First off, I would like to say farwell to National Poetry Month(farewell, National Poetry Month!). I, for one, had a very productive NPM without knowing it for the first...many days.
In farwell to this most joyous of occasions(to which I bid adieu, coincidentally enough, spending the evening dabbling in prose) I have another poem by someone else and a teeny bit by myself.
From Nabokov's Pale Fire...
"All colors made me happy: even gray.
My eyes were such that literally they
Took photographs. Whenever I'd permit,
Or, with a silent shiver, order it,
Whatever in my field of vision dwelt--
An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte
Stilettos of a frozen stillicide--
Was printed on my eyelids' nether side
Where it would tarry for an hour or two,
And while this lasted all I had to do
Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves,
Or indoor scene, or trophies of the eaves."
-Stanza Three, Canto One
I believe that we are both boomerangs designed for one another and that now,
Though we continually riccochet away from one another,
We will one day meet in middair.
(Do not tell me you don't know what that means.)
(From a long set of meditations I've been doing on this ever-elusive quality that has been termed, by some, America)
I call myself fond of you, America,
Would you call yourself fond of me?
As a child, I had a continuous desire to fall in love with all whom I met, keeping a special place in (indent)my heart so often for those I'd been told were now unworthy.
But I grow older, wiser still and see that only a few, in fact, have want of my ever fiery passion,
And that those who do so seldom desire it for long.
America, are you one of them?
I have fallen in love with your spring and yet it leaves me tainted with desire.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
In Honor of National Poetry Month...
A poem by John Crowe Ransom entitled Piazza Piece.
--I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
And listen to an old man not at all.
They want the young men's whispering and sighing.
But see the roses on your trellis dying
And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
For I must have my lady soon.
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.
--I am a lady young in beauty waiting
Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.
But what grey man among the vines is this
Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!
I am a lady young in beauty waiting.
I will not torture you with verse of my own, and trust me, as of right now, I have a great deal. Some of it even rhymes.
Rather, I will torture you with why I'm fond of the piece and what I think it means.
Ostensibly, it is a conversation between an older gentleman(wearing a dust coat) trying, it seems, to woo a younger woman who is waiting for her ideal love child to come and sweep her off her feet. There can be other interpretations, death being, perhaps, the first voice with the Maiden, or, it has been suggested by my anthology, December and May. Regardless, though I invite individual interpretation, I will go with the initial assumption for purposes of whatever it is I'm writing.
I'm fond of the rhyme scheme, for starters, I am also told it is an adaptation of the Italian sonnet, a form that, dry lover of academia though I might be, I am rather fond of for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it is Italian. (On a sidenote, I find it interesting how certain ethnic groups, i.e., the Irish, have such extreme pride in their heritage, while others, like Lithuanians or Czechoslovakians have none at all. And then, we have me. I claim Swiss/German decent, however, I ignore these, preferring to place pride in a nonexistant Greek, Roman, Italian, Russian, British, French heritage. What did the Germans give us? Naught but Nietzsche and Rilke.)
I like the rhythm as well, and honestly, I've always thought of myself as prematurely old, and so any attempts at wooing female individuals would seem, mentally, at least, like the above. Plus, Ransom taught Lowell and others at Kenyon, started, in fact, the Kenyon Review, a most excellent literary magazine with a brilliant reputation(from what I'm told by authorities at Kenyon College) and so he is on my "good" list.
But we are ignoring the obvious. Ever the lover of fine words, I dig how he combined "ture" and "love" to form one superword(truelove, thus accenting the second speaker's naivete.
--I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying
To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small
And listen to an old man not at all.
They want the young men's whispering and sighing.
But see the roses on your trellis dying
And hear the spectral singing of the moon;
For I must have my lady soon.
I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying.
--I am a lady young in beauty waiting
Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss.
But what grey man among the vines is this
Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream?
Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream!
I am a lady young in beauty waiting.
I will not torture you with verse of my own, and trust me, as of right now, I have a great deal. Some of it even rhymes.
Rather, I will torture you with why I'm fond of the piece and what I think it means.
Ostensibly, it is a conversation between an older gentleman(wearing a dust coat) trying, it seems, to woo a younger woman who is waiting for her ideal love child to come and sweep her off her feet. There can be other interpretations, death being, perhaps, the first voice with the Maiden, or, it has been suggested by my anthology, December and May. Regardless, though I invite individual interpretation, I will go with the initial assumption for purposes of whatever it is I'm writing.
I'm fond of the rhyme scheme, for starters, I am also told it is an adaptation of the Italian sonnet, a form that, dry lover of academia though I might be, I am rather fond of for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it is Italian. (On a sidenote, I find it interesting how certain ethnic groups, i.e., the Irish, have such extreme pride in their heritage, while others, like Lithuanians or Czechoslovakians have none at all. And then, we have me. I claim Swiss/German decent, however, I ignore these, preferring to place pride in a nonexistant Greek, Roman, Italian, Russian, British, French heritage. What did the Germans give us? Naught but Nietzsche and Rilke.)
I like the rhythm as well, and honestly, I've always thought of myself as prematurely old, and so any attempts at wooing female individuals would seem, mentally, at least, like the above. Plus, Ransom taught Lowell and others at Kenyon, started, in fact, the Kenyon Review, a most excellent literary magazine with a brilliant reputation(from what I'm told by authorities at Kenyon College) and so he is on my "good" list.
But we are ignoring the obvious. Ever the lover of fine words, I dig how he combined "ture" and "love" to form one superword(truelove, thus accenting the second speaker's naivete.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A Brief Political Entry
Dear Senator (or whatever you are anymore) John Kerry,
Please stop considering running for president in 2008, everyone knows you are. I, who am the king of being vague, am especially certain, shown by your responses on your recent appearances of the Colbert Report.
Yes, we need a change from the current Republican regime, but we also need a change from the Democrat's lukewarm trend. America might want only a second rate president after Bush, settling for less when they know they've just experienced the worst, were you to be elected, we would again receive a third rate candidate. I really just want someone who knows how they feel about everything, who is willing to be bold and courageous and do things that I can't.
You aren't that person.
Trust me.
Love,
(my name)
Please stop considering running for president in 2008, everyone knows you are. I, who am the king of being vague, am especially certain, shown by your responses on your recent appearances of the Colbert Report.
Yes, we need a change from the current Republican regime, but we also need a change from the Democrat's lukewarm trend. America might want only a second rate president after Bush, settling for less when they know they've just experienced the worst, were you to be elected, we would again receive a third rate candidate. I really just want someone who knows how they feel about everything, who is willing to be bold and courageous and do things that I can't.
You aren't that person.
Trust me.
Love,
(my name)
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Confused and Manic Post(One in a series of adjective-based headings)
My epitaph will read as follows: Mild-mannered soneteer Jayson Myers died in childbirth yesterday. No, this was not your standard childbirth, rather, he was giving birth to a baby poem, artistic genius, if you ask the editor of the paper. Thank goodness no one else was in the car with him, usually, when driving with others, he tries to avoid childbirth and its often costly repercussions. The artistic genius?(new line)Salt and sweet mingle their ashes
As I sigh the ever infinite sigh,
We’ve been squashing our love before it could have started,
There could probably be worse ways to learn to cry.
