Objectification 11/8/2010

What is it with me and associating myself with objects? Is it poetry? Is it cruelty? Both? The words ring true with me, my soul, but while others seem to enjoy them they do not seem to understand. But for me it is not a matter of mere words. It is myself expressed on paper without the poet's presenc e. Most poets say "I," yet I find myself using "it." Am I it? Am I the objectified unhuman? Do I not deserve the feelings that accompany humanity?

What a torture the act of contemplation is, questioning, confusing, causing chaos in the turmoil of heart and brain. Humans require one another to thrive but objects find difficulty in association. Doomed to solitude, and no ability to call it tragedy. An object may be forgotten -- missed perhaps, but ultimately forgotten in principle. A human grasps the minds and souls of others, steals away a part of them, leaving a void that can never be totally refilled. I feel replaceable, unacceptable, false, plastic. A living breathing mannequin, positioned always by others with no mouth to speak and no ears to listen.

But then, what have I to say?

Concavity 11/6/2010

Today, I went to Mom's house for the first time since she moved. It was mostly empty except for a some odds and ends. A TV here. A chair there. Everything looked so much larger than I recalled. It seemed as if it had been abandoned long ago, like hollowness was its natural state. As I wandered I tried to evoke memories of the home I had inhabited for so long, but could not. I felt just as empty as the house itself, a sort of bizarre bonding of likes in their concavity. A poetic blankness weighed my thoughts, searching for words to describe a feeling I did not possess.

Why can I not feel as others do? These false affections are like poison, contamination my head and heart in equal parts. Reality evokes only emptiness. Only fiction evokes the true power of sentiment. It is a torture to know in the end I cannot be happy without the mystery of the unattainable. The struggle for happiness will inevitably lead to unhappiness. Perhaps I was meant to be immune to the real. Perhaps hollowness is my natural state as well. Then the question is: do I accept this or do I change it myself? To remain hollow or to become false? Either way, I am lost.

Willpower (7/7/2010)

I changed the structure a tiny bit, a couple lines breaks here and there. This and the one below were posted to FB when first written so these won't be new to several people. This is my current personal favorite. Comments still appreciated. :)
____________________________

There is a kind of
menace
in the daylymonthlyyearly revolutions
of a numbing tumbling space.
The dim and shaded Moon can only see
as far as its spectacles will allow.
While Lady Sun basks in the glow
of her own star stuff,
shining to her billion billion sisters,
accompanied and entertained by the endless dance
of her infant planets,
Moon —
stony and sleek in its spot of sky,
all shady lines and callous curves
with a face ribbed with the wrinkles
of a hundred thousand weary craters –
has only pretty Earth.
Ever facing,
ever twirling,
set on a path
upon which childish Earth
has come to rely.
She does not see a happiness in Sun.
She sees no vindication
in the permanent desolation
of her sibling rotary stones.
Of all the beings Moon as known,
she has envied none so much
as the comets that blast through black,
leaving trails that slowly burn and fade
like mist against the Sunglare.
All it takes is a single push.
The gentle tug and pull
of will
against all math and reason,
the selfish need for something more
to ease the wantingneedinglonging.
Blue and yellow sequin spills,
amber umber oil paints,
red and violent velveteen
tracing patterns in the ageless brick
of a dying universe.
And while the Lady Moon pursues
a thousand sights of beauty and decay,
wheeling in its glory and simplicity,
forgotten is the diamond Earth,
that subtle pearl,
aching in its loneliness,
and feeding on
itself in search of
love.

Suiting Scars (6/1/2010)

This loving mars
these suiting scars
that build a bridge of memory
over ever-weaving skin.
Interrupt the construct
of ugly over ventricles,
of agony in arteries.
The blood is water underneath.
It seethes and churns
like boiled oil in the lungs,
painting course cambric in the eyes,
a veil of dampened requiem.
No. I won't go back to it.
That sullen reply,
that feeble grounding,
that sleeping lie,
that misty reverie
that calls awake the nervous system.
That system which is nervous.

Existent

Equilibrium fading out at the speed of sound
Winding down
Into something wicked,
Something twisted,
Blacklisted,
Mixed up in all the lights
And sounds
Of a city slowly dying,
Lying in its waste,
Lying through its walls
Of gravel and bone.
And me,
Stuck in the middle
Of it all
With no one,
A moth clinging to the steel
Of a maniac driver's grill,
Invisible to the world,
Nothing but stardust
And velvet
Threading
Like blood
In the wind.

