A - You can share your photos.
Memories of Ma dusting off her old photo album seem ages away from the system of quick sharing we enjoy today. She'd select the memories from a shelf that held every year of my childhood--peering into windows of the past. We'd sit by the old iron stove for warmth and would each hold a candle in order to illuminate the tiny rectangular objects of our interest. Pa would bring in whatever he had managed to trap or shoot that day for Ma to cook up, as well as any elixirs the local apothecary suggested to help rid my brother Adam of his Cholera. In this bygone age, photos were just as subject to the elements as you or I. They could be burned, warped, or cut into dangerously sharp pieces.
Nowadays sure are different. With a certain number of clicks of several buttons in a particular sequence, whole photo albums are easily shared with your friends, family, and those who aren't really your friends, but you tell them they are so as not to hurt their feelings. In my case, my favorite thing to do with photos is make sure all the pictures of my travels in England, France, and Italy are prominent. This way, anyone who is either too poor to travel, or tied down by a relationship, can be jealous of my adventures.
B - You can share your thoughts.
There was a time when I pretty much never wrote anything. This was way back before the internet was revealed to mankind by the Reptilians. I distinctly recall sitting soberly in front of my typewriter, pondering the following dilemma:
There's no point in writing something unless people are going to read it. The only way to get people to read something I've written is to get it published--either that or hold it up to their face and whine to them that they should be interested in my artistic endeavours. The only way to get something published is to write a piece that is really good, or at least has a point.
Hmmm. Good writing takes hard work, and lots of it. For me, hard work is an idea that is firmly juxtaposed to leisure time (which happens to be the only time I have to write anything). Not only that, but what kind of white kid from the suburbs has anything of substance to write about? Maybe if my dad beat me, I'd have some good insight... but he never laid a hand on me... Thanks for all the inspiration, old man!
Turns out, the solution to my dilemma is known as the "weblog" or "'blog" or "note". This function of the internet--which I am currently utilizing--allows me to write out my thoughts--what e'er they be--under the illusion that many people will read and care. With Facebook in particular, if I am feeling like I really need the attention, I can "tag" any number of friends or family in the note, assuring that they will at least take a glance! (Warning: use this tactic sparingly. After a period of tagging unnecessarily, people seem to catch on.)
C - You can keep track of old acquaintances.
In olden times, I'm sure that most people only got to see their high school pals on scheduled reunions, awkward moments at the grocery store, or sexual affairs borne of the intense desperation of middle age and marriage. These days, with the power of Facebook, we can track our old chums easily; all we need is their misguided trust. Whether you're checking to see whether someone is still single, going to school, or working at Kroger's, Facebook allows you all of this information and more. The best part for me is the pictures! Ah, the pictures. There's nothing quite as satisfying as seeing a girl who wouldn't give you the time of day in high school get progressively fatter with every new profile picture! And girls aren't the only people who get fat. I often notice with bridled rapture my male friends looking more and more like tired old men while I, in relative comparison, am as fit and energetic as ever! Thanks, Facebook.
There are certainly more reasons why Facebook is great. But A,B,C just felt so right. Three is the magic number.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Misuderstood Mutations
Evolution has answered - a sea-dwelling wish
After thousands of years: the net-cutting fish
The net-cutting fish, with scissors as lips
Will swim through the sea, the bane of all ships
Attempting to haul, and lift up a catch
The net-cutting fish, the fishermen wretch
The net-cutting fish, a friend to the swimmers
Will cut through all nets - with his marvelous trimmers
The coast towns will starve, the fish will survive
And of course, conversely - the farmers will thrive
As nature is kind, so is nature vicious
For these net-cutting fishes; they'll taste quite delicious
And predators come - from near and from far
To eat up these fish, though they leave quite a scar
The fishermen cheer, their children will sing
For the net-cutting fish - was a short-lived thing
And though the fish laughed, and fishermen hissed
History will forget - the net-cutting fish
After thousands of years: the net-cutting fish
The net-cutting fish, with scissors as lips
Will swim through the sea, the bane of all ships
Attempting to haul, and lift up a catch
The net-cutting fish, the fishermen wretch
The net-cutting fish, a friend to the swimmers
Will cut through all nets - with his marvelous trimmers
The coast towns will starve, the fish will survive
And of course, conversely - the farmers will thrive
As nature is kind, so is nature vicious
For these net-cutting fishes; they'll taste quite delicious
And predators come - from near and from far
To eat up these fish, though they leave quite a scar
The fishermen cheer, their children will sing
For the net-cutting fish - was a short-lived thing
And though the fish laughed, and fishermen hissed
History will forget - the net-cutting fish
Recember 1?th, 2008
A Day in the Life of Ornseth
Today I woke up promptly before springmeal. I hadn't missed it since Leewence served his famous chopped gipper and Memial spilled Juicemilk all over her favorite pie-green pelt. I was determined not to be deprived of something this cool again. After stepping, three legs at a time, into my pompadour slacks, I moseyed over to the crystal dish for a good cleansing of the visage... but then, you didn't want to hear about the mundane minutia of my mediocre morning, did you?
