to people. I left the party somehow and when I came back, everyone was speaking a different language. It is extrodinarily lonely to be surrounded by everyone and yet noone at the same time.
How does one come back from this? Where is my map, my sextant? This is unfair; being so acutely aware of Sartre's anguish. Where is my blanket? For protection and forts that hold secrets like a balloon. It has been used too long for sleeping while the other children played. It has forgotten it's purpose: and in it's forgetting so have I. My knees are brittle with effort.

Go watch Mad Money

It is nothing near what it is like to work with huge wads of cash but watching Diane "Martha Stewart" Keaton freak out makes me happier than a bag of crack. Which is, incidentally, what Queen Latifah offers to pay her sons' tuition in.

Correction: Watching Diane menace some giant bewildered black man standing at the urinal was way better.

The inadvertant racist

It is a surpisingly racy feeling, to look, late at night, into other people's windows. watching them stand in their kitchen or living room, sleeves rolled up. They are aware, I suppose, but do not focus on it. It is astonishing how much we put ourselves on display, hoping to be held gently by those who view us. Man seeks reassurance, acceptance by his peers; seeks to find a hand to hold in the sucking black.
Seeing past the curtains, through the warbled glass, into the warmth, the mellow pool of heat, feels like tearing through the skin of an orange, sinking my eyeteeth into the pulpy treasure.

Ravi-au-lait

I had what I will refer to in my later years as "a brilliant idea".
Minutes later campbell's soup joined cooking sherry in a deep shiny pot on the stove.
I overcooked the ravioli, but somehow it all turned out perfect.
Needed mushrooms.

L(y)earning

"Don't you ever learn?"
Oh but yes, yes I learn.
I learn in the quiet ways, the side ways, the hidden ways. You are angry with me, impatient; what are you doing now?
I willing leap into my mistakes again, ("You think something different will happen? It's exactly the same!") but oh, you don't see. Something has changed. I have. This new me hasn't made the same mistake. It needs to learn. To science this mistake. After the error, I devour my mistakes like creme bruille, so sweet, breaking the crispy crust.

Watch me learn.

Now available in a smelley box on wheels!

In self-defence against my driving I have decided to start jumping (i.e. NOT drving) all of my runs.
The positive? More time to write, think, and relax my overstrained forearms.
The negative? Not everyone in the shop is a better driver than me. It just means I won't be pegged with anymore accidents.
In other news I have broken down and purchased a car.
Angels weep.

My roommate Jared's anti-depressing advice

"Well, I've been feeling kinda bummed out lately..."
"You should stop eating cactuses."
"I...uh...Yah. Yah that might work."

Stolen Recollection

Trees flip past like the legs of a million soliders marching. Fields carefully tended iced in frost. A steel silo stands like a bugle call beacon.
Remembering, by this little red smile, what was given up for me. Young boys, older men, left home, hearth, hearts, to travel far away to the cold and fear, to fight for me. Plans left off, opportunities sacrificed, lives cut short.
In the morning and at the going down of the sun,
We will remember them.

As the poet says

Transformed utterly, a terrible beauty is born.
For once I am reminded of the power of my sex. The launching of a thousand ships from the look in her eyes, curves of a graceful arm shatter an empire, her tears salting the ground.
My motherly grief denied I turn to my other soltice; the avenging fury of a lost angel, wielding my rage like a scythe, laying waste, ravaging in my despair. Full aware of my childish actions, I am as powerless to stop them as those in my path.
I, Hiroshima.
I am a woman scorned.
Hell hath no fury.

Nothing left

I wrote a huge post about how frustrated and disappointed with myself I was for my complete inability to make anyone, myself included, happy, and accidently deleted it.
The irony is reaching critical levels.
I'm going to bed.

futuere stercus

What awkwardness caught

What strange awkwardness, caught in my throat; this cough is never enough to pluck it, steaming in the cold air, from the bottoms of my lungs. It was transplanted, as am I, into a place it did not belong in; I wonder if it feels as I, my mouth far too wide, too open, the glitter of my necklace heavy on my clavicle, the scents in the air all merge like the sepia on antiue photos. I am surprised to find I am old enough for them.

Last night, while fetal in the cold, fingers sticks of lead, back a curving branch of beef on the butcher's slab, I dreamt beneath my fluttering lashes; my work partner and I, there was fear, a puddle of urine, and a sensation I wish I was not familiar with, of standing on one's head, surrounded by a honeycomb (but not sweet) of metal that sacrifices itself around me. Now we, four who are loved, dearly, deeply, travel home in this tiny precarious aspect, at speed our ancestors never dreamt of, in a tiny pool of lamplight, on this round globe of earth that cannot even acknowledge us, how much we need it, it's tiny passengers.

Mental invading forces

It has been a long time since I have had a sleep-over in someone else's house like this, I suppose. It is a strange feeling, crashing
(ooh yes crashing, since I have already broken something, the washer, damn knobs. Now I must glue it, and wrestle with the confession. What an awkward situation to be in, the strange complete familiarity of living in someone else's house but not even knowing how to address them.)
in a new house, no, a new home.
Many times I have stayed with family, even lately house-sat, but I adopted those area with such complete ease, having seen them many times, usually with the comfort provided by the aura of someone who has known me since diapers were haute couture.
Yet now?
These stairs are unknown to me, the noises all alien.
I'm moving through it like a tourist at a museum.
Staring at things like the consumers in Ikea, my fingers itching to touch everything, even the chairs I can't pronounce.

All this strangeness has done one good thing; The added adrenalin has spurred me to do some things I've been meaning to get done, so far I've completed three loads of laundry and read half-way through a book I've stared at for a week.
And now I'm surfing through garbage on the internet.
Perhaps this could be good for me?

Excuse me mister, I'd like to borrow some of your time.

I'm living on illicit time. I make silver tounged promises, compromises that wish for wings. 2 more minutes, 3 more hours, 1 more day, anything.
Time still confuses me. What possible effect could such a untangible, relative, vague concept have? More and more I find it standing in my way, or even behind me. Sometimes it trips me, sometimes it carries me. The hardest thing is to court it. Learn to dance with it, the proper seduction that changes daily; slow, sweet, furiously panicked, he is never the same twice, and because of that;
I may never be the same again.

