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Thanks everybody!

Space Opera, Inc.

She astrogated through the portal, simultaneously shrugged off her titanium-threaded cape and commanded, “Computer, 4-D martini!”  Almost instantly, a martini in Martian Crystal rose from a side table.  She took it down in one, cold gulp.  “This is the best mindfood I’ve had in a megayear.”  She collapsed into the nearest turbo chair and praised Xarlox that even in this posthuman wasteland, a good drink could still be found.  After all, terraforming was a tough morph, even with universal constructors.  She holo-sighed and decided to catch up on the novelmatrix she’d been neglecting.  All was meta in this particular gravilink.  Except…she’d forgotten to order tooth flux from the compussary again.  Just galactic.

My Cupid's Quiver Has More Eros Than Yours!

Oh, yes, they're awful.  Awfully written, conceived in ignorance, here are the Valentine's Day cards I wrote last year.  Now presenting, Beck's Morality Tales.

“Pride is a Luxury That Few Can Afford”

“It is a rare bird who can grace the world with such beauty”, thought Peacock to himself.  He would look in the mirrored lake of the palace ground each morning and preen, for that was his one, solitary duty and he looked after it with due solemnity.  He spent each waking hour (and perhaps some sleeping ones too) polishing the gloss on his feathers, practicing the art of fanning and turning his head to the most flattering angle.  One day he reached the peak of his perfection, why, he was radiant in his handsome refinement.  He caught the eye of the princess, who promptly ordered him to the castle.  Once inside he was massaged and covered in all manner of unctuous perfumed concoctions.  Shortly thereafter his neck was wrung, each beautiful feather was removed unceremoniously from his chicken-y body and he was shoved into the ovens a confused-looking and ugly bird.  After he was done baking, each lustrous feather was painstakingly replaced and he was rested upon a platter made of the finest gold.  But it did not matter one jot to Peacock.   Because he was dead.

Pride yourself in your accomplishments but be wary, lest self-satisfaction lead to passionate consumption.  Do not make oneself seem too tasty for the eaters of this world.

“Music is the Food”

A woman designed to be the first to heal with the sound of her lyre.  When she was but a youth, she had been jilted by a man she had thought loved her entirely.  She hoped to prevent that for others in her station. She would not knit bones together as some claimed the wizard “doctors” could do, but would aim, instead, to heal the hearts of broken people.  So she spent the next decade honing her skills and sacrificing every aspect of her life in devotion to this one goal.  She knew exactly what chord would send tears back behind the eyes, which melody would make a person put down a self-destructive dagger and dance as if she was playing them instead.  She fed the love-starved and gave them a feast of emotional satisfaction.  The woman had such success that she was sought far and wide for her powers of joy-giving.  The only requirement she had was that she would always be separated from the audience by a thick curtain.  Otherwise the restored man or woman would be wont to fall in love with her themselves, caught up in the emotion of her song.  Decades passed and she helped anyone who came to her in need.  One night, as she played for a man on the opposite side of the curtain, she felt a familiar sensation as she heard the man cry his last tears while he spilled his woeful tale.  He had left the one person he had ever loved many years ago in order to fulfill an obligation of marriage he was bound to when he was but a child.  His wife had died some years back and he had gone in search of his young love only to find that she lived at home no longer and so he had spent all the years until now searching for her.  His heart had ached so eloquently for so many years.  And as her song finished its magic spell, he dried his tears and began to hum.  The woman threw back the curtain just in time to see the man from her youth leave with not a care in the world.  Unfortunately, she had cured him of his love for her.  In all this time, the woman had failed to heal her own heart and upon that point, died of a broken one.

Desire neither good nor ill and you will never be disappointed.  Like I am disappointed in my son, who is a laze-about.  Heinrich, do the dishes for the sake of all the saints!

“The View of Others”

Three sisters flocked to the opera house for every bi-weekly performance.  They each hoped to fetch themselves a handsome husband with large pockets.  From their reserved balcony seat, they watched not the drama on stage, but the rapt audience.  Though they struggled in finding worthy suitors, they were witness to many secrets that people thought secure.  But the sisters had become experts in the social lives of all who attended the shows regularly.  Some brought mistresses, others wore fashions no longer in mode as their finances faltered and still others were the bachelors on which the sisters fixated.  Oh, lucky man who would be set upon by any one of them.  The first sister found herself a gentleman who attended only with his mother.  She soon inveigled herself to him and corrected the situation when she had the mother shipped off to a gentile home for convalescing old ladies.  The third sister met her match soon after, in the arms of an usher, with whom she would have run away had the others not prevented that catastrophe from occurring.  Instead, the two paramours cast lovesick looks at each other throughout the performances and she swore she would never marry.  The second sister, jealous of the first and third sisters redoubled her efforts and vowed that she would be the next to fall in love.  She had almost given up hope when she heard a voice that made her tremble.  For the first time in years, she turned her attention to the stage and there was the opera’s star singing, it would seem, directly to her.  He reached out his arms and beckoned, what could she do but obey?  She toppled right off the balcony and survived only by a quick-thinking surgeon and rapid trepanning.   She spent the rest of her life with the brilliant, single, rich and handsome doctor.  As a patient in his madhouse.

