Most of these started out as profile entries in my AIM account. I doubt anyone read these, so here they'll stay, to lie unread once more. Some of these have been expanded a bit since last seen—the 1024 character limit in AIM profiles was hell on my creativity. Later ones will surely make good use of the 50 MB I currently have available.
If anyone from Mr. Wright's 9th grade English class at Solano (1992-3) remembers me sitting in class, doing
little more than practicing perspective drawings of rooms, this is the stuff I meant to write. In a way, this
ought to make up for the D-.
Mankind is apparently the sole beneficiary of history among the species of known animals. Yes, certain animals are known to leave markings and scents in conspicuous places for others to find. None intend their markings to survive for centuries, nor can these convey specific thoughts and ideas. It is arguable whether our earlier predecessors meant for their cave paintings to be permanent reminders of their existence. Yet they do. More concrete examples of history have provided us with a foundation to achieve greater wonders. The literary writings, musical compositions, philosophical musings, scientific findings, theatrical presentations, and artistic renditions of our later predecessors survive to this day—not because we preserve them well, but because their creators meant for them to enlighten others.
Perhaps it is this application of permanence that allowed mankind to evolve into what it is today…a whole bunch of people that couldn't stand History class back in high school… Life is full of contradictions such as these. I think this was the first one I wrote about.
Ahh...look at this, here—the black-tiled rattlesnake is quite common to the Americas. Right here, we have a mature female...with a tummy full of babies, too. *rattle*
See that raised tail? It's locked up in that coiled stance, ready to strike out at me. It's not a good idea to aggravate a rattlin' snake like I'm doing here. Y'see, pregnant snakes are very protective of their young. *rattle* They'll keep like this for a good…
Whoa!!! She just tried to bite me!
There's her lair, right there. I reckon there's six or seven more rattlers. Yeah, this one 'ere's a grumpy one. All grumpy and angered. We'll lift her tail carefully.
Hmm, I probably shouldn't sit with my groin exposed like this…*rattle*
What we see, hear, smell, taste, touch…is it truly there? So far, we've taken everything we perceive in these ways as real. The mind is full of ideas, full of memories, full of dreams. Yet, we cannot "feel" the warmth of democracy outlasting divine right. We cannot "taste" the delicate flavor of a triumph past. And surely we cannot "see" a shining world bereft of malevolent intentions. That doesn't stop us from believing that they are or can be true.
Is consciousness but an orderly firing of synapses? Are thoughts merely patterns of magnetic resonance? Do these truly cease to be when "vital signs" fail—when we can no longer "sense" life in the dying body?
There has to be something more…
We knew we had found it—the quiet grove where we shared our first secrets. A momentous piece of broken shade from a childhood long gone. Solace welcomed us back with falling leaves and a slight breeze.
It was here we had found little parts of our souls that fit together well: a dislike of fancy clothing, a love of strawberry ice cream. Soon enough we would discover the worries that once made us tense around each other, were one and the same. (Those were cast into the lake that afternoon.)
The mutuality we took with us wasn't enough to hide our differences, we would later see. Our foolish ways let them get the best of us; but this time, we knew better. Doubts and fears were again raised and cast away, and Solace rode in our laps as we left the shady grove, complete once more.
At some point in pre-human (Homo sapiens) history, our predecessors included meat in their diets. Meat has a higher proportion of protein and fat than most other food sources. This abundance of amino acids and lipids would eventually allow for the development of the modern human brain, one of Nature's marvels.
Only with such a sophisticated nervous tissue would the human being realize that eating meat isn't all that humane…
I lost myself in a waking dream
Reality, though close at hand, began to slip away
The voices incoherent start to melt into the stream
Of random thoughts and archetypes—subconscious harmony
And I can't believe what I'm dreaming…
I marvel as the space between
Grows wider and grows wider still, and wider as it may
Eternal Universe, I learn the bounds of your extremes
As I watch everything I want to touch…approach infinity
I listen to the melody
The song, it comes from out of Southern Nowhere
And the simple tune it sings to me
Revokes my sense of space-time, and together we become one with Forever…
The answer familiar
Beauty in simplicity
Quintillionth of possibilities
And your many facets
I struggle to twist and spin
Delicately do I strive to win
For I have seen your peers
Torn through with unchecked malice
Victimized by greed, anger, and vice
How am I to know in
Another's attempts to change
Your stickers haven't been rearranged?
But with each maneuver
One face will completeness come
At the risk of your others undone
With undying hope that
In making your facets pure
Others will hesitate to tamper
It is the art of on-the-spot creation. A spur of the moment. An interesting instant. (Another cliché.) As with all creations, it requires raw materials from which to craft it. So is it antithetical to collect things that could be someday used to spontaneously make something? Perhaps not, if the results remain unexpectable...
In due time, the Universe is bound to collapse upon itself. Everything tangible will return to its origin. Not only a return to a point in space, but a return to being one point in space, an exceedingly massive point. Even the furthest stray photon or neutrino would find its way back, compelled by the weight of a universe. A breath would complete itself, and a pause taken before the next breath begins with a Big Bang.
Would it surprise anyone if even this grand epicycle was just the pulse of a quark? A particle in a universe exponentially larger than our own? A higher degree of order, kept from our eyes by its sheer magnitude.
In this same way, do countless worlds live in us, locked deep inside myriad atoms that make everything here? A child caught between facing panes in an intergalactic hall of mirrors. Reflections stretch on as far as light allows. The faces looking back at us from one direction are our gods—the others our faithful legions.
Is it our place to wonder of such a thing? Compared to the totality of the Universe, our time here is infinitesimal. In no way could we hope to perceive any evidence of such a phenomenon. Could we, however, feel such a grand thing with our spirit?
A bum on his bum bums fags from a bummed fag. Bumming from his bag, he bags on the bummed fag, "Fags in the bag, you baggy bummed fag!"
The fag hums a bag, his hum chum hamming the bum, ham in bag. From a bummed fag hag to the bum on a gummy bag, "Bugger off, bumfag! Mug a South Ham's gum and mags!" "Hug them chum bags, fugly!" Guffahs as bummed fag and chubby chum chug mugs of Guff.
"Bummer," gags the fag-bumming bum, mug gummed to chum bag.
I make myself black and blue
By fighting with myself again and again
Nobody's going to win
No one can rise above
When I'm on the floor and I'm reeling
I've got to put them down
Let these clenched fists reveal
The open palms they were hiding
No hard feelings...
Ever gag on your own breath? Not because it's rank or horrid, but rather because the cardinal act of breathing is nauseating? Seems to me that no disease today has that power over people. If I've doubled over onto some new syndrome, I'd like to have it named after myself. Else, I propose: "Nauseous Asphyxiating Dolor Syndrome".
A young mind grows old in response to the knowledge that words sometimes don't carry the full commitment of the intention that they are associated with. A young mind cannot accept that "I love you" may mean something less, or the very opposite; that "Let's be friends" can be as much an ending as a beginning. That young mind, though it has grown, remains innocent and noble for refusing to compromise the truth of words.
Loving on the streets is hard.
The hopeless never know
where their next smile will come from,
or with who they will be sleeping each night.
They beg for spare kisses—parties and times—
a holding hand to get them through the day.
Two gay men walk into a straight bar. One of them falls over, hard, screaming in agony. The other one blacks out from sheer pain.
It really hurts when you walk full stride into a bar.
A bodily response typified by apprehension, dilated pupils, momentary paralysis, a surge of self-preservatory thinking, and a jolt of adrenaline. What is the coward's motivation to flee is the hero's motivation to fly forward; the former's threat may be the latter's selfsame reward.
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