As I sigh the ever infinite sigh,
We’ve been squashing our love before it could have started,
There could probably be worse ways to learn to cry.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
The best thing I've written in ages
When one considers the epitome of the genre of sports, chess hardly comes to mind. “Only,” one might say, “will the truly perverse suggest such an outrage! Chess is a petty board game, not something as bold and exceptional as a sport!”
But my friends, this is where you would find yourself in the wrong! For chess is a sport, indeed, the mightiest and the best of all sports! How do I figure?
First, to elaborate on how chess is truthfully a sport. When one thinks of sports, sweat nearly always comes to mind. I cannot, in fact, think of a sport that does not result in a large quantity of sweat, chess included. I sweat profusely whenever I play chess, just as all those playing with me sweat. It’s crazy. I believe that if you are not sweating while playing chess, you are flat out doing it wrong.
Thus, we have established why chess is, in fact, a sport. What, then, makes it the best sport?
I consider chess superior because no other sport allows for the intellectual activity provided by this game of kings and queens. Chess requires you to strategize, to think ahead, to lift up the weight of a mighty empire and place it, if only temporarily, upon your shoulders. As opposed to pettier, more trivial games, chess requires you to keep in mind the lives of each and every citizen on your playing board, forcing you to make life and death situations. With the exception of all out war, what other game requires such responsibility?
I have be harmed greatly, by my own brother, no less, for my stance on this issue, I assure you, no good will come of it. Great legions of human beings stand behind me on this issue, we are all willing, nay, we promise, to fight should another great number, led by a king, queen, bishop, squire, and rook, strive to attack us by force. I vow to keep this promise.
I wish ardently that you support me on this issue, please, turn to the light! By agreeing that chess is the best sport, you aren’t really forsaking your previously more beloved extracurricular activities, there is room enough in everyone’s heart to love more than one sport, just so long as the largest room belongs to chess.
But my friends, this is where you would find yourself in the wrong! For chess is a sport, indeed, the mightiest and the best of all sports! How do I figure?
First, to elaborate on how chess is truthfully a sport. When one thinks of sports, sweat nearly always comes to mind. I cannot, in fact, think of a sport that does not result in a large quantity of sweat, chess included. I sweat profusely whenever I play chess, just as all those playing with me sweat. It’s crazy. I believe that if you are not sweating while playing chess, you are flat out doing it wrong.
Thus, we have established why chess is, in fact, a sport. What, then, makes it the best sport?
I consider chess superior because no other sport allows for the intellectual activity provided by this game of kings and queens. Chess requires you to strategize, to think ahead, to lift up the weight of a mighty empire and place it, if only temporarily, upon your shoulders. As opposed to pettier, more trivial games, chess requires you to keep in mind the lives of each and every citizen on your playing board, forcing you to make life and death situations. With the exception of all out war, what other game requires such responsibility?
I have be harmed greatly, by my own brother, no less, for my stance on this issue, I assure you, no good will come of it. Great legions of human beings stand behind me on this issue, we are all willing, nay, we promise, to fight should another great number, led by a king, queen, bishop, squire, and rook, strive to attack us by force. I vow to keep this promise.
I wish ardently that you support me on this issue, please, turn to the light! By agreeing that chess is the best sport, you aren’t really forsaking your previously more beloved extracurricular activities, there is room enough in everyone’s heart to love more than one sport, just so long as the largest room belongs to chess.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Something I wrote for English...
Prelude in Ab Major: Alright, so we have to do this Romanticism project for English where we journal in some place that makes us think seven times, and then write a reflective essay about it, "and be creative! the possibilities are endless!" and take pictures, lalala, auld lang syne.
And lately I've been, perhaps, just a bit too cynical, turning up my nose at projects that are supposed to inspire creativity and relishing, like a ravenous idiot, in the ones that are supposed to drain all sorts of creativity from you.
We've been reading examples of these essays in and out of class, and Sands seems to dig the ones that reflect upon some certain object for long periods of time, like a leaf or a pond or whatever. And, being the sarcastic ass I can often be, decided to place my tounge firmly in my cheek for the duration of the assignment, refusing to give way to the typical cliches of high school depth, sentimentality, and eloquence, and allowing my love for absurdity, vagueness, internal conversation and sentence-long paragraphs to run free.
This is what we are left with.
Now, it should be noted that I have only journaled in my thinking spot once to date(Borders) but I can kind of see where my thoughts will end up going. Here it is...
Yes, I could write about the two things I find most beautiful about Borders, books and coffee, though the endless list of connections and memories I’ve made at the store and others owned by the same machine worldwide are more valuable, though less tangible, than these two inanimate objects that seem to spring so close to true life that I can almost feel a pulse beating within them as I press my naked palm to their exterior—how I adore their ephemeral wonder, how I swoon when I even think of them, so much so that it might cause the Beloved, an all-seeing representative of the divine forces that govern our daily life, to worry that I might be pulled astray.
But I am not going to meditate upon my love for coffee and books, for they have been, remain, and, I suppose, will always be, static, one of only a few constants in the ever-changing marketplace of my life.
Rather, I have come only recently to appreciate the simpler things in life, for even they, under close examination, reveal just as much complexity as something we consider so advanced, like the microwave. I have come to admire that which we seem, for little reason, to hold least sacred, that which so few hold with any sort of high respect.
I am speaking of the table and an infinite number of variations thereof.
I am amazed at how few people admire, or are truly willing to admire, their respect for the table; when I inquire as to the state of my friend’s appreciation for this structure of wood and wonder, I am typically met, or would be met, were I to actually ask, with blank stares and stuttered statements.
“Jayson,” they’d say to me, I am certain, “I think it’s just about time you conform to standard patterns of thought.”
And I would laugh that crazy, maniacal laugh I get when convinced of my personal genius, for, if professing my admiration that supports my habits, (both good and bad, that supports my studies, indeed, supports the basic foundations of the essentials of life, if this is wrong, than I shall indeed remain in the wrong!
I say this as I am writing, not on a table, or a desk, a rather common variation, (my bedroom desk is, in fact, our old dining room table!) but upon a clipboard, a most despicable alternative. This board cramps not only my hand, but my style as well, for I yearn almost tragically for a space that could adequately attend to a steaming cup of organic, dark roasted coffee, or an aromatic spot of Earl Grey tea. It has not the capacity to embrace my set of Merriam-Webster reference books, nor the novel or collection of poetry I happen to be in the midst of. It cannot contain the five or six books I require to be by my fingertips at all times, should I feel the craving for new inspiration or my daily dose of other’s artistic genius. It is a disgrace to the piece of furniture I have sanctified above all others, it pales in comparison. Clipboard, I dare you to stand next to a table and demand some semblance of glory! You would faint from your lack of dignity, I am certain of it. You are small, unpractical. You lack the reflective, waxen sheen to be found on even the most second rate desks, you are flimsy; made, perhaps, of balsa instead of a mighty oak, you are unstable. It would require more fingers and toes than the set I have at my disposal to count the number of times my pencil has slipped, leaving tiny holes in my paper, most unsightly to the eye.
Might I then compare my table, my desk, the tables to be found in the café at Borders, to a summer day? No, the answer is no; the table, made of what one supposes was once the stateliest of trees, transcends all seasons. Trees transcend each and every one of our lives, they were here long before us, when they fall out of existence, we will as well. I see writing upon a desk, or eating upon a table, or any of an infinite number of daily functions that are performed upon the above, as a communion with the spiritual realm of nature. For, even when one is in the middle of the most desolate city, one will always find a desk, and that desk, if made properly, will have been made from what might be considered God’s greatest gift to mankind.