Infatuation sometimes leads to glorious encounters, sometimes to irreversible brain damage.

“Disinterest Overcomes Reason”

A musician, renowned far and wide for his songs, as a bard in the olden days, set his sights on a lovely patron of the music hall.  Every time he played there, she was reclined on a divan, pretending to read, but obviously stealing small glances now and again.  Surely she would feel well and truly blessed if she could but meet a man of such inarguable talents. After one of his performances he approached her and told her that he would be willing to offer her music lessons.  She simply flipped to the next page of her book.  “Ah, playing hard to get, are we, minx?” He laughed to himself.  He learned her place of residence from another regular of the hall and went to pitch his woo.  He stood outside and sang his greatest song of love, knowing that she would have to admit her interest in him and his music.  She opened the window and gazed upon him with disdain.  “Please leave me alone” was the reply to his heartfelt strumming.  He was stunned.  He had never before experienced such a reaction.  Surely, it was past a jest now.  She was trying, for some unfathomable reason, to wound him.  “But you must love me, you have not missed one of my performances at the hall!” he insisted.  She sighed.  “I am there every night.  I do not even care for the entertainment, I go for the coffee,” the lady said just before closing the shutters.  It didn’t matter, the musician assured himself.  He knew that she worshipped him, but perhaps did not feel herself worthy to be in his presence.  He could understand that.  He would just have to convince her that he was willing to go below his station in order to be with her.  He would prove to her that they belonged together.  Even if he spent every night in her bushes, watching, waiting for the first sign of interest.  Then he would have her!  Even if it took the rest of her pathetic and sad life.

Often, one is constrained by lack of proficiency or skill.  Sometimes the person simply does not care what you are doing, nor do they wish to join in your tatted obsessions.

“The Writ of Fools Oft Falls Flat”

A man of intellect determined to gain the affection of a poetess he had lately made acquaintance of.  She scorned him at every meeting: every tearoom, every parlor, every dinner and every play.  This only increased his ardor to own her heart.  She knew that in certain circles he was considered a genius, but she found no value in his views, nor did she honor his opinions.  To be frank, she thought him a right dolt.  After a few months of his unwanted attention, it was clear that she would not reciprocate his feelings.  The man of intellect would have to find another means of claiming her.  He appealed to her father and in these days of arranged marriage, it was quietly decided between the two men that the poetess and he should wed.  The night he made his pronouncement, the lady gave a great groan of disgust and rolled her eyes, planting her face firmly on the table. No matter.  The man would have what he wanted and she would come around to his way eventually.  After a few prone minutes, she lifted her head and fluttered her eyelashes.  “My dear sir, would you join me for a tea tomorrow afternoon so that I may become better acquainted with my future spouse?”  His heart leapt with joy and his calculating mind congratulated itself on their easy victory.  He arrived the next afternoon and immediately began acting as the proprietor of the home.  For surely he would inherit the estate soon enough.  His wife-to-be waited on him, seemingly very anxious to please.  “How is the tea, dear sir?  Is it to your liking?”  He nodded that it was adequate and to prove his pleasure, he took another large sip.  But then he began to feel strange.  “What is in this tea?” he queried.  “Blackberry?”  The poetess immediately straightened up and the haughty look settled back over her face.  “I’m afraid not.”  She settled into the chair next to him.  “You couldn't leave well enough alone.  I actually despise you and your supposed cleverness.  To think, that I would actually ever submit myself to you!  Ha!”  She sipped her non-arsenic laced tea and watched the man of intellect slowly sink into a stupor that would eventually lead him to the great land of the afterdeath.

Endeavor for its own sake is often pointless, holding one up for ridicule among peers, leaving one bloody and full of regret. Or regretful and full of blood.  I am always forgetting which one.

“”A Gentleman’s Agreement”

Two men of gentle quality went about a picnic on a finally summer day.  “What better way to spend a free afternoon?” one remarked to the other.  “Indeed.” It was so agreed that they should dilly and dally among the elite, who had also stepped out for a stroll in the park.  Whilst on this stroll, the first man did spot a lady of rosed-cheeks and fair countenance.  Not wanting to appear too interested, he quickly turned to his companion and was about to mention his discovery when the bosom friend suddenly let out an “I say!”  The second man quickly made strides towards the lovely young thing seated, rather scandalously, alone on the park bench.  The first man quickly apprehended the eager suitor and claimed that he had seen the woman first.  Therefore he had first claim upon her.  He cited a long honored rule about such things which were never written down, but supposed to exist, in brotherhood, between each man.  The second man responded with a “tsk” and pushed his friend out of the way in effort of pursuit.  A slap was heard as the first man connected his upturned palm to the second’s face.  This quickly led into a dirty brawl in the lane and when they had finished, both were exhausted and neither felt the victor.  A 20-year friendship had been sacrificed, a nose bloodied and knuckles broken.  When the second man opened his swollen eye, he saw his friend curled on the ground in pain and then saw the empty park bench.

