Freak No-Show (The Contortionist)

Tired of bending over backwards just to make ends meet; Locks himself in a chest, because god knows that's what he was born to do. A knot in his stomach, suffocating in the only place he belongs. His heart beat; His only friend. Watches it grow old and die right before his eyes. Oh the joy of a duprass!

Self Portrait #2

By me 

using Gimp

Human Condition

How heartless the man to hurt his loved ones so.

How foolish the boy to call himself a man.

How wet the water to splash.

11 and 12

Ever since I learned how to count way back in preschool I've always had this thing against the numbers 11 and 12. I would always get them mixed up and honestly I still do. I have a problem matching the symbols (11 or 12) with their names (eleven or twelve) and most of the time I see 11 or 12 written I always have to count, 9, 10, 11, 12. Ok that one is twelve. Or that one is eleven. I have no idea why I have trouble with this and usually it makes me feel retarded but that's missing the point. The point is I hate 11 and 12. But I shouldn't really. Because if I really took the time to get to know them I'd learn that they are both really cool. Like way cool. Eleven and Twelve are best buds, and are rarely apart. They're both way chill, love listening to funk and Beethoven, drinking chocolate milk, releasing other peoples pets/leash children behind their backs, and street fighting. Everytime someone loses a street fight in Lev'n and Twel's town they have to dish out everything they know on prime yard sale locations, which discos are hot and have the most honeys, or other current underground topics ect. The truth is the only number cooler that Eleven and Twelve is Zero, but Zero is always off the radar, climbing Everest with some Swiss babe, quarantining himself from reality making art or music, or planning his next big party that only the best street fighters will hear about. But that's a different story. The thing that really makes Eleven and Twelve so cool is that out of all the numbers from one to infinity, Eleven and Twelve are the only ones that don't fit the system. And while most people would judge them harshly for it, the truth of the matter is that they've got it going on. So learn from this, as Lev'n and Twel would state: next time you see something that don't relate, don't discriminate or try to hate, but take a cue and emulate, cuz to be proficient in cool is how you proliferate, mad charisma that make the ladies wanna double take, and that my friend is how you take the cake.

Punctuated Vision

You are playing a game in a proverbial room.

Everyone including you has a jar for a head filled partially with marbles.

Everyone is running around and around handing out marbles.

You are confused with the purpose of the game.

You run around and exchange as many marbles as you can.

Everyone else does the same.

You don't know why you're exchanging marbles or what they are for.

You continue because everyone else does.

It seems to be a race.

In the rush some marbles fall to the ground.

Someone slips and falls.

Everyone stops.

They toss as many marbles toward the person as they can.

The person has a even harder time getting up because of the overwhelming amount of marbles.

Distracted by the confusion you look around.

Aside from all the people running there are people standing along the walls.

You walk up to to one.

He is an older man.

You both stand there.

He doesn't give you a marble.

You take off your jar and hold it forward.

He looks down at the jar and pulls out a piece of coal.

He places it in the jar.

You look at the piece of coal and utter and inquiry.

He points at your heart and departs.

You open your heart.

Deep inside is a paint set with magical properties.

You take it out and start painting the piece of coal.

It transforms into a sparkling gem.

You continue to trade coal with the other standing people.

You continue to paint the coal they give you.

They continue to turn to gems.

 Everyone slows to a walk.

They are getting tired.

So are you.

You stand along the side of the room with the other standing people.

Few people come up to you and get your coal.

A buzzer rings without making a sound.

The game is over.

Everyone sits down.

They take off there jars and look through their marbles.

Many people find marbles they do not like and cast them aside.

You look through your jar.

Compared to the gems most of your marbles look unappealing.

You remove most of the marbles from your jar.

Your jar is now almost empty.

Everyone else finishes emptying their jars of the marbles they dislike.

Everyone else's jars are almost empty too.

Sleep is coming.

Marbles litter the ground.

Everyone searches around them for marbles they like to finish filling their jars.

Nobody finishs filling their jars before they fall asleep.

Others hurry and fill their jars with any marbles they can find.
Parents stuff handfuls of unwanted marbles into their children's jars.

Their jars look ugly to them.

At least they're full they think.

They fall asleep as well.

Your jar is also empty.

You look at it mournfully as drowsiness sets in.

The gems start to expand and fill the entire jar.

You fall asleep with a full and beautiful jar.

The lights shut off.

Everyone is asleep.

Tomorrow a new game will be played.

फली ठुन्देर्बिर्द फली

इ जुस्त कामे इन फ्रॉम थे मोस्ट बेऔतिफुल एक्स्पीरिएंस. इ वास डांसिंग औत्सिदे तो म्यूजिक (आफ्टर मिदनिघत मंद यू) एंड थे क्लौड्स इन थे दिस्तांस स्टार्टेड तो फ्लश अस लिघ्त्निंग त्रवेलेद थ्रौघ थेम. आईटी वास अल सो लोवेली एंड एंड बेऔतिफुल ठाट अ स्मिले ऑफ़ पुरे चिल्द्लिके फ़किनतिओन ग्रसद माय फाके एंड वौल्दं'टी लीव. माय फाके वास फ़किनतिओन. एंड अस थे क्लौड्स ग्रेव क्लोसेर एंड मोवे विओलेंत, अल थे व्हिले स्पित्तिंग लिघ्त्निंग एंड नो ठुंदर, अस थे लिघ्त्निंग नेवर तौचेद थे ग्रौंद बुत अर्चेद एंड त्विस्तेद फ्रॉम क्लौड तो क्लौड अबोवे, अ पुरे फीलिंग ऑफ़ ब्लिस, एवें जोय फिल्लेद एवेरी पर्तिक्ले ऑफ़ में अस इ स्तूद तेरे, टिल्टिंग माय फ़किनतिओन तोवार्द्स थे सकी. इ कुलद ओनली वाटच एंड क्रय अत थे बोटी ऑफ़ थे फ्लाशेस एंड स्पार्क्स, लिघ्टिंग थे हेअवेंस इन थे मोस्ट बेऔतिफुल वे. थें अस थे क्लौड्स फिनाल्ली मोवेद तो अबोवे वेयर इ स्तूद आईटी बेगान तो रैन. एंड इ कुलद ओनली वाटच, तेअर्स स्त्रेअमिंग डाउन माय फ़किनतिओन तिल्तेद उप तोवार्द्स थे सकी. इ जुस्त वात्चेद थे लिघ्त्निंग तरी तो स्लाव थे ग्रौंद लिखे गिंत तलोंस ऑफ़ अन एक्सौस्तेद ठुन्देर्बिर्द, कर्सेद तो फली फोरेवर एंड नेवर लैंड तो रेस्ट. एंड इ फेल्ट ठाट बिर्ड्स तेअर्स, कोल्ड ओं माय फ्लेश. एंड इ फेल्ट ठाट बिर्ड्स पैन, वर्म ओं माय हेअर्त, बित्तेर्स्वीत एंड बेऔतिफुल. इ कुलद फील थे ठुन्देर्बिर्द न्यू इट्स प्लेस, ठाट थ्रौघ अल इट्स हार्ड लबोर थे तेअर्स आईटी शेड्स ब्रिंग लाइफ तो थे अर्थ्मोथेर एंड फॉर थिस रोले थे बिरद फेल्ट ब्लेस्सेद. थे सद्देस्त पार्ट ऑफ़ थे व्होले निघत थौघ वास क्नोविंग हाउ लेट आईटी वास एंड हाउ एवेर्योने वास प्रोबब्ल्य अस्लीप दुरिंग ठाट बेऔतिफुल एपीसोड़े. व्हिच रिंग्स त्रुए अस अ प्रोवेर्बिअल लाइफ लेस्सिओं, तेरे इस अल्वाय्स बोटी अल अरौंद उस, बुत हाउ ओफ्तें अरे वे अस्लीप?