(I have not edited, I have no even read through it the entire way yet, I am still uncertain as to the actual existence of the G man.)
(Here I stand.)
And lately I've been, perhaps, just a bit too cynical, turning up my nose at projects that are supposed to inspire creativity and relishing, like a ravenous idiot, in the ones that are supposed to drain all sorts of creativity from you.
We've been reading examples of these essays in and out of class, and Sands seems to dig the ones that reflect upon some certain object for long periods of time, like a leaf or a pond or whatever. And, being the sarcastic ass I can often be, decided to place my tounge firmly in my cheek for the duration of the assignment, refusing to give way to the typical cliches of high school depth, sentimentality, and eloquence, and allowing my love for absurdity, vagueness, internal conversation and sentence-long paragraphs to run free.
This is what we are left with.
Now, it should be noted that I have only journaled in my thinking spot once to date(Borders) but I can kind of see where my thoughts will end up going. Here it is...
Yes, I could write about the two things I find most beautiful about Borders, books and coffee, though the endless list of connections and memories I’ve made at the store and others owned by the same machine worldwide are more valuable, though less tangible, than these two inanimate objects that seem to spring so close to true life that I can almost feel a pulse beating within them as I press my naked palm to their exterior—how I adore their ephemeral wonder, how I swoon when I even think of them, so much so that it might cause the Beloved, an all-seeing representative of the divine forces that govern our daily life, to worry that I might be pulled astray.
But I am not going to meditate upon my love for coffee and books, for they have been, remain, and, I suppose, will always be, static, one of only a few constants in the ever-changing marketplace of my life.
Rather, I have come only recently to appreciate the simpler things in life, for even they, under close examination, reveal just as much complexity as something we consider so advanced, like the microwave. I have come to admire that which we seem, for little reason, to hold least sacred, that which so few hold with any sort of high respect.
I am speaking of the table and an infinite number of variations thereof.
I am amazed at how few people admire, or are truly willing to admire, their respect for the table; when I inquire as to the state of my friend’s appreciation for this structure of wood and wonder, I am typically met, or would be met, were I to actually ask, with blank stares and stuttered statements.
“Jayson,” they’d say to me, I am certain, “I think it’s just about time you conform to standard patterns of thought.”
And I would laugh that crazy, maniacal laugh I get when convinced of my personal genius, for, if professing my admiration that supports my habits, (both good and bad, that supports my studies, indeed, supports the basic foundations of the essentials of life, if this is wrong, than I shall indeed remain in the wrong!
I say this as I am writing, not on a table, or a desk, a rather common variation, (my bedroom desk is, in fact, our old dining room table!) but upon a clipboard, a most despicable alternative. This board cramps not only my hand, but my style as well, for I yearn almost tragically for a space that could adequately attend to a steaming cup of organic, dark roasted coffee, or an aromatic spot of Earl Grey tea. It has not the capacity to embrace my set of Merriam-Webster reference books, nor the novel or collection of poetry I happen to be in the midst of. It cannot contain the five or six books I require to be by my fingertips at all times, should I feel the craving for new inspiration or my daily dose of other’s artistic genius. It is a disgrace to the piece of furniture I have sanctified above all others, it pales in comparison. Clipboard, I dare you to stand next to a table and demand some semblance of glory! You would faint from your lack of dignity, I am certain of it. You are small, unpractical. You lack the reflective, waxen sheen to be found on even the most second rate desks, you are flimsy; made, perhaps, of balsa instead of a mighty oak, you are unstable. It would require more fingers and toes than the set I have at my disposal to count the number of times my pencil has slipped, leaving tiny holes in my paper, most unsightly to the eye.
Might I then compare my table, my desk, the tables to be found in the café at Borders, to a summer day? No, the answer is no; the table, made of what one supposes was once the stateliest of trees, transcends all seasons. Trees transcend each and every one of our lives, they were here long before us, when they fall out of existence, we will as well. I see writing upon a desk, or eating upon a table, or any of an infinite number of daily functions that are performed upon the above, as a communion with the spiritual realm of nature. For, even when one is in the middle of the most desolate city, one will always find a desk, and that desk, if made properly, will have been made from what might be considered God’s greatest gift to mankind.
(I have not edited, I have no even read through it the entire way yet, I am still uncertain as to the actual existence of the G man.)
(Here I stand.)
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thank God none of you are devoted followers of Stephen Colbert...
Today’s Word?
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhi-storyspecialprofessordoctor.
As in: “The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semi-paralysed doyen of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethanktscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putrapesthi, Hiram. Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pedaliio y Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchistitch, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli, Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhi-storyspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein."
Mentally prepare yourself for an excruciatingly long, but oh-so-bloody thorough vocabularly lesson; get ready to get school.
First, we will split today’s word apart piece by piece in an attempt to understand just what the hell, exactly, this word means.
National: pertaining to one’s nation
Gymnasium: Area for working out, ALSO, and perhaps the more likely, the European equivalent (approximately) to our high school, providing a solid educational background for students wishing to attend college.
Museum: When related to art or things I like, an interestingly large building filled with relevant objects, when utterly unrelated to topics of interest, such as natural history/science/economics/past presidents/future presidents/Barbie/Disney, an utter waste of money.
Sanatorium: Place for people with mental illness
And: common conjunction, separating ideas
Suspensoriums: Not technically a word in the English language, one would imagine it would be something along the lines of a room devoted to…suspense… (plural)
Ordinary: Typical, to be expected
Privat: Almost, but not quite, private, meaning secret, hidden
Docent: college or university teacher or lecturer
General: leader of a military or something; the first names of such luminaries as Grant and Lee.
History: pertaining to what has already happened
Special: Code name for strange, peculiar, stupid, slow
Professor: One who professes.
Doctor: The first name of another set of luminaries, among them my cardiologist, pediatrician, etc, etc.
Query: Now, juxtaposed, what the hell does this mean?
Answer: Absolutely nothing.
This is why James Joyce is the greatest writer of ALL TIME.
(Hey, this went absolutely nowhere and is not, in fact, as humorous as it sounded in my mind! What gives?)
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhi-storyspecialprofessordoctor.
As in: “The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci Beninobenone (the semi-paralysed doyen of the party who had to be assisted to his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethanktscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putrapesthi, Hiram. Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pedaliio y Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky, Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchistitch, Herr Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli, Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhi-storyspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein."
Mentally prepare yourself for an excruciatingly long, but oh-so-bloody thorough vocabularly lesson; get ready to get school.
First, we will split today’s word apart piece by piece in an attempt to understand just what the hell, exactly, this word means.
National: pertaining to one’s nation
Gymnasium: Area for working out, ALSO, and perhaps the more likely, the European equivalent (approximately) to our high school, providing a solid educational background for students wishing to attend college.
Museum: When related to art or things I like, an interestingly large building filled with relevant objects, when utterly unrelated to topics of interest, such as natural history/science/economics/past presidents/future presidents/Barbie/Disney, an utter waste of money.