Fair-Eyed Captress

Love fear me not.
I see you chase away behind the door,
See your pretty eyes within the lock.
You block my only hint of light in this prison,
But your eyes glint coolly
Like the clouds beyond the stars.
This light is warmth—
Is life—
And without it I should die.
But your gaze is wanted here
On this poor forsaken wretch
And without it too I shall die,
Another stone to these poor prison walls.

Neon Eclipse - I'm gettin' it back

Methinks I've gotten my poetry muse back after a long absence. I am quite happy :D
____________________________

Neon Eclipse

I gaze into a starless sky
As neon lights go sailing by.
Neon billboards, neon signs,
Neon PETROL, neon Christ.
Neon Hollywoods and Sunsets—
Boulevards where dreams are made.
Smoke from late night cigarettes,
Fuming red hot Jags and mags
Draw a blanket through the streets
Of smoke and fog
And concrete.
The stench of the night
Is thick, and rancid—
It excites.
Music bumps the hazy air,
The heart of the city
Residing on painted curbs.
Saxes singing, feet tapping,
Hands clapping,
Lashes batting.
It bounces off the crystal roofs,
Imprisoned there,
Absorbed and drowned
In the ear of a businessman
Fixing his last highball
Of the night.
These towers here are shady and bright,
All sweet illumination,
Gritty shadow,
Hallowed promise.
The stars are dim and distant,
But the neon lights are high
And pretty enough
To be the stars
Themselves.

New Poetry! - Abstruse

After a very long absence of creativity, I've finally written a new poem :D Hopefully the first of several (but don't count on that. As always, enjoy, and leave comments!!
________________________________________

Abstruse

Streetlights dancing in the rain.
They are but lifeless candles,
Forms we give functions,
For our lives demand it so.
They shudder and shake
Like breath on the wind,
See without eyes,
Uncare without thought.
We pass them by and ignore them--
Like silent gods,
Like totems,
Casting our shadows
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way--
And then nothing.
A black void.
We look into it,
Hands stuffed in pockets,
Thumbs picking idly at nails,
Feet on a track that will not stop
Or slow,
That just keeps going
And going
And going
And going
And going
And going
And--
We reappear,
Our former selves,
(our reflective selves)
And forget about the umbra of the rain.

We are home.

Pure Articulation

So...I haven't been very emotionally stable the past few days, so I made myself hand-write everything that came to mind and this is what I got. It let me sleep. Good enough for me.
__________________________________________________________
I am cursed with the art of purely articulated emotion.

When my heart is glad, it is not merely so. It is joyous. Enraptured. Enlightened. Halcyonic. Contented. Happy. A whole dictionary of words all wrapped around each other like children rolled in blankets. They dance and sing and laugh about my head, pull at the dimples in my cheeks, bubble against my throat, spill bright paints into my thoughts until only the edges burn in gray and black.

In this way I am blessed...

In this way I am cursed, for when my heart is not glad or contented or enlightened it is instead weighted. Caged. Tortured. Ugly. Numb. Lifeless. It is a prisoner beating and struggling against its bindings, pulling and screaming and begging for the mercy it knows will not come, for its captor does not even recall its existence.

And yet, in all things, amidst all words and circumstances, one among them remains constant.

Love.

It is a precious word, at once black and brittle and perfect and beautiful. It is the poet's vice, for she cannot live without it, and yet to live with it she must die for it. She knows it is a privilege to be entitled Guardian of such a pretty fickle creature—but what torturous and cruel a thing it is, when all other poets she might share in love lie dead and unburied in its wake.

Must I walk this warpath alone, without companion but for love itself?

Must I sustain such loneliness? For naught?

Chapter I

Here we go, boring Chapter 1. But whatever. It had to be done, and now hopefully I'll be getting to the spacey psycho stuff that I know you all are awaiting with bated breath :o But! Enjoy all the same. As usual, constructive criticism and comments much appreciated.

Word Count = 1759
Total = 2996

____________________________________________________

CHAPTER I

“That thing is going to get all of us killed!”

“Sir--”

“No! Nothing is going to replace this General, not now, not ever. Especially a hunk of... of... shuttle scrap metal!”

