Well, I've been looking for some time to do a real update lately and have meanwhile found this collection of waxy and languid thoughts. They're odds-n-ends from throughout the years, now patched together like a roughed-up quilt strung across time, or assuredly flawed pearls across the universe.
In other words, this is a...
>>>>WANKER ALERT!<<<<
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Left is open up tonight
He left without a care
Today he treads upon the world
Tomorrow 'twill be bare
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cellophane highways left lit down neon streets of glittering pinks and ochres, driving sentimentally late down lost lakes of canescent greens and incandescent blues, the nascent pheromones of the night...*
*this continues ad nauseum.
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Spiderman swings through the trees like Tarzan
but instead of trees, there's buildings
instead of grass, there's concrete
It makes Spiderman sad to see such destruction
of the precious resources
But his spider sense warned him
that it was okay
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In the ocean's flow ebbs a certain tide
remains in spirit of pulled sand overran
one-thousand times under moon, sun
the shattered earth under Heaven itself,
I remain as well
To call secretly back to the sea
those pebbles that have always longed to be
touched one-thousand times over
A heart-shaped rind lying in wait
its tender husk anchored in hope
to be swallowed one day,
one night, not to become
a dry ruined heart left behind
I watch the tides fall to the earth
I remain, in the light of one-thousand days
very little is changed
from the husk of a salt-blossomed rind
to a lolling brined soul in the wake
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During the night, in an hour of calm, a young man decided to set out inventing. A studious man, he began wandering around the small room he found himself in. As he looked around he searched both the room and his mind for a small provocation or a simple chore. A strange desire began to fill his essence from the instant he began to apply himself to this task. It was a desire that poured into him so thick and heavy, it felt like some gelatinous yet somehow stolid fluid was flowing into his brain, as if a jellyfish had leeched inside his cranial capacity and began transmuting every nerve. His awareness plunged into this soup, every aspect of his surroundings seemed to glow with new feeling and light. A feeling shuddered through him, a feeling as though he were seeing without seeing. The good weight and steady measure of time left him, and he sensed something of a feeling eternal. Hardly could his awareness bespeak it, feeling no true recognition for it. He only realized it was there, and it was blinding and discomforting to exist with. He progressed to a point where he could stand it, and soon he would gaze upon it. His gaze drew him into it, his will merged with this eternal force and he became one with it. Instantly a realization swept over him, that the fuel of this overriding force was but a small flame, just a wisp of inspiration that could be chased away with a single careless movement. He exhaled and fell back into the calm of the night.
The next day Mort awoke fresh. He opened a door and felt the clean air drifting into his squalored room. His mind was astray with an assortment of ideas, miles of thought being processed. He sat down and wrote in his journal:
'Type fast ridden on the stereo speakway.
A gentle soul lulls along in the timid abyss, drifting along languidly, itself rolled up in an indistinguishable concoction of subliminable bliss and equilibrium, darting out perceptive flashes of light to greet the Great Frontier. Shaped by shadows of perspective, stretched out across the endless Frontier, a mindscape of potentiality only waiting to be realized, a body seeking an answer but never speaking the question...'
"What is that you're writing?" Mort closed the journal with a calm hand and turned to greet the intrusion.
"It's nothing." he declared to the figure before him, a person his age.
"It must be something." came the response.
A brief pause.
"It's nothing, but in a complicated way." Mort conceded to the figure. The two stared at one another for another moment, and in that still moment Mort struggled to recognize his old friend. The young man stretched up from among the cluttered decor of the room, his beaked face grinning villainously, half-hidden by the dance of streamers and dangling paraphernalia Mort had assembled to cover the bareness of his room. Mort shook his head and his old familiar friend returned. "You'd find it boring, Jerome."
"I don't know, if it's half as exciting as you." Jerome clucked as he perched himself on the foot of Mort's bed.
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</wanker>
One of these was scribbled about 30 seconds before it was due for my high school english class (A-, thank you very much). If you can't figure out which one (see below), I'm rather ashamed of myself. The last bit is an old and aborted short story which I think really speaks to my level of involvement with the German language at the time (which I think was also the major contributor to the habit of comma splicing I retain to this day).
Back in reality, I'm currently listening to a true and delectable (I really have a problem with that word) slice of culture from my bootstrappin', ass-backwards and buffalo-ridden homestate. If you're interested, check out this album. It's from remote regions of Wyoming where few tread and fewer find their way out of, and it can still make me cry those happy tears that are pushed out by that gelatinous blob of fidgety excitement which sits atop of your stomach when you're feeling very happy about something, without a lot of reason behind it. I think the doctors often call it "ADD".