Sanatorium: Place for people with mental illness
And: common conjunction, separating ideas
Suspensoriums: Not technically a word in the English language, one would imagine it would be something along the lines of a room devoted to…suspense… (plural)
Ordinary: Typical, to be expected
Privat: Almost, but not quite, private, meaning secret, hidden
Docent: college or university teacher or lecturer
General: leader of a military or something; the first names of such luminaries as Grant and Lee.
History: pertaining to what has already happened
Special: Code name for strange, peculiar, stupid, slow
Professor: One who professes.
Doctor: The first name of another set of luminaries, among them my cardiologist, pediatrician, etc, etc.
Query: Now, juxtaposed, what the hell does this mean?
Answer: Absolutely nothing.
This is why James Joyce is the greatest writer of ALL TIME.
(Hey, this went absolutely nowhere and is not, in fact, as humorous as it sounded in my mind! What gives?)
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
A List (Or more!)
- Stories about teachers inspired by the youthful energy of their students
- stories about students inspired by teachers
- Biographies of people I find somnolent, i.e., Thomas Edison
- Stories blatantly intended to persuade one to the author's viewpoint with that sort of arrogant, "well, I told you" endings
- Editorials concerning teenage driving laws
- Melodrama about issues that don't really matter
- Apathy towards those that do
- Parent's plans for my future
- Religious right
- Religious left
- Religious center
- Religious apoliticals
- Discussions of abortion
- Those who feel the need to be politically correct
- Ditto, politically incorrect
- Those who feel the need to whine loudly about it
- Politics in general
- Relationship/life advice, even when its prompted
- Mainstream music
- "The Wood Carver"
- Lack of classroom control
- Sonic disturbances
- Doughnuts that are supposed to be filled with delicious creme, but aren't
- Fish pills
- Tuesday mornings
- mainstream music
THESE ARE ALL THINGS THAT
- Make me angry/are annoying
- I have little desire to tlak about
- Well be mentioned in my upcoming novel, destined to be the definitive piece of American literature(more on this at a later date)
ANOTHER LIST
- Ulysses (and James Joyce in general)
- The Odyssey (though I do not consider it the best story ever told)
- Greek literature and philosophy in general
- Modernism
- Vladmir Nabokov
- Samuel Beckett
- Pseudo-Italian/French accents
- The prefix pseudo
- European cuisine
- The heroic archetype
- Why I'm not permitted into Plato's Republic
- The meaning of certain poems
- Psychology
- Dreams
- Creative Writing
- Family Guy
- Kidney Stones and Muddy Waters
- Strega Nona
- Christmas christmas, Salted cod salted cod, the mystery of the broomstick, witchcraft and it's relationship to the aforementioned
- The word aforementioned
- Driveways, beating up Ophelia
- Naming my car after a character from Hamlet
- Why I shouldn't have been liscened to drive
- The indie rock
- Farmhouses like the one i drew in my journal a year ago and then found
- That girl I know with both hair AND eyes
THESE ARE ALL THINGS THAT...
- I find interesting
- I enjoy talking and/or thinking about and/or to
- Will influence my novel (destined to become the definitive piece of American Lit, discussed in classrooms far and wide after it's initial utter, dismal rejection) will be the driving force behind it, but, baring a certain few exceptions, won't actually be involved.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Today's Vocab Lesson, Pt. II
Noticing the rousing response o the other day’s lesson in the peculiarities of English vocabulary, I have decided to make it a regular feature, regular, by definition, meaning “whenever Jayson finds or remembers a phrase or word that appeals to his aesthetic ideals OR current station in life.”
And so, you ask, what the hell is today’s word? Got another shocking demonstration of the depth of your English savantry?
Wait, you’re telling me savantry isn’t, in fact, a word? Dammit, there goes…
No, I have prevailed!
Today’s word, is, of course, happened. As in, “that coal mine was the best thing that ever happened to the dirty, meth-infected town,” or “Big Anthony was the best thing that ever happened to dear old Strega Nona.”
Absurdist that I am, I’m amused by the idea of a person happening to another, in much the same way that growth happens to hair or syphilis happened to the founding fathers.
Happening also seems, by definition, (and I looked this one up in a reliable dictionary,) to (typically) require a certain element of chance. I find this going, accidentally, in much the same direction as my previous entry…
Irregardless!
Big Anthony, in example, did not just swing by Strega Nona’s secluded hilltop cabin one balmy Italian afternoon and receive just any old servant job, Big Anthony was the result of a painstaking set of interviews, violent interrogations, and gentle, peasant-esque research.
And women like Strega Nona don’t just happen to a bumbling idiot like Big Anthony! I mean really, someone like her needing someone like him? She must have really, really been needing companionship desperately at the point when his application process began!
Psshhh…Like Big Anthony ever had a damn thing on Strega Nona…She was all, “oh, I’m a witch, I can do everything you do for me, I can fix everything you screw up accidentally all by my damn self, and yet, you’re still here, you dirty bastard. You know why? Because I’m a lonely girl with no siblings and nothing but this damn windswept cabin on the top of this damn hill. Yeah. That’s it.”
Thus, or lesson for today happens to come to an end.
Happened.
And so, you ask, what the hell is today’s word? Got another shocking demonstration of the depth of your English savantry?
Wait, you’re telling me savantry isn’t, in fact, a word? Dammit, there goes…
No, I have prevailed!
Today’s word, is, of course, happened. As in, “that coal mine was the best thing that ever happened to the dirty, meth-infected town,” or “Big Anthony was the best thing that ever happened to dear old Strega Nona.”
Absurdist that I am, I’m amused by the idea of a person happening to another, in much the same way that growth happens to hair or syphilis happened to the founding fathers.
Happening also seems, by definition, (and I looked this one up in a reliable dictionary,) to (typically) require a certain element of chance. I find this going, accidentally, in much the same direction as my previous entry…
Irregardless!
Big Anthony, in example, did not just swing by Strega Nona’s secluded hilltop cabin one balmy Italian afternoon and receive just any old servant job, Big Anthony was the result of a painstaking set of interviews, violent interrogations, and gentle, peasant-esque research.
And women like Strega Nona don’t just happen to a bumbling idiot like Big Anthony! I mean really, someone like her needing someone like him? She must have really, really been needing companionship desperately at the point when his application process began!
Psshhh…Like Big Anthony ever had a damn thing on Strega Nona…She was all, “oh, I’m a witch, I can do everything you do for me, I can fix everything you screw up accidentally all by my damn self, and yet, you’re still here, you dirty bastard. You know why? Because I’m a lonely girl with no siblings and nothing but this damn windswept cabin on the top of this damn hill. Yeah. That’s it.”
Thus, or lesson for today happens to come to an end.
Happened.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Jayson's Vocab Lesson OR Lets be vague, shall we?
Today's vocab word is smitten. Now, I realize that most of you already know the word smitten, and, if you didn't, well...You will soon enough. I personally learned this word in 7th grade, became fond of it, and discussed it in humanities earlier today, when I noted to myself the peculiarity of the timing. The word is typically used in response to emotions: smitten with greif, anxiety, dread, love. (new paragraph) Let's examine the etymology and connotations, shall we? (new paragraph) The present tense of the term is smite. As in, to hit with a blunt object or (if one is God) to send wrath upon a particular person or people who are doing things horribly, horribly wrong. the past tense is smote. I rather enjoy the word smote, irrelevant though it is. I enjoy the idea of being smote by something like love, as if it were a piano made by acme corp that had fallen off the roof of a brownstone several stories high and smashed me to smithereens. (New paragraph) But I find this metaphor inaccurate, love really doesnt just fall from no where to smash someone to smithereens, rather...Well, I am reminded of a story i heard about the last of the Salem witch persecution death things. The last woman had a largish board placed on top of her person, and big heavy pianos filled with the tea that the colonists had stolen from the boston tea part were placed upon her slowly, crushing her as time wore on. I consider her smote. (new paragraph) Thus ends today's study of the word smite.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Driving Journal, Day 5...