Summer mournings

Staring through the bus window glass at a man staring out his car window at a Tim Hortens cup that is miraculously still upright in the road, summer waves goodbye, opens the way for a loving fall, the trees tentative in their yellow, but a million leaves on the ground already, washing through my steps toward my connecting bus, wishing I was camping in this perfection, with the yawning blue sky and the wind, staring at the woman staring at me staring at her wondering if I could overpower her and steal her double-double...

I am not awake today, wandering blearily in the sun through my kitchen windows. Instinct dresses me, I catch my bus on time, but this day has not even started, oh no, not even started not yet. I have a million hearts to break yet, and a million hearts to be broken. Possibility cradles me easing me into the cavernous bowl like an underground lake, so black it has no bottom, making me aware of my feet, standing on a thousand miles of nothing, perhaps watched, in their pink vunerability, by slick eyes with clear eyelids.
Every movement squeezes my heart; I am a sleepy ninja.

More work

Heavy, scarred man with a diamond earring like a gypsy's eye by campfire tells me he's never met anyone who wanted to join the army. Tells me how he takes his three year old son, rain or shine, to stand by the Highway of Heros in Toronto, waving a flag fo the fallen soliders. His voice is wistful, he starts for a a moment (such a big man stumbling?) saying he thought about it for a while, but with his son...no, not with such a young son. His voice stops for a moment, and suddenly my hands are far too awkward and I don't know what to do with them.

Says he would support his son if he wants to. Wants to give him the chance others said he didn't have.

Isn't that what the army's for?
To give a chance when others say you may not?

Kirkie

I'm so happy.
Sitting here, adding things to the internet with my decaf coffee in hand.

I love myself so much, they gave me a special jacket so I can hug myself all day.

Notes on the hitchhiker's guide

It's been so long, so very long since anyone came to fulfill my purpose. To give meaning to my hollow existence. I feel so lost, barren. Without my purpose, who am I?
The most cruel fate is remembering what it felt like to be used,, but not feel it.

Doesn't anyone need into this storage closet?

Fiction work

I can feel my hair stand up. holding this tiny rectangle in my sweaty hand. What do I do with it now? To keep it would be unthinkable. To throw it away, less so. It is funny that this stupid piece of plastic-y cardboard has stapled itself into my life.

This morning was dull. I made my bed, smoothing the comforter to the corners, drank a coffee, greeted my boyfriend with a kiss, and stepped out in cute pink flips flops for a relaxing day off in the park.

We had been out about an hour, my shorts were starting to chafe, and our hands were sticky with cotton candy, when we noticed a magician doing card tricks on a street corner. I've always loved card tricks, so I dragged my man over, and joined the throng.

He had on tight purple and black striped pants, old fashioned buckle shoes, and a jacket with an outrageously boring flower. He had a mustache that had seen better day, but well manicured nails. I suppose he caught me blushing with excitement because he pulled me into the center and announced I would be his "Lah-verly Asseesstahnt." (rolled his head and his tongue, hanging out,in a strange pivot as he spoke) I was delighted.

He instructed me to remain patient as he ran to his velvet- lined trunk to grab his special cards, so I stood awkwardly, trying to decide what to do with my hands while the crowd stared at me. Soon, he had returned, brandishing a deck of ordinary cards, well worn, however.

With the same tongue and head roll that made me begin to wonder if he was deranged, he instructed me to pick a card, any card, and replace it in the deck without showing me. I pulled out the seven of clubs, vaguely saying it to myself a few times before replacing it smoothly inside the deck. while I was thus engaged he roamed the crowd, making fashion commentary that seemed completely arbitrary.

When he returned, I handed him the deck, again reminding myself of the card. He seized it from my grasp with both hands, then, scarcely looking, pulled one out and yelled, "Is THIS your card?"
I looked at it and, after reassuring myself, told him it was not. He turned it to his face in surprise, that I had assumed was theatrical.

The crowd giggled as he straightened his arms in his sleeves, and tried again. His hand shook slightly as he waved it over the deck, muttering vague words. The crowd ooh-ed like obedient children and he whipped put a card, "Is THIS your card?"
Again I shook my head, and the crowd drew in, smelling suspense.

The magician grinned and wrapped both hands around the deck, then began to squeeze. His grin became a clenched tooth-ed grimace as his knuckles whitened and his fingers went blue. I backed up, unsure, and the crowd began to mutter nervously, no one seemed sure what to do.

I became aware of my boyfriend moving up behind me at t the same moment the magician first cut himself. A thin eddy of blood ran from his finger to the ground, and people began to move, some in to stop him, some away, disturbed. Two big men pulled at his elbows, trying to stop him as more and more blood appeared, but his face and arms remained unmoving. His eyes had not left mine.

Suddenly, he released and, pulling out one final card, "Is THIS your card?"

I thought about lying, but I hesitated, and in that moment he read it in my face,

"Oh. Oh well."

and moved to clean up his stage props.

My boyfriend put his hand on my arm and we walked away.
The day was obviously over, but we tried not to talk about it as we said goodbye. I unpacked my stuff, a few interesting market finds, and shuffled around the kitchen, craving coffee.

In the cupboard, in the sugar bowl, is the seven of clubs.

I have in my head

I have in my head a tearful admission from a young girl. She had gone to see the doctors and they have pronounced (labelled?) her fat. "but you're so tall!" I had insisted, but to no avail. She told me they had charts. Had measured, evaluated her, and had found her not wanting, but ample. I recall her stature, tall, curved, perfect. She is, in my head, the original amazon I now aspire to be.
I wonder if she knew. Knows now, how beautiful I remember her.

This is why I write

I'm so full right now. My ears full of bass, orchastrating my heart to the rhythm of my songs, my eye of the sunset, safety and sherbet orange, my lungs with oxygen, my arms of blood, my legs tingle with lactic buildup, trying desperately to push myself another inch further, my nose of the smell of cut grass, under my toes, my hair of sweat, my tounge thick in my mouth I want to pull the world into this open grass field in front of me, into my heart, show them the hunter we came from in the passion of fatigue, the hope of one more step under the pave...meant of my sneakers.

Need Goldbond

It's late at night, I'm bussing to work and I'm in one of the worst moods I've had in recent memory. I'm not sure why, but I think it's exaserbated by the fact that I have had no time for the gym or friends this wek due to my work schedule.

With some time on the company range, in the gym, on the sparring mats, and in the dark field with airsoft equipment all coming up, my mood promises to imprve, but I can only hope to do no damage to my close relationships with my grumpyness until it does.