In pursuing love, there is no code of honor.  Sometimes the sting of a brotherly slap rings sharper than the song of steel against steel but quickly leads to indifference on the part of the fairer sex.

“The Drive to Becoming ”

It is said that the desire to marry is one of the most natural things in the world.  The gentleman and his lady certainly thought so and as they had been going steady for a decent amount of time, it was decided they should wed.  Off they hopped in their jalopy to get hitched and honeymoon at Niagara Falls.  On the long drive from their wedding to upstate New York they realized it was the longest time they had spent together, alone, since they had begun courting.  Soon, the easy banter fell to awkward silences, which quickly gave way to muttered grievances.  By the time they reached New York the lady was shouting something about her mother being right about him.  The gentleman parried with the comment that his previous girlfriend had not been such a harpy and perhaps he had chosen the wrong woman to bind his life to.  When they finally arrived at the falls, both deemed it better to keep going, past the honeymoon suite prepared especially for them, past the tourist attractions and straight over the falls into the foamy roaring of the water itself.  The silence that followed was the most blissful moment in either of their attenuated lives.

Do not desire to marry.  It can only end in knife-fights and attempts to emotionally destroy one another in a show of one-upmanship that eventually leads to murder-suicide.  I mean, my marriage didn’t work out, but I don't like to think of myself as a bitter person…

Why? You may well ask.

http://blip.tv/Why/why-individuality-6046824

An excellent video about what it means to be an individual.  Does individualism even enter the realm of reality when we have already dismissed other beloved concepts (such as freedom, chivalry and even love) as products of fantasy?  Early this Memorial Day, as I honor American patriots and those that have sacrificed themselves for the ideals of this country, I would do well to examine exactly what it is they were fighting for.

Forever Young Adult

I have to say: these people get it.  One of my favorite new resources for recommendations and a good belly laugh.

Effed-Up Fairy Tales: Bluebeard

Onto the Nexting

My poem The Haunted is currently available for viewing at the Washington State History Museum.  Part of the exhibit "Intertwined: A Requiem for the Trees" I sought to capture the feeling of a haunted wood.  Not a forest haunted by human ghosts, but a city haunted by the ghosts of trees that have been felled.  Other superb artists have added to the narrative of loss and hope for our future.  We will always see you as you are, not as you are now, dear Kopachuck.

Now I must decide if and when there is to be another writer's meeting.  Perhaps a few trial runs are the ticket.  But then how to get the word out to a wider group of artists?

The French Lesson

 Ah, yes, another Juniper Tree Submission.  Unfortunately, did not make the cut, but still a decent little story for 500 words.  The challenge was to end the story with the finishing line below.

      

                “My tutor is evil.”            

                My sister, Agnes, was always dramatic.

                To prepare for our move to a small coastal town, St. Something or Other, our parents insisted she attend lessons with a French tutor. 

                 “My French classes were tough at first too.”

                 “Yeah, whatever, I guess.”

                Agnes, who insisted on concert tees, began wearing lavish dresses and using French randomly.  Agnes adored her rat, Faust, but he had “gone missing”, quickly replaced with a fluffy cat, named Mr. Pierre. 

                Something was definitely wrong.  One night, I noticed a strange scent coming from Agnes’s bedroom.  I knocked on the door.  She stuck her head out and smiled politely.  The smell intensified.

                “Bonjour?”

                “What perfume are you wearing?  It smells like old people.”

                Her eyes clouded and slightly darker, she said in a perfect French accent, “Ah, seely, Mama and Papa frown on parfum.”

                 “You’re not Agnes anymore, are you?”

                She smirked and raised her eyebrow.  “Agnes vas so unappreciative, zis is correct, yes?” She tilted her head.

                “Who are you and what have you done to my sister?”

                “I vas not alvays tutor, I vas once the village vitch.  I knew ze spell and asked ‘er to repeat it back to me, en Francaise!  Agnes vas young, now I am young again! She patted me on the head. “Do not vorry, I vill be a sister perfect, yes? It vill be our secret.” She slowly closed her door.

                I didn’t want a “sister perfect”, I wanted my weird Agnes.  I knew I could never convince a priest to come with holy water and crucifixes, so this would have to be a do-it-yourself exorcism.

                The next night I was left to baby-sit.  I filled a bottle with tap water, turned off the lights and waited in her bedroom.  It seemed like hours before I heard her turn the knob.

                “Are you in ‘ere, sister dear?” She called in a singsong voice.  “Are you playing ze mean trick?” 

                She flicked on the lights and I jumped from her closet, spraying her with water.  Unfortunately, she was only wet…and angry. 