Dear Thao Nguyen, you have no idea how disappointed I am with the obvious fact that your voice is non wall mountable.

Technology, are you the antichrist?

If a fish moves on to greener pastures is it better off?

control freak

Do we really fear the dark or are we just scared of letting our imagination do our eye's job?

Tin foil and tuning forks

Sometimes I pretend I'm psychic.

Haiku don't you?

It's been a long time since I wrote any poetry so here's a few haiku. Haiku are easy so you should write one too and post it as a comment. You just need to follow the syllable structure and that's all. 5, 7, 5. I'll probably post more here later so keep checking back.

arrow for a spine
bone or maple straight or curved?
teach me how to fly

neurons look like trees
spotlight melts a wax statue
nothing really dies

UP

Remember this well, it's the secret to flying, therefore it's a huge secret.

The secret to flying is lightheartedness. The heart is the heaviest part of the body and it's what keeps everyone grounded and flightless. It is impossible to fly with a heavy heart or even a medium/normal heart. It is also impossible to fly while wearing a backpack. Lightening your heart will give you the correct buoyancy for flight. So remember, lighten up to go up. 

I forget what I was going to say.

Rocket Science

Dear Center-of-the-Universe,

Everyone wants to be you, but I wonder... Do you want to be yourself? Sure, everything revolves around you, but what's the fun is staying still when everyone else is spinning?

Your friend,

Center-of-the-Universe

Your a little to nice, I'm a little to crazy, but really we're all normal.

Everyone says I'm really cool but don't listen to them, it's a conspiracy.

Misunderstanding. Excape to captivity to be free.

I'm off to join the mole people.

Design flaw

Listen to my heart beat beat beat, it has things to tell you that my mouth cannot say.

Reminder

Rain is the clouds' way of telling you it's been too long since your head visited.

I am a factory

I am a factory

my eyes see the world

my ears turn it into music

my heart turns the drum beats into heart beats

the heart beats trigger the seismograph

the seismograph swings the arm and needle

the needle spreads ink like waves all over the diary page

the diary tells storys only scientists can read

and only lovers and dreamers can understand.

Balancing act

I just took this chakra test and its way cool. So what are you waiting for? Click the link!

Color

Google now lets you search by color. Suck that bing.

 

 

 

Because I know your bored right now,

Here's a virtual activity book of awesomeness.

This link will send you to the most current one (currently it's last years still) but you can also find all the later ones at the bottom of the page, in case you have no life. May I also suggest checking out their wallpaper section? After finding it two years ago I've rarely used anything since. There's also a bunch of other useful things on their site, especially if your an artist. Who uses font. Or pictures for reference/inspiration.

Enjoy.

Happy

I'm floating on a cloud, I'm floating on a cloud. It's really a chair, but it's really a cloud. It's 1:30 am and I'm listening to my blog music while browsing MLIA and trying my hardest to stifle laughter and I'm floating up so high on my cloud I honestly can't think of a single reason why life is hard or think any negative thoughts at all, even if I try. Magic, magic, magic.

Deja Vu

I am the man who walks the dreams. I climb and crawl through door after door after window after door. Splinters and splinters and glass shards and splinters pieced into places I remember but have never been. Heavy eyes, red skys tint concrete walls and walls and bridges and walls. iron rails stretch far, glinting ribbon red, ready for the busyness of the emptiness. The sound of rustling wheat meadows flood from the nowhere that surrounds. Rose lenses shatter, silent.

By the Waters of Babylon

This is my favorite short story of all time. If you don't have time to read now it you should definitely come back and read it when you do. Yes, it's that good. I was going to post a link but I decided I would like it better if I was able to listen to my blog playlist while I read so I posted it here. Sorry it's long.  It's not written by me. It's written by this gent:

Stephen Vincent Benet. If you haven't already noticed this guy is way "cool" (< highest form of the word cool which requires the use of a jazz musician's/Donkey Kong voice while reading). I love this story because it always inspires me to be more confident and try new things. Plus I'm completely in love with the setting, tone, and the way the narrator speaks. Like I said before, It's my favorite. Hope you enjoy it as well.

   

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON
by Stephen Vincent Benét

 

The north and the west and the south are good hunting ground, but it is forbidden to go east. It is forbidden to go to any of the Dead Places except to search for metal and then he who touches the metal must be a priest or the son of a priest. Afterwards, both the man and the metal must be purified. These are the rules and the laws; they are well made. It is forbidden to cross the great river and look upon the place that was the Place of the Gods—this is most strictly forbidden. We do not even say its name though we know its name. It is there that spirits live, and demons—it is there that there are the ashes of the Great Burning. These things are forbidden—they have been forbidden since the beginning of time.