Since my phone has become my mobile computor, I can promise some updates to my ongoing writing, with some interesting directions . Reflections on my own life within the writing has led to answers in both.

La Clare de la Lune

Never before have I fallen in love in stillness.
There has been love in passion
in the crazy heat
hands clasped in a tornado
in a hurricane

It is so easy to be in love
when your heart is already pounding


But never before have I fallen in love in stillness

La Trivia-ta

Bahahaha! You are reading what is the fruits of my heartened three day pursuit of a mobile blog post! Rejoice, for I am finally posting this from my phone!

Go listen to Forest City Lover's "Orphans" to rejoice with me. I shall post more anon.

The day of my Father

I'm so embarassed it's been so long since I updated, but life has been mobile, and this is the first day completely off I've had in a while. Not to say that it hasn't been fun.

I have been training for my armored car job for the past few weeks, and it was surprisingly tough. I found myself hiding in the bathroom crying in frustration at one point because I could no longer force my shoulders to hold the revolver up and steady in order to fire the last few shots I needed to pass the course. I went back and tried again, and passed, but I can say that I would not have, were it not for the encouragement and patience of the instructors. I owe them so much.

Despite the frustrations and the struggle, I discovered many things; recoil is all comparative (something you think has a lot only has a lot when you haven't fired anything BIGGER...yet) I hate firing around barracades, preferring to stand and draw like a twit, which is still remarkably successful even when being fired at, and that I am a surgeon with a shotgun.

My first few days of work have been idyllic; I enjoy the sensation of wandering around with a gun and a bullet-resistant vest, and I don't think I'll ever tire of telling people what I do, and seeing their faces.

My coffee this morning, on Father's day, I like to think I'm drinking in honor of him. True, I woke him up with a phone-call this morning, but he did get many more hours than he would have, had we all been small obnoxious children still.

This past weekend, I travelled home to see my brother graduated, and (Omg, he's so tall and he's such a grown-up! I'm so proud of him!!) see the family home again, given that it had been two years since I had been back. Other than finally recharging, and re-discovering where I came from (It has changed completely and yet remains the same.), I took something back home with me. An old family rifle that belonged to my dad, and to his dad before him. It's old, but it's in incredible shape, and still works perfectly.

The coffee and pancakes I made today taste better than usual.

the Leviathan sleeps....

I wish I could say I've been neglecting my blog because I have been asleep, but unfortunately, sleep is one of the aspects of my life that must suffer in order to accommodate other things.

So is my blog. I have been thinking of interesting posts, but unable to find the time to post them. So I'm going to make a commitment. I shall attempt to write every half hour before bed!
This is, of course, after I come back from two weeks of "vacation" read: intense training that requires an athletic cup.

I have much excitement to relate, but two scenes ought to suffice for now;
I'm sitting in a shower, literally, of money. Twenties falling around me gently.
and two
I'm realizing how difficult it is to tie your shoes with a bullet-proof vest on.

Notes on an Unnatural habitat

I've learned the new site well enough to write again and still achieve all the patrol objectives, but it still takes every ounce of self-control I posses to refrain from sending a message that runs thusly:
"Dear Boss
Whatever I did, I'm sorry.
I can change, just please take me back! (to Dell)"
Perhaps I simply dislike change, but it seems the only benefit to this new site is the classical music playing on the loudspeaker.
In a few areas there are alarms that go off constantly while you patrol them; my partner says you get used to them, a process I call "aggravated hearing loss".
So far I've evicted 7 vagrants, found one pile of human fececs, and yelled, "No, I don't have a heart! I'm on duty!"
It smells of plastic and a life-size picture of a lady gives me a heart-attack every four minutes. I'm so short on sleep I think my hair is giving me a headache.
There are a dozen tiny delights, nestled for the dedicated observer, though. The incredibly lush greenery, verdant leaves and coral-hued blossoms, are real and lovingly tended by a flock of young women that look like flowers themselves, and cradle the leaves like baby birds. The old fashioned street lamp tucked ina corner, shining merrily, aching for a man in a trench to sing in the rain. Where Dell was like an infant child, sometimes crying and needy, but soft and loving, here is more like a high maintenance girlfriend, expensive and contrived, shrill and grating, but also full of breathtaking beauty. Probably a girlfriend all messed up on coke, though, since she's banged up inside and frequently smells of human urine. Since I spend several hours a night roaming her innards, does that make me a lesbian? Since my partner doesn't (at all), what does that make him?
Sixty-odd floors a night (walking); my legs should be sick, but really it's my stomach. This place doesn't love me, I can feel it. Dell and I loved each other, she talked to me, I cared for her. I am ashamed to say, I stay at the place for the money. Perhaps it can feel that, does not love me because it knows I will leave, here to go, as they say. I apologize to her, lay my hand on the granite stonework; they're warm, I think she understands.
I also think if my partner mentions his girlfriend on more time, I may jeopardize my police career.
A new song is playing, it's an organ piece, and all I can think is, "songs to wear a flowing, skimpy nightdress to".
Every time I crouch and then stand up I want to pass out because of the heat, but I know the building and I are getting along now; she lets me open her doors with one hang, a feat that thrills me more than it should.
Someone is growing a plant in a folger's can.
To properly experience this building, lie on your back on hot cement, with your feet on a cement wall, wrap your hands around some fresh plants, and listen to the sound of church bells. (the church bells come from not only the music, but also because if you tap your fingernails on the ever present handrails in the depths of the service tunnels, they sound exactly like huge bells)

I'm happy again?

Captain Bucher's Confession

The U.S. ship PUEBLO was captured by North Korean soliders on January 23rd
and held until the United States apologized for spying on North Korea. The crew,
by all accounts, were treated civilily, but the Captain was forced to write a
confession, which was sent to the United States. In order to maintain good
spirits and send a secret message to the government, this is what he wrote. The
North Koreans never realized the humor behind it, and sent it as a sincere
missive.


