A written word is simple

A spoken word is sweet

A sung lyric is short

And the wanton mind is fleet

 

The ink-gorged pen does scratch

Across the delicate paper

Like the sharpened blade,

A skin-sheathed saber.

A silver sickle, heavy hammer;

A silken word and wondrous sword;

An able mind, dapper;

An impeccable lyric and song,

 

For what do they stand?

A rusty sword is rude,

And simply bland

But a sickle, a hammer,

For what do they stand?

One to build farms,

One to till land,

But in times of war

 

For what do they stand?

A spadroon then too

Is still horribly bland,

But a scythe, a maul,

Can be turned to use,

And a word itself

Strikes truer, I muse.

So a sickle, a hammer

 

They do likewise beg the query

In times of peace

Who is safe from their fury?

Is there solace?

Is there balm in Gilead?

Is there nepenthe and elixir

In places without dreams?

And who trusts this “time”?

 

It is crude to follow,

This construct called “seconds”,

Merely the result of matter and motion

It does indeed beg the question

For what does it stand?

Simply an organizer of thoughts?

Why did we choose it?

I put it to you, reader,

For what do we stand?

For unity provides the means

As division provides the fall,

And so a “we” exists.

 

So for what do we stand?

Does peace gives us purpose?

Is life so simple?

Is life so rude?

Is life so forthright?

Is life so crude?

Do singing and dance simply

Give reason to elude

The debt all men owe?

Is it so self-obsessed?

Why then play the game

At such stakes?

 

Who killed the gods?

Nietzsche wrote the late obituary,

But his hands are unsoiled.

Deicide does not befit philosophy.

For what did they stand?

For they are truly dead if we cannot remember

Their original meaning.

For we are the murderers.

 

For whatever we stand,

Ours is the way of a twisted Pilate,

And though we might not know the nature of his game,

We made damn sure our hands drip ruby

Till the day we die.

(if you squint you can see their reflections in that scarlet pool)

 

So now it preoccupies itself with simple things, like tales and sweeping sounds. It is a simple thing that believes itself better for silly syllables and different framings for thoughts.

It finds itself quite amusingly in a predicament; all it does in its life now is play at roles it was never meant for, and leech off the works of better creatures and ideals.

Ceasing won't stop the hurting, or the feeling. All it will stop is the chances to change. It is not preferable.

That one it fools itself into caring for would try to choose that option... it's disturbed.

I need to write more. I need to stop this ennui.

I'm not understanding the point of this.

You may not feel the same things.

[though we two may calimn]

You may not see it through my eyes.

[likely as not, we've the same frames]

You may not know a way out.

[nevermind the map you hold]

I may not fully understand.

[despite the lecture]

I may not believe those words.

[proof denies faith]

I may not take it for granted.

[though I expect it every day]

We may not agree.

[the simple things matter most.]

But when it's cold and the lights are out, when the warmth wells up inside you and can only escape through your eyes, when the abyss lurks just outside the windows of your soul, and all that's left is a few trips to the pillows of hazy unconsciousness...

There'll be a machine to rail against, a paper to draw words from, a journal to read, a mind to rend, a personality to indulge, lips to taste, warmth to take, a scene to act, a role to fill, and several, several days to lay your weary head upon a shoulder.

I hope you take that chance.
And please, wait for the stone at your window.

I've just realized something that I think is profound, and as I'm gettin' on in my years (at the ripe old age of sixteen) I think I'd damn well share it with you.

My life is the opposite of the bands I listen to. They're all cheery music with sad words. My life is sad music with cheery words.

Methinks I'll write about an asylum now.

Seriously, I need a journal.

Not this kind, obviously.

And a proper pen.

Go figure.

Y'know, it's a great New Year's Eve when you find aborted fetii so funny you nearly throw up laughing.

Fuck.

Joyful New Year's, to one and one and one. That's it, though.

So now it's ended, and I return to my cave. It is perhaps best, though I do dislike the bright lights I must endure.

I'll soon have to go out and practice my talent behind the wheel, and then recover credit where credit is probably not due. It's a rude awakening for such a dull haze that I've been moving through.

One cannot help but be caught in the haze, and I've been there for days... but it's better this way. I'm never at peace when I'm on the move from home with my family.

This just realized- I've never been more happy than those times that I've traveled alone.

The Decemberists are kinda like country, but how it should be.