Do you ever get that?
In other words, this is a...
>>>>WANKER ALERT!<<<<
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Left is open up tonight
He left without a care
Today he treads upon the world
Tomorrow 'twill be bare
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cellophane highways left lit down neon streets of glittering pinks and ochres, driving sentimentally late down lost lakes of canescent greens and incandescent blues, the nascent pheromones of the night...*
*this continues ad nauseum.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spiderman swings through the trees like Tarzan
but instead of trees, there's buildings
instead of grass, there's concrete
It makes Spiderman sad to see such destruction
of the precious resources
But his spider sense warned him
that it was okay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the ocean's flow ebbs a certain tide
remains in spirit of pulled sand overran
one-thousand times under moon, sun
the shattered earth under Heaven itself,
I remain as well
To call secretly back to the sea
those pebbles that have always longed to be
touched one-thousand times over
A heart-shaped rind lying in wait
its tender husk anchored in hope
to be swallowed one day,
one night, not to become
a dry ruined heart left behind
I watch the tides fall to the earth
I remain, in the light of one-thousand days
very little is changed
from the husk of a salt-blossomed rind
to a lolling brined soul in the wake
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
During the night, in an hour of calm, a young man decided to set out inventing. A studious man, he began wandering around the small room he found himself in. As he looked around he searched both the room and his mind for a small provocation or a simple chore. A strange desire began to fill his essence from the instant he began to apply himself to this task. It was a desire that poured into him so thick and heavy, it felt like some gelatinous yet somehow stolid fluid was flowing into his brain, as if a jellyfish had leeched inside his cranial capacity and began transmuting every nerve. His awareness plunged into this soup, every aspect of his surroundings seemed to glow with new feeling and light. A feeling shuddered through him, a feeling as though he were seeing without seeing. The good weight and steady measure of time left him, and he sensed something of a feeling eternal. Hardly could his awareness bespeak it, feeling no true recognition for it. He only realized it was there, and it was blinding and discomforting to exist with. He progressed to a point where he could stand it, and soon he would gaze upon it. His gaze drew him into it, his will merged with this eternal force and he became one with it. Instantly a realization swept over him, that the fuel of this overriding force was but a small flame, just a wisp of inspiration that could be chased away with a single careless movement. He exhaled and fell back into the calm of the night.
The next day Mort awoke fresh. He opened a door and felt the clean air drifting into his squalored room. His mind was astray with an assortment of ideas, miles of thought being processed. He sat down and wrote in his journal:
'Type fast ridden on the stereo speakway.
A gentle soul lulls along in the timid abyss, drifting along languidly, itself rolled up in an indistinguishable concoction of subliminable bliss and equilibrium, darting out perceptive flashes of light to greet the Great Frontier. Shaped by shadows of perspective, stretched out across the endless Frontier, a mindscape of potentiality only waiting to be realized, a body seeking an answer but never speaking the question...'
"What is that you're writing?" Mort closed the journal with a calm hand and turned to greet the intrusion.
"It's nothing." he declared to the figure before him, a person his age.
"It must be something." came the response.
A brief pause.
"It's nothing, but in a complicated way." Mort conceded to the figure. The two stared at one another for another moment, and in that still moment Mort struggled to recognize his old friend. The young man stretched up from among the cluttered decor of the room, his beaked face grinning villainously, half-hidden by the dance of streamers and dangling paraphernalia Mort had assembled to cover the bareness of his room. Mort shook his head and his old familiar friend returned. "You'd find it boring, Jerome."
"I don't know, if it's half as exciting as you." Jerome clucked as he perched himself on the foot of Mort's bed.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
</wanker>
One of these was scribbled about 30 seconds before it was due for my high school english class (A-, thank you very much). If you can't figure out which one (see below), I'm rather ashamed of myself. The last bit is an old and aborted short story which I think really speaks to my level of involvement with the German language at the time (which I think was also the major contributor to the habit of comma splicing I retain to this day).
Back in reality, I'm currently listening to a true and delectable (I really have a problem with that word) slice of culture from my bootstrappin', ass-backwards and buffalo-ridden homestate. If you're interested, check out this album. It's from remote regions of Wyoming where few tread and fewer find their way out of, and it can still make me cry those happy tears that are pushed out by that gelatinous blob of fidgety excitement which sits atop of your stomach when you're feeling very happy about something, without a lot of reason behind it. I think the doctors often call it "ADD".
Do you ever get that?