Began scraping ice off windshield, windows, etc, at 7:14, in hopes it wouldn't take long or require gloves. By 7:20, realized ineptitude and that this was the time I was set to arrive to pick up one, M.A. Ended up arriving late, blamed clock.
Took longest route to High School possible, sort of. Arrived at exactly 7:54. Profane, nervous, reckless. More so than I had been, at least.
After school: Found one, MA, ran quickly to vehicle. Personally almost hit at least twice by oncoming traffic. Back out, almost ran into one, S.B., felt bad. Made references to the saviour of the Christian faith, realized changes that occured since last year at this time. Amused.
Beat buses out of school parking lot, made empty threats. Reigned victorious. Felt good, meditated on Humanities discussion, re: meaning of happiness, reconcilliation with cynicism. Realized what must immediately be addressed, figured I would soon regret it if I did not.
I did not.
Arrived at home of one, MA, bade adieu.
Regretted. Considered writing a poem entitled "To Her Coy Master, i.e., one JM," a reference to the work of Marvell with a similar name. Decided to make aforementioned journal for obscure, comedic purposes instead, made vague mental plans for the following day.
Arrived home, viewed bus leaving development. A moments thought revealed that one should reign victorious without regards.
Reigned victorious without regards.
End, Driving Journal, Day 5.
Took longest route to High School possible, sort of. Arrived at exactly 7:54. Profane, nervous, reckless. More so than I had been, at least.
After school: Found one, MA, ran quickly to vehicle. Personally almost hit at least twice by oncoming traffic. Back out, almost ran into one, S.B., felt bad. Made references to the saviour of the Christian faith, realized changes that occured since last year at this time. Amused.
Beat buses out of school parking lot, made empty threats. Reigned victorious. Felt good, meditated on Humanities discussion, re: meaning of happiness, reconcilliation with cynicism. Realized what must immediately be addressed, figured I would soon regret it if I did not.
I did not.
Arrived at home of one, MA, bade adieu.
Regretted. Considered writing a poem entitled "To Her Coy Master, i.e., one JM," a reference to the work of Marvell with a similar name. Decided to make aforementioned journal for obscure, comedic purposes instead, made vague mental plans for the following day.
Arrived home, viewed bus leaving development. A moments thought revealed that one should reign victorious without regards.
Reigned victorious without regards.
End, Driving Journal, Day 5.
Monday, March 5, 2007
ob la di, ob la da...
Though I promised myself that I would never post anything but material of the absolute highest literary integreity on this site, I must break, if only momentarily, this trend for the following announcement.
I have already been warned for not having a parking permit, thanks, most likely, to the smart ass note I placed in my rear window.
What was given to me in return?
The warning notice, with an extra smart ass comment written upon it.
The end.
I have already been warned for not having a parking permit, thanks, most likely, to the smart ass note I placed in my rear window.
What was given to me in return?
The warning notice, with an extra smart ass comment written upon it.
The end.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I've never been opposed to a bit of innocent blasphemy...
And so, I present to you, The SIX Commandments of the Religion of Undying Devotion to Coffee. 1. Thou shalt treat coffee as the supreme example of the caffeine based beverage; above tea, soda, and energy drinks; as your lord coffee can get kind of pissed off when you go around drinking other such beverages in large amounts. 2. Thou shalt drink thy coffee virgin, that is, without cream or sugar(my dad says Baileys and Whiskey are ok) unless thou forgets. 3. thou shalt give praise to the Almighty as many times a day as you want--the more, the better, as this is your own energy we're talking about. 4. Thou shalt purchase the highest quality beans and coffee thy money can afford; thou shalt grind thy own beans, as this makes the beans all the better. 5. Thou shalt be especially thankful in the direction of the following people for the following things: the turks, for thier endless list of innovations and the turkish press; the French, for french Roast and the French press; the Italians, for Espresso, Cappuccino, and a variety of other musicall bold blends, the Sumatrans, for their beans, the Columbians, for their beans, and diners such as Round the Clock for having a hardcore wait staff with an endless cup. 6. thou shalt listen to every one of these words and more, as I wrote them when under the influence of a triple espresso.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
A revision
I imagine that I am the walrus, about to be eaten by a harmless manatee in the Gulf of Mexico. I am in the last moments of my life; I am searching desperately for answers.I will find only this: my own sense of comfort came from my frantic uncertainty; my only source of perfection came from a compromising lack thereof. I am the walrus. Goo goo gajoob. I was spared. (This replaces the part where i said i was an otter. I also took out the preaching.)
Monday, February 12, 2007
I, the Otter
A Collection of Allegories
Thanks to Binh for telling me that she thought me an otter, or some other form of sea life, Kelsey M—for her story, Maggie for hers, and the rest of the world for subjecting themselves to my metaphorical terms.
Assume the unreliability of the narrator.
An allegory: A bird is trapped in a glass building. He catches his reflection on the wall by accident and, believing it to be another, flies quickly towards it, breaking the glass and finding freedom.
***
Another, even better still: A mouse, gloriously innocent, notices an ominous shadow, that of a giant hawk. He hides behind a boulder, only to look up in terror and realize that the hawk is, in fact, a few petty branches on a walnut tree. His conscience settled, he is crushed by a piano a day later.
***
Kelsey M—once told me a story of two unsuspecting lovers walking towards each other in central park. The male, walking slowly, notices the female from a distance. Once they are closer, he tells her he loves her and she says the same. They are married the following day, living happily ever after, amen.
Kelsey M—says this story is true because she saw it one time, hiding behind the only apple tree in Central Park, just last fall.
***
I imagine that I am an otter, about to be eaten by a harmless manatee in the Gulf of Mexico. I am in the last moments of my life; I am searching desperately for answers.
I will find only this: my own sense of comfort came from my frantic uncertainty; my only source of perfection came from a compromising lack thereof. I found God in everything, realizing that He does not exist.
I, the otter, was spared.
***
A fox, on the other hand, wasn’t as lucky. He thought eating unimportant, and so he stopped. Not only did starvation bring his death, but his prey lost the fear that they had been living for.
***
A moose buys salads everyday in a cafeteria for one week, just for the baco-bits. On the final day, there are none left.
***
The neighbors spent every dime they had ever earned on a television that ate their living room wall for breakfast. Having no further possessions, they sat before the machine day and night, day and night, enamored by the glow.
What was the television’s lunch?
***
I was told that I spend my days hiding in my bedroom, watching Disney movies and eating ice cream with a Disney spoon. When my parents knock on the door to inquire as to what I am up to, I tell them I am being emo. It is not a lie.
***
I was given an origami flower this morning. Should I crush it in the palm of my hand or give it to you?
***
The is a strange gentleman hiding in the male bathroom who gets paid to look from behind the one way mirror and turn the lights on and off accordingly, as I walk in and out.
He fell asleep.
Not only were the lights not on, the floor was flooded as well.