                “You leetle…”

                I must’ve bumped into Agnes’s stereo because suddenly, punk rock came screaming from the speakers.  The witch covered her ears and shrieked with pain.

                My hand hovered.  “Shall I turn it up to 11?”

                All the blood left her face as she pleaded, “Please, anyting but zat! It sounds ‘orrible!”  

                She muttered some words in French and Agnes’s small body slumped to the floor.   I hugged my sister in relief.

                Agnes opened her bright, bewildered eyes.  “What's with the music?  We having a party?”  She looked down. “Why am I dressed like an idiot?” 

                I smiled.  “You rest; we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

                “Je vous verrai dans la rue Germaine.”

                I froze on the spot, hoping I had misheard. “What did you just say?” I asked shakily.

                I turned back to Agnes, who was stroking Mr. Pierre.  “See you in St. Germaine!” She laughed as her eyes clouded over.

The Solution

Though I will never be satisfied with anything homage I write, here is “Elementary”

                The gas lamps gutter

As one mind seeks another

                Midnight vapors mingle forms

As a cane kicks the cobbles

                Alabaster, ebony, indigo skin

Lost in pleasures of opium

                Chemistry of a man may die

This city of ashes

                This coal dust lie

Calculating eyes measure velvet smiles

                Fascinating!

Bootblack hearts twist...

                Form wounds we are doomed to repeat

A dearth of invention

                To see without discovery

To rule without mastery

                Baffling!

The sweet sing of needled vein

                Enlivened, the distractions remain

To gather grace in the darkness of memory

                Pocket watch clicks as rapier wits

Matched in the spray of water’s fall

                Tempt from moments unforgivable

The necessary solution

                In two parts hydrogen to one part oxygen

With a violin slicing the amber night

                The hound, it bays

Watson, your revolver!

                To the trains-we're on our way

                

Occam's Razor

221B

Here dwell together still two men of note

Who never lived and so can never die:

How very near they seem, yet how remote

That age before the world went all awry.

But still the game’s afoot for those with ears

Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:

England is England yet, for all our fears–

Only those things the heart believes are true.

A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane

As night descends upon this fabled street:

A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,

The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.

Here, though the world explode, these two survive,

And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

– Vincent Starrett

  I am in the middle of writing a poem for my next writer's meeting titled "Elementary" as an unexpected twist on our theme- elements.  It is, of course, about my very favorite detective, Mr. Holmes.  As with my Jane Eyre poem, I feel I can never do such literary genius-justice.  Everything seems hollow and false, no matter how hard I really, really try.  So this time I succumbed to temptation and looked at what other writers have done with the same theme.  MISTAKE!  They are all much, much better than mine.  Le Sigh.  Even still, as my deadline draws closer, it spurs me on to perhaps see if I can gild my tragedy, oooo, maybe I'll use that.  In my online wandering, I came across this poem which I especially loved and therefore wanted to post.  Enjoy.

Meanwhile...back in '08

To the esteemed Professor 

 

Dear sir,

   

      The discoveries we have made in Plot 39-A have been amazing.  What began as a shard of pottery has become evidence for a whole new civilization.  It was soon clear that the shard was once part of a drinking cup.  One easily imagines these desert people sitting down to a refreshing drink of water, cooling their parched throats after spending all day herding tri-horned ducks (THD).  Yes, you read me correctly.  I also thought once that they did not exist.  We have now found evidence to the contrary and believe me when I say this culture based its whole economy on these smallish creatures.  This discovery will change everything we know about Pacific Asian cultures and history!  There is some bad news to communicate.  We have had to lock away poor Huntington as he went quite mad after soemone tried to catalogue his find of a THD engraved headdress.  Also, we have not been able to find Roger Mountjoy since he wandered off to the south murmuring something about an oasis filled with feathers.  The natives here are very superstitious and claim knowledge of an old legend about these ancient peoples.  Disturbing things I give no credence to of course, being a person of science.  Yet, since we began unearthing the tombs and found the remains of a communal house there have been strange noises at night.  When the wind calms down, there is a sound that I can only liken to the sound of one lone and distant quack.  I know it is only the stories of the workers getting to me as I am now here alone with them.  It makes me wish you had not been waylaid in Borneo and were here with me now to inject some of your droll humor into this...situation.  One of the workers came in yesterday screaming "Dr. Beck, Dr. Beck!" with an look of absolute terror on his face and collapsed at my feet.  He was dead.  Looked to me like he was in advanced state of malaria, like the kind we saw in Panama.  The thing is, you don't usually see cases of malaria in the desert. 

 

 

Just Add Water: A Ghost Story, a horror fiction - FictionPress.com

My first finished story! Although extremely short by some standards, I am proud of my little ghost story that is not a ghost story.

Just Add Water: A Ghost Story, a horror fiction - FictionPress.com

Blow out the Candle, You’re Making Everyone Feel Awkward

Could the true danger in life come from trying too hard? Is evil a result of overexertion, overextension or a lack of motivation to connect with others? Could the danger lie in trying too little? Mercy should not be hard won, instead, it should be given freely to those, yes even those most undeserving. Can I have mercy on myself? Will I still love me tomorrow?