Of Montreal distracts pleasantly though. Sometimes it's good to have a fantastical release that's not a base urge, and imaginary friend on paper, or a substance.

Now for some Elliott Smith.

Times like these make me wonder if I should double the consonants in my name. Perhaps it'll help me play more beautifully.

I've started to notice, or rather my mind has finally decided to note to the world, that my smiles don't reach my eyes.

Not when I smile for myself.

But I don't remember a time I've seen it reach my eyes. I never remember when I'm happy. I don't remember when I'm sad, either.

I don't remember much, nowadays.

My mind and thoughts were centered on a spot right behind my eyes until a few moments ago. It's sad that such powerful and meaningful things (to me, but who else matters?) can be so easily swayed by silence and soft cushions.

And yet I'm resolutely against the use of substances. Oh, the irony.

The obsession that preoccupies these weary eyes flows up and down my hands like tiny rivers, surrounded by calcium scaffolding. Both the frame and the wire cables intrigue me.

To think, my weary eyes themselves flowed with tiny rivers, just a moment ago.

I hate headaches.

Many things occur without rhyme, reason, or in fact, benefit.

In contrast, many things have just recently occurred with either rhyme and benefit, reason and benefit, or all three, concurrent or consecutive. It seems as if benefit is a theme for life.

For without benefit in this, this one doubts there'd be much more life left to live.

This one is certain.

I believe there's a quote by Davan from Something Positive... "I used to think every day I wake up and do not end up gargling bullets from a revolver was a victory. Now I think, 'For whom?'"

Yes, it is fucking pertinent.

No, I do not wish to realize the fucking pathetic level my literary knowledge must have dropped to for me to be citing webcomics.

Yes, I do think the word "fuck" is fun and in fact do intend to continue to use it.

So. This is a time of transitions for many, as every moment is. My entitlement issues as a writer demand I pretend I have the right to value one moment over another, and so I recognize this one in particular.

And now, a moment of silence.

For the moment.

At least.

The globe will be spanned and the questions will stop ringing, and then and only then will these hands finish their keyboard-clacking serenade to communication. This tired mind, too young to write these words, may direct a rough and unused voice once these hands finish.

When even this goes silent, the world will be quiet here.

And what a wonderful sound it will be.

There is a sort of heightened clarity to be found in this atmosphere. Perhaps it is the sting of sea air at the corner of the eyes, or maybe it is the soft rocking of the ship’s deck which requires one to constantly focus on their surroundings. Either could be what contributed to the constant tension that nearly vibrated with stress in the sea air. A grey robed vagrant stared off into space, sitting atop a spool of salt-encrusted rope, his eyes straining as if he were watching the curiously stressed atmosphere. His limbs expertly sprawled across the rope to give off a specifically vapid, lout-ish look, slowly began to animate. Suddenly, like an arrow loosed from its bow, he burst into motion, becoming a grey pastel against the water-darkened deck. His robes concealed his body, but the graceful way that they swayed gave off an air of direction as he walked to the main mast swiftly.
    The illusion of loutishness had faded by the time he reached the mast, but the air of vagrancy, of ill-kempt clothing and mind, persisted. As soon as he met the mast, the grey-robed vagrant placed his hands on its base. With the same slipped ad grace that he had burst into motion with, the vagrant seemingly slid up the mast, winding up the column to the  crow’s nest like a lightning bolt. Finding the placement vacant, the man swiftly took his place at the perch on the edge of the nest. Easily, he slid a long tube out of his robes, taking a quick look at the horizon as he did so. Letting the tube assume its tube purpose in his hands (for it was a telescoping spyglass,  a rather old and rusted one in fact he surveyed the rolling waves.
    Through the magnifying lens of the spyglass, he noticed a small patch of green, brown, and pale white. Almost out of reflex, his hand quickly went to his robes, rummaging until he felt the reassuringly sooth texture of  a small letter. His fingertips felt over the embossed, gold-leaf letters. “To Sarck NightHawk, from Thoreau Pelaine”… His fingers went lower, feeling the scratches of a pen. “On the Subject of Stolen Relics”… His hand at last recoiled from his robes, and he swung his legs over the ledge of the mast, looking down.
    He was Mr. Hawk. He had a job to do. And he’d be damned if he didn’t finish it.
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    The loud, crackling clomp of hobnailed boots had been repeated so many times, the small, burly man expected he’d soon go insane. He had attempted to persuade his fellow, Zander, to allow for a stop so that he could cobble together some less maddening alternative to walking, but ever since the explosive-propelled wagon he had jury-rigged at the beginning of their journey, Zander had found his creations less than trustworthy. The fool yeoman had no taste for craftsmanship. Curio snorted at the absurdity of any such peasantry fully appreciating his work. The big brute came close at times, though.
    Zander himself had given up complaining about the loss of the aforementioned wagon, as any negative words seemed to go unnoticed by the stout metal smith. Besides, it was tiring to argue with Curio, and the roads they were traveling had proven themselves unforgiving. He simply focused on putting one heavy, sore foot in front of the other, ignoring the luscious scenery of the plains around him. Curio seemingly disapproved of this plan of action, and had begun to attempt to relieve the monotony through conversation.
    “Ah, it da well upaen me eyes, begoggled as they be, at see soch a sayt! Da ye yeomen arlweys look upaen soch thengs? Nae wunder ye spaind oll yer taym oot o’ cievilizetion!” Sounded the rough, yet brightly accented voice of Curio, which twanged softly in the warm summer air. Zander grunted in return.

