Too tired to speak, too busy to sleep.
too dead to breathe, too heavy to leave.
I was up until 3 AM doing work. I was trying to scramble and complete as much as I could of a remote connect task, but it was hopeless. Things just kept going wrong, and I'm frustrated and exhausted and I wish so much that I could just go back and lie down in bed. But I have responsibilities, I have to go to work, and I have to do my job. Then I have to come home and make dinner for Mal, maybe then I can take a rest. Maybe then I can sleep.
There is no music except for the sighing of my muscles and mind.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
It is done
I've finally done it. I entered a competition. While I'm sure that I will be rejected in the most embarrassing fashion, truly, the fact that I did this much should be celebrated. They said a poem of any length, so I entered two short poems and one 800 word poem. Besides the poem I posted earlier, I entered:
--
Whither Thither
A man had fumbled with his life
From his early days of strife
He attempted once to make with peace
A life of bliss beneath the trees
Something missing, he so thought
And left half built what he should not
Have ever had even started
And so his life’s attempt was parted.
He began a journey here, and ended
With his efforts all but mended.
Upon the ground which made his step
Was somewhere he had for been wept
Perhaps by a lover or his mother past
He couldn’t remember. He moved fast
Away to new locations, and
His latest soil destination: sand.
He called this beach his home until
Upon his makeshift windowsill
A bird came slowly and sang sickly
Telling him he must move quickly.
He left his quasi home alone,
And took his pack with him to roam.
He encountered many other birds,
But none who used such soft sick words
As his friend who recommended
That though he steals, this time was lended.
He met a wood, and on it’s edge
He stopped to make that night his bed
Was greeted by a gentle wolf,
Who said that here was soft enough.
That night, from his distrustful soul
He was not a single wink doled!
So left to his next journey’s travels
Tired, angry, and disheveled.
He moved clumsily through the wood
And near the strangest tree he stood
He thought he heard a whiffling sound
And knelt; his ear unto the ground.
While nothing seemed he beholding,
The ground itself to be revolting!
That tree next to which he rested
Seemed to want his courage tested
It failed the test, but not his legs
Which brought him far from anomalous dregs
Upon the far side of the wood he stopped,
And on his now sore legs he hopped
To a bush with sweetest berries
And while he gorged himself, saw fairies!
He had not seen such things post-natal,
And never thought they might be fatal.
They, taking airs of kind, exclaimed,
And when they had calmed down, explained:
He had eaten them of house and home,
Literally, this bush they owned
And lived inside their cherry castles
Which now remnants hung like tassels
From blood red lips, and teeth incarnadined!
Hearing this he wept, for it had seemed
He had so easily made hell for these,
And stolen from them solemn peace.
He begged them, through a wall of tears
To forgive him of his lack of fears
Of perfect bushes, and perfect berries!
They replied “We are but fairies,
“We cannot forgive your sins,
“And certainly no conscience win!”
He pressed though, and so they tried
But one by one they slowly died.
Feeling though it had worked out,
He now ceased his mouth to pout.
He stood again on weary limbs
And marched away with saintly hymns!
Neglectful of his somber deeds
He came upon a bed of reeds,
Nestled on a long stretched bank
Of a river of some worthy rank.
He followed this for quite some time
Forgetting all his past and crimes.
He came upon a great lake, and said
“What a perfect place to rest my head!”
When he awoke, what did he see?
But beauty standing before he!
In the middle of this bodied water
Was the most delightful daughter!
So he decided not to leave,
And of his journey was bereaved.
He sat and watched her days and weeks
So profound and yet so meek!
Composed sonnets to her in his head,
Always thought, but never said.
This continued for months and months
Till he had finally had enough
He waded from the river bank
Into the lake, in which he sank.
Upon reaching the lake’s deep bed saw
A tiny cabin, thatched with straw
In awe he stood, and watched as she
Entered here alone, as sad as she could be.
When he summoned himself to courage
He rapped the door of this sunken cottage.
She answered, and they stood in silence
As their eyes divided diamonds.
He entered and, when both were sat,
Slowly did remove his hat.
She took his hand, this total stranger
Of whom she felt no present danger.
He smiled, and raised his hand to touch
The face that he had seen so much!
When his fingers found her face,
He fell, to deepest slumber’s place!
Soon from the lake he did creep
And somnambulated, from the deep.
So what was said to him was thus:
"Awaken not in pains of lust
"But pains of joy and health receive,
“On merry nights such as this eve"
And when this temporal advice was wrought
He went and ambled back to cot.
This darling home beneath the lake,
There he his life, in sleep, did take.
--
AND
--
Stroke of the Twelve
The thunder rolls about the room, and falls on every ear,
Reverberates about this space, and strikes each heart with fear.
For now this lonely moment is a lonely thought, indeed,
As this wooden ground is shaken, as by a thousand steeds.
Each soul trembles, each heart stops, as if in contemplation,
Each tongue stilled, and each lung stiff, aware of reprobation.
With wicked eyes they look upon the faces that surround,
Hoping for a secret smile, all they can find are frowns.
No words are spoken; an attempt would surely fall to deaf,
As thunderous shakes remind them of mortality and death.
No comfort found within the crowd, some try to find without,
But those who leave with faith return with nothing more than doubt.
More severe than ever, tears form within our solemn crowd,
No longer filled with hope and trust, with only dread endowed.
They hang their heavy heads and weep, for friends are surely lost,
They’ve sown their seed, they’ve made their grave, and now they pay the cost.
I see it all; I cannot stop their tears, and not their pain.
‘Tis by their daring, foolish hearts that they are left disdained.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, as I now walk away,
Their tumble should be short, yes, for they’ve fallen all their days.
The air is still, the thunder stopped, and quiet is the floor,
But alas, that little group, we shall hear of them no more.
