Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Footsteps
It is, in the end, the perpertual shifting of weight, the movement, the uncertainty that lies at the heart of our very step that keeps us going forward--or falling, for that matter.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Questions I Would Ask Socrates, Part One
Did it hurt, Socrates?
The hemlock being the first part, your death being the second. I never bought all of your stoicism. Not for one second. You put on a brave face, as all are wont to do when they stare death in the eyes and Death stares back, looking like all of those men you've passed on the street and questioned and broken down--all those men who never quite understood what was happening to them when they felt the crumbling and lashed out, ran off, destroyed whatever uncertainty they felt within the cracks. You held your head high, you kept asking and probing and getting every little drop of truth out of their deep and bloody hearts. You went down the basement of their souls further than they've ever been before they had to run up those steps, scared of the darkness.
And yet--was there no doubt? Don't tell me that. No one could stand it. You must have questioned it. Yes, you'd say--I have lived a good life. But it would have meant nothing if it hadn't survived. What if Crito, Phaedo, Plato and all of the rest moved on? You're an old man. You could have been just an amusement; they couldn't have cared less. Worse, they could have cared more and gotten killed for it. All that work ruined.
And then, of course, the worst thought: I could have been wrong. No forms, no Good, no order in the universe--just singularity and chaos no matter where anything goes. None of your so-desired logic. Horrible, wouldn't that have been?
You seemed so glad of eternal sleep, but I know you better than that, Socrates. You act. You question. To slumber unaware for eternity would be worse than any other idea of death for you. The true philosopher never sleeps. It counters his nature, it makes him one of them--one of those horses you tried so valiantly to wake with your little gadfly sting.
You must have felt so weak, then--taking the hemlock and staring at them all, hoping that they'd understood. Hoping that they would continue to understand.
So honestly, Socrates--I admire your courage. I admire your strength, your unwavering loyalty towards things enormous and glorious and so, so much bigger than we can ever be, even in death. You were the strongest of us all.
But you must have been terrified.
The hemlock being the first part, your death being the second. I never bought all of your stoicism. Not for one second. You put on a brave face, as all are wont to do when they stare death in the eyes and Death stares back, looking like all of those men you've passed on the street and questioned and broken down--all those men who never quite understood what was happening to them when they felt the crumbling and lashed out, ran off, destroyed whatever uncertainty they felt within the cracks. You held your head high, you kept asking and probing and getting every little drop of truth out of their deep and bloody hearts. You went down the basement of their souls further than they've ever been before they had to run up those steps, scared of the darkness.
And yet--was there no doubt? Don't tell me that. No one could stand it. You must have questioned it. Yes, you'd say--I have lived a good life. But it would have meant nothing if it hadn't survived. What if Crito, Phaedo, Plato and all of the rest moved on? You're an old man. You could have been just an amusement; they couldn't have cared less. Worse, they could have cared more and gotten killed for it. All that work ruined.
And then, of course, the worst thought: I could have been wrong. No forms, no Good, no order in the universe--just singularity and chaos no matter where anything goes. None of your so-desired logic. Horrible, wouldn't that have been?
You seemed so glad of eternal sleep, but I know you better than that, Socrates. You act. You question. To slumber unaware for eternity would be worse than any other idea of death for you. The true philosopher never sleeps. It counters his nature, it makes him one of them--one of those horses you tried so valiantly to wake with your little gadfly sting.
You must have felt so weak, then--taking the hemlock and staring at them all, hoping that they'd understood. Hoping that they would continue to understand.
So honestly, Socrates--I admire your courage. I admire your strength, your unwavering loyalty towards things enormous and glorious and so, so much bigger than we can ever be, even in death. You were the strongest of us all.
But you must have been terrified.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Safe
“And that,” the professor concluded, slamming the vault's door shut, “is the MagnaSafe. Unbreakable. Uncrackable. One-of-a-kind.”
“How do you open it?” the reporter asked.
“Oh, it's a simple lock-and-key mechanism—let me...” He patted his pockets. Once. Twice.
“Damn. Damn. Damn,” he spluttered, red-faced.
“What?”
“Left the keys inside.”
“How do you open it?” the reporter asked.
“Oh, it's a simple lock-and-key mechanism—let me...” He patted his pockets. Once. Twice.
“Damn. Damn. Damn,” he spluttered, red-faced.
“What?”