You did? Too bad. I'm moving on.
What struck me as odd this morning was that as the suns were setting in the Sweth, not a single pteradactyl tarried in the twilight. Usually at this stage of the Gamma Planet's rotation, all manner of swidge and marmel will flutter and squawk, filling the sky with life. And yet it's only at their absence I am astounded. So, since I surmised science could solve this mystery I had, I got in my Lambradire and trolled toward my neighborhood Muntz.
Now, the Muntz in my village is a sentimental glinch (pardon my Crackter). And since I had avoided him for the past Tweventy rotations or so, he was sure to expect some sort of explanation for my absence. I decided I would act as if I was incredibly tired so he wouldn't press the issue.
"Ornseth!" he exclaimed, "It's been so--" I cut him off here.
"Madgo-Muntz! There's no time! I'm curious to know why there are no pteradactyl in the sky!"
"No swidge?" he asked.
"No." I said.
"No marmel?" he inquired.
"No."
"No pine-beaked phled?"
"Umm..... No." I said firmly.
He began to laugh, wiggling his nartle like he knew a secret. "Why it's simple, Ornseth!" He waited for me to say something, but I wouldn't play his game. "When the moons are at the shores, pteradactyls stay indoors."
Thank Mindar I wasn't crazy... just forgetful. I bowed apologetically to the Muntz as he got back to work.
As I angrily ate my springmeal, I became determined not to face the Muntz again until I had something to teach him. I was embarrassed to forget such a well-known fact, but I didn't let it ruin my day...
Yes I did. Why else would I be writing this?!
Blarg! Maybe tomorrow I won't be such a poor excuse for a Mekt.
...
One more thing - Plisse still won't talk to me. Sometimes I wish romance didn't have to involve all of the genders.
Ornseth
Today I woke up promptly before springmeal. I hadn't missed it since Leewence served his famous chopped gipper and Memial spilled Juicemilk all over her favorite pie-green pelt. I was determined not to be deprived of something this cool again. After stepping, three legs at a time, into my pompadour slacks, I moseyed over to the crystal dish for a good cleansing of the visage... but then, you didn't want to hear about the mundane minutia of my mediocre morning, did you?
You did? Too bad. I'm moving on.
What struck me as odd this morning was that as the suns were setting in the Sweth, not a single pteradactyl tarried in the twilight. Usually at this stage of the Gamma Planet's rotation, all manner of swidge and marmel will flutter and squawk, filling the sky with life. And yet it's only at their absence I am astounded. So, since I surmised science could solve this mystery I had, I got in my Lambradire and trolled toward my neighborhood Muntz.
Now, the Muntz in my village is a sentimental glinch (pardon my Crackter). And since I had avoided him for the past Tweventy rotations or so, he was sure to expect some sort of explanation for my absence. I decided I would act as if I was incredibly tired so he wouldn't press the issue.
"Ornseth!" he exclaimed, "It's been so--" I cut him off here.
"Madgo-Muntz! There's no time! I'm curious to know why there are no pteradactyl in the sky!"
"No swidge?" he asked.
"No." I said.
"No marmel?" he inquired.
"No."
"No pine-beaked phled?"
"Umm..... No." I said firmly.
He began to laugh, wiggling his nartle like he knew a secret. "Why it's simple, Ornseth!" He waited for me to say something, but I wouldn't play his game. "When the moons are at the shores, pteradactyls stay indoors."
Thank Mindar I wasn't crazy... just forgetful. I bowed apologetically to the Muntz as he got back to work.
As I angrily ate my springmeal, I became determined not to face the Muntz again until I had something to teach him. I was embarrassed to forget such a well-known fact, but I didn't let it ruin my day...
Yes I did. Why else would I be writing this?!
Blarg! Maybe tomorrow I won't be such a poor excuse for a Mekt.
...
One more thing - Plisse still won't talk to me. Sometimes I wish romance didn't have to involve all of the genders.
Ornseth
Friday, December 5, 2008
Folk Hero
A figure stands tall, always alone
A folk hero, his gaze is fixed
Always ahead, always ahead
What makes him a man?
His mouth, a fount of words that sooth
His lips, discerning
His hands will crush or bind or gently touch
His mind is full of art and war
And in his chest beats time
What makes him a man?