My father is a priest; I am the son of a priest. I have been in the Dead Places near us, with my father—at first, I was afraid. When my father went into the house to search for the metal, I stood by the door and my heart felt small and weak. It was a dead man's house, a spirit house. It did not have the smell of man, though there were old bones in a corner. But it is not fitting that a priest's son should show fear. I looked at the bones in the shadow and kept my voice still.

Then my father came out with the metal—good, strong piece. He looked at me with both eyes but I had not run away. He gave me the metal to hold—I took it and did not die. So he knew that I was truly his son and would be a priest in my time. That was when I was very young—nevertheless, my brothers would not have done it, though they are good hunters. After that, they gave me the good piece of meat and the warm corner of the fire. My father watched over me—he was glad that I should be a priest. But when I boasted or wept without a reason, he punished me more strictly than my brothers. That was right.

After a time, I myself was allowed to go into the dead houses and search for metal. So I learned the ways of those houses—and if I saw bones, I was no longer afraid. The bones are light and old—sometimes they will fall into dust if you touch them. But that is a great sin.

I was taught the chants and the spells—l was taught how to stop the running of blood from a wound and many secrets. A priest must know many secrets—that was what my father said.

If the hunters think we do all things by chants and spells, they may believe so—it does not hurt them. I was taught how to read in the old books and how to make the old writings—that was hard and took a long time. My knowledge made me happy—it was like a fire in my heart. Most of all, I liked to hear of the Old Days and the stories of the gods. I asked myself many questions that I could not answer, but it was good to ask them. At night, I would lie awake and listen to the wind—it seemed to me that it was the voice of the gods as they flew through the air.

We are not ignorant like the Forest People—our women spin wool on the wheel, our priests wear a white robe. We do not eat grubs from the trees, we have not forgotten the old writings, although they are hard to understand. Nevertheless, my knowledge and my lack of knowledge burned in me—I wished to know more. When I was a man at last, I came to my father and said, "It is time for me to go on my journey. Give me your leave."

He looked at me for a long time, stroking his beard, and then he said at last, "Yes. It is time." That night, in the house of the priesthood, I asked for and received purification. My body hurt but my spirit was a cool stone. It was my father himself who questioned me about my dreams.

He bade me look into the smoke of the fire and see—I saw and told what I saw. It was what I have always seen—a river, and, beyond it, a great Dead Place and in it the gods walking. I have always thought about that. His eyes were stern when I told him he was no longer my father but a priest. He said, "This is a strong dream."

"It is mine," I said, while the smoke waved and my head felt light. They were singing the Star song in the outer chamber and it was like the buzzing of bees in my head.

He asked me how the gods were dressed and I told him how they were dressed. We know how they were dressed from the book, but I saw them as if they were before me. When I had finished, he threw the sticks three times and studied them as they fell.

"This is a very strong dream," he said." It may eat you up."

"I am not afraid," I said and looked at him with both eyes. My voice sounded thin in my ears but that was because of the smoke.

He touched me on the breast and the forehead. He gave me the bow and the three arrows.

"Take them," he said. "It is forbidden to travel east. It is forbidden to cross the river. It is forbidden to go to the Place of the Gods. All these things are forbidden."

"All these things are forbidden," I said, but it was my voice that spoke and not my spirit. He looked at me again.

"My son," he said. "Once I had young dreams. If your dreams do not eat you up, you may be a great priest. If they eat you, you are still my son. Now go on your journey." 

I went fasting, as is the law. My body hurt but not my heart. When the dawn came, I was out of sight of the village. I prayed and purified myself, waiting for a sign. The sign was an eagle. It flew east.

Sometimes signs are sent by bad spirits. I waited again on the flat rock, fasting, taking no food. I was very still—I could feel the sky above me and the earth beneath. I waited till the sun was beginning to sink. Then three deer passed in the valley going east—they did not mind me or see me. There was a white fawn with them—a very great sign.

I followed them, at a distance, waiting for what would happen. My heart was troubled about going east, yet I knew that I must go. My head hummed with my fasting—I did not even see the panther spring upon the white fawn. But, before I knew it, the bow was in my hand. I shouted and the panther lifted his head from the fawn. It is not easy to kill a panther with one arrow but the arrow went through his eye and into his brain. He died as he tried to spring—he rolled over, tearing at the ground. Then I knew I was meant to go east—I knew that was my journey. When the night came, I made my fire and roasted meat.

It is eight suns' journey to the east and a man passes by many Dead Places. The Forest People are afraid of them but I am not. Once I made my fire on the edge of a Dead Place at night and, next morning, in the dead house, I found a good knife, little rusted. That was small to what came afterward but it made my heart feel big. Always when I looked for game, it was in front of my arrow, and twice I passed hunting parties of the Forest People without their knowing. So I knew my magic was strong and my journey clean, in spite of the law.

Toward the setting of the eighth sun, I came to the banks of the great river. It was half-a-day's journey after I had left the god-road—we do not use the god-roads now for they are falling apart into great blocks of stone, and the forest is safer going. A long way off, I had seen the water through trees but the trees were thick. At last, I came out upon an open place at the top of a cliff. There was the great river below, like a giant in the sun. It is very long, very wide. It could eat all the streams we know and still be thirsty. Its name is Ou-dis-sun, the Sacred, the Long. No man of my tribe had seen it, not even my father, the priest. It was magic and I prayed.

Then I raised my eyes and looked south. It was there, the Place of the Gods.

How can I tell what it was like—you do not know. It was there, in the red light, and they were too big to be houses. It was there with the red light upon it, mighty and ruined. I knew that in another moment the gods would see me. I covered my eyes with my hands and crept back into the forest.

Surely, that was enough to do, and live. Surely it was enough to spend the night upon the cliff. The Forest People themselves do not come near. Yet, all through the night, I knew that I should have to cross the river and walk in the places of the gods, although the gods ate me up. My magic did not help me at all and yet there was a fire in my bowels, a fire in my mind. When the sun rose, I thought, "My journey has been clean. Now I will go home from my journey." But, even as I thought so, I knew I could not. If I went to the Place of the Gods, I would surely die, but, if I did not go, I could never be at peace with my spirit again. It is better to lose one's life than one's spirit, if one is a priest and the son of a priest.