A final confession in anticipation of leniency for my crew and myself for the heinous crimes perpetrated by ourselves while conducting horrible outrages against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea for the purpose of provocating and annoying those stalwarts of peace-loving humanity. The absolute truth of this bowel wrenching confession is attested to by my fervent desire to paean the Korean People’s Army Navy, and their government and to beseech the Korean people to forgive our dastardly deeds unmatched since Attila. I therefore swear the following account to be true on the sacred honor of the Great Speckled Bird.
Following rigorous training in provacation and intrusion wherein each of my officers had to meet the overly high standards I had set for them we emerged from the bowels of San Diego harbor bent on setting records for the highest yardage gained in intrusions ever set in the standard patrol. Our first stop was Hawaii where I visited the kingpin of all provocateurs, including spies. None other than Fleet General Barney Google. He was all I had been told, sly, cunning, closed mouthed, bulbous nosed, smelling of musty top secrets and some foul smelling medicine that kept him going twenty hours a day in pursuit of the perfect spy mission. He talked haltingly with me but persuasively about our forthcoming mission. "By God, Bucher, I want you to get in there and be elusive, spy them out, spy out their water, look sharp for signs of electronic saline water traps. You will be going to spy out the DPRK. By the sainted General Bullmoose we must learn why they are so advanced in the art of people’s defense."
We entered into our assigned operating areas along the Eastern Korean Sea at latitude 39N and boldly steamed in a northerly direction to the farthest point we could. In so doing we had traversed Operation Areas Mars, Venus, and Pluto so named because like the planets, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is really far out. We knew that the lackeys of the Bowery Street Billionaires would never be satiated until we had found out all there was to know about the huge successes that the noble peace loving peoples of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had made in the recent past. Surely we had to find out how come such a newly created government could lead its peoples so quickly into the number one position. As we went about detecting this valuable information, particularly the oceanic salinity, density, ionic dispersion rate, humpback whale counts, both low and high protoplasmic unicellular uglena and plankton counts. This information was of the highest value to our own scientists for the development of war mongering at sea when no one was looking.
Now we have come to realize just how great our crimes were and we seek the leniency of the Korean people even though we are criminals of the basest variety and deserve only swift punishment of the just Korean law. Further, we know that our crimes are greater than those of any criminals discovered this century, nevertheless we ask forgiveness and promise never to engage in such naughty acts ever again if we are forgiven. We know that our crime is merely a reflection of the dastardly policies of the Bowery Street Billionaires and we can only hope they will realize their own responsibilities for our actions; because who else could have dreamed up such a heinous and foul playing ship as Pueblo and then searched out enough arch criminals such as we to operate it. Yea, we feel it is time indeed for those really responsible for us to step forward and accept their own roles and Admit, Apologize and give Assurances that they will never again prepare another spy bag to be filled with goodies.
In summation, we who have been rotating upon the fickle finger of fate for such long languid months give our word to the Great Speckled Bird that we will heretofor in all sincerity cleanse ourselves of rottenness and vituperations. We solemnly await our return to our loved ones so that the fickle finger can be replaced by the rosy fingers of dawn and salvation. So help me, Hanna.
S/L.M. Bucher

Samuel Johnson

The student who would build his knowledge on solid foundations, and proceed by just degrees to the pinnacles of truth, is directed by the great philosopher of France to begin by doubting of his own existence. In like manner, whoever would complete any arduous and intricate enterprise, should, as soon as his imagination can cool after the first blaze of hope, place before his own eyes every possible embarrassment that may retard or defeat him. He should first question the probability of success, and then endeavour to remove the objections that he has raised.

I hate a fellow whom pride or cowardice or laziness drives into a corner, and who does nothing when he is there but sit and growl. Let him come out as I do, and bark.

A woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.

It is more from carelessness about truth than from intentional lying, that there is so much falsehood in the world.

I would rather be attacked than unnoticed. For the worst thing you can do to an author is to be silent as to his works.

Sir, I have found you an argument; but I am not obliged to find you an understanding.

Wednesday

What the hell am I going to write about?
Maybe that funny site my friend sent me? I am bitter, but despite effort, still non-asian. Probably not a man either. So what could I write about better than him?

There's a debate raging about whether polar bears are a threatened species or not. That's neat. Also kind of sad to realize one day we may have to contend with trying to convince our children that white bears existed ("Yah, right, Dad. Hands off my brownie."). Come to think of it, they are weird, aren't they? Maybe this is nature fixing a mistake? Moving on.

Apparantly the phrase, "Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo." is a complete and gramatically correct sentance. The meaning behind it is, "Bison from Buffalo, New York that harass other bison from Buffalo, are themselves harrased by other Buffalo Bison." Now buffalo looks like gibberish. You're welcome.

I have a recipe for steak sauce.
1 clove garlic
6 Tbsp Tahini
1/2 c vegetable oil
1/2 c soy sauce
1 Tbsp Mustard
Blender.

Other good recipies include; Gnocchi, cottage cheese, and shredded chedder (Microwave, drain off excess water, eat) bananas chopped, mixed with cottage cheese, and my special smoothie; Bananas, blueberries, milk, and soy protein powder. I distrust eating things I can't microwave or blender.

Perhaps I could tell riddles?
What is interesting about this request;
"May I have a large container of coffee? Thank you."
other than, as one friend suggested, it is unusually polite for a coffee drinker.
Once you find the key, it's easy as pi.

Maybe writing about Kung fu? Last night we learned, "Badass Elbow Attack with bonus 'Dignity-Remover' Backfist". We followed that exercise with "Steps to make your legs go 'Euwww'". I am now convinced someone snuck into my room and sewed sandbags into my thighs.

Work is fairly exciting. I was being trained for a new site this past tuesday when "drama" occured. Interested parties can phone me for further details that probably shouldn't go on a public blog.

This marks the point where I really lose all my ideas for writing today. Thanks for reading!

Tongue may have to be surgically removed from cheek

There are few things I like more than a good rainstorm.
One thing I like more is coming out of a workout so good my knees are vibrating, into a rainstorm.
The first rain of spring makes a sound like a violin and piano in perfect harmony and makes everything glisten like emeralds. Today has been a blessing of perfect timing and fortunate coincedence. It must have been on such a day that the first caveman rolled a rock down a hill and thought, "hey...". On such a day Newton decided to smell the fresh grass under a fruitful tree. On this day Columbus set sail. (well, two outta three)
I have compelling reasons to believe that I am the happiest woman on earth.