 

I'm approaching a significant birthday and it's coming a lot faster than anticipated. I've come a long way since I woke up at 10 years of age thinking, wow, my birthday is just another day. That pre-Christmas excitement was to never return. Now, don't get me wrong, I've had more than my share of amazing birthdays thanks to amazing people who have made certain I enjoyed it. Hugs and doodlebugs to all you family and friends. This is the first August that I am celebrating while fighting off moments of dour introspection. The questions – What have you accomplished? Have you made a difference for the better? What do you want the next quarter century to look like? Really echoing the main question – Is everything going to be okay?

Other questions-

 

When will I have overplayed the new Panic at the Disco CD so that I am sick of it?

1. Never, how could I? For just suggesting the fact I demand your immediate beheadal. Beheadival? Ah. Beheading.
   
2. Probably sometime in the next month at the current rate of play.
   
3. When the Deep Ones replace their slithery song for the glory of Panic's
   

When will I schedule the next Writers At Wit's End meeting?

1. Right after I am finished with writing this
   
2. When I learn to write with my new, steam-powered hand.
   
3. The last minute, and in trying to please everyone, satisfy no one.
   

What is my weapon of choice during zombie attack?

1. Chainsaw – it makes up for all the noise in pure carnage.
   
2. Shotgun – because well, it's my boomstick.
   
3. Long-handled axe – silent and sharp.
   

What kind of character will feature in my next unicorn story?

1. A tortured fairy
   
2. A half-human child
   
3. A disfigured pegacorn
   

Will I finish my Game of Thrones novel before it's due back at the library?

1. I better, because the wait is all kinds of crazy.
   
2. I will be bored of the storyline and return it with no sear in my conscience.
   
3. I will become so engrossed I immediately buy all the others available and find some way to watch the series.
   

Will I be able to sustain interest in growing out my hair through this summer heat?

1. No great feat, I mean, come on, it's the Pacific Northwest for pity's sake.
   
2. I will get bored and chop it all off in a fit of pique. It will have nothing to do with weather.
   
3. I will get something done at the stylist. Maybe. Or not.
   

 

Tune in next time for the pointless blatherings of a sincere fool.

 

 

 

 

Jeffrey The Kindly Pirate

This was a little story I cooked up last minute for a fun birthday card.  There are many, many errors I am sure, but I wanted to share it with you anyway.

Ahoy and attend the tale of Jeffrey, the kindly pirate.  Sink me, you say, a kindly pirate?  Well, sit down and splice the mainbrace with a clap of thunder as I avow all below to be truthful, aye and right so:

Breakbones Killagutty, better known to all the world by his piratin’ name, Captain Jeffrey, was a mate of distinction, class and violins.  He was born in a small town called Bantry Bay and had a mighty wink for all the lasses when he was a child, as he was grown, he was no less of a maid’s man.  All day he winked and sighed to the passerby but all that he tried to woo turned him down for his low standing and gor-awful name.  Sure, he was good for a flirt, but not for the marryin’.  It got him so down that he turned his deadlights to what would become his great mistress- the sea.  T'were not long before he gained passage as a Jack Tar on the beautiful ship, Battle Dryad.

 One day his ship was caught in the doldrums and the men began to go mad.  The scurvy that had set in the previous week probably didn’t help.  One by one, crewmates murdered each other, leapt overboard, or sat there with a doomed and haunted look.  A week into those narsty straits, the sail still refusing to take wind, day dawned to find the parley boat missing along with the Battle Dryad’s captain and first mate.  They had taken French Leave and even the Jolly Roger seemed to sink in defeat.  But not Killagutty (who had already taken the name of Jeffrey), no!  Something bloomed in his breast, it was the onus of courage and the willingness to lead these scurvy dogs out of their sad fate.  He quickly got to rationing the remaining water, even foregoing his portion more often than not.  Two days later a Nor’wester came down and brought them to the nearest isle, where they learned the captain and his mate had been consigned to the briny depths when the other pirates stationed there had learned where he had come from.  The crew renewed their stock and before they pulled anchor, unanimously elected Jeffrey Captain. 

He took the duty to heart and hand, leading the swabs and mateys to greater glory and riches than previously imagined.  But he had this odd habit of pillaging only 25% of a mark’s entire stock, taking no prisoners but killing no one either.  It went that he would rather scuttle his ship than even harm a pod of dolphins.  Though he had the wind of many rivals, he always let them save face and withstood even the haughtiest of sauce back.  Captain Jeffrey the kind was respected far and near, he was even approached by a number of Royal Navies and offered letters of marque, but he was still loyal to the corsair ways and his crew.  He would never cry havoc, but dreamt of peaceful lagoons and honest air, a man smart as paint and lovely as fresh, brisk sailing.  Always a great supporter of democratic process aboard his ship, but Blood and Thunder, he was the victim of homicidal mutiny within a week!  Shiver me timbers.