Nevertheless, as I made the raft, the tears ran out of my eyes. The Forest People could have killed me without fight, if they had come upon me then, but they did not come.

When the raft was made, I said the sayings for the dead and painted myself for death. My heart was cold as a frog and my knees like water, but the burning in my mind would not let me have peace. As I pushed the raft from the shore, I began my death song—I had the right. It was a fine song.

"I am John, son of John," I sang. "My people are the Hill People. They are the men.

I go into the Dead Places but I am not slain.

I take the metal from the Dead Places but I am not blasted.

I travel upon the god-roads and am not afraid. E-yah! I have killed the panther, I have killed the fawn!

E-yah! I have come to the great river. No man has come there before. 

It is forbidden to go east, but I have gone, forbidden to go on the great river, but I am there.

Open your hearts, you spirits, and hear my song.

Now I go to the Place of the Gods, I shall not return.

My body is painted for death and my limbs weak, but my heart is big as I go to the Place of the Gods!"

All the same, when I came to the Place of the Gods, I was afraid, afraid. The current of the great river is very strong—it gripped my raft with its hands. That was magic, for the river itself is wide and calm. I could feel evil spirits about me, I was swept down the stream. Never have I been so much alone—I tried to think of my knowledge, but it was a squirrel's heap of winter nuts. There was no strength in my knowledge any more and I felt small and naked as a new-hatched bird—alone upon the great river, the servant of the gods.

Yet, after a while, my eyes were opened and I saw. I saw both banks of the river—I saw that once there had been god-roads across it, though now they were broken and fallen like broken vines. Very great they were, and wonderful and broken—broken in the time of the Great Burning when the fire fell out of the sky. And always the current took me nearer to the Place of the Gods, and the huge ruins rose before my eyes.

I do not know the customs of rivers—we are the People of the Hills. I tried to guide my raft with the pole but it spun around. I thought the river meant to take me past the Place of the Gods and out into the Bitter Water of the legends. I grew angry then—my heart felt strong. I said aloud, "I am a priest and the son of a priest!" The gods heard me—they showed me how to paddle with the pole on one side of the raft. The current changed itself—I drew near to the Place of the Gods.

When I was very near, my raft struck and turned over. I can swim in our lakes—I swam to the shore. There was a great spike of rusted metal sticking out into the river—I hauled myself up upon it and sat there, panting. I had saved my bow and two arrows and the knife I found in the Dead Place but that was all. My raft went whirling downstream toward the Bitter Water. I looked after it, and thought if it had trod me under, at least I would be safely dead. Nevertheless, when I had dried my bowstring and re-strung it, I walked forward to the Place of the Gods.

It felt like ground underfoot; it did not burn me. It is not true what some of the tales say, that the ground there burns forever, for I have been there. Here and there were the marks and stains of the Great Burning, on the ruins, that is true. But they were old marks and old stains. It is not true either, what some of our priests say, that it is an island covered with fogs and enchantments. It is not. It is a great Dead Place—greater than any Dead Place we know. Everywhere in it there are god-roads, though most are cracked and broken. Everywhere there are the ruins of the high towers of the gods.

How shall I tell what I saw? I went carefully, my strung bow in my hand, my skin ready for danger. There should have been the wailings of spirits and the shrieks of demons, but there were not. It was very silent and sunny where I had landed—the wind and the rain and the birds that drop seeds had done their work—the grass grew in the cracks of the broken stone. It is a fair island—no wonder the gods built there. If I had come there, a god, I also would have built.

How shall I tell what I saw? The towers are not all broken—here and there one still stands, like a great tree in a forest, and the birds nest high. But the towers themselves look blind, for the gods are gone. I saw a fishhawk, catching fish in the river. I saw a little dance of white butterflies over a great heap of broken stones and columns. I went there and looked about me—there was a carved stone with cut—letters, broken in half. I can read letters but I could not understand these. They said UBTREAS. There was also the shattered image of a man or a god. It had been made of white stone and he wore his hair tied back like a woman's. His name was ASHING, as I read on the cracked half of a stone. I thought it wise to pray to ASHING, though I do not know that god.

How shall I tell what I saw? There was no smell of man left, on stone or metal. Nor were there many trees in that wilderness of stone. There are many pigeons, nesting and dropping in the towers—the gods must have loved them, or, perhaps, they used them for sacrifices. There are wild cats that roam the god-roads, green-eyed, unafraid of man. At night they wail like demons but they are not demons. The wild dogs are more dangerous, for they hunt in a pack, but them I did not meet till later. Everywhere there are the carved stones, carved with magical numbers or words.

I went north—I did not try to hide myself. When a god or a demon saw me, then I would die, but meanwhile I was no longer afraid. My hunger for knowledge burned in me—there was so much that I could not understand. After a while, I knew that my belly was hungry. I could have hunted for my meat, but I did not hunt. It is known that the gods did not hunt as we do—they got their food from enchanted boxes and jars. Sometimes these are still found in the Dead Places—once, when I was a child and foolish, I opened such a jar and tasted it and found the food sweet. But my father found out and punished me for it strictly, for, often, that food is death. Now, though, I had long gone past what was forbidden, and I entered the likeliest towers, looking for the food of the gods.

I found it at last in the ruins of a great temple in the mid-city. A mighty temple it must have been, for the roof was painted like the sky at night with its stars—that much I could see, though the colors were faint and dim. It went down into great caves and tunnels—perhaps they kept their slaves there. But when I started to climb down, I heard the squeaking of rats, so I did not go—rats are unclean, and there must have been many tribes of them, from the squeaking. But near there, I found food, in the heart of a ruin, behind a door that still opened. I ate only the fruits from the jars—they had a very sweet taste. There was drink, too, in bottles of glass—the drink of the gods was strong and made my head swim. After I had eaten and drunk, I slept on the top of a stone, my bow at my side.

