The Passion in Silence
The air is still tonight. I hear the sirens down the street beckoning to me to come join them in their merriment. But no, it is late and I must sleep soon. The bed sits there--warm, inviting--like the arms of a mother to her newborn. But soon it will be empty. Soon I will be gone, moved on to a new chapter in my life. What will become of this place? It's just a single room, I'm just a single man, a simple man. It will grow cold, bereft of the warmth it once gave so freely. It will grow tired, stricken of the life it once housed. It will grow silent, every last melody plucked from the air onced breathed. The silence... I can hear it now. Sleeping, still like the air, like I will be in moments. But now I write.
What will become of me? The future holds her slender hand to mine, and I eagerly grab hold. She leads me to new places, new art, and new love. Her flowing hairs, tendrils of opportunity, shimmer in the moonlight. Eyes closed, I run my hand through the strands and breathe deeply. The flavor of life fills my throat and my heart, and my eyes erupt to the stars. Out there... that's where I'm going. That's where I will find my philosophy, my music, my life... and my love. That is where it will begin.
November 28, 2007
August 28, 2007
Vīgrīthr's Calling
At the behest of several individuals I have died. No! It was by no mere fault of my own, but rather my own choice. This fleeting August pulled at me with all its claws and eventually my chest was rent. As the blood flowed from my broken body, I lay there in its warm inviting scent and it washed over my eyes as they sank into a world of oblivion, a world of dreams. Or were they dreams, these black & white snapshots of my life... or a previous life? At this current hour, I cannot say. The world flew by me at lighting speeds, yet I did not notice. The sky turned red and churned with waves only fit for an ocean, yet I did not notice. My enemies became my friends and my mind became my body--yet I did not notice.
In these ephemeral moments I recalled my life, or at least what I knew of it. My frail hours spent in eternal toil... and for what? The illusion at last was complete, and I--a vagrant hidden in the aft of the theater--had seen all the magician's devices and slights. And ho! It was a mere parlor trick, something even I could perform at parties... 'twas only meddling with the Gods! Life. Death. Two sides of a die--a die with so many more possibilities! And as I look back now, these revelations seem only incosequential as the darkness and dreams released me and I awoke in a Vita-chamber.
At the behest of several individuals I have died. No! It was by no mere fault of my own, but rather my own choice. This fleeting August pulled at me with all its claws and eventually my chest was rent. As the blood flowed from my broken body, I lay there in its warm inviting scent and it washed over my eyes as they sank into a world of oblivion, a world of dreams. Or were they dreams, these black & white snapshots of my life... or a previous life? At this current hour, I cannot say. The world flew by me at lighting speeds, yet I did not notice. The sky turned red and churned with waves only fit for an ocean, yet I did not notice. My enemies became my friends and my mind became my body--yet I did not notice.
In these ephemeral moments I recalled my life, or at least what I knew of it. My frail hours spent in eternal toil... and for what? The illusion at last was complete, and I--a vagrant hidden in the aft of the theater--had seen all the magician's devices and slights. And ho! It was a mere parlor trick, something even I could perform at parties... 'twas only meddling with the Gods! Life. Death. Two sides of a die--a die with so many more possibilities! And as I look back now, these revelations seem only incosequential as the darkness and dreams released me and I awoke in a Vita-chamber.
May 23, 2007
Peripeteia
I always find it difficult to write in this blog. Perhaps I don't want to simply tell you what I'm doing, where I've been, where I'm going. Perhaps I just want my journal to be a bit more personal, something to set it apart from all the other blogs online. No news, no musings (well maybe some), no ideas, no politics. Naturally, at this time or that I fall victim to such posts--such lengthy posts as they turn out to be. (You can't fault me for it... it was a different time back then!) What CDs have I bought? What jobs have I acquired, lost, completed? Ah, but these are all things you could simply ask me in life, and I assuredly would tell you, albeit I would probably riddle my answers with puns and sarcasm and only a sharp mind could glean the true answer from my words. This journal is more of a peek into my mind at a particular point in time, at least that's how I imagine it. Maybe I'm just delusional.
And I always find it difficult to write in this blog. You might wonder why I am writing in it right now, if I don't have anything in particular to write about. Well, it appears I do, as I am typing this entry and, lo, I am already well into the second paragraph. It's like a pebble in the river, being pulled this way and that until finally it gets caught between two large rocks firmly planted in the riverbed. It struggles to overcome these rocks, it wants to continue its journey down the stream hoping for an ocean, or, if not, at least a lake. So as it struggles, the raging rapids tear against the pebble, eating away at its small figure with their lashing tongues. Eventually, the pebble is free again, though smaller, missing information on all sides. It may now enter that ocean, however. The ocean can devour that pebble until it is lost deep within the watery stomach. Was this really worth it after all?