General Joseph Crowell scoffed ferociously like a raging bull about to go charge, and yet the sound was almost comical as if it had come from a little old woman had made it. The short stout gargoyle of a man was truthfully not so far off from the title, waddling his way out of the briefing room with his tight muscled sausages of hands clenched, pristine fingernails digging red semicircles into his pudgy palms. He was a balding man of nearly sixty shrink-wrapped in what was possibly the absolute tightest uniform available for man his size. The bronze buttons strained with each anger-labored breath and shone dully from off a perfectly untainted forest green coat, upon which a set of metals and pins perched precariously atop his chest where his heart beat against it.

A thin and well toned man, much younger and much more the stereotype of military perfection followed the gargoyle dutifully out. Clad similarly, yet not so pretentiously, he too donned graying wisps of hair that seemed to serve as sideburns of a sort and accented the rest of his otherwise rustic crown. Ice cube-thick glasses stayed firm on the hard chiseled line of his nose even as he hurried after his superior.

“General Crowell, he's not replacing you at all. He's merely a... project, for right now. And he's never been wrong yet.”

The General scowled and turned abruptly, nearly forcing the younger of the two to collide into him. His boots squealed against the polished floors of the hall in protest. Through a jungle of low gray eyebrows that bulged obscenely outwards from his face and a net of wrinkles permanently scrunched below, his beady dark eyes glared.

“I don't believe this--how dare you call it 'him,' Stevens,” he growled under his breath with a flustered and trembling point in the direction of the room they had just recently. A few onlookers had gathered there, unwilling to cross the invisible barrier beyond the door frame. Stevens grimaced, hearing their low words. “That's no man in there. Not even the shadow of one. How can we leave such decisions to something that's not even alive?”

“As you always say, Sir,” Stevens replied evenly, “humans are inherently flawed by their own mentalities. We have here an extremely valuable asset—a computer that can physically communicate with us as well as make calculations that any supercomputer could, but on our level, and able to explain itself and make amendments based on our own orders and suggestions. Not to mention he's being given to us as a gift by the government. We can't refuse such a thing.”

“The hell we can't!” Crowell shouted, a little stunned by his own echoing boom of a voice along the freshly painted walls. Stevens peered at him warily in turn. Lower this time, secretive, he continued, “It's not natural, Stevens. I'm telling you, that thing cannot make a proper well-informed decision while having our best interests in mind. It cannot.”

“And yet 'it' has proven itself a hefty number of times, and with better results than ever. Not only are missions being carried out successfully, but also in the most efficient way possible.”

“Nothing a proper high command wouldn't be able to do.”

Stevens sighed in frustration, beginning to lose his patience with the man. He pulled the glasses off his nose with a soft clinking sound and stroked the bridge of his nose. They had been what one could almost call friends for years now, always side by side in the ranks of military astronautics. A strange pair, he knew, but a pair nonetheless it would seem. Some destiny this is, to be stuck with this guy into eternity, Stevens thought, but not entirely with bitterness. This was just another interesting little hump in their bizarre roller coaster of a friendship made for the service.

Crowell's features somehow managed to pull together even further between his brows and around his eyes, framing them once more. His lips quivered as if they were straining to stay firm while being physically forced in to motion by unseen forces.

“Alright,” he acquiesced at last. “Let's see how this... thing works out. It does have one hell of a track record, eh?” The smirk jostled his jowls just so, and Stevens couldn't help returning it. “But if it looks like it can't handle the job at hand, I want it out. Permanently.” He nodded, awaiting Stevens' acceptance to back him up on it, which of course, as always, was not refused.

“Okay. Let's see what it can do.”

They returned to a parting sea of fellow men, who sat silently back in place, but not without a few sideways glances. The General was not one to be questioned or judged too frequently or too extensively.

The android stood patiently and silently like any soldier would before his superiors, and equally as any prisoner before his jury and judge. His face was expressionless but eerily human; they said it was meant for them to look less threatening in everyday life and to put people's minds at rest. Some even went so far as to give them unmistakably human characteristics and aesthetics that were otherwise totally useless to the mechanism. The military, however, seemed to prefer this make— a cousin to man, a friend, but not a man in itself. Cool clear blue silicone masqueraded as the simple face of an average man, nothing distinguishing about him from any other android of his type except for a metal plate that bore his identification.