When I woke, the sun was low. Looking down from where I lay, I saw a dog sitting on his haunches. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth; he looked as if he were laughing. He was a big dog, with a gray-brown coat, as big as a wolf. I sprang up and shouted at him but he did not move—he just sat there as if he were laughing. I did not like that. When I reached for a stone to throw, he moved swiftly out of the way of the stone. He was not afraid of me; he looked at me as if I were meat. No doubt I could have killed him with an arrow, but I did not know if there were others. Moreover, night was falling.

I looked about me—not far away there was a great, broken god-road, leading north. The towers were high enough, but not so high, and while many of the dead-houses were wrecked, there were some that stood. I went toward this god-road, keeping to the heights of the ruins, while the dog followed. When I had reached the god-road, I saw that there were others behind him. If I had slept later, they would have come upon me asleep and torn out my throat. As it was, they were sure enough of me; they did not hurry. When I went into the dead-house, they kept watch at the entrance—doubtless they thought they would have a fine hunt. But a dog cannot open a door and I knew, from the books, that the gods did not like to live on the ground but on high.

I had just found a door I could open when the dogs decided to rush. Ha! They were surprised when I shut the door in their faces—it was a good door, of strong metal. I could hear their foolish baying beyond it but I did not stop to answer them. I was in darkness—I found stairs and climbed. There were many stairs, turning around till my head was dizzy. At the top was another door—I found the knob and opened it. I was in a long small chamber—on one side of it was a bronze door that could not be opened, for it had no handle. Perhaps there was a magic word to open it but I did not have the word. I turned to the door in the opposite side of the wall. The lock of it was broken and I opened it and went in.

Within, there was a place of great riches. The god who lived there must have been a powerful god. The first room was a small ante-room—I waited there for some time, telling the spirits of the place that I came in peace and not as a robber. When it seemed to me that they had had time to hear me, I went on. Ah, what riches! Few, even, of the windows had been broken—it was all as it had been. The great windows that looked over the city had not been broken at all though they were dusty and streaked with many years. There were coverings on the floors, the colors not greatly faded, and the chairs were soft and deep. There were pictures upon the walls, very strange, very wonderful—I remember one of a bunch of flowers in a jar—if you came close to it, you could see nothing but bits of color, but if you stood away from it, the flowers might have been picked yesterday. It made my heart feel strange to look at this picture—and to look at the figure of a bird, in some hard clay, on a table and see it so like our birds. Everywhere there were books and writings, many in tongues that I could not read. The god who lived there must have been a wise god and full of knowledge. I felt I had a right there, as I sought knowledge also.

Nevertheless, it was strange. There was a washing-place but no water—perhaps the gods washed in air. There was a cooking-place but no wood, and though there was a machine to cook food, there was no place to put fire in it. Nor were there candles or lamps—there were things that looked like lamps but they had neither oil nor wick. All these things were magic, but I touched them and lived—the magic had gone out of them. Let me tell one thing to show. In the washing-place, a thing said "Hot" but it was not hot to the touch—another thing said "Cold" but it was not cold. This must have been a strong magic but the magic was gone. I do not understand—they had ways—I wish that I knew.

It was close and dry and dusty in the house of the gods. I have said the magic was gone but that is not true—it had gone from the magic things but it had not gone from the place. I felt the spirits about me, weighing upon me. Nor had I ever slept in a Dead Place before—and yet, tonight, I must sleep there. When I thought of it, my tongue felt dry in my throat, in spite of my wish for knowledge. Almost I would have gone down again and faced the dogs, but I did not.

I had not gone through all the rooms when the darkness fell. When it fell, I went back to the big room looking over the city and made fire. There was a place to make fire and a box with wood in it, though I do not think they cooked there. I wrapped myself in a floor-covering and slept in front of the fire—I was very tired.

Now I tell what is very strong magic. I woke in the midst of the night. When I woke, the fire had gone out and I was cold. It seemed to me that all around me there were whisperings and voices. I closed my eyes to shut them out. Some will say that I slept again, but I do not think that I slept. I could feel the spirits drawing my spirit out of my body as a fish is drawn on a line.

Why should I lie about it? I am a priest and the son of a priest. If there are spirits, as they say, in the small Dead Places near us, what spirits must there not be in that great Place of the Gods? And would not they wish to speak? After such long years? I know that I felt myself drawn as a fish is drawn on a line. I had stepped out of my body—I could see my body asleep in front of the cold fire, but it was not I. I was drawn to look out upon the city of the gods. 

It should have been dark, for it was night, but it was not dark. Everywhere there were lights—lines of light—circles and blurs of light—ten thousand torches would not have been the same. The sky itself was alight—you could barely see the stars for the glow in the sky. I thought to myself "This is strong magic" and trembled. There was a roaring in my ears like the rushing of rivers. Then my eyes grew used to the light and my ears to the sound. I knew that I was seeing the city as it had been when the gods were alive.

That was a sight indeed—yes, that was a sight: I could not have seen it in the body—my body would have died. Everywhere went the gods, on foot and in chariots—there were gods beyond number and counting and their chariots blocked the streets. They had turned night to day for their pleasure-they did not sleep with the sun. The noise of their coming and going was the noise of the many waters. It was magic what they could do—it was magic what they did.

I looked out of another window—the great vines of their bridges were mended and god-roads went east and west. Restless, restless, were the gods and always in motion! They burrowed tunnels under rivers—they flew in the air. With unbelievable tools they did giant works—no part of the earth was safe from them, for, if they wished for a thing, they summoned it from the other side of the world. And always, as they labored and rested, as they feasted and made love, there was a drum in their ears—the pulse of the giant city, beating and beating like a man's heart.

Were they happy? What is happiness to the gods? They were great, they were mighty, they were wonderful and terrible. As I looked upon them and their magic, I felt like a child—but a little more, it seemed to me, and they would pull down the moon from the sky. I saw them with wisdom beyond wisdom and knowledge beyond knowledge. And yet not all they did was well done—even I could see that ? and yet their wisdom could not but grow until all was peace.

Then I saw their fate come upon them and that was terrible past speech. It came upon them as they walked the streets of their city. I have been in the fights with the Forest People—I have seen men die. But this was not like that. When gods war with gods, they use weapons we do not know. It was fire falling out of the sky and a mist that poisoned. It was the time of the Great Burning and the Destruction. They ran about like ants in the streets of their city—poor gods, poor gods! Then the towers began to fall. A few escaped—yes, a few. The legends tell it. But, even after the city had become a Dead Place, for many years the poison was still in the ground. I saw it happen, I saw the last of them die. It was darkness over the broken city and I wept.