What a shame I shall have to give up the gym.
No, no wails nor tears shall sway me. I heed them not. It was decided today after a discussion with an acquaintance.
He was telling me how he planned to get fit for an upcoming trip and I enquired about his routine, since he was a novice, and I've been fortunate enough to pick up a few tricks here and there. He gave me a rough rundown (Chest, arms, back, etc.) I suggested a few things and he brushed them off, asking where I'd heard such stuff. I replied that I went to the gym regularily and avidly sought out sources of information on proper techniques. He bravely countered that I went "just to lose weight, right"? When I voiced that my main perogative was to gain muscle, he informed me that,
"Girls that are big are gross."
I laughed a little, made polite other conversation and moved on, but the doubt, lingered...
Have I been scaring away potential suitors with my ham-like quads? (Yes, I always compare my muscles to food.) Could I be possible that every foot I set in a gym diminished my pool of soulmates? (Yep. It's a pool.)
Say it is not so!
So to my squats I say, "away"!
I shall be dead 'er I lift again!
Never shall I clean and jerk, else I shall never find my own clean jerk!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a class on Fainting to Frame your Dress to Best Effect.

In other news, enjoy the beautiful weather. I'm thinking picnic time!

Sunrise Symphony

Over the desk he tells me of his dream

to plant mango trees in his home city.

He lights up describing the five

thousand trees he planted last summer,

ripe with free fruit and promise.

Explains how everyone could eat,

saving hundreds that starve in the street,

with self-sufficient trees for a small cost.

His round face falls as he describes

the tractors that chewed them down

snip

snip

snip

wrapped in bureauocratic red tape,

his innocent hope shines through

like sunlight on the smell of mangoes

Already he's changed the world.





*****



Sometimes, walking in this building, it worries me

how long some creature could continue snacking

on my body before someone discovered it. D :

Artemis and Apollo pt. 2

I am a child of the sun
He shows me everything in life
without bias
I trust
only his hands
my sun

I am known to him perfectly
never desiring to hide, nor could I
weighed, measured
approved by
the only measure
my sun

I find the Gold standard no coincedence
without him there is no light
no life
prime mover
origin of all
the sun

I am a mirror of his goodness
untouched by years
people come
people go
anchored by this
my sun

(Faith) eludes me, a dance
full of deception and folly, mocking
my head
No anchors here
cast into shadow
no sun

Artemis and Apollo pt. 1

I am a child of the moon
by night we roam the streets

like hooligans
No photosynthesis
my skin drinks
the moon

I have confessed my sins to her
Her face heard and forgave me
loves me
because of
and despite them
my moon

I am stripped of my hubris
the insecurities that plague
locust thick
Lady Godiva
my white mare
the moon

I am an orphaned child
In the black forest of my heart

hiding wolves
only faith
amid burnt caravans
under my moon

(Science) bundled me away
taught me civilized life, mocking
my heart
No wolves here
there is also
no moon

Thought Unthinkable #3

I did it. After lying in bed for an hour, puzzling, I just got up, throwing back the fuzzy covers and activated the decanting code. Almost instantly the chamber emptied and the glass chamber slid back with mechanical smoothness. His knees crunched, as they folded with is ankles, into the floor, hitting it with a sound like a sack of wet cement, and then the only sound was the steady drip from the tube. We paused there, his pink wetness, like a damp spot on a child's bed, offsetting my statuesque granite skin. Then his body lurched forward and he sprawled in the fetal position in the puddle on the concrete.

I could feel a hot rush pass over my body and I wondered, briefly, if I had blown a fuse.
This was Ridiculous!
This was a MISTAKE?!
He lay there with a stupid, wide-eyed stare as I became hotter and hotter. Normally time passed like fleeting sparrows, but as I stood there the minutes dragged by. Never had I experienced time before!
How pathetic!
That I would be able to learn anything from this inanimate blob!
What a waste.
I turned on my heel and marched, disgusted, out of the lab.

For the next few months I avoided the lab, throwing myself into meaningless pursuits that I had long ago tired of. I did everything I could to keep him out of mind.
His frailness taunted me.
His inaction annoyed me.
Had I erred? Was I mistaken? If I was perfect, how could this be so?

When I finally mustered the courage to enter the lab, he was gone.
Incredible.
Where could he go?
The thrill of mystery, so long denied, was like a sip of perfect wine to a choked tongue.

In my dreams I never fall

I realized today I have no idea what I look like in my dreams. Several theories (mostly touted out by the same people who believe that your dreams can predict your life, but also a few reputable non-crackpots) espouse that the way you appear in your dreams is your "true self"; that is, a blend of what you would like to look like with what you believe you look like.
Thus I am somewhat at a loss, having no idea what my "true self" looks like.
The current most accepted theory of dreams is that they serve as a dual problem-solving, memory-filing process. I realize few dreams resemble the days that produce them, but it is more a matter of association and connections, then true representation. Memory storage is hopelessly complex. That is why people typically cannot remember anything from before their fifth birthday or so; it's "stored" in a different memory framework, much akin to a computor trying to read a .jpg file with windows music player.

My dreams always follow one of two patterns: One, I am saving people or have a mission to save someone, two I'm lost and terrified. The strangest dream I ever had included me running through a maze that had no roof, only darkness above, which was filled with Samurai and russian peasants. The samurai would kill the peasants when they found them, and I was trying to save them, but I kept getting caught and beheaded, but it never killed me.
Crazy.

Apr 18, 2008

Too depressed to write.
I was right about balance.
My uppance has come.

La mort qui n'est pas petite ou bonne

There was an article in Esquire today, in which the author speculated that teenagers shot each other because they didn't realize that the person could actually die. Teenagers understand that when someone is shot, they die. What they typically fail to understand is the higher moral code at stake here. The idea that one should refrain from acting in a "bad" way because it is morally wrong, not because you might get caught. People are too often punishing their children by saying, "Because I said so" Or some such nonsense, without explaining that hurting someone is bad because the other person has the right not to be hurt by you, or the right to defend themselves in a sufficiently unpleasant manner. People are failing to develop a sufficiently advanced superego (postulated by Freud (yes he's a crackpot- Except this once)) to take responsability for their actions, and adjust accordingly.

I was in my kitchen today, making a sandwich of provolone and genua, under the dim spherical light, listening to the sound of typing from the next room; when I spotted a moth on the wall. Huge, fat, brown-velvet covered body; two massive, fuzzy wings folded neatly behind; slender, arching antennae wobbling precipitously in front. I shuddered (moths disturb me), and began to look around my little house for a shoe, newspaper, or some such implement of doom. Finally, equipped with my moth-remover paper, I approached the beasty from across the ceramic tiled floor. As I approached the moth, however, I realized I couldn't kill it. I could not move my arm, starting with the shoulder, moving the elbow, ending at the wrist, swishing the black and white weapon, to land on that fragile, unknowing creature. I could not imagine being the reason that the tiny brain that powers this barely-sentient bug stops puttering. "It would be almost instant. It would feel nothing, would know nothing." My brain told me; and I began to distrust it. What kind of brain would let me accept that as an excuse to snuff out this life? I threw out the paper, rammed my sandwich into the reusable plastic bag I use for my lunches and trooped out the door to catch my late-night bus.