http://writersennui.blogspot.com/ - Read this, and perhaps you'll learn something. Perhaps not, but life isn't about not trying things, eh? It'll update daily.

http://writersennui.blogspot.com/ - Educate yourself!

So last night it was suggested by TAP that we try a film noir take on Nobilis. Of course, the two others awake (myself and Razzen) found this greatly intriguing and began work on what could possibly come from this. As we had it, the characters were cast as so; Razzen is the tough old Inquisitor who's down on his luck, Sarck is the plucky young Noble with high hopes, SHE is the femme fatale who walks into their office one day, and BFP is the secretary. And TAP, of course, is Howard Hawkes

TAP: "It was raining outside, dark clouds obscuring the sun as it had for almost three years now.  I was in my office when it all started; BFP had informed me from the front desk that a young lady was here to see me.  'Let her in,' I said.  It had been far too long since Imperius Razzicus had been visted by such an enticing prospect."

Sarck: "So, there I was. TAPpermeir had just allowed some new fellow in, and what do you know that the minute I looked to see who it is, a vision hit me. Ah, yes, I remembered her face."

"It was that woman, that dark vixen who had left me with half a tank of gas and a past to run from."

"She walked by, sparing me half a glance as she swayed her hips, heels clicking against the office floor like they did that day she walked out of my life."

Razzen:  "I heard TAPpermeir accepting someone in just a few moments before it happened; the whole thing started with the door opening, and then, she walked into my life. I'd seen her type before, down on her money, and down on her luck. She had a face that only a mother could love, but that someone with money could die for."

"I spoke to her as she brushed the rain off her coat."

"You walked into my office, toots. Do ya have something to say, or did you just want to get a good look?"

Sarck: "I overheard the two talking, his voice carrying far better than her lilt. His had a tinge of annoyance, filled with the usual hubris of age mixed with the desperation for more cash. Hers was a soft tone, and I could barely even tell she spoke over his craggy voice and the oppressive silences inbetween."

"I thought of the times we had spent, before... it... happened. But that, I was sure, was over."

Razzen: "It wasn't over. My time as a P.I. had gotten me nowhere, and this slump just wasn't lifting. Every word she spoke only told me more of how hopeless this case would be. Such sultry tones to make a baby and man weep alike."

Wow, ok, it's after that, I just... just have to stop. It's funny and all, but damn. I'm sorry Shuves, but it's nigh-impossible to imagine you as a femme fatale in a film noir XD

'Tis a tale told by an idiot
A tale of which he is fond
A tale that signifies all to him
Due to this idiot's bond

'Tis a dream dream't by a fool
A dream that ushers him on
A dream that gives him goals to reach
So that he may linger on

'Tis a silence kept by a liar
A silence that checks his lies
A silence that keeps him quiet
And lets not his lips fly

For a fabrication is a meaning to surmount
For a dream is a purpose to find
For a silence is a golden moment
When all you have is your mind

To dream a dream, to tell a tale
To keep your lies hidden
They are all one when brought to light
And no longer will they be forbidden

For the resurrection is nigh
The era is near
The resurgence is to be fought
For at the furthest range of the ear

Comes the Doctrine of Purified Thought

    Between unsteady fingertips, the frame of a small, stiff square piece of stationery flickered from the shake and rock of the train car. On its brittle and coarse face, flowing calligraphy invited the reader, quite graciously, to attend a small gathering in the coastal regions of Broad Channel, on Bay View Island. With a discerning eye, the current owner of the letter scrutinized the surface before finally sliding it carefully back into the pocket of his tattered, though distinguished, leather coat.