New fairy tale by Emily Carroll

How could you not love Emily Carroll's beautiful art?  To be combined with an amazing fairytale, well-presented (with a mermaid no less!) is almost painfully perfect.  Enjoy the story of the Prince and the Mermaid.
http://emcarroll.com/comics/prince/andthesea.html

Title Page:

Viva La Rivelatore!

Life is:
Unbelieveable, strange, stupendous, horrifying, frightening, maddening, lovely, disturbing, bracing, beautiful, testing, shocking, sweet, surprising, bitter, emotional, dreary, enlightening, sorrowful, joyful, unbearable, confusing, wondrous, spectacular, gorgeous, interesting.
Life is like:
Making a perfect hardboiled egg, cleaning off every piece of shell and only then realizing you didn't bring any salt or pepper.  And that you hate eggs.
Finally understanding the reason your mom taught you the song about monkeys jumping on a bed while you're rubbing a sore noggin.  And then getting up to jump again.
Drinking coffee thinking it's tea, spitting it out and making the same mistake six more times. 
Waiting at the deathbed of a friend and thinking 'hey, they owe me money.'
Being told that the reason the grass is greener on the other side is because you don't water your lawn.
Testing your mettle by jumping in front of a moving vehicle which happens to be a rogue shopping cart.
Waking up from a nightmare to be greeted with sunshine and the smell of coffee, the arms of a loved one and then you REALLY wake up to an emtpy room and freezing toes.
Expecting the worst and receiving the best.
Singing in a voice so cracked and worn that it actually sounds better than ever.
Writing a book called A Thousand Papercuts and making it out of orange Playdo.  And one hidden razorblade.
Being mocked for having a huge candle collection in a time of superior electricity...until "The Storm".
Kisses that taste like snowcones and petrol.
What God said it would be like.

" Once upon a dime..." >R<

Greetings from the Midlands!

Have you ever been in that place where you don't know if your preference is for things to stay the same, go back to the way they were or change completely?  Yeah, I'm in that place.  Let's call it The Midlands.  It's kind of like when you're switching radio stations and they're all on commercial break at the exact same time!  Except for country stations, but we don't count those.  Ever.  I realize that was not a very good analogy and I apologize for subjecting you to it.      I wish I could quit overthinking things.  But the seldom-occurring instance when I do something impulsively, I end up super-analyzing it afterwards.  Oh, hold on, Righteous Brothers is on the radio and I must take preak (pause/break).  And now I have You've Lost That Loving Feeling hangover, meaning I must immediately play Jet or something of the kind to balance the effect.  Aaaaah.  Now that's better. 
     What was I saying?  Hmmm, yes.  Maybe it's because I have an overactive imagination (if there is indeed such a creature) and can think of many, many outcomes for each action.  And dread all the awful ones.  So perhaps I am an overactive pessimist.  I'm not quite sure.  Because I can sometimes be a little naive, which you think would make me at least part optimist. Or it's really an insidious form of pessimism.  Like if I believe something could be so magically awesome, I am bound to be disappointed, therefore creating the outcome I really deep down expected.  And here we arrive at the overthinking stage again. 
      So where does that leave us?  Feeling shiftless, shapeless and in an emotional coma.  Syncing my new Zune, which beats iPod upside the head with a big nasty stick named The Annhilator.  Still really thirsty although the day has been rainy-cold.  About to go see if there's any tortillas left upstairs.  Trying to get rid of some weird chill-inducing headache I've been battling and yeah.
 .

"I loved the lies you told me and thought I was loving you." >R<

Chevalier, Anyone?

 My heart is light like a...hot air balloon?  Of course when I said that, I just pictured them getting caught in telephone wires and things.  But one shouldn't say dirigible, because, hello, Hindenburg?  A normal balloon?  That sounds boring.  Plus it's sad when they come untied and float out into the sky.  All alone.  *sniffle*  I am so emotional right now! 
   So I'm staring at Walden and realizing I haven't ever read past the second chapter.  Even though Thoreau's mummy did make him peanut butter sandwiches every day, I still feel as though it is my duty to read this book on affecting hermitage.  I am so behind in my reading and just added a stackload of other books.  What is wrong with me?  I am a bibliophile.  You heard it here first, folks.  Elizabeth is a bibliophile!  Gossip amongst yourselves.  Don't bother resisting, you know you'll just end up doing it with great fervor if you deny yourself now. 
    So I'm really pleased with how things are going, but really don't know where I'm supposed to take this or what to do with it.  Like, I thought things would suddenly get easier but some things just got harder!  Like now my feelings are intensified!  I entertain doubts that I'll ever be good enough, because for this situation I should be soooo much better than I am!  Help me, God!  How many times have I begged for one of you to shoot me in the head?  Great bunch of friends and anonymous blog stalkers you are!  I just need to be saved from myself sometimes, I guess.  But you make it harder when you're not willing to step up to the plate!