***
He grew a beard, just to shave it off.
***
A girl walks through the hallways, searching for her lover. She catches a glimpse of him once and forever travels the same path in search of him.
He went looking for her, eternally altering his path.
They never meet.
***
The moose in search of baco-bits returned to the salad line the following week. Who knows what he will find?
(P.S.: It's a filler story. I'm trying to take up time until I get another legitimate idea.)
Thanks to Binh for telling me that she thought me an otter, or some other form of sea life, Kelsey M—for her story, Maggie for hers, and the rest of the world for subjecting themselves to my metaphorical terms.
Assume the unreliability of the narrator.
An allegory: A bird is trapped in a glass building. He catches his reflection on the wall by accident and, believing it to be another, flies quickly towards it, breaking the glass and finding freedom.
***
Another, even better still: A mouse, gloriously innocent, notices an ominous shadow, that of a giant hawk. He hides behind a boulder, only to look up in terror and realize that the hawk is, in fact, a few petty branches on a walnut tree. His conscience settled, he is crushed by a piano a day later.
***
Kelsey M—once told me a story of two unsuspecting lovers walking towards each other in central park. The male, walking slowly, notices the female from a distance. Once they are closer, he tells her he loves her and she says the same. They are married the following day, living happily ever after, amen.
Kelsey M—says this story is true because she saw it one time, hiding behind the only apple tree in Central Park, just last fall.
***
I imagine that I am an otter, about to be eaten by a harmless manatee in the Gulf of Mexico. I am in the last moments of my life; I am searching desperately for answers.
I will find only this: my own sense of comfort came from my frantic uncertainty; my only source of perfection came from a compromising lack thereof. I found God in everything, realizing that He does not exist.
I, the otter, was spared.
***
A fox, on the other hand, wasn’t as lucky. He thought eating unimportant, and so he stopped. Not only did starvation bring his death, but his prey lost the fear that they had been living for.
***
A moose buys salads everyday in a cafeteria for one week, just for the baco-bits. On the final day, there are none left.
***
The neighbors spent every dime they had ever earned on a television that ate their living room wall for breakfast. Having no further possessions, they sat before the machine day and night, day and night, enamored by the glow.
What was the television’s lunch?
***
I was told that I spend my days hiding in my bedroom, watching Disney movies and eating ice cream with a Disney spoon. When my parents knock on the door to inquire as to what I am up to, I tell them I am being emo. It is not a lie.
***
I was given an origami flower this morning. Should I crush it in the palm of my hand or give it to you?
***
The is a strange gentleman hiding in the male bathroom who gets paid to look from behind the one way mirror and turn the lights on and off accordingly, as I walk in and out.
He fell asleep.
Not only were the lights not on, the floor was flooded as well.
***
He grew a beard, just to shave it off.
***
A girl walks through the hallways, searching for her lover. She catches a glimpse of him once and forever travels the same path in search of him.
He went looking for her, eternally altering his path.
They never meet.
***
The moose in search of baco-bits returned to the salad line the following week. Who knows what he will find?
(P.S.: It's a filler story. I'm trying to take up time until I get another legitimate idea.)
Friday, February 2, 2007
One winter month, and this is all I've got...
But I'm happy. It's bizarre. It's ill-informed. It's symbolism. Enjoy. Mmmmm..delicious snow....
An Outside Joke
Authors Note: It should be blatantly obvious that everything I learned about the life cycle of the butterfly was taught to me and first grade and the majority of my facts are most likely outdated, made up, or completely absurd.
My apologies.
-J.M.
(Coughs, inhales.)
Once upon a time, (and oh, what a lovely time it was,) there were two little larvae who were born at the same pinpoint in universal time & who were entirely unrelated. They developed separately, in a vacuum, until the faithful minute after their birth when their stars finally crossed. It went like this.
Larva Linford was minding his own business, doing what larva generally do best—eating or spreading disease or something when who should stumble along but that other little larva, Chrysanthemum Rhododendron. And, I mean it was alright, Linford was just wallowing in his state of larvaic joy, Chrysanthemum Rhododendron was sort of scooting up, stopping, looking bashfully at Linford, scooting, stopping, looking, scooting, stopping, looking, scooting, stopping, looking, clearing her throat, and onward and onsuch.
“Hello,” said Linford gleefully, finally noticing her existence.
“Hi,” said Chrysanthemum Rhododendron. “I’m Chrysanthemum Rhododendron and I’ve been watching you…”
“That’s kind of weird,” Linford remarked, smiling.
“I know but…I mean, I’ve noticed you’re eating/spreading disease incorrectly and its very troubling.”
“Oh, really?” was Linford’s response. He sounded slightly hurt. “How, then, do I eat/spread disease correctly?”
“You do it like this,” she said, demonstrating, waving her arms frantically.
“That’s ABSURD! I don’t believe you.”
“Fine, ruin your life. Die quickly. Never find love. Go to a second rate college in the suburbs of Philly and enjoy the gang violence, sell out, listen to sub-par music. Suits me just fine.” With that, she shuffled away, over to the other side of leaf, where she remained, periodically glancing at Linford.
He continued stubbornly on with his previous way of doing things, ostensibly not caring much, but, after a time, he decided to give her methods just one tiny shot. Her dismay at his lack of competence had done nothing but unsettle his young mind and, to his pleasant surprise, she was right. Her style was better.
She had been staring intently as he had done this with a smile on her face and, as he turned to remark she said simply, “I told you so.”
They became good friends after this. Chrysanthemum Rhododendron’s consistent state of wisdom won him over and, though Linford retained his stubborn streak and would often refuse to listen initially, after time, he would always realize she was right.
A mere moment after their beautiful friendship began, however, Chrysanthemum Rhododendron had an announcement to make.
“Nature is calling,” she told him.
“Oh,” he said, innocently not understanding what was going on.
“I’m going away for a long time now and may never ever see you again,” she told him.
Linford thought for a moment.
“Well, can I follow you?” he asked.
“No,” she told him, “I have to make this journey on my own.
“Will nature give me a call, too?” he asked.
“Eventually,” she told him.
“So this is good bye?” he asked.
“So this is good bye,” she told him, and she started to shuffle away.
“I’m going to miss you…” Linford told her, after she was a distance away.
She didn’t hear him.
***
Linford wallowed for a little while, unsure of what to do. He paced back and forth, did all the things she’d taught him to do correctly, ate/spread diseases without the vigor he’d previously used to accomplish such tasks. These feelings, whatever they were, were foreign to him and he was uncertain of much.
A good three minutes after she’d left, he decided to find her, secretly. He followed the path of slime she’d left behind her, because all caterpillars leave slime. When the path of slime had ended, he found himself frightened—in the place where her path had ceased; there was a scary fake lead type thing with more depth than the usual. It was confusing, an utter mystery.
“Ach mensch!” he cried. “Chrysanthemum Rhododendron has been eaten by some freakish SMALL ROCK! Whatever am I going to do?”
A moment’s thought will reveal that Linford does not follow the narrator’s line of logic, I assure you, readers, it looked like some kind of leaf.
Panic stepped in.