General Crowell eyed him warily, an opponent's stance resting firmly in his visage. Sync continued to look unfazed, detached, even bored with the proceedings as Crowell approached.

“So, you really believe we should stand down our defenses, huh?”

His voice rang clear and brazen from his chest, and his lips moved smoother than should have been possible. “Yes.”

“And how are we supposed to solve their energy crisis and keep them from firing on innocent civilians with a move like that, hm? Are we just going to let them die there and not lift a finger about it?”

“It's simple logic, actually,” Sync explained. His hands came into motion now from where they had hung at his sides. “We cannot merely pull back from the line itself. They will see it as a temporary retreat, and with good reason. From a such a stance we could easily make room for reinforcements while we wait idly at bay. We would make for easy targets. Instead, by withdrawing altogether, we leave them to deal with their own crises through total detachment. It must no longer be under the supervision of the United States or the United Nations—or any other entity.”

General Crowell's mouth twitched at the corners, unsure whether to be amused or furious with an answer so base. “They'll kill their own. Thousands of their own. Do you understand that? Hm?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then how will this be favorable for either side? For anyone's side? They'll be out of food, out of power, and out of protection.”

Sync looked a little surprised at the comment. The mild slope of his brow folded upwards above his optical lenses, which shrunk briefly. “Eventually, the upper states too will run out of resources. There are not enough on this planet alone for there to be a monopoly on any one, especially on one of such high cost. Though they may withhold such things from the lower classes, eventually they will be forced to find alternatives, which must either be created on their own grounds or bought from ours. By then I expect our own sources of energy will have far advanced and they will have no reasonable choice but to ask for assistance or else dissolve into history as a dead nation-state.”

“That will take years, don't you realize?” Crowell shouted. Stevens, standing close by, motioned for the two men that had stood abruptly in protest to remain sitting. “Years! The entire population of the lower classes combined might be massacred by then.”

Sync simply shook his head. “My calculations and research have concluded that if this action is taken it will be no more than one year and seven months before their resources run out.”

Crowell blinked, thin eyelashes beating in the silence. “That so? Based on what?”

“Based on their recent actions and military history, standard decay of natural oil and water, weather patterns—”

“And you're certain?”

“Yes.”

The General's beady dark eyes regarded him steadily and Sync stared back in his own hollow way, optic lenses gleaming like cameras under the florescent lighting with what looked very close to determination. With a heavy sigh polluted with the slight catch of a lifelong smoker he turned away and, removing the green cap that had been sitting squarely on his head, ran a hand over his near-bald scalp. He quirked his head to the side, a motion for Stevens to approach, and leaned his hands over the oval table. Sync could still hear them clearly from across the room.

“What do you think?” Stevens asked, more curious than tentative.

“It... hmph.” Crowell shook his head at himself, thinking.

“It doesn't sound... too illogical...” He looked up at the circle of expectant faces—some hopeful, some worried.

Another sigh.

“Fine. Give it a test run. Something simple. Something fixable,” he stressed, and Stevens nodded curtly in total understanding. “Good. Now get him—it out of here.” And, with a final glance the android's way, General Crowell left, a trail of clones at his back.

Stevens was smiling, arms crossed over his chest as he stood alone with the first military approved robot in history.

“He did not seemed pleased,” Sync commented.

“Don't worry about him. He'll see the bright side of things soon enough.” Stevens grinned as if talking to a child, perhaps his son. “You know, you really are a miracle. You're going to do great things for this country. For the world, even.”

He thought he could almost see a twitch of a smirk on those ghostly blue lips.

“I plan to.”

NaNoWriMo 2009 - Chapter 1/Prologue

Well, for what it's worth, here is Chapter 1, which I think is actually the prologue. Depends on what I decide to write next. Honestly, I like the first paragraph and not much else, but just go with it for now. It'll get better. I got a good middle, just no good beginning as of yet. Comments always welcome! :3

Also, I'm thinking about making "The Dark Side of the Sun" the working title until I figure something more suiting. Whatcha think of it? Let me know :D

Word Count = 1237

Total Word Count = 1237

____________________________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER I/PROLOGUE?

He had never seen the sun so bright as it was now, bursting out of a pure black sky through five inches of the clearest glass in the world. From here all other stars fell away at its touch and disappeared into swarming specks at his back, like scattered paint on ink-dense canvas. For what seemed like hours, but what registered as mere minutes to his internal clock, he stood and watched the galaxy creep imperceptibly by, taking in the unique sight like any human would.