“Left the keys inside.”
Friday, September 18, 2009
Disturbing
Does my distaste for those pieces that acknowledge those demons inside show my optimistic idealism or the simple refusal to acknowledge my own?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Incoherent.
Sleep being the little-death of all things, I can only consider the suicide's plea to be caused from lack of dreaming.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Things I am Thankful For, Numbers 12 through 15
12. Couch forts. Temples of my childhood that allow me to return to what I hope I truly am. Death to all couch-haters!
13. Lack of time. How precariously perched my life is at this moment, flitting between necessary meetings and thoughts of possibilities of stuff that will soon take me up in a maelstrom of action, but that remain firmly grounded within the lines of one's agenda. To anticipate that lack of time is a wonderful reminded for what little time I have now, and what smaller amounts of time I will have in the future to devote to cloudweaving and wordslaying.
14. Theatre theatre theatre theatre theatre. How many times have I walked away from you, have I thrown you out of doors and bade you never to come back, only to find myself backstage again and thinking, "I was made to do this"? Yours and mine is an enduring love that will go beyond any kind of separation. It is the love of the morning after--the love that started as a vague attraction, that I didn't realise I had until I saw your hair upon the pillow and your eyes in the daylight.
15. Philosophy. I have so missed being beaten and bloodied by your heavy hands. You too, philosophy, are one I became infatuated with before I ever loved. You too, will remain.
13. Lack of time. How precariously perched my life is at this moment, flitting between necessary meetings and thoughts of possibilities of stuff that will soon take me up in a maelstrom of action, but that remain firmly grounded within the lines of one's agenda. To anticipate that lack of time is a wonderful reminded for what little time I have now, and what smaller amounts of time I will have in the future to devote to cloudweaving and wordslaying.
14. Theatre theatre theatre theatre theatre. How many times have I walked away from you, have I thrown you out of doors and bade you never to come back, only to find myself backstage again and thinking, "I was made to do this"? Yours and mine is an enduring love that will go beyond any kind of separation. It is the love of the morning after--the love that started as a vague attraction, that I didn't realise I had until I saw your hair upon the pillow and your eyes in the daylight.
15. Philosophy. I have so missed being beaten and bloodied by your heavy hands. You too, philosophy, are one I became infatuated with before I ever loved. You too, will remain.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Rules Concerning le Château du Couch
Founded by Bernard Soubry in the late hours of September 12, 2009, le Château du Couch is a splendor of couch architecture, combining both the laziboyian and traditional styles. It is both a haven and a stepping-ground, both a place of beauty and a temple of efficiency.
Though first appearing bare and stoic as a Buddhist temple, the entrance chamber eventually amazes by its use of semi-translucid bed covers; blue and green tartans slowly illuminate the interior as the sun rises each morning. Further in, plush cushions give inhabitants a feeling of matrical comfort while the rigid structure of the couch seat brings an open, airy feel. Inside, one can only feel safe; outside, one can only stare in awe.
RULES CONCERNING LE CHÂTEAU DU COUCH
1. There shall be no shoes, for shoes harsh the mellow.
2. There shall be no other couch forts before this one.
3. Waffles are not to be consumed in the couch area.
4. Penguins are not to be fed in the couch area.
5. Death to all couch-haters.
Though first appearing bare and stoic as a Buddhist temple, the entrance chamber eventually amazes by its use of semi-translucid bed covers; blue and green tartans slowly illuminate the interior as the sun rises each morning. Further in, plush cushions give inhabitants a feeling of matrical comfort while the rigid structure of the couch seat brings an open, airy feel. Inside, one can only feel safe; outside, one can only stare in awe.
RULES CONCERNING LE CHÂTEAU DU COUCH
1. There shall be no shoes, for shoes harsh the mellow.
2. There shall be no other couch forts before this one.
3. Waffles are not to be consumed in the couch area.
4. Penguins are not to be fed in the couch area.
5. Death to all couch-haters.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I'm in no rush, I'm in no rush (Oh I, Oh I, Oh I)
Scathing is all that one can truly be in the turnarounds, the leaps of faith that bring only disappointment; and it is only with revolution that one finds salvation from stagnancy. For even when all is bleak and there is nothing but wall ahead, one can always hope that the flaming arrow will return and drive its archer back to what once was there.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Things I am Thankful For, Numbers 9 Through 11
9. Warm fingers. You may not realize it now, tiny digits of mine, but your survival is at risk! I don't have any gloves down here and the coming frosts will bring your slowing. So I celebrate you well, instruments of my instrument, vessels of my vessels. You are too beautiful, too articulate, too useful to cower under gloves and cloth, but perhaps prudence would be useful. New Brunswick is a harsh land.