 
"Magnanimity has got to be the sexiest thing ever." >R<

The Story of The Duke

A story, I just dashed off for fun.  No, the punctuation is not perfect and I do not plan on perfecting it, nor do I plan separating it into paragraphs or any other such thing.  I wrote it for enjoyment and I hope you read it for enjoyment :)
   Once upon a time, in a land quite removed from this place there lived a lonely old Duke. He had been considered a handsome youth, all his affairs were managed for him and he was known far and wide for his excellent parties and great company. He was also known for a knack he had of whistling complicated music and bird songs. It was always popular with his guests. They would say, "Do a poppinjay next!" Or "Oh, please, give us Chopin's mad cadenza!" One day he was met with financial straits. His looser acquaintances promptly quit his company. Not longer after them followed those he thought to be his close friends. Then went the servants. Finally his most trusted advisor told him he had better quit his apartments and find a paying job. So he ventured forth with the wind at his back and a song in his heart, for of course everything would be set aright in due time and his friends would realize their error. He began work as a clerk at a bank that had once been controlled by his family, until the takeover. The other clerks knew this and so did the bank president. They made his life difficult and hoped it would be unbearable so that he would leave them a broken man. They failed. He came in every morning whistling and left every evening, whistling just the same. Someone asked him one day how he could keep such a light heart having come down so far in the world. He only replied, "Things are bound to be set aright, you'll see. My friends will come for me." After his fellow worker shared this with his manager, they grew only more determined to press him so that he would never dare to think he was above them. They set him to the most menial jobs for the meanest pay, even though the young man was very bright and a hard worker. They constantly ran him down in front of customers and gave him the hours no one else would work. Still, he whistled every morning and he whistled every evening. He continually called at the houses of his former friends, but in his tatty clothes he could not even make it past the doorman. Still, he whistled every morning and he whistled every evening. He passed one compatriot in the street and shouted his greeting with joy. "Hullo, friend!" The man turned, sniffed loudly and determinedly pressed forward. Still he whistled every morning and he whistled every evening. He developed bad eyesight from working so many nights by candlelight. Still, he whistled every morning and he whistled every evening. If anyone ever questioned him about his life, he would say, "Things will be set aright, they'll come." This went on for many, many years. Soon the young Duke became the middle aged Duke, but he did not look so different from his former self. He was beat up and run down but still whistling every morning and whistling every evening. One morning his previous advisor, whom he had not seen since the ruin of his fortune, approached him by the front door of the bank. "Sir, do you remember me?" he asked hesitantly as if not sure he had the right man. The Duke smiled a great smile and said, "Of course, dear fellow! You are my most trusted advisor; you have served my family since my birth! How could I forget you?" The advisor proceeded to inform him that oil futures had picked up, the farms that had been ruined by blight were recovered and the merchant ship he had thought lost had literally come in. He was rich again and if some slight modification was made to his finances, he need never worry about losing money again. The advisor beamed and went to shake the Duke's hand. But the Duke had turned ashen during the retelling of his reclaimed inheritance. He fell to the street and began to sob, clutching at his chest. With alarm, the other man grasped the Duke's shoulder and asked him what was wrong. He coughed weakly and wailed, "They never came! They never came and now it's too late!" After some bed rest and plenty of tea, the Duke seemed well enough to be reinstated in his family home. As poor as he had looked before, he now looked a hundred times worse. His friends came around to visit and could not believe how much he had changed in the time they had not seen him. Very soon everyone who left had come back and more, in fact, triple of those who had originally been with him. They were all very kind and very considerate and very caring. The parties of yesteryear were resumed and if anything, were more frolicsome and extravagant than before. Nobody seemed to notice that the Duke was never in attendance. In the one moment, with the advisor, in front of the bank, he had become old. His life had withered once he had lost his one last hope. Every morning he rose and every evening he went back to his chambers with a broken heart. There was never to be any more whistling.

"Yes, it's all very sad.  Now who wants ice cream?" >R<

The World...

World in Brown

I stumble through life wearing brown-tinted optics

Only a dying heart with which to scry, to scan

A gift bequeathed by an inscrutable giver

Who took away his loving hand

To experience a breath stealing decay

When every step falls in murky loam

My every which, my every way

All beginnings bleed into ends

Awakening careworn dusty trails

Beauty becomes funerary amber gray

So that even despair and sorrow fail

Lackluster what once was triumph

As if my world was blind

As if the earth's gone mad

And left me, sane, behind

The Hidden Meaning

Originally written for my friend with a Wizard of Oz/Over the Rainbow Theme for her birthday.  I was reading it again and laughing to myself.  A lot.  So, without further ado (except for this one) ado:
 