    Raising his hand in a fist and harrumphing soundly into it, he squinted bloodshot eyes at the light streaming through the dusty interior of the car. Being called from his comfortable position as head of Anthropology at the University was not entirely conducive to his happiness, much less his wellbeing,  but the sad ennui brewed by the duller aspects of his return to academic life was good enough reason to take this sudden vacation of his professorship. Thoreau Pelaine... Before this correspondence, he was merely a far-off figure, to whom the occasional research-laden letter was thrown. However, through their rapport, Orpheus had learned of the many darker aspects of his anthropological research, and become deeply entwined with his hunt for history. Though no professor, like himself, as Orpheus consistently reminded his correspondent, Thoreau had a wealth of historical knowledge, though mainly surrounding his own mysterious and aristocratic ancestry.

    A jump in the tracks broke Orpheus from his introspective reverie and tossed his light frame to the floor, along with a fair amount of his luggage. Coughing, his joints creaking from disuse, the flustered professor lifted himself to his hands and knees. A gasp escaped his lips as he noticed a particularly important part of the many belongings strewn across the floor, directly before his eyes. Ominously swelled thick with thousands of pages, the width and volume of which he had meticulously pondered night after night, his most important possession laid before his eyes, lazy streams of dust trailing up from where it had landed like smoke. Scrambling forward among the other minutia of his luggage, the prematurely aging man retrieved the tome with a swift, dart hand. Cradling the precious source of lore like a parent cradling a child who had just fallen, his fingertips caressed the warm, blackened leather of its spine. As he heard footsteps through the car door draw near enough to pierce the background white noise of the train, Orpheus began to move quickly. He had only just managed to stack his items back in place when a knock sounded at his door, loud enough to be heard over the clacking of the rails. On unsteady legs, the professor made his way to the entrance and slid it slowly open.

    "Are you well, Herr Professor?" asked a large, blond train attendant in an impeccable Temporan accent. In response to the attendant's subservient tone of voice, Orpheus resumed his academic persona, the crotchety caricature of a geriatric professor. He let loose a craggy "Bah!", shooing away the helping hands of the attendant, who backed out graciously. As the attendant turned to leave, Orpheus smirked at his back. The attendant's footsteps began to recede into the background noise of clacking train tracks as the professor finally blew out a long, bone-weary sigh as he laid back against the adjacent wall. His eyes trailed up to and locked on the compartment door which held his possessions. For hours afterwards, Orpheus was forced to resist the temptations retrieve the coveted black tome and pour over its contents once again.

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    Along the dark, black line of the train, past the well-lit and now full dining car, past the tomb-like sleeping cars, a large metal object bludgeoned the insides of the luggage car. Though this noise melded with the train's ambient sound, the loud clunking and metallic ringing that followed woke the rearmost passenger of the rearmost sleeper from one of the best dreams of his life. Returning violently from his blissful unconscious, the dreamer's struggle to full presence of mind awoke his companion in the sleeper car compartment.  In a fit of amazing coincidence, his companion happened to be in one of the most fitful and frightening nightmares ever experienced by mankind (involving brollies, his mother, and a horde of unspeakable Transcendentalists). Starting suddenly, in the way that one usually prepares for a good, screaming wake-up, he was calmed by the sunny disposition of his fellow.

    Sadly, all of this happenstance was merely prelude to the sudden and inexplicable animation of an ancient medieval suit of armor, which had been on the way to the University of History nearby Broad Channel, and which was now livid to find its peaceful sleep hindered by its own sudden return (or emergence into) consciousness. In such a state, one cannot expect anyone, suit of armor or otherwise, to act rationally. Thusly, after escaping the confines of the luggage car, the offending Maximilian began to clump down the aisles of the sleeper car, waking passengers from dreams ranging from mediocre to mundane. This, of course, was all perpetrated much in disregard of the recommendations that luggage over one thousand kilograms be kept in the luggage car. As such, one can fully understand the outrage of the train attendants, and their subsequent attempts to halt the progress of the large wall of metal.