All this, I saw. I saw it as I have told it, though not in the body. When I woke in the morning, I was hungry, but I did not think first of my hunger for my heart was perplexed and confused. I knew the reason for the Dead Places but I did not see why it had happened. It seemed to me it should not have happened, with all the magic they had. I went through the house looking for an answer. There was so much in the house I could not understand—and yet I am a priest and the son of a priest. It was like being on one side of the great river, at night, with no light to show the way.

Then I saw the dead god. He was sitting in his chair, by the window, in a room I had not entered before and, for the first moment, I thought that he was alive. Then I saw the skin on the back of his hand—it was like dry leather. The room was shut, hot and dry—no doubt that had kept him as he was. At first I was afraid to approach him—then the fear left me. He was sitting looking out over the city—he was dressed in the clothes of the gods. His age was neither young nor old—I could not tell his age. But there was wisdom in his face and great sadness. You could see that he would have not run away. He had sat at his window, watching his city die—then he himself had died. But it is better to lose one's life than one's spirit—and you could see from the face that his spirit had not been lost. I knew, that, if I touched him, he would fall into dust—and yet, there was something unconquered in the face.

That is all of my story, for then I knew he was a man—I knew then that they had been men, neither gods nor demons. It is a great knowledge, hard to tell and believe. They were men—they went a dark road, but they were men. I had no fear after that—I had no fear going home, though twice I fought off the dogs and once I was hunted for two days by the Forest People. When I saw my father again, I prayed and was purified. He touched my lips and my breast, he said, "You went away a boy. You come back a man and a priest." I said, "Father, they were men! I have been in the Place of the Gods and seen it! Now slay me, if it is the law—but still I know they were men."

He looked at me out of both eyes. He said, "The law is not always the same shape—you have done what you have done. I could not have done it my time, but you come after me. Tell!"

I told and he listened. After that, I wished to tell all the people but he showed me otherwise. He said, "Truth is a hard deer to hunt. If you eat too much truth at once, you may die of the truth. It was not idly that our fathers forbade the Dead Places." He was right—it is better the truth should come little by little. I have learned that, being a priest. Perhaps, in the old days, they ate knowledge too fast.

Nevertheless, we make a beginning. it is not for the metal alone we go to the Dead Places now—there are the books and the writings. They are hard to learn. And the magic tools are broken—but we can look at them and wonder. At least, we make a beginning. And, when I am chief priest we shall go beyond the great river. We shall go to the Place of the Gods—the place newyork—not one man but a company. We shall look for the images of the gods and find the god ASHING and the others—the gods Lincoln and Biltmore and Moses. But they were men who built the city, not gods or demons. They were men. I remember the dead man's face. They were men who were here before us. We must build again.

Frogs and snails and worm slaying tales, that's what little blog posts are made of.

Today it rained. I love rain and today was the first time it seems this year that it was warm enough (barely) to play in it. I ran outside and splashed and danced and twirled and ran. Then I smelled the fresh air, which always has this way of making me want to do something epic like go on an adventure or climb a freakin' mountain or triple drop-kick flip a bear in the face. And fresh air is always more plentiful after/while it's raining (and in the morning), so I did something epic. I grabbed my longboard and rode out to slay worms, which there were plenty of. Except my longboard wasn't a longboard. It was a viking ship, and the worms were instead giant sea serpents. It was to epic for words so here's a picture some kind random person on the internet drew of the event.

I had to stop because, as you can see, inside of worms are just more worms and kool-aide and it's a never ending crusade. The rest of my day was spent chilling and listening to Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Explosions, and this one other song which I feel all compliment the rain perfectly. I love classical, shoegaze, ambient, and, instrumental music, whether its post-rock or more digital, because I love the mood it puts me in. They make me so thoughtful and my brain spreads itself wide open and I feel so wise and inspired.

Mission statement: I model this blog on rainy days and all the treasures they bring. So you can expect me to post a lot of stuff that I feel is wise or inspired, but probably isn't. What I want most though, aside from being able to express myself freely and write what ever the toast I want, is to create a place where me and others can come to chill and relax and feel wise and inspired, like a rainy day. And if I do inspire, well, that's all I could ever ask of life and more. 

We all know deep down, all secrets want to be found.

passion v.s. reason: a play written and directed by the human condition

i wrote this in fall when i was new to the "real world" i was plopped into and frustrated and confused with its reasoning... not much has changed really. anyway i completely forgot all about this and i kinda like it so im posting it. it is in no way meant to be an actual play.

act 1 scene 1

(a mid-upper class boy runs away from the suburbs to start his own life. he sits down to rest under a sign post at a fork in the path he is traveling. he has no clue which direction to continue as his mind wanders off trying to decide. meanwhile his left lobe loyally records the moment.)

left brain: dear diary, i had to drop out of collage today. do you know why i had to drop out? because i procrastinated paying my tuition. why did i procrastinated paying my tuition? because im vain. im vain and i spent all my money on things i wanted but did not need. well im broke now and im looking for a job. do you know why i cant find a job? because im lazy. im lazy and find it hard to care. why do i find it hard to care? because i have a billion problems and imperfections yet i accept everyone of them. i am happy. i am content. but thats not good enough for them. they say i should get a job. why? so i can go to collage. why? so i can learn to spell collage. why? so i can get a better job. why? so i can buy things i want but do not need. why? to be happy. to be content.

act 1 scene 2

(meanwhile, in the neighboring lobe, right brain processes the same thought)

right brain: a thousand puppies chase their tales. one puppy, whether by miracle or curse, was born with its tail already in its mouth. It didnt know what to do. it cant be with the other puppys the way things are. it had to choose. keep the tail or find a way to chase it with the rest?

act 2 scene1

(by now the boy is almost fully asleep. back in the left lobe left brain continues to talk with its diary, which is receiving enough delta waves to talk back.)

left brain: couldnt i spend my money and time on books instead of collage? (among them a dictionary)

diary: well yes (as long as you dont forget the dictionary) but where and how would you live?

left brain: on a farm, working for the things i need.

diary: how extreme. how lonely.

left brain: a sacrifice indeed. but this synthetic place we call the real world, is it not as well? albeit more of a preset?

left brain and diary together: why must there always be a choice? what ever happened to compromise? harmony?

act 2 scene 2

(over in the right lobe right brain interprets the thought in its own way, using images more often then speech)

right brain: the puppy learned it could not eat with a tail in its mouth and starved to death.