“Fascinating, isn't it?”

He turned to the source of the interruption, not flinching at the intrusion, holding no embarrassment or malice. The voice was not unlike his own—in fact, the body too was not so different, both metallic and ever artificial, but varying just slightly. He was made a man, she a woman. Their makers wished it so.

He turned back to the picture window of the world, the wiring of his positronics humming pleasantly under the fine silver-blue finish of his flesh.

“It is,” he toned, appreciative. “It's been some time since I last joined a crew on such a mission as this one. I recall the view well, but I find it interesting nonetheless to remind myself of it from time to time.” He turned on the titanium base of his heel to face her. “Has Base transmitted yet, PAXL?”

“No, we aren't receiving any more information from them yet. I don't suppose we will for a few hours yet,” PAXL answered dutifully. She came closer, bathing herself in the thin orange glow of the sunlight. They stood in silence for while yet again.

“You should call me Pax, as the humans do, Captain.”

His eyes whirred right briefly before shifting back into position. He didn't seem to deem the comment worthy of an answer. Monotonously, she tried again.

“The name is easier to say, I've found, just as Sync is for you. It would save us the trivial mannerisms.”

Something like a chuckle bubbled in Sync's chest like a tennis ball thudding against a chain-link fence. It didn't suit his appearance at all, this daunting figure of an android made by and in the likeness of man in his purest form. Pale blue silicone flesh took the place of skin and muscle, which rippled with ease over hollow titanium framework. Wire and cable twined within him, visibly looping through his flesh back and forth, humming just loud enough to be heard over the dim and distant roar of engines. Human-like responses were programmed into nearly all androids their age—how to speak to Generals, when to interrupt, how to seem angered--but most had been carefully extracted for the sake of official duty and service. This was nothing but a remnant intuition, an ancestral trait of sorts that had yet to be totally weeded out.

“That would be more than a little unconventional,” he said

“Yet PAXL is already shorter than my given designation. Hardly a stretch. And you yourself go by Sync rather than CINQ-1701 to our superiors.”

“Our superiors are humans, of course. Their need to shorten their speech tends to precede any other, unlike ourselves.”

“Then why not utilized the same mechanisms by which they operate?” Pax was looking at him now, the lenses of her optic eyes widening just so as she turned from the sun. “We were made as they were, weren't we? And for the same reasons?”

“Your postulating an opinion.”

“Not an opinion. A fact, proven and admitted.”

“Perhaps...” Sync paused, his brain chewing at the thought, processing it. “Perhaps you're right. There is no need for useless formalities here with the human population so far away. And the others?”

“Trill, and Zent. They tend to agree. They asked that I pass the suggestion to you.”

Sync nodded in understanding. Pax acted as second in command here regardless of her relatively humble standing on Earth, and though none of the androids were to be intimidated or inhibited by each other, the passage of command stayed true. Protocol still dictated most of their actions, even as they circled the planet miles above the surface. Such a question to the Captain by another would have been ill-advised, he knew. Sync admittedly despised the restrictions, and in fact tended to ignore them altogether on a regular basis to the uproar of many. His calculations never failed, however, and he had earned his place aboard the Arian near-countless times. The United States military would never give up on such a reliable asset to them, an artificial being that could not guess, but predict the outcome of nearly any situation. Sync was a military genius, constructed and taught for just such a purpose and none other.

“Do you think we'll make it?” Pax interrupted the silence again.

“You have just as much knowledge as I do.”

“But none of the wisdom.”

“Yes, I think we will. We were trained for it, and we'll manage one way or another. For their sakes.”

“You sound fond of them. I didn't take you for a lover of the biological.”

Sync almost seemed surprised except that his face made no movement of expression. Only the faint whirring within him led on to anything that could be labeled emotion.

“Not fond, no,” he corrected, making a slow about-face away from the window, as if not wanting it to leave his sight for too long for fear it might misbehave. “But friendly, perhaps. They seem to approve of my decisions on the whole and enjoy my presence.” He started an easy pace that Pax followed closely, just a step behind him through the narrow passageways of the ship. As they exited the Viewing Room, Pax could watch the few struggling stars that had managed to shine through the sun's oppression before the solar screen drifted smoothly across the glass and shrouded them in black again. The room went dark, but the connecting hallways were well lit and quiet.