    Luck, in this case, turned out to be on the train company's side. By the fifth hurled insult against the ancestry of the armor, after a particularly ominous and metallic-voiced "I'll remember ye," the armor fell to the floor in a heap, once again inanimate. Quite unnerved, it took a full half hour for the train attendants to muster up the courage to pick up and return the armor pieces back to their place in storage, but that they did. For the rest of the train ride, the suit of armor was kept under armed guard. An hour and a half after the incident, the sleepers returned to dreams of varying mediocrity.

Many of the things featured in these pictures were photo'd on a whim, so I am not entirely sure about the history behind them. Each one gets a nice little caption though!


This is of a very odd sculpture I saw right outside the convention center in Washington, directly across from the bus stop. I had to take a few minutes adjusting, but I think I finally captured it pretty well. The things people do for art.


Directly next to it was a kind of out-of-place older piece of architecture. As you can see, I snapped it right up.

Since oddities abounded in the 'con, I decided to just take this picture to symbolize some of the weird things librarians bring on their business trips.

Apparently, the train was passing near something interesting. I wanted to catch a pic of it. I failed, but with a useful result.

This was the upper part of the small, two-story house filled with art which incessantly swayed with the waves and wind to the point that I had sea legs after living there for six days. Go figure.

More art in the house.

A very sneaky crab, with shrimp and a tiny flounder.

You know how some people feed ducks and other fowl? Well, I fed these. And they aren't very shy. They will eat the fish/shrimp/crab bits/bread right out of your hand.

On the left is the apothecary, which has a pier for the sea-bound. It's actually rather new, and looks somewhat like a Disney castle or sommat.

Believe it or not, but this boxy-looking structure costs something in the range of 600K USD to buy. Broad Channel is perhaps one of the more unexpectedly costly neighborhoods that I know of. This was my host's cousin's house.

Onoes! Train is goin' ta crash!
....
Yeah, that's essentially the only reason I took this picture. Also, the hourly travel of the trains was a rather soothing background noise, to be honest.

You can just barely see the Empire States Building in the very middle, but see it you can. I liked the view.

This simply looked interesting. I love these seaside houses.

Decadence For the Win!

A crane! Once again, decadence just looks awesome sometimes. Other times, it just looks... icky.

Russians, Scots, and Italians! Oh my! These were some of the artists who lived at the house we stayed at for the time I was in Broad Channel.

This is just looked interesting. This is on a boat ride, by the way.

Broad Channel at night, on the  boat.

Shaky Boat = Bad Picture. Looks cool, though.

Suddenly! Frozen crabs, everywhere! Actually, they're not frozen, just really fuckin' cold.

This one is not cold at all. In fact, you can almost feel his burning hatred for all things human.
And yes, it is a he. We don't eat the females.

This is near the end of the pier, at the crab traps. The rope you see leads down to a very, rusted, broken trap which perplexingly enough caught more crabs than any of the others.

I shall have the rest of these pictures up, which are really more interesting in my opinion, later on. So many pictures ><

I have made my final trip around the great scape of New York, discovering many oddities and fun bits on my way. I now possess one Fedora, one amber-handled cane, an awesome wrist-wallet-thing, some faith inspiring breath spray, and rude gum, amongst other things (like a hand-crank-powered cell phone-recharger). Not only this, but I have also come away with many, many pictures, which I will be putting up.

First, I started at Exit 9, where I got many cool curios, followed quickly by Giant Robot (I think). Then, I visited the Barnes & Nobles, where I got the entire works of Lewis Carol for 20 dollars, and then Obscura Antiques where I got nothing other than pictures and a sense of "cool!". Finally, I went to Arnold's Hatters, where I got a wonderful cane and beautiful Fedora. I am now an official pimp. I have pimp-leather-thumb-rings.

I just realized that I simply must take some pictures in a sequence to show the process I go through daily to eat, namely to eat crabs. After the recent boat trip to Bay View I might not have enough room on my camera despite there being 150 or so potential pictures, but I damn well will try.

Damn not bringing my extra memory cards or my connector cord.

I'm workin' on fixin' up a Live Journal. Should have pics from my trip in New York up by July 6th.