(alternate ending?)

right brain: the puppy went to college, got a phd, gave himself surgery, and chased with the other puppies (happily?) ever after.

act 2 scene 3

(in the opposite lobe left brain continues its now deep musings with diary, who doesnt really exist as more than a plot mechanic and is now (seemingly) all knowing)

left brain: what is happiness?

diary: happiness is the answer to all. it is golden. it is stashed in a chest and hidden some place secret. it is the treasure we all seek.

left brain: what is philosophy?

diary: philosophy is the question to all. it is a blessing and a curse. it is discouraged from children at an early age. it is the map to the answer.

left brain: in this world the two dont live side by side?

diary: no. it is a civil war we must strive to end.

act 2 scene 4

(back in the right lobe. all images.)

right brain: a projector casts an image on a giant bubble. a thousand puppies are shown with their tails in their mouths.

pop.

fin

ghosting

sometimes im grateful that there are drugs in the world so other people can do them and bring me wonderful things like this video. other times im ungrateful cause i realize how hard it will be for someone like me to ever live up such things.

there is only one tree on the moon,

and its where i go to read my books, and eat my lunch, and be or do what ever seems most possible, or impossible, depending on how im feeling that day, or night, depending on the position of the sun, or moon on which i stand, depending on how you look at it, which, it seems, is what it all comes down to really. life is all about perspective, or the lack there of, which is what i was trying to say from the start, but didnt, because im feeling very comma abusive, because they were very unkind to me in highschool, and still are to this day, or night, depending on the position of the sun, or the earth on which you, or i, or who ever is reading this, stands, or sits, or lies, or floats, depending on said persons preference of comfort, or discomfort, depending on there perspective on the matter, which, it seems, matters, or doesnt, depending on itself. like you and like me.

<?3

I like you.

I don't want to.

I like like you.

I dont want to.

I love you.

I dont know what I want.

Perspective is everything

I stumbled upon these while browsing the web the other day. They made me go wow. I want to share this wow with you. Most of them are kinda trashy but hey thats the point right?

Foma

I am a reaching reaching arm. Blank. Flat. Dead. I am a tumbling rhino with a bullet for a head. I am a creek creek creeeeeeek door hinge. I am a black and blue orange. I am the freedom sober drug. I am underneath a rug. Blank. Flat. Dead. Pillow for your head. Orange without the red. Rhino with no head. Door with no sound. Arm on the ground. I am the flower in it's palm. Blooming blooming blooming. A twisting fireball. I am everything I'm not. Close the cellar door, fix the lock. In the dark I am the light. I am everything correctly right. I am black and I am white. I am blind with perfect sight. I can see the master plan. Meaning does not exist. Restricted off limit ban. I am shackled at the wrists. A poem leaves my mouth. The truth is coming out. The last half is a lie. From the cellar to the wrists. That all makes to much sence. The truth lies at the start. Where we fumble brain and heart. Trying to make sence. Of things that never did. A cage with no fence. Open the drooping lid. That lies on your forehead. Blank. Flat. Dead. I am a body without limbs. I am whole and without harm. I am a shark that cannot swim. I am a reaching reaching arm.

I want to explode in a million directions in a million pieces, like loud loud elephants or silent seeds. To make my mark and multiply. My brain is a grenade.

Scream what your afraid to whisper.

I'm the weirdest person I've ever met. This fact makes me very sad. I'm waiting for it to change. Whether it be by getting to know someone new, or someone better, it doesn't matter.

Off with their headings!

Today I was reading in my Humanities textbook. Right now I guess we're learning how sculptures are made. The particular page I was on made me laugh. A large picture dominated the top of the page showing a sculpture of soldiers decapitating people, below this in the middle of the page was a section heading that read "Execution of sculpture".

Judgemental

I wrote this poem in my head while sitting on a bench on campus, watching people pass, and wondering why there are so many clueless unattractive people in this world, particularly after seeing this one man. Well I hurried and wrote it down on my homework, (Oh how many poems I would have if I just had homework handy all the time) changed a few words to make things rhyme, and got this...

Man walking. Step. Step. Step.

Rubs me the wrong way.

Wears his brown shoes a little too dressy,

and a little too caked with clay.

Wears his blue jeans a little too wrangler,

and a little too blue, true blue.

Wears his black shirt a little too Walmart,

with a sentence a little too ew.

Has a belly a little too prominent,

and pasty flesh a little too white.

Wears a beard a little too bushy,

and red hair a little too bright.

And as this man goes walking by,

I make my conclusion final.

Man, there's not one thing wrong with you,

I'm just a little too judgemental.

Turns out I'm the unattractive clueless one. My favorite part about this poem is how easy it is to read along and not like the guy and then get to the end and feel that pang of guilt. Every time. To me this isn't a form of art, it's a form of transportation. I love it.

A telescope for insight

I have a beautiful mind. Maybe everyone does and mines nothing special... If so I still view mine as beautiful and magic. It works. It thinks. It questions. It streams wonderful monologues and revolutionary ideas. It thinks things that may have never been thought before. It creates worlds teeming with life and soul and energy. It solves problems. It collects memories and quotes. Photographs and philosophies. Friends, faces, love, places, songs, time, thoughts of mine, all co-exist in a tiny little mind. Its beautiful. Truly. And wouldn't you agree that when you find something beautiful you get that little feeling, that little voice inside that screams "I need to share this with someone! This is too good to be left in the dust, to go unnoticed, to be unappreciated." Sometimes I feel this way about some of the things my mind comes up with, but mostly I feel this way about things its collected. Things I see, hear, find, and do. That's why I made this blog. Telescopes for insight. The perfect juxtaposition of me and the things I love. Melting together into a portrait of me, one that i can look at and see far and wide all the places and things I've touched and all that has touched me, and find out who I am. A telescope for insight. That is all this is and nothing more.