Linford began jumping yelling. He was terrified at the loss of his friend. “I DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD!” he screamed. “I DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD!!” His screaming abruptly ceased, he was struck by the most peculiar desire. He was going to climb up the twig, place himself beside Chrysanthemum Rhododendron, wrap himself in some sort of…internal secretion stuff, and wait. This craving replaced all of the longings in his minimalistic mind and he found himself blindly following the template which had just been catapulted into his tiny skull. Once the task found itself completed, he fell asleep. What interesting dreams he had…
***
A tapping, a feeling of being utterly trapped—Linford decided he must get out of this shell. This shell? Wait…when did that happen? Billions of legs, he thought, I’ll use them. Billions of legs? BILLIONS OF LEGS? They were her once, right, all 1,000,000,000 of them? What’s going on? Come on, God, when I said I didn’t believe in you…it was just a joke, right? You knew that, right? That it was just a joke? You didn’t need to take away my billions of legs or…trap me in this shell, I mean, come on…Getting out? How do I do that? Kicking? I can kick still, I have…some legs…right? Right. Kicking. Squeezing, stretching, scratching, and kicking, a lot of kicking. Almost out, almost out, almost out…so bored. So boring. Want to sleep. Or…just…read a book or something. Books? What are books? I’m going insane. Finnegan’s Wake---Ach mensch, I missed it, didn’t I?
Finally, Dear readers, Linford did, in fact, escape from his shell—I believe it is technically called a…uh….syphilis? Perhaps. Crucifix? Sisyphus? Something along those lines. You no doubt know what it is I mean. He was about to give up due to boredom and an utter lack of willpower, but, he broke out, it was very nice. And his memory returned as well.
“Hm,” he said to himself, “wings. Neat. Not sure what I need them for, but… I’m sure it will hit me.”
His memory came back! Come on, Linford!
And then it hit him-- Chrysanthemum Rhododendron! SHE was the reason this had all happened, or…why he was here, or something… He looked all around. Was she still here? Hadn’t she been EATEN? He looked around quickly, caught sight of—OH JESUS CHRIST SHE HAD BEEN EATEN! THE ROCK THING—THAT WAS GONE NOW TOO!! NO MO’ ROCK!! And as Linford was screaming frantically in his mind, a voice—calm, slightly confused and a tad bit angry—
“Linford?” it asked, “that’s not really you is it? For God’s sakes…”
“Chrysanthemum Rhododendron? Where are you?” he inquired, happily twitching about like and epileptic, searching frantically for her face.
“I’m right here, you idiot. We’ve undergone the process of metamorphosis—we’re…uh…well, I don’t know what we’re called, but we’ve got wings and fewer legs,” she explained.
“Aww…” he sighed. “I liked having many legs.”
“Yeah, so did I….Wait a second! You’re distracting from the point! I’m very angry! You weren’t supposed to follow me, you crazy vestibule of air and bug parts!”
“Well…it was sad when you weren’t around and so…I decided to try to find you…and then I made myself into a little rock and fell asleep…and then I freaked out…and found out I had wings…” Linford explained.
“Yeah? Well get over it! No one was supposed to follow me! I was supposed to face the rest of my life utterly alone and you ruined the chances of that ever happening! Wretched boy!”
And Linford was sad. “People don’t follow people because they want to ruin other people’s lives,” Linford said, “They follow them because the other person is the only chance they have of not ruining their own, or something corny and introspective along those general lines…”
Chrysanthemum Rhododendron sighed. “You are very frustrating,” she told him.
“I know,” he said.
“But I like you, so fine.”
“Does that mean I can stay with you, except when I need time to work on my epic and you need time for finding wisdom and betterness in the trees, etc?” he inquired, all excited like, exactly the way one would imagine a bug would ask when they get excited.
“Yeah, sure, whatever. And by the way, we can fly.”
“Huh,” replied Linford. “Do you want to go skiing?”
“Yeah, I want to go skiing,” Chrysanthemum Rhododendron told him.
They went skiing.
The end.
P.s.: It has not yet been edited, and all the italics have been removed. Get over it.
An Outside Joke
Authors Note: It should be blatantly obvious that everything I learned about the life cycle of the butterfly was taught to me and first grade and the majority of my facts are most likely outdated, made up, or completely absurd.
My apologies.
-J.M.
(Coughs, inhales.)
Once upon a time, (and oh, what a lovely time it was,) there were two little larvae who were born at the same pinpoint in universal time & who were entirely unrelated. They developed separately, in a vacuum, until the faithful minute after their birth when their stars finally crossed. It went like this.
Larva Linford was minding his own business, doing what larva generally do best—eating or spreading disease or something when who should stumble along but that other little larva, Chrysanthemum Rhododendron. And, I mean it was alright, Linford was just wallowing in his state of larvaic joy, Chrysanthemum Rhododendron was sort of scooting up, stopping, looking bashfully at Linford, scooting, stopping, looking, scooting, stopping, looking, scooting, stopping, looking, clearing her throat, and onward and onsuch.
“Hello,” said Linford gleefully, finally noticing her existence.
“Hi,” said Chrysanthemum Rhododendron. “I’m Chrysanthemum Rhododendron and I’ve been watching you…”
“That’s kind of weird,” Linford remarked, smiling.
“I know but…I mean, I’ve noticed you’re eating/spreading disease incorrectly and its very troubling.”
“Oh, really?” was Linford’s response. He sounded slightly hurt. “How, then, do I eat/spread disease correctly?”
“You do it like this,” she said, demonstrating, waving her arms frantically.
“That’s ABSURD! I don’t believe you.”
“Fine, ruin your life. Die quickly. Never find love. Go to a second rate college in the suburbs of Philly and enjoy the gang violence, sell out, listen to sub-par music. Suits me just fine.” With that, she shuffled away, over to the other side of leaf, where she remained, periodically glancing at Linford.
He continued stubbornly on with his previous way of doing things, ostensibly not caring much, but, after a time, he decided to give her methods just one tiny shot. Her dismay at his lack of competence had done nothing but unsettle his young mind and, to his pleasant surprise, she was right. Her style was better.
She had been staring intently as he had done this with a smile on her face and, as he turned to remark she said simply, “I told you so.”
They became good friends after this. Chrysanthemum Rhododendron’s consistent state of wisdom won him over and, though Linford retained his stubborn streak and would often refuse to listen initially, after time, he would always realize she was right.
A mere moment after their beautiful friendship began, however, Chrysanthemum Rhododendron had an announcement to make.
“Nature is calling,” she told him.
“Oh,” he said, innocently not understanding what was going on.
“I’m going away for a long time now and may never ever see you again,” she told him.
Linford thought for a moment.
“Well, can I follow you?” he asked.
“No,” she told him, “I have to make this journey on my own.
“Will nature give me a call, too?” he asked.
“Eventually,” she told him.
“So this is good bye?” he asked.
“So this is good bye,” she told him, and she started to shuffle away.
“I’m going to miss you…” Linford told her, after she was a distance away.
She didn’t hear him.
***
Linford wallowed for a little while, unsure of what to do. He paced back and forth, did all the things she’d taught him to do correctly, ate/spread diseases without the vigor he’d previously used to accomplish such tasks. These feelings, whatever they were, were foreign to him and he was uncertain of much.
A good three minutes after she’d left, he decided to find her, secretly. He followed the path of slime she’d left behind her, because all caterpillars leave slime. When the path of slime had ended, he found himself frightened—in the place where her path had ceased; there was a scary fake lead type thing with more depth than the usual. It was confusing, an utter mystery.