Last stanza

So it has come down to us, mighty few, our backs to the wall as our opponents face us, brows furrowed in grim determination, hands full with implements of our undoing.

We've fought, so long it seems, and we've lost good people. In their memory, for their honor, we stand, ready.

I've been running so long, I don't know if I have the strength to save myself, should the next volley come my way.

From their eyes we know, they will do whatever it takes to defeat us. There can be only one victor here.

As I search for a way to save my comrades, an opponent turns to me and lets fly. A dull thud heralds contact with my abdomin. It's over.

A big, blue, squishy ball to the groin.
Guess I should've jumped left.

Dodgeball: If you can't take the heat, stay the fuck outta dodge.



****
Alternate end mottos also included:
Dodgeball:
-takes balls
-leaving you breathless
-because all you're good for is hitting other people
-shut up and throw
-not just for the playground anymore
-grab some balls
-because your girlfriend won't touch your balls
(I went with the "outta dodge" because I like cussing.)

Gyroscopic Distemper

Things are good in my life right now.
Which makes me nervous.
I've long believed that things, moods and fortunes especially, balance. Sometimes I try to be miserable all day if I know the evening is important.
So good moods come with a sense of trepidation.
It's worse if I cannot find some bad to equal a good; what if someone is suffering for me?
The ultimate torture is to struggle on my behalf, and never allow me to make amends. In defence of my sanity, I adopt willfull ignorance about the origin of my clothes and food.
Even my heritage reflects this blend of oppressor to oppressed. Although, given enough history, whose doesn't?
I think nightshift might be robbing me of my ability to speak to people. I used to take after my dad, who has an innate ability to connect with strangers after about 5- 10 minutes. Every time I open my mouth now, a jackass comes out. (not to mention my main conversational partner is my roommate, a man who makes Dr. House look like Richard Simmons; although, he cut his hair and got a job today, while all I accomplished was to flood the kitchen and ruin my nails.) Perhaps this is my penance? For good fortune elsewhere, I will be alienated most everyone I speak to.
Perhaps I should stop whining and get out more?
Tomorrow holds the exciting prospect of a Dodgeball game. I'm heading out to watch, possibly even participate, in a dodgeball game with a team, coached by my boss, aptly named, "Dodgeystyle", (a name which causes me to stop and giggle uncontrollably for as long as 6 minutes at a time)Assuming I don't physically assault or offend anyone, this holds the promise of being an interesting social event!
Good luck to me!

(In anticipation, I have purchased a keg of Red Bull. Even if I fail at socializing, I should have some...insightful stories.)

Sight Unseen #2

This place is a mess.
One victim, mutilated, heavily, on the couch, grotesquely posed to watch T.V, the other in the shower, well, most of him. Camera flashes take it all in as men in sweat-soaked suits murmur respectfully about motives, epidemics, and, just once, about monsters.
What do they know about monsters?

After clearing the yellow caution tape, I take over the scene from the pirmary responders, and the witness: a seven foot angel, hunched in the corner, nursing a broken wing, his knee dislocated. He nods when I look at him and, if I'm careful, I could use this. I say out-loud, without looking at anyone specific,
"What happened here?"
The first constable gives me the rundown. I skim it for useful facts; none.
The angel, talking over him in a voice only I can hear, tells me everything he saw.
A man, allied with a demon, responding to his animal urges. The angel fought, saved the child, who I know has gone in the ambulance for a check-up and observation. The angel asserts this isn't the last we've seen of this man, but this is the most sloppy. If we're going to get him, we need to get him before he gets good.
"Someone give me something to run with."
The constable says it's no use; the place is (hah.) un-holy clean, but the angel points while wiping blood off his split lip.
I hurry over, finding a tooth embedded in the carpet next to the wall. People already think my powers of deduction are creepy, I'm not really worried it will arouse suspicion, but it may be prudent to exercise caution later.
I gesture for an evidence bag and, pretending distraction to the owner of the proffered bag, gaze directly at the angel's eyes,
"Thank you."
People are clapping me on the back, congratulating my 'great eyesight'.I just hope I haven't used up too much luck for us to pull clean D.N.A.

This new advantage both excites and scares me. We have a break on a huge case, these lucky-breaks usually only happen in one out of every 30 cases. This could be the greatest thing to happen to forensics since fingerprints. Should I tell others? It would be easy enough to prove I'm not crazy; pull some random ESP stunts. Here, my selfishness gets the better of me; This could raise me to international acclaim. I run the risk, however, of becoming too reliant on this new tool. I float through the rest of the day on a cloud of debate, finally clocking out early for once.

On the way home I grab chicken and corn from a mom & pop's corner market. My live-in friend has cooked for us both for the past month, so every night I arrive home to warm food. His skill seems to be increasing exponentially. I'm pondering bringing home increasingly weird food to cook with. He also made an attempt to clean the house, but I think his standard of clean is different from mine.
I'm...proud of him.

Sometimes there's no words

One of the worst feelings in the world is disappointment. That dashed emotion of a stolen smile (Where again? It was right here...)
HELLFIRE! DAMNATION! Conflicted rage!
After months of desiring to run forward, I find I cannot even plant one foot.

Everything I do right now is wrapped up in annoyance, anger, and frustration.
I need a sparring partner.