--
So there you have it. Cross you fingers!
My Bunny's Back - A Smile and a Ribbon
--
Whither Thither
A man had fumbled with his life
From his early days of strife
He attempted once to make with peace
A life of bliss beneath the trees
Something missing, he so thought
And left half built what he should not
Have ever had even started
And so his life’s attempt was parted.
He began a journey here, and ended
With his efforts all but mended.
Upon the ground which made his step
Was somewhere he had for been wept
Perhaps by a lover or his mother past
He couldn’t remember. He moved fast
Away to new locations, and
His latest soil destination: sand.
He called this beach his home until
Upon his makeshift windowsill
A bird came slowly and sang sickly
Telling him he must move quickly.
He left his quasi home alone,
And took his pack with him to roam.
He encountered many other birds,
But none who used such soft sick words
As his friend who recommended
That though he steals, this time was lended.
He met a wood, and on it’s edge
He stopped to make that night his bed
Was greeted by a gentle wolf,
Who said that here was soft enough.
That night, from his distrustful soul
He was not a single wink doled!
So left to his next journey’s travels
Tired, angry, and disheveled.
He moved clumsily through the wood
And near the strangest tree he stood
He thought he heard a whiffling sound
And knelt; his ear unto the ground.
While nothing seemed he beholding,
The ground itself to be revolting!
That tree next to which he rested
Seemed to want his courage tested
It failed the test, but not his legs
Which brought him far from anomalous dregs
Upon the far side of the wood he stopped,
And on his now sore legs he hopped
To a bush with sweetest berries
And while he gorged himself, saw fairies!
He had not seen such things post-natal,
And never thought they might be fatal.
They, taking airs of kind, exclaimed,
And when they had calmed down, explained:
He had eaten them of house and home,
Literally, this bush they owned
And lived inside their cherry castles
Which now remnants hung like tassels
From blood red lips, and teeth incarnadined!
Hearing this he wept, for it had seemed
He had so easily made hell for these,
And stolen from them solemn peace.
He begged them, through a wall of tears
To forgive him of his lack of fears
Of perfect bushes, and perfect berries!
They replied “We are but fairies,
“We cannot forgive your sins,
“And certainly no conscience win!”
He pressed though, and so they tried
But one by one they slowly died.
Feeling though it had worked out,
He now ceased his mouth to pout.
He stood again on weary limbs
And marched away with saintly hymns!
Neglectful of his somber deeds
He came upon a bed of reeds,
Nestled on a long stretched bank
Of a river of some worthy rank.
He followed this for quite some time
Forgetting all his past and crimes.
He came upon a great lake, and said
“What a perfect place to rest my head!”
When he awoke, what did he see?
But beauty standing before he!
In the middle of this bodied water
Was the most delightful daughter!
So he decided not to leave,
And of his journey was bereaved.
He sat and watched her days and weeks
So profound and yet so meek!
Composed sonnets to her in his head,
Always thought, but never said.
This continued for months and months
Till he had finally had enough
He waded from the river bank
Into the lake, in which he sank.
Upon reaching the lake’s deep bed saw
A tiny cabin, thatched with straw
In awe he stood, and watched as she
Entered here alone, as sad as she could be.
When he summoned himself to courage
He rapped the door of this sunken cottage.
She answered, and they stood in silence
As their eyes divided diamonds.
He entered and, when both were sat,
Slowly did remove his hat.
She took his hand, this total stranger
Of whom she felt no present danger.
He smiled, and raised his hand to touch
The face that he had seen so much!
When his fingers found her face,
He fell, to deepest slumber’s place!
Soon from the lake he did creep
And somnambulated, from the deep.
So what was said to him was thus:
"Awaken not in pains of lust
"But pains of joy and health receive,
“On merry nights such as this eve"
And when this temporal advice was wrought
He went and ambled back to cot.
This darling home beneath the lake,
There he his life, in sleep, did take.
--
AND
--
Stroke of the Twelve
The thunder rolls about the room, and falls on every ear,
Reverberates about this space, and strikes each heart with fear.
For now this lonely moment is a lonely thought, indeed,
As this wooden ground is shaken, as by a thousand steeds.
Each soul trembles, each heart stops, as if in contemplation,
Each tongue stilled, and each lung stiff, aware of reprobation.
With wicked eyes they look upon the faces that surround,
Hoping for a secret smile, all they can find are frowns.
No words are spoken; an attempt would surely fall to deaf,
As thunderous shakes remind them of mortality and death.
No comfort found within the crowd, some try to find without,
But those who leave with faith return with nothing more than doubt.
More severe than ever, tears form within our solemn crowd,
No longer filled with hope and trust, with only dread endowed.
They hang their heavy heads and weep, for friends are surely lost,
They’ve sown their seed, they’ve made their grave, and now they pay the cost.
I see it all; I cannot stop their tears, and not their pain.
‘Tis by their daring, foolish hearts that they are left disdained.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, as I now walk away,
Their tumble should be short, yes, for they’ve fallen all their days.
The air is still, the thunder stopped, and quiet is the floor,
But alas, that little group, we shall hear of them no more.
--
So there you have it. Cross you fingers!
My Bunny's Back - A Smile and a Ribbon
Readership EXPLOSION
Seriosuly, I must have at least THREE readers now! C'est incroyable! I really am going to have to think about self hosting soon, I don't know if Blogger's servers can handle my massive throughput. I guess I'll just have to scrape $30,000 together for a data centre...
But seriously, Holly forwarded me a poetry competition, and I think I'm going to enter a few poems. I can enter three, so I think I'll do the one I posted below, a moderately old one, and a really old one. I'll post them here when I pick them out.
I have now officially completed the Spiderwick Chronicles again, and I am astonished by how much I