Sync seemed to be in the mood for conversation, a rarity. “Were you 'fond', as you say, of your patients, Pax?”

“No.”

“Then you were merely friendly.”

“I suppose they would call it such, yes. I tended to them well. Though they were not my patients, Captain. I was hardly more than a scientist giving aid when needed.”

“I understand that they think you're the best. Are you?”

“Captain?” Pax's voice toned upwards, inquisitive though she felt nothing.

“You must be to be here,” Sync said simply. “You should remember it. There's no shame left here when we are alone. Not anymore.”

A soft sound thrummed around them, felt more in their heads than through their senses. They both stopped and stood fast, as if suddenly paralyzed.

“Attention: All personnel required on deck. Incoming transmission from UN Delta Base 5. Repeat--all personnel required on deck. Incoming transmission from UN Delta Base 5.”

The message rang smoothly around them from the intercom system, floating off the padded walls of the passage like running water and vapor. Without speaking, the two androids hurried through the corridors in stride with one another, feet padding to the beat of a preordained rhythm. Their orders awaited them and they would not keep them waiting.

More on NaNo

So I think my "androids in space" idea is becoming more solid in my head, but not in its entirety yet. I believe I've thought of names for them that may or may not change just slightly during the writing process. Currently there are four main characters; in a way they are recombinations of the original crew from the last novel, embodying most of the characteristics that made each unique (in other words, each android id still in part based on some of you, the Circle :D).

~CINQ-1701 : captain/commander of the ship. He is moderately trained in all aspects of the running of the ship as well as in his duties as a commander of others, and knows well how much responsibility he has for them. He is the most well-rounded of the crew in both mental and physical aspects.

~ZNTE-5223 : engineer expert. He is extremely well acquainted with the operation of the ship itself and can also function as the repairman for it. He is therefore more sturdily-built than the average android and can handle more intense temperatures and impacts.

~TRLL-0158 : zenogeology/astronomy expert. Her focus is mainly on the physical aspects of the planets and celestial bodies themselves and can detect and interpret readings based on chemical and biological information gleaned from them.

*~PAXL-0064 : zenobiology/psychology (neuroscience) expert and main character. Her focus is in the creatures that inhabit the universe. She is specifically trained in abstract concepts as well as subjectgs such as physiology and anatomy in both Earth and potential alien species. Although she is the youngest and newest of the crew, she is also of one of the highest class of androids with the ability to not only store and learn new information, but make assumptions based on that data and store it as new information with prompting if the ocassion deems it necessary. As such, she is a somewhat experimental "breed," though entirely capable of performing her duties.


So what does ya'll think of the cast? I know there's not a whole lot of info up right now, but some opinions would be nice :D Also, does anyone have an idea for a title? Doesn't matter too much right now, but I'd love suggestions!

Love and peace for all :3

Paradise? Just a thought

"Paradise is not an oasis in a desert. It is a world where deserts do not exist...or is it a universe in which we are content with deserts?"

That's a quote from a friend of mine named Eric aka [another brick in the wall] on Elftown.

Why are we as humans constantly looking and begging and hoping for more from life instead of making the most of the deserts we're stuck with? We can synthesize our own happiness, I've learned, make ourselves believe we are happy or sad, content or lacking, but in the end it doesn't really matter. There comes a point when one realizes that it doesn't matter if there are deserts or oases, because they are part of the same structure, the same concept on two different sides. They blend into each other where it's hard to tell which is which anymore and suddenly we're questioning where one starts and the other begins.

Then again, who's to decide which part is the oasis and which is the desert? Is the oasis really a paradise or merely a new desert within the old?

Hmm...must investigate further.

New Poetry! - The Boxer

First new (good) poem in a while, not really inspired by much. Just thought it was a good line and rand with it :)

____________________________________________________________

The Boxers

What are we
But boxers in a ring,
Dancing around in some obscene ritual,
Twisting, bounding left and right,
Avoiding each others' throws,
Taunting one another into a corner,
Preparing for the knock out.
Hop left for the jab,
Right for the hook,
Low blows that don't count
But pain us just as much.
And in the end we'll see through blood
And glare and think our dirty thoughts,
But somewhere in the middle
We fall against each other,
Clinging for dear sweet life in the midst of it all
Before we both retreat
And start the dance again.