10. Plans to excercise. Somehow, they always make one feel better--even moreso than actual exercising, it would seem. Potentiality is the true attainment of form; if the latter is thrust into our hands, it blackens and breaks as soon as we touch it.
11. Physical contact with other human beings. I had forgotten how good a hug felt. We all forget it at one point.
10. Plans to excercise. Somehow, they always make one feel better--even moreso than actual exercising, it would seem. Potentiality is the true attainment of form; if the latter is thrust into our hands, it blackens and breaks as soon as we touch it.
11. Physical contact with other human beings. I had forgotten how good a hug felt. We all forget it at one point.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Scission
Oh, it was nice out there, to be sure; and yet it came nowhere close to the relief of removal, to the quiet, pure pain of separation that came from the long walk back up the stairs, the smile, the collapse and the realisation that the reach for the external always comes with such bloody burdens.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Serious
Born of star-crossed parents, bred in desert lands, he is alone. Not the last of his kind; the first, looking for truth in the unforgiving world. Conflict made incarnate.
He is the spirit of capture and authority; he is the wild that disturbs every heart with the thrill of adventure.
He is the unicorn cowboy.
He is the spirit of capture and authority; he is the wild that disturbs every heart with the thrill of adventure.
He is the unicorn cowboy.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Vacuums
The guilt I feel at having nothing to say is constantly swallowed by my need to say something--anything, no matter the quality, so long as the vaccums are filled and that nature is content.
Perhaps we should extend those vacuums, those periods, those ellipses, if only to be able to understand the precipice before which we stand. Leave the window open for the new air to rush in.
Perhaps we should extend those vacuums, those periods, those ellipses, if only to be able to understand the precipice before which we stand. Leave the window open for the new air to rush in.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Things I Am Thankful For, Numbers 1 Through 8
Things I am thankful for:
1. Roommates that turn out to be more wonderful than you can imagine, right down to the fencing bit.
2. Guides, whether advertised or otherwise, who merely show you the path rather than attempt to walk it for you; and those guides who try to do it for you anyways, for their spirit and (misguided) generosity.
3. Good food at the end of a long journey. Somehow it always turns into great food.
4. Those who, when left behind, somehow still believe that you are doing something right.
5. Dear friends who remain when all else is changed.
6. Buckets. The kind that hold clothes, then become a part of your furniture, because yours isn't there yet.
7. Late nights that turn into early mornings that turn into late nights. Some lives are meant to be lived with days bursting with activity and joy.
8. Friends that still hang within the potentiality of time. Some people may simply be doorways; others are glorious rooms.
1. Roommates that turn out to be more wonderful than you can imagine, right down to the fencing bit.
2. Guides, whether advertised or otherwise, who merely show you the path rather than attempt to walk it for you; and those guides who try to do it for you anyways, for their spirit and (misguided) generosity.
3. Good food at the end of a long journey. Somehow it always turns into great food.
4. Those who, when left behind, somehow still believe that you are doing something right.
5. Dear friends who remain when all else is changed.
6. Buckets. The kind that hold clothes, then become a part of your furniture, because yours isn't there yet.
7. Late nights that turn into early mornings that turn into late nights. Some lives are meant to be lived with days bursting with activity and joy.
8. Friends that still hang within the potentiality of time. Some people may simply be doorways; others are glorious rooms.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
If there is to be sadness, then I do not understand.
True departures are those that come in the night, with no explanation or excuse; they are those that tear it from you in one great sweep of the hand. True departures are those that leave you open and raw and bleeding from some unseen force.
This, on the other hand--this is calculated, this is announced, this is the thread slowly unravelled from your breast and held aloft over oceans and tempests.
Perhaps, then, such a departure is not a true parting at all?
And perhaps that's why I feel the pain, too.
This, on the other hand--this is calculated, this is announced, this is the thread slowly unravelled from your breast and held aloft over oceans and tempests.
Perhaps, then, such a departure is not a true parting at all?
And perhaps that's why I feel the pain, too.
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