Fiction work #22

He straightens his cravat, checking his shoes in the mirror again. Brown doe-skin breeches, a navy jacket, topped with a hat at a jaunty angle help to convince himself he's irresistable.
"Now or never." he thinks, as he grabs his silver-topped cane, heading out the oak door, across the cobbles, moving with purpose.
Today's the day.
He had lay awake all night, planning. After a few hours, he got up in his nightshirt, lit a candlestick and wrote feverishly by the muted light. When his masterpiece was complete, he threw off his sweaty clothes, flung open the shutters and stood in the moonlight, exhaling triumphantly.
God, what a rush; it was perfect. The diction painstakingly selected to suggest passion with purity, security with respect, patience with desperation.
He'd sealed it with a glob of gold wax and a kiss.
That morning, after only a few short hours of sleep, he lept out of bed, sure that this sunrise would lead to a sunset on his loneliness and aching desire.
She was a butcher. Somewhat below his station, but he didn't care. She was perfect for him. For weeks he imagined her reaction, her eyes would shine the way they did when he asked for her recommendation, her mouth curve in that impish little grin like when she suggested anything spicy. She would accept, they would be wedded and have several beautiful children he could teach the violin to. They'd be good at it if they inherited his ear; excellent if they inherited her exquisite hands.
They had just retired to a beautiful villa in his head when he noticed a man standing nearby. The man was dressed well but finished strangely with a maskerade mask, out of which two dark eyes stared, unwaveringly, at him. He looked around, but no-one in the crowd paid them the slightest attention. Finally, un-nerved, he asked,
"Do you want something?" (Which was odd, he decided later. He meant to say 'need'.)
"Yes. Your letter."
He goggled at the man. The letter was hidden in his pants pocket, and no-one knew he had written it.
"Why? and how...?"
"The letter. No reason. We will give you one million for it. But you will never write another."
The man was clearly insane, but he held a trunk that could have easily contained a million pounds.
"How do you know I won't go home and write another?"
"You won't. One million."
He was intrigued, and gestured toward the trunk,
"May I?"
"Yes."
As soon as he opened the heavy trunk lid, he knew he was going to trade. The rows and rows of heavily stacked bills was too enticing, too entoxicating. Besides, he could always write another, right? Right?

He closed the lid firmly, and fished the letter out of his pocket. He handed it over without looking at the man, who left without another word. The trunk was old-fashioned, but well made, and he carried it home without much difficulty. He didn't noticed the sun set as he counted it.

Three days passed while he was making arrangements for the money.

Finally after making sure it was safely inside the bank, fully documented and secured, he smacked his lips, rubbed his hands together, and sat at his writing desk with a fresh stack of paper and a bottle of ink, intending to write another. He began it the same way, using all the same words, but somehow, it felt hollow.

When it was finished, he re-read it, crumpled it carefully, and thoughtfully threw it away.

His palms began to sweat around the fourth letter. His fingers began to blister from pulling his collar away from his throat repeatedly.

After the twelfth revision he put his head on the paper and cried, the salt water mixing with the ink, throwing rainbows across the sheet in the morning light.

He spent the whole next day in bed, panicking that he had been cursed, sweating and crying like a fevered child. The life he had imagined was slipping away, smuggled away under that damn mask. What had they done to him? Who were they? What had he been thinking?
Later that week, he finally threw back the covers, leaping down the stairs three at a time, pausing only to add a heavy coat and untied shoes, before barrelling down the street. He tripped twice on his way, sprawling in the street in his dirty nightshirt, knees bloodied, tears streaming down his face, hands cut and rock-filled, his glasses long smashed, hanging off one ear. When he arrived at the bright blue butcher's shop, he hurtled through the door, rushing up to the counter in the mercifully empty store and kowtowed in front of her startled expression.

She listened patiently, after closing the store and retiring to the stockroom, while he sobbed his tale, clinging to her skirts and tiny waist. When he admitted he hadn't slept in three days, she stroked his hair, clucking under her breath.

They stayed in that tableau, his hands clenching her muslin, genuflecting at her feet, hers in his hair, head angled in concern over his back, until sunset.
When he finally awoke, he lifted his face to hers and asked simply,
"Will you be my wife?"
and was rewarded with the smile that he'd longed for.

Your Attention: Is it turned on?

There is a photograph. It is of a vulture waiting for a sundanese girl, crouched on the ground, as if in prayer, to die. It has been passed around the world millions of times, you cannot see it without being affected; it's creator killed himself, although there is debate as to whether the picture was the cause or not.

There is a theory. In quantum theory, the act of observing a particle determines whether it is decayed or not. The act of placing attention on something changes the item being attended.

Our attention, a biological process documentable in the cortex, changes the world simply by being directed. I did a paper on "The Effects of Neural Plasticity on Deaf Persons over time", in which I noticed that congenitally deaf people had two points of attention, which they could control seperately. Typically people only have one, which is defined primarily by memory. We remember what we payed attention to but what we recall later. Even subconsciously, we pay attention to something. If you daydream, you will still show a preferential treatment in recall towards what the main focus of your attention was.

It is, unfortunatly, not only what your eyes are pointing at; this is demonstrated by a simple experiment. Fix your eyes on the period at the end of this sentance. Now, read the words around it, without moving your eyes. It should be possible, since even blind people, or people without eyes, are capable of fixing their attention.

This is, unfortunatly, also the extent of our knowledge about this elusive process. The actual mechanics of attention are unknown. People, even without seeing, can tell when someone is watching them, with a disturbingly high accuracy rate. Is it pheromones? It is unlikely to be eye contact. Perhaps electromagnetic disruptions. There are computors now that respond to thoughts; you focus your attention on a sliding bar with two lights on it and imagine pulling the lights apart, and they move. What is the nature of the process at work here?

I think it is likely to be electromagnetic disruptions. This, however, makes me wonder, can a computor pay attention to something? If it can, how will this affect our views of "humanity"? Will a computor be human? My personal beliefs regarding sentience and the nature of humanity is that if you apply a personal moral code, with guidelines, then you are human. This shows a higher understanding of one's actions, the motivations, consequences, and ethical ramifications therein. If a computor becomes able to pay attention, and thus become self-aware, for it is only a matter of time before a source of attention turns to itself, will it be classified as human? Perhaps an animal first?

This is not a fully-developed idea, as I have been busily training people, but this was too interesting not to write on.

Fiction Work #21

I'm standing on the dark wooden steps, bright blue sky above me, trying to imagine where things went so wrong.
I recall being sold, not really a big deal, I had known it would happen. Somehow I never thought it would really occur, however, so my goodbyes held the flavor of unreality, devoid of the realization that I would literally never see them again. Sweet family, I replayed our last moments through my head a thousand times, searching for new truths as a tounge searches for raspberry seeds deep in toothy crevasses. We spoke on paper infrequently, but it was hollow and unfamiliar.
Not even the voice of my mother was allowed to come the many kilometers across the border from Austria to France.
They even took my name from me.
No longer could I be a child, I was alone in a den of vipers and I needed to be cunning and full of guile. I failed at even that; so full of sweetness and sugar. It was a small piece of luck that my husband (whom I met days later) seemed rather taken with me, if unsure what to do with me. Unable to treat me as a wife for reasons my pretty head didn't understand, he resorted to doting on me in a permanent courtship.
I was without a purpose. Bred solely to forge an alliance between two huge countries. Once a child secured that link, I was aimless; a pretty slip of art in a symbol of wealth. However, what a price that child came at. The windows would never recover, as would my relationship with courtiers.