“Ach mensch!” he cried. “Chrysanthemum Rhododendron has been eaten by some freakish SMALL ROCK! Whatever am I going to do?”
A moment’s thought will reveal that Linford does not follow the narrator’s line of logic, I assure you, readers, it looked like some kind of leaf.
Panic stepped in.
Linford began jumping yelling. He was terrified at the loss of his friend. “I DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD!” he screamed. “I DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD!!” His screaming abruptly ceased, he was struck by the most peculiar desire. He was going to climb up the twig, place himself beside Chrysanthemum Rhododendron, wrap himself in some sort of…internal secretion stuff, and wait. This craving replaced all of the longings in his minimalistic mind and he found himself blindly following the template which had just been catapulted into his tiny skull. Once the task found itself completed, he fell asleep. What interesting dreams he had…
***
A tapping, a feeling of being utterly trapped—Linford decided he must get out of this shell. This shell? Wait…when did that happen? Billions of legs, he thought, I’ll use them. Billions of legs? BILLIONS OF LEGS? They were her once, right, all 1,000,000,000 of them? What’s going on? Come on, God, when I said I didn’t believe in you…it was just a joke, right? You knew that, right? That it was just a joke? You didn’t need to take away my billions of legs or…trap me in this shell, I mean, come on…Getting out? How do I do that? Kicking? I can kick still, I have…some legs…right? Right. Kicking. Squeezing, stretching, scratching, and kicking, a lot of kicking. Almost out, almost out, almost out…so bored. So boring. Want to sleep. Or…just…read a book or something. Books? What are books? I’m going insane. Finnegan’s Wake---Ach mensch, I missed it, didn’t I?
Finally, Dear readers, Linford did, in fact, escape from his shell—I believe it is technically called a…uh….syphilis? Perhaps. Crucifix? Sisyphus? Something along those lines. You no doubt know what it is I mean. He was about to give up due to boredom and an utter lack of willpower, but, he broke out, it was very nice. And his memory returned as well.
“Hm,” he said to himself, “wings. Neat. Not sure what I need them for, but… I’m sure it will hit me.”
His memory came back! Come on, Linford!
And then it hit him-- Chrysanthemum Rhododendron! SHE was the reason this had all happened, or…why he was here, or something… He looked all around. Was she still here? Hadn’t she been EATEN? He looked around quickly, caught sight of—OH JESUS CHRIST SHE HAD BEEN EATEN! THE ROCK THING—THAT WAS GONE NOW TOO!! NO MO’ ROCK!! And as Linford was screaming frantically in his mind, a voice—calm, slightly confused and a tad bit angry—
“Linford?” it asked, “that’s not really you is it? For God’s sakes…”
“Chrysanthemum Rhododendron? Where are you?” he inquired, happily twitching about like and epileptic, searching frantically for her face.
“I’m right here, you idiot. We’ve undergone the process of metamorphosis—we’re…uh…well, I don’t know what we’re called, but we’ve got wings and fewer legs,” she explained.
“Aww…” he sighed. “I liked having many legs.”
“Yeah, so did I….Wait a second! You’re distracting from the point! I’m very angry! You weren’t supposed to follow me, you crazy vestibule of air and bug parts!”
“Well…it was sad when you weren’t around and so…I decided to try to find you…and then I made myself into a little rock and fell asleep…and then I freaked out…and found out I had wings…” Linford explained.
“Yeah? Well get over it! No one was supposed to follow me! I was supposed to face the rest of my life utterly alone and you ruined the chances of that ever happening! Wretched boy!”
And Linford was sad. “People don’t follow people because they want to ruin other people’s lives,” Linford said, “They follow them because the other person is the only chance they have of not ruining their own, or something corny and introspective along those general lines…”
Chrysanthemum Rhododendron sighed. “You are very frustrating,” she told him.
“I know,” he said.
“But I like you, so fine.”
“Does that mean I can stay with you, except when I need time to work on my epic and you need time for finding wisdom and betterness in the trees, etc?” he inquired, all excited like, exactly the way one would imagine a bug would ask when they get excited.
“Yeah, sure, whatever. And by the way, we can fly.”
“Huh,” replied Linford. “Do you want to go skiing?”
“Yeah, I want to go skiing,” Chrysanthemum Rhododendron told him.
They went skiing.
The end.
P.s.: It has not yet been edited, and all the italics have been removed. Get over it.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Neue Gedichte(Musen, erste Entwürfe)
(with a sneer)
You said to yourself, "yeah, I want to be free."
Then go make yourself free,
Yeah, go make yourself free,
It won't bother me,
No, it won't bother me.
can't you see? Don't you see?
We're so trapped in our cage,
We're containers of rage,
There's nothing to do, kid,
I fell into that trap, too.
Graduation(title of poem II)
Then I’ll be gone.
The conclusions shall fall on your soul like a broken bookshelf,
You’ll be the renegade cop car to me terrorist escape van,
Fleeing down the 405 on a hot Josean night
And the doubt will be in the center of my mind—
To yield, or not to yield—
You know, I’ve waited so long,
Sent so many coded clues,
Practically threw the answer to the mystery on a brick through your bedroom window.
You missed it, (oblivious) and, though I should have given up on you,
As all criminal should, before the dastardly deed was done,
I retained a tiny spark of hope.
We’re in luck.
The spark ignites the diaphanous material making up my wearied soul,
Causing the car to catch fire and I pull over, suffocating,
The flame sucks the air from my lungs.
You resuscitate me, I am born again,
By breathing in, we are bound together.
***
Luck—I laugh.
It’s what brought you to me in the first place,
Oui,
Brought you to the early morning band room where,
By accident,
I confused you for someone else and fell in love,
Only to, henceforth,
Become disillusioned, dragged away; confused and beaten.
I think the second one, though making heavy usage of cliches, has more potential, whereas the first just sounds a bit like a Bright Eyes song. Happy New Years. Keep yearning.
You said to yourself, "yeah, I want to be free."
Then go make yourself free,
Yeah, go make yourself free,
It won't bother me,
No, it won't bother me.
can't you see? Don't you see?
We're so trapped in our cage,
We're containers of rage,
There's nothing to do, kid,
I fell into that trap, too.
Graduation(title of poem II)
Then I’ll be gone.
The conclusions shall fall on your soul like a broken bookshelf,
You’ll be the renegade cop car to me terrorist escape van,
Fleeing down the 405 on a hot Josean night
And the doubt will be in the center of my mind—
To yield, or not to yield—
You know, I’ve waited so long,
Sent so many coded clues,
Practically threw the answer to the mystery on a brick through your bedroom window.
You missed it, (oblivious) and, though I should have given up on you,
As all criminal should, before the dastardly deed was done,
I retained a tiny spark of hope.
We’re in luck.
The spark ignites the diaphanous material making up my wearied soul,
Causing the car to catch fire and I pull over, suffocating,
The flame sucks the air from my lungs.
You resuscitate me, I am born again,
By breathing in, we are bound together.
***
Luck—I laugh.
It’s what brought you to me in the first place,
Oui,
Brought you to the early morning band room where,
By accident,
I confused you for someone else and fell in love,
Only to, henceforth,
Become disillusioned, dragged away; confused and beaten.
I think the second one, though making heavy usage of cliches, has more potential, whereas the first just sounds a bit like a Bright Eyes song. Happy New Years. Keep yearning.
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