He is killed, and killed, but cannot die
Determination's in his brow
His eyes will freeze or melt in place
He leaps above us all
He judges and forgives
What makes him a man?
He never forgets, but seems not to know
He always knows, but seems not to care
His critics are many, but never acknowledged
He'll bring a tinge of joy in sorrow
His mind is at work, always at rest
What makes him a man?
He sees inside of you, his soul is hidden
He picks us apart, and still
He is a man unto himself, a broken perfection
A folk hero, his gaze is fixed
Always ahead, always ahead
What makes him a man?
His mouth, a fount of words that sooth
His lips, discerning
His hands will crush or bind or gently touch
His mind is full of art and war
And in his chest beats time
What makes him a man?
He is killed, and killed, but cannot die
Determination's in his brow
His eyes will freeze or melt in place
He leaps above us all
He judges and forgives
What makes him a man?
He never forgets, but seems not to know
He always knows, but seems not to care
His critics are many, but never acknowledged
He'll bring a tinge of joy in sorrow
His mind is at work, always at rest
What makes him a man?
He sees inside of you, his soul is hidden
He picks us apart, and still
He is a man unto himself, a broken perfection
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Six Heroes
Where do they belong?
The feeling and the song
Among the folks who tell themselves that feeling things is wrong
Among the ones who hide their passions, no matter how strong
Put their silence all together and unmute the waiting throng
What am I to say?
To indefinite delay
Of facts and thoughts and inklings that might never have their day
Of chances first forgotten before taken all the way
I can scarcely part my lips before the words are swept away
Why is this our lot?
This hesitance we've got
Where men and women, boys and girls all let their ideas rot
Where anyone who's got a dream will tremble at the thought
And feign the passing of their mind in hopes they won't get caught
How could I relate?
The promise of my fate
To a world that has forgotten that there's anything that's great
To friends and enemies who both scrape the same damned plate
So I'm waiting for my turn, though I know it comes too late
When will someone hear?
The words I'm making clear
That keep me up at night till I can make them reach your ear
That boil up inside me, increasing every year
These words will give me everything; everything but fear
And last I will ask, Who?
Will make their dreams come true
In a place where it is understood; these things aren't up to you
In every way, they'll have to crush perspectives old and new
But their stars will light the night when such heroes are so few
The feeling and the song
Among the folks who tell themselves that feeling things is wrong
Among the ones who hide their passions, no matter how strong
Put their silence all together and unmute the waiting throng
What am I to say?
To indefinite delay
Of facts and thoughts and inklings that might never have their day
Of chances first forgotten before taken all the way
I can scarcely part my lips before the words are swept away
Why is this our lot?
This hesitance we've got
Where men and women, boys and girls all let their ideas rot
Where anyone who's got a dream will tremble at the thought
And feign the passing of their mind in hopes they won't get caught
How could I relate?
The promise of my fate
To a world that has forgotten that there's anything that's great
To friends and enemies who both scrape the same damned plate
So I'm waiting for my turn, though I know it comes too late
When will someone hear?
The words I'm making clear
That keep me up at night till I can make them reach your ear
That boil up inside me, increasing every year
These words will give me everything; everything but fear
And last I will ask, Who?
Will make their dreams come true
In a place where it is understood; these things aren't up to you
In every way, they'll have to crush perspectives old and new
But their stars will light the night when such heroes are so few
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sacrificial Love pt. 1
Give me your friendship
Sacrifice time
Search all my poems
Read every line
Think of me often
Over yourself
Kind words will soften
When days turn to hell
Turn over money
In gifts for my sake
Tell me I'm funny
Spare me heartache
Twist up your gut
At judgmental thoughts
Honesty, cut
Before you get caught
I'm not asking this
Expect it, I will
You'll clench up your fist
And start to feel ill
But that's just to bad
See, love is a gift
And once its been had
It turns back to filth
Kill unto Life
Slink and slack, tumbling traveler
Rolling and running down tangled path
Angles and math cautiously guide curves
Destinations, points, beginnings and ends
All plotted and planned through winnings and friends
Birds sing because you expect them to
Desert night greets lizards too
All is in place and all makes great sense
ROCKS FALL FROM SKY
ROCKS CRUSH THE MAN'S HEAD
ROCKS FALL FROM ABOVE
ROCKS BEAT AND BLEED THE MAN
Fore and back, the bumbling traveler
Rolling and running an ugly blood bath
Puddles of it form a tide that serves
To feed the red-eyed fish who split their fins
All blotted and spanned by sickness and lack
Birds pick the flesh because we beg them not to
Arctic morning hides monsters too
All is in disarray and confounds the wise
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