P.S. This is from my last blog "Telescopes for Insight". I got rid of it for a lot of reasons but in short because it wasn't working out and I like this one better. Here I'm kinda giving my mission statement for the blog. I wanted it to be about cool stuff online that i find everything but mostly it ended up being about me and my poems and prose. For this current blog I only have a lose theme which I find easier to follow. Now I can feel at ease writing whatever I want as long as it doesn't say anything about me hating rain. And even if I did I've already explained how I love contradictions and not making sense so, yea, I'm pretty much covered. I know it's kinda stupid to care so much about a "mission statement" and follow it perfectly and such but it's just one of those things that piss off my inner OCD monster so I play along. Lastly I would apologize for such a long post script except for this blog isn't for you, its for me. Part of the reason my last blog failed is 'cause I worried about the readers and opinions and feelings and my interestingness and grammar and truth and length and looks and my blog and my reputation and the if I left the oven on and EVERYTHING. But not this time. This time this blogs about nothing. And I hate rain.

Warmer patterns

As snow smothers
the color from god's lips,
and devils dance
in trees made of sticks;
The past is a drafty apartment,
no soul should linger long,
winter beats on cold glass windows,
ushering bitter sweet song.
Front door offers a creaking hand,
rays of present pooling through,
unchanged habits scream for action,
still world urges you to move.
Woven into warmer patterns,
I seek shelter.
With twigs and yarn,
I build buildings without structure.
Newborn world stands tall, proud.
I climb to the top.
Lips bleed color into heaven's lids,
nourishment rains down.
This heart is the furnace,
that keeps this house warm.
love is the fuel,
that helps it burn strong.

Dedicated to Lady Golden Eagle

Pythagoris, are you secure?

Pushed into cracks,
pressed against ridges,
we echo the shapes
of our frequent surroundings.
Each of us different,
we face the dilemma:
are circles perfect
or are we?

Feliz Navidad

So this year, instead of having a big christmas, our family is going to MEXICO on a cruise. I couldn't have thought of a better way to spend the holidays. I love traveling! Who doesn't right? It means we won't have a grande Christmas but hey I think I like it better that way. It'll be nice to actually not worry about presents and focus on family and Christ. And visiting other countries isn't half mal either. I leave in la manana for Cali home of fake tans, bleached hair, plastic surgery, and everything else that makes America great (not). Then on to Meh-he-ko! Then back next friday. I'm super pumped. I've been watching Dora and am ready to VA! Hopefully there's snow when I get back. AAARRREEEBBAAAAAAA!!!!

cows cows go away

So at the beginning of the week some farmer put nine cows in the field right next to my house. I didn't care. The field is huge and I love animals. Well one of the windows of my house is facing said field and I guess today those cows discovered their reflections. They would just stand there and stare at themselves from across my yard like some Alzheimic chess players, waiting for someone to make a move. They were all right near my house so naturally I went out to the fence to talk with them. Cows are disgusting. I couldn't even get close because of the smell. They had crap covering their behinds and sides. I guess they lay in it? They're matted and ugly and gross. I just lost some respect for the Hindu culture. Which is sad because I love their culture. I guess I should be thankful they're furtalizing the weeds neighboring my yard. Thanks cows. I'm not eating beef for a week.

God resets the phoenix to give the ignorant a second chance

My favorite time of day is right before the sun sets. When the sky is still blue and the sun shines golden still, but the world is tinted sepia like a living memory of yesterdays. And as my mind wanders over the converging plains of time, the sun keeps it's steady pace towards the death we all look forward to, and evolves into a vibrant sunset screaming loud it's color and awe, before falling from the sky and extinguishing in some far off ocean. It's the way I wish to die and in some ways it's the way we already do...
Then sometimes I'll wonder at it's fiery parade and ponder if, just maybe, just maybe it's really an atomic explosion rushing in slow-mo, for the entertainment of some immortal audience, or perhaps paused altogether by gods gracious remote. It's funny to think how many of us wouldn't even notice, as it looms over the busy commuting highway goers and their rushing cars.
It seems there are two kinds of people in this world.
Those who are in a hurry, and those who like to go fast.

Earthly Bodies

So... I pretty sure this is the most beautiful song in the world. If you haven't already heard it then do yourself a favor and
click
click
click
on this link and stream/download it.

Pathetic Speaks Persona

Dear Vivian,

Your malfunctioning.

And I'm not sure that I still love you

as much as I used too.

Dear Bluest Whale,

Keep diving deeper deeper.

It halts no clock from ticking

and eventually you lungs will again rape the surface.

Dear Lady Golden Eagle

Stop circling my head.

Your feathers repel the tears from my third eye

and I no longer wish you to be painted into my masterpiece.

Dear new friend Reggie Leppod,

We're a pleasantly unpleasant secret.

Please unravel yourself before us until our film is overexposed

so our nero-chambers can leak out the booming echoes of our creation.

Sincerely, Me

Dear Catastrope Waitress

Belle and Sebastian conjures your ghost. It flutters it's wings against the pane glass between our worlds and whispers for reincarnation. I wish I knew that spell. For now I regretfully avoid that graveyard with the whimsical tunes I used to love.

Stereotypes speak truth through the murder of exceptions. Oh how they slay.

What the blind eye sees

I made this online since I don't have any fancy programs like Photoshop. Its an abstract self protrait of me. Hopefully I'll post more art later.

Good to have a name

This isn't done yet at all but it seems very appropriate for thanksgiving so I'm posting it.

Each of us are animals

yet none of us the same

to help us all stay sorted

it's good to have a name

so take it not for granted

nor accept it as plain fact

know when brother crow goes kawing

one hundred crows kaw back

Happy Thanksgiving!

P.S. I was going to add more verses but I've haven't gotten around to it and don't think I ever will. So I guess it is finished. For now at least.

P.S.S. A little background: Reggie wrote this as a gift for me after a he/we named him. He randomly threw the name Regnag Leppod, or Reggie for short, at me one night and I agreed to name/call him that. 

P.S.S.S. You should download this remix of Mike Snow's Animal because it kinda reminds me of this poem and its a favorite.