NaNo 2009?

So...I think I might have a new idea for a novel this year, or rather a sort of reworking of last year's idea. Another hard sci-fi idea, which might not be a good idea, but right now it's just a vague concept.

I want to see androids in space.

We have so many stories about humans and intergalactic travel and such, saving the planet and all that, occasionally with the aid of alien species and robots of sorts. But wouldn't it seem a little more logical if we launched beings with greater intelligence that needed no oxygen or resources of any kind besides some sort of power? Makes sense to me.

I think that this particular idea is original enough to be interesting to people. The main challenge will be in setting up characters, as most of the cast will be mechanized. Anybody have any comments?

Winds of Change: A Practice in Sap

Ho boy, am I feeling sappy or what? Well, take it or leave it. It's just for you guys :) I will never write something this corny again haha XD That's how much I love you all
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Winds of Change:
An ode to the Circle

Oh Winds of change please blow on by
And come again some year.
Don't sully these last moments
With a sense of end and tears.

I see the clouds you're blowing in--
All grays and tampered shade.
They cover up the day in night,
And night within the day.

You've settled here for long enough,
Moved slowly through our lives,
Changing little parts of us
In ways we can't deny.

Despite the storms you've brought with you,
We reveled in the rains;
And through everything, in thick and thin,
Some things have stayed the same.

But here you are to threaten us
With the promise of a start,
To make us disparate and new,
And to make us grow apart.

But then again...

Let you do your worst, oh Wind,
We've weathered harsher things.
We've waited years, and lived them well,
And repelled your whips and slings.

Perhaps someday we shall look back
Upon these days, our last,
Remembering these times we shared,
The things we have surpassed.

For it is you that's made us so,
And you that made us strong,
And together we'll be made again
As you sweep us each along.

Random Question:

There's a poetry reading at the school tomorrow (Wednesday) so I'm trying to figure out what to read :) So out of all the things I've posted here, what is y'all's favorite? Can be anything, any part of something, poetry, prose, whatever. Just wondering what people like to read and such, since I always write too depressing stuff to read aloud. Feedback is awesome!

Without Significance

People don't die anymore the way they used to.

It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.

Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.

The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.

A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.

His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.

His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.

On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.

No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.

Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.

It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.

I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.

The Gods of Babel - "Prologue"

Well, since some people seem to be interested in it, I've decided to put up the first "scene," which takes place at a local bar in northern Canada mid-December and introduces the main character, Diana. Not too bad a start, I think. :)

The plot centers around a small group of unrelated people around the world who are born for the sole purpose of attempting to salvage humanity for the Creator Gods, particularly the Mayan God Alom. They are just unassuming individuals, and all were born on December 21, 2012, when the world was meant to change. One of them is Diana, who plays the Greek Goddess Artemis (and is the only one with an obvious name heh). Anyways, that's what's up in a very simplified way. Enjoy our little endeavor--I won't post more unless you want me/us to and simply can't wait for the comic :D

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INT.LOCAL BAR.NIGHT

The first page opens on a local bar scene late at night. The small bar is strewn with a string of thin white and blue lights, it's only attempt at festive decorations. A few of the usual alcoholic crowd sit hunched at the bar over empty glasses, and a close couple sit quietly in the corner. JACOB the bartender, a burly capable man with the chiseled appearance of an unkempt lumberer, stands cleaning glasses as he chats up a few of the regulars. One customer looks as if he might have once been an average guy, fit and with a neat sort of air, but his face is dotted with stubble and his eyes are bleary and red. He seems to have something important to say, yet avoids saying it and lapses into other things. He stares into a half-empty mug of stale coffee.

Customer

So I guess that's it, then, eh?

JACOB

(turning to him) What's that?

CUSTOMER

I said I guess that's it.

JACOB

What is?

There's a brief pause.

CUSTOMER

I guess there's really nothing else, is there? I mean...now that she's gone n' all. Not much point to it, is there?

JACOB

Hey, now. You quit that talk. Drink your coffee. S'been a long day.

CUSTOMER

Yeah...

He obeys and gulps down the last half with his head tilted back, expressionless. A small gold cross can be seen on a chain around his neck. He turns to Jacob, but doesn't meet his eyes.

CUSTOMER

You believe in God, Jac-Jac?