 Red is the color of the famous ruby slippers, which we all know were actually silver in the story.  Red is highly suggestive of two strong human experiences: Death and love/lust. One could say they are opposites of each other, but if viewed purely objectively, one should notice similarities. The first time we hear of the sparkling, magic shoes, we are met with the first death of the story. The tornado-blown house crushes the Wicked Witch of the East (the sun rises in the east, but sets in the west, so we first glimpse the witch-sister relationship...sunsets also representative of death). Dorothy’s lips are also unnaturally red throughout the movie, so red is not only at her base (feet/death) but at her head (mouth/love). The "hidden" affection of all three characters she meets along the way only point toward the significance of the ruby red lips. The shoes are full of some mysterious magic similar to the narrative of "The Red Shoes" just as most people around the world imbue death with sacred magic. It is also no coincidence that the fruit Dorothy feels so compelled to eat are red apples. The fruit of the doomed Eve, again garbed in red.
  Orange poppies cover the ground where our lovely girl succumbs to the sleeping spell. Rust is also orange. If you let yourself recall, The Tinman without a heart (again we see a representation of love, though a less obvious one) was rusted when Dorothy first met him. He obtained a heart long before The Wizard ever gave him one. He as much as says so. He obtained his love as Scarecrow obtained his brain (wisdom) and the Cowardly Lion his courage (energy), through the friendship as Dorothy. The fact that she falls asleep in a field of poppies means that she and the Tin Man are soul mates but are doomed to live in two different worlds. We can see this very easily when at the end of the movie, she wonders if it was all a dream. Orange therefore in this case means the connection of flesh and metal across time and space. Poppies and rust. Reality and dreams.
  Yellow or gold, we may call it, usually represents some form of fortune. Whether it is luck or money. It paves the way to the wonderful destination of all four of our main characters. Short characters are usually associated with the finding of money in fantasy stories. Goblins are the head of the wizard bank in Harry Potter, leprechauns gather pots of gold in Irish legends, dwarves are typically known as mining, rich communities especially in the Tolkien books. Here, Dorothy is told to follow ‘the yellow brick road’ by munchkins, a race of very little women and men. It is proven to us over and over again that short people are greedy and are born with a sixth sense for wealth or treasure, like a water divining stick. What may we learn from this portrayal of knowledge of the golden road and its itinerant munchkins? If we do not rein in our greed, we shall become stunted, deformed and short. New members of a chain gang of slavery affectionately termed ‘The Lollipop Guild’. 
  Green in this narrative obviously represents power and truth, even though the truth be built on lies. Green also is used frequently in depictions of life, though emeralds are inanimate objects for which people have been known to employ dishonest means to obtain. Thus we have the dichotomy of life and non-life, truth and non-truth. It is no accident that The Wizard lives in a city of green and not only of green, but the Emerald City. Even though the yellow brick road (mentioned previously) is obviously truly gold, nothing is assigned the value of jewels except the ruby slippers and the emerald stronghold of the bureaucracy for wish giving. This implies that love and death both depend on lies, though told with honeyed lips and good intentions. The Wicked Witch of the West is also green. This signifies nothing.
  Blue is the color of Dorothy’s bow and the only color on her dress, as the rest is white or "innocent of color". Bluish tints are most often used to reference home or homeliness, calm, peace. Even while on her strange journey, she carries home with her. If she would just look to herself, our heroine would find the peace and comfort of her family already resting in her.
  Indigo is a hue that is perhaps best represented by the horse of a different color. A horse that changes color in midstream is normally looked at as untrustworthy. But not so in this case! The stallion may vary colors during our encounter with him, but his true color is indigo, as he remains for most of the movie. Indigo comes from the Latin root of independence (indi) and the Greek word for leaving (go). The horse lets Dorothy know subconsciously that her journey is almost over and it is time to become independent of her friends and leave their world.
  Violet is, as we all know, just one letter away from ‘violent’. Purple has long been the color of royalty and magic items. Having violet as our Fortune Teller/Wizard/King’s main dress is entirely appropriate. He is not called the great and terrible Wizard of Oz without reason. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely powerfully. He is viole(n)t in his need to be supreme and fulfill his destiny of eternal wanderlust. As we all must perform extreme acts of violence to escape our own tragic existence if we are ever to break free from society and its standardized norms.
  Toto, though not a color in and of himself, deserves a special mention. A dog in a story may mean felicitations or greetings with joy, but since he is a terrier, more specifically he is the embodiment of happiness. For example, every time Dorothy sees him, she is happy and feels safer, connected with friends and family from home, though she is far away. For a period of time in the movie, Toto is confined to a basket that actually serves to protect him. Also commonly found in baskets are newborn babies. Usually, if they are left on doorsteps, they are in baskets, I think you shall find with a minimal amount of research. As this faithful companion pops in and out of the basket of new life, we might say he is constantly being reborn or having a day of birth. Therefore, we must come to the conclusion that a basket full of Toto really means: Happy Birthday.
Maybe I shall make more of these as time goes on.

"Bubblelicious gum is neither bubbly nor...licious anymore.." >R<