Scared of my husband's growing intensity with the war he was financing (again, a permanent courtship over full involvement) I engrossed myself with mindless hedonistic pursuits, sure he would follow me, and in becoming happy, I would find myself fulfilled with the ultimate goal of being a good wife and a good daughter.
He once commented on my shoes; I bought hundreds.
He admired my dinner parties; they became legendary.
"I prefer your hair up."; it never touched my shoulders again.

Despite my machinations, he found me unintellegent, and did not confide in me. I sought to educate myself, but was hampered by the lack of early learning so critical to higher learning later. Indeed, my life became wrapped tight by the cords that had been weaved in my youth. I further dropped into meaningless pursuits, but my poker game improved.

I was unable to understand this swelling sense of desperation, this urgency within myself. I only knew that I desired to please him, to make this strange war-like behavior stop. How little I knew how grave my plight would become. My slightest nod, or even lack thereof, became a herald of chaos on black wings, unseen, hidden behind my huge skirts.

The penultimate blow came from a hideous diamond necklace that I did not desire, yet was gifted from an oblivious dunce. The people of France villified me, and my spirit finally broke. I felt trapped. Surrounded on all sides by unfamiliar and unfriendly faces.

I could sense the fall coming, heavy and dark, like the blood red opera curtain that announced "la fin". I was in denial, as I had been about my Goodbyes, and it seemed whatever the outcome, I was to have no hand in it.

The death of my husband crippled me, but it was the death of my dear little girl-friend that affected me the worst. Her lightness and razor-sharp quips had been the toast of many of my parties, and I could not imagine someone wishing her harm.

My "trial" was a farce; accused of everything and anything, I fought to save myself only where the reputation of my son was concerned. In my vehmenency and desperation, I stole the hearts of many mothers, all who had come to crucify me. This was a small consolation as the judge passed sentance.

This is all a dream, the cakes, shoes, dresses, parties, flowers, mansions, and other extravagencies, a million miles away, as I watch the steel blade, crusted, held up by a scratchy robe straining against the massive weight of the wedge. The smell of blood is eveywhere; I am familiar with it, but it calls up the worst moments of my life, and I nearly faint. Even in these last moments, I think of my reputation, of the reputation of Austria, of my late husband, everything I have struggled for, in my way, as best I could. I grit my teeth, calling up reserves of strength I never knew I had, thinking of my best times, of the way his hair shone in the light, of the tea parties in the garden, of my favorite purfume, of my children.

And I show them how a Queen, how Marie Antoinette, Maria Antoina, dies with dignity; on this bright blue morning.

Felicitous Feline

Oh for fingertips
and a fat-lipped smile
my cat, my self,
the bed, and I

With mischief, wit,
and knavery
my half-waked state she
plagues to taunt me

Acute aware
of my lament,
(Of dormant time
too quickly spent)

She looks at me
askance to say,
"Haven't you had
enough sleep today?"

Fiction work #20

There is a line. From my clenched fist, down my arm, across my shoulders, up my other arm to my folded elbow. The ends of this line wish to touch, to bend; they pull together like there is a spring between them but I hold them apart, creating a vacumn, into which I put an arrow. This bar of steel, wood, and feather sits, still, in the cradle of this vacumn, waiting, poised for flight. A bead of sweat has reached it's capacity and now rolls down between my shoulder blades to join it's comrades in the liner of my warm jacket. My hip is itchy. It has been so for the last thirty minutes. I long to scratch it, but doing so would ruin the shot I have waited a week for. My mind has waited so long, my body can wait now.

My attention is focused on my quarry, who is big enough that I am allowed a glimpse into what mammoth hunters from days of yore felt. I can see his breath in the air, coming from his shaggy throat. He doesn't know I'm here.

Picking his way with almost glacial speed, determined not to miss a single morsal, so scarce in this weather, he moves closer. A step, a smell, a pause, a smell, a step. For the last hour, not a muscle has twitched on this forest cow that I was not aware of.

As the pivotal second draws closer, I put myself, my heart, all my focus, into the arrow, double checking the wind, the time, the temperature, ground height, altitude. My aim is perfect, straight to his heart, the barb will kill him instantly. Those antlers will be a prize trophy, everything else I will either consume, use, or feed to the dogs; not a scrap wasted. That is my gift to this noble beast. He will lay down his life that I, the greater predator, may eat, and I respect his sacrifice, for we are all part of the circle of rebirth
FRAAAAAAAP
The moose just farted. I bark out a laugh, so involuntary, and the animal bolts. I release my shot helplessly off mark then just laugh and laugh.
What the hell else can you do?
I pack up my kit and go home; the giggles are fatal to my trade. I'll get something tomorrow. For now, there's supper.
I think I'll have beans.

Wicker Basket

The first indicator that this night was going to suck was when I decided to leave my friend's house, instead of sleeping over. I just felt too terrible to be entertaining, and wasn't interested in watching "Jackass".
The night had gone, I believe, from bad to worse when we realized, my sister, her fiance, and I, that we had missed the last bus of the night. My sister and I had little "big city" experience, so we broke down, pooled our resources, and caught a cab. Too tired to enjoy my first taxi ride, I stared gloomily out the window and tried to ignore the sounds of happiness next to me.
As I gazed insensibly, a man ran into my view. What a perfect metaphor for mankind's current state, I thought, watching this man hurtle down the center line of the road, surrounded by stationary cars and ashphalt. I dubbed him "Apollo", for the Greek God who stole his father's chariot to ride across the sky, dragging the sun with him. I made a little story for him, speculating why he was running (fitness, drunkness, humor, women) but none quite seemed to fit his free sprint yet determined gait.
He made it about twenty feet from my window when POW, he was mowed down by a shiny red grand am, who I cannot believe did not see him. (Later my sister insisted he was chased by a large, angry, man, but this doesn't fit my romanticised notion)
I remember covering my face with my hands, and I remember he was in a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans, but I do not remember the trip home after that point. I think about him sometimes.
Strange days.