JACOB

Well...yeah, I suppose. Course I do. Just like most folks....You?

CUSTOMER

Nah...not really. (smirking grimly) Just like most folks.

JACOB

Go home, Bern.

CUSTOMER

Gotta pay still--

JACOB

Don't worry about it.

He stands obligingly, swaying in place as if forgetting where he is for a moment, then pulls on a bulky parka and starts to head out.

JACOB

Go get you some sleep, Bern. You'll feel better in the morning. Promise. Want to see you bright n' early tomorrow at the yard. Alright?

Bern, the customer, smiles lopsidedly, unconvincingly.

CUSTOMER

Yeah, sure.

He leaves, walking out into the dark snow storm outside. Jacob shakes his head with a sigh, beginning to pick up the multiple glasses left behind and wipe down the bar.

DIANA watches him a few feet away, also at the bar, hunched over a single glass and whiskey. She's a fit woman, but not in any especially feminine manner. Her shoulders are broad as a man's and her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back under a woven gray beanie. She swirls her drink idly and sips.

JACOB

I just don't know about that guy anymore, Di.

DIANA

(disinterested) What did you expect? The guy lost his wife on the highway.

JACOB

So did Adrien. He lost his little girl, too, in the pileup. Still manages to come to service, at the very least.

Diana smirks, sliding down towards him.

DIANA

Don't think it helps much. Didn't do shit for me, I know that much. You can go to all the sermons, but they don't really say anything useful unless you're about to crucify your kid or build a gold cow on a cliff someplace.

JACOB

Damn, what's got into you all lately? All this talk of death, it's all I hear these days.

DIANA

Just life. You know how it is.

JACOB

I sure hope not.

He looks out the window at the blizzard.

JACOB

What d'you think the odds are that he hangs himself tonight, eh?

DIANA

(shrugging) Dunno. 'Pends on if he can find a place to do it. I'd say drowning's more likely.

JACOB

(exasperatedly) Di! Come on, have a heart, why don't you. Just a little faith... You're supposed to say you don't think he'd do that sort of thing. You know, like normal folk would.

DIANA

What? Just speculating. You asked.

Jacob "humphs" and ignores her, knowing she's won, as usual, and Diana knows it too as she sips at her drink and smirks at him through the bottom of the clear glass.

JACOB

So you don't think there's a God either anymore, eh?

DIANA

Who knows? Who cares? Far as I'm concerned, I'll figure it out when it matters, right? Maybe it's one of those things you're not supposed to know. Makes sense.

JACOB

Yeah, I guess. To each their own. I'd like to think there's somethin' waiting up there after everything.

DIANA

Like you said, to each their own. Endless blackness doesn't sound all that bad to me. Better than some loony old guy sitting in a cloud staring me down all day.

She smiles empathically at him, though, and Jacob returns it with some sadness. Diana stands with a yawn and slides a $20 bill from her back pocket onto the counter. She shrugs on a worn gray-orange parka and pulls the hat down further on her head.

DIANA

Be seeing you. Tell your wife merry Christmas.

JACOB

Yeah, I'll do that. Take care, Diana.

She doesn't answer, already heading out the door, but waves a hand in the air in good humor. Her dark bulky figure disappears into the snow and night.

More Poetry--Grave

Whoo, more poetry. This was basically just to write something. I couldn't get the last three lines out of my head the past few days. Not my best work, but it works :)

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Grave

If I must die and sleep into the darkness,
Dig a shallow grave, that I may taste the sun
Past the stale and dampened earth,
Through the thick wood and canvas.
Allow me the beauty to feel the warmth of light
Upon these withering bones,
Chilled marrow,
Sallow flesh;
To hear the songbirds passing by,
Nesting in the branches of great oaks
That drop their offspring to sprout above my head,
Eternal guardians.

And if I must perish, let me reach death young,
For if I must endure an endless darkness,
Why must I first wallow in the darkness of mankind,
Suffer before suffering,
Blinded before blinded?
His darkness permeates the world
And turns it black,
Makes it indiscernibly churn like molten ink.
What waiting room all earth should be amongst them,
Only to be thrown into another blacker blackness--
How unfair.
How cruel.

Then make me like the earth itself,
Embedded within it,
Flesh within flesh,
Life and death within living and dying,
Breathing.
For if all the earthworms of the world
Have rights to sun and soil alike,
Then what have I?