You can unravel the thread, I'll just give you the needle.
I always find it difficult to write in this blog. Perhaps I don't want to simply tell you what I'm doing, where I've been, where I'm going. Perhaps I just want my journal to be a bit more personal, something to set it apart from all the other blogs online. No news, no musings (well maybe some), no ideas, no politics. Naturally, at this time or that I fall victim to such posts--such lengthy posts as they turn out to be. (You can't fault me for it... it was a different time back then!) What CDs have I bought? What jobs have I acquired, lost, completed? Ah, but these are all things you could simply ask me in life, and I assuredly would tell you, albeit I would probably riddle my answers with puns and sarcasm and only a sharp mind could glean the true answer from my words. This journal is more of a peek into my mind at a particular point in time, at least that's how I imagine it. Maybe I'm just delusional.
And I always find it difficult to write in this blog. You might wonder why I am writing in it right now, if I don't have anything in particular to write about. Well, it appears I do, as I am typing this entry and, lo, I am already well into the second paragraph. It's like a pebble in the river, being pulled this way and that until finally it gets caught between two large rocks firmly planted in the riverbed. It struggles to overcome these rocks, it wants to continue its journey down the stream hoping for an ocean, or, if not, at least a lake. So as it struggles, the raging rapids tear against the pebble, eating away at its small figure with their lashing tongues. Eventually, the pebble is free again, though smaller, missing information on all sides. It may now enter that ocean, however. The ocean can devour that pebble until it is lost deep within the watery stomach. Was this really worth it after all?
You can unravel the thread, I'll just give you the needle.
April 22, 2007
Man's Reach Exceeds His Grasp
The page, it sits as I sit--empty with no one to tell me stories for recount. Alone? No, I do not sit here alone, only in person but not in mind. I stare at a hand emerging from a hat, fingers curled into a horrified grasp. The hat, a magician's, lies on bloodied surface. The man inside the hat must be very small, or is it just the magician's lies that are very large? It's hard to say. I am horrified, like the hand, at the future and these moments of ill requitements that I so often seem to find and fear. A loss for words shows through and the tales of days seem trivial. What of philosophy, music, life... love? When these are spoken in true earnest then, maybe, this armor will break and I will fill my mouth with the warm smoke and my belly will become full once again. And yes, these must be spoke, for I am too aporetic in my learnings and lies. These magician's lies which so silently fall on my ears, stealing the blood from my veins so none may return to the heart. The hand, it's terrified fingers curved as if to hold something--something warm, bloodied, like the surface, but yet still beating. Is it my own? Something has indeed grabbed me, but is it vain, fleeting, hopeless drops?
My sentiments echo once more of the moon--repetition is the enemy in parallel, but a friend in feeling. I undulate as the nights pass, once in the clouds and the next in the dark below my bed, sweltering in the villainous weather. It stabs me in the daylight, in front of the world. But then so quickly I rise. And she spoke. It was not what you expected... no! Nor I, but the fires so quickly rose and I bit the petals. Yet what of philosophy, music, life and love? With fervor I wished to fill my mouth and my belly...
...but here I leave you, at the turn.
The page, it sits as I sit--empty with no one to tell me stories for recount. Alone? No, I do not sit here alone, only in person but not in mind. I stare at a hand emerging from a hat, fingers curled into a horrified grasp. The hat, a magician's, lies on bloodied surface. The man inside the hat must be very small, or is it just the magician's lies that are very large? It's hard to say. I am horrified, like the hand, at the future and these moments of ill requitements that I so often seem to find and fear. A loss for words shows through and the tales of days seem trivial. What of philosophy, music, life... love? When these are spoken in true earnest then, maybe, this armor will break and I will fill my mouth with the warm smoke and my belly will become full once again. And yes, these must be spoke, for I am too aporetic in my learnings and lies. These magician's lies which so silently fall on my ears, stealing the blood from my veins so none may return to the heart. The hand, it's terrified fingers curved as if to hold something--something warm, bloodied, like the surface, but yet still beating. Is it my own? Something has indeed grabbed me, but is it vain, fleeting, hopeless drops?
My sentiments echo once more of the moon--repetition is the enemy in parallel, but a friend in feeling. I undulate as the nights pass, once in the clouds and the next in the dark below my bed, sweltering in the villainous weather. It stabs me in the daylight, in front of the world. But then so quickly I rise. And she spoke. It was not what you expected... no! Nor I, but the fires so quickly rose and I bit the petals. Yet what of philosophy, music, life and love? With fervor I wished to fill my mouth and my belly...
...but here I leave you, at the turn.
March 03, 2007
Betwixt the Moon and the Land
Betwixt the moon and the land there exists a swirling, screaming sea. Within these warm waters waits hidden knowledge, knowledge that cannot be uttered aloud. On one hand, I cannot speak. On the other, I cannot see. You've become a ghost. My eidolic one, do not surprise me with subtle gifts and knives that pierce my womb. I only ask for your thoughts, your arms and your words to guide. Were it not for such hopes, I may've ascended to a higher calling, or a writer's falling, a failing of infinite ideas but ultimate poverty. The life I live is not for me, but for hope of a better day. Sometimes, I sit and dwell within these sleepless nights, alone with thoughts of a better way with a sweeter voice and gentle laughter wisping through the soft area between my ears. I think of future moments together at last when writing rules the hours and shares the airs betwixt the moon and the land. I, the moon, and you, the land, my anchor grounding me to freedom and comfort.
For now I stray beyond these thoughts, to worlds of langour and sullen work. These walls of grey and words of ill semantics litter my floor and I feel alone and dulled. How do I get to an ends? A brilliant end, where the universe at twain becomes a whole again, aware of both its halves and better for it. This thought is a realization of parallels and my mind is struck with the themes I have placed upon my own worlds, my own creations. How they mirror my mind and my own dreams! Once thought to be so apart from myself, I realize truths and they are of me. My longings, my crossings, my underwilled and oversought trystical nature. But, oh! The distance is so far and the conversations mute. Yet somehow, in my silence I know everything. I know everything of love and love knows everything of me and my love is the thought of a world entwined lest the silence consumes. And the silence is broke of my love letter betwixt the moon and the land.
Betwixt the moon and the land there exists a swirling, screaming sea. Within these warm waters waits hidden knowledge, knowledge that cannot be uttered aloud. On one hand, I cannot speak. On the other, I cannot see. You've become a ghost. My eidolic one, do not surprise me with subtle gifts and knives that pierce my womb. I only ask for your thoughts, your arms and your words to guide. Were it not for such hopes, I may've ascended to a higher calling, or a writer's falling, a failing of infinite ideas but ultimate poverty. The life I live is not for me, but for hope of a better day. Sometimes, I sit and dwell within these sleepless nights, alone with thoughts of a better way with a sweeter voice and gentle laughter wisping through the soft area between my ears. I think of future moments together at last when writing rules the hours and shares the airs betwixt the moon and the land. I, the moon, and you, the land, my anchor grounding me to freedom and comfort.
For now I stray beyond these thoughts, to worlds of langour and sullen work. These walls of grey and words of ill semantics litter my floor and I feel alone and dulled. How do I get to an ends? A brilliant end, where the universe at twain becomes a whole again, aware of both its halves and better for it. This thought is a realization of parallels and my mind is struck with the themes I have placed upon my own worlds, my own creations. How they mirror my mind and my own dreams! Once thought to be so apart from myself, I realize truths and they are of me. My longings, my crossings, my underwilled and oversought trystical nature. But, oh! The distance is so far and the conversations mute. Yet somehow, in my silence I know everything. I know everything of love and love knows everything of me and my love is the thought of a world entwined lest the silence consumes. And the silence is broke of my love letter betwixt the moon and the land.
February 04, 2007
The Aquinas Protocol
And thus we have marked the centipost of this illustrious and widely acclaimed journal. What will I do to celebrate and justly honor such a bodacious accomplishment? I will, with mirth and great jubilance (of course), recount to you just how much my life sucks balls.
What do I do for a day? Assuming my day begins at the toll of midnight, just as all days have started since time immemorial (well, at least since they had clocks lol) then my day occurs in the following manner. As the bell tolls, I am still finishing my homework, most likely due the following day. As 2 o'clock rolls around the assignment is finished, I turn it in and I begin to unwind. Let's say this happens for an hour and then I leave the new floorpile. Scratch that, reverse it. I sleep for a few hours, namely five, and then I awake for animation class. However, first I may shower and eat a bowl of cereal. After an hour of that I go back to sleep, completely forgetting to go the animation class for which I awoke! What droll irony! Around one o'clock I awaken once again to the sound of that goddamn fucking alarm clock fucking beeping noise and I want to freakin' shoot it in the fucking eye. But, alas! It has no eye for shooting! So instead I get up and eat some type of food for lunch. Like, you know, frozen pizza or some shit. Here, I may also take a shower because showering is one of the few joys I have left in life. Then it's off to this weird thing where I throw a ball down a lane and hit pins. Just kidding! Actually, I go bowling about this time. After bowling (or sometimes it's a meeting about privacy and security on the internet), I go to a class where I am privy to hear grand tales about magicians turning their cars into their driveways or very comfortable chairs. Then I think about that alarm clock and how I am sorry I wanted to kill it. Following this wild thought, I return to my abode and relax for an hour or two before I cook myself dinner. After I cook dinner, I eat it! "What does this wonderful gentlemen of good taste and stature cook and eat for his dinner?" you might ask! The answers lie ahead, gravid with their gentle sumptuosities. Imagine, if you will, scrumptious mountains of rice drenched in cheeses beyond thought alongside grilled fowl seasoned in tomtatos, basils, peppers, and savory lemon juices. Or, on a better night, roasted venison tickled with marinades of onions and peppers, garlics and gravies paired with roasted, toasted, mashed and smashed potatoes infused with garlics, butters, and more. And with each dish, a wonderful helping of even more garlic. Because I have gotta stay healthy somehow :) . After dinner and a wash of the plates, my good comrade Dave and I head to the links. Then I calculate my age, because by this time of day I have forgotten what it is! After all of this, it is time to sit down and begin my daily homework. The clock says seven and my mind says heaven. Because I just love doing homework. And then I do it until 2 o'clock the next day, but oh! I have overstepped my day by two hours so rewind your mind and we will end as the clock strikes midnight once again.
And with slight variation you have just spent a day with the great, the late, Adam Fiske. Not because I am dead, but because I am so late to class right now my professor's gonna kill me. Shit. Until next time, keep remembering that I am NOT an alien and send me attractive, intelligent women who have great personalities in the mail. Yes that's right, their personalities MUST be in the mail.
And thus we have marked the centipost of this illustrious and widely acclaimed journal. What will I do to celebrate and justly honor such a bodacious accomplishment? I will, with mirth and great jubilance (of course), recount to you just how much my life sucks balls.
What do I do for a day? Assuming my day begins at the toll of midnight, just as all days have started since time immemorial (well, at least since they had clocks lol) then my day occurs in the following manner. As the bell tolls, I am still finishing my homework, most likely due the following day. As 2 o'clock rolls around the assignment is finished, I turn it in and I begin to unwind. Let's say this happens for an hour and then I leave the new floorpile. Scratch that, reverse it. I sleep for a few hours, namely five, and then I awake for animation class. However, first I may shower and eat a bowl of cereal. After an hour of that I go back to sleep, completely forgetting to go the animation class for which I awoke! What droll irony! Around one o'clock I awaken once again to the sound of that goddamn fucking alarm clock fucking beeping noise and I want to freakin' shoot it in the fucking eye. But, alas! It has no eye for shooting! So instead I get up and eat some type of food for lunch. Like, you know, frozen pizza or some shit. Here, I may also take a shower because showering is one of the few joys I have left in life. Then it's off to this weird thing where I throw a ball down a lane and hit pins. Just kidding! Actually, I go bowling about this time. After bowling (or sometimes it's a meeting about privacy and security on the internet), I go to a class where I am privy to hear grand tales about magicians turning their cars into their driveways or very comfortable chairs. Then I think about that alarm clock and how I am sorry I wanted to kill it. Following this wild thought, I return to my abode and relax for an hour or two before I cook myself dinner. After I cook dinner, I eat it! "What does this wonderful gentlemen of good taste and stature cook and eat for his dinner?" you might ask! The answers lie ahead, gravid with their gentle sumptuosities. Imagine, if you will, scrumptious mountains of rice drenched in cheeses beyond thought alongside grilled fowl seasoned in tomtatos, basils, peppers, and savory lemon juices. Or, on a better night, roasted venison tickled with marinades of onions and peppers, garlics and gravies paired with roasted, toasted, mashed and smashed potatoes infused with garlics, butters, and more. And with each dish, a wonderful helping of even more garlic. Because I have gotta stay healthy somehow :) . After dinner and a wash of the plates, my good comrade Dave and I head to the links. Then I calculate my age, because by this time of day I have forgotten what it is! After all of this, it is time to sit down and begin my daily homework. The clock says seven and my mind says heaven. Because I just love doing homework. And then I do it until 2 o'clock the next day, but oh! I have overstepped my day by two hours so rewind your mind and we will end as the clock strikes midnight once again.
And with slight variation you have just spent a day with the great, the late, Adam Fiske. Not because I am dead, but because I am so late to class right now my professor's gonna kill me. Shit. Until next time, keep remembering that I am NOT an alien and send me attractive, intelligent women who have great personalities in the mail. Yes that's right, their personalities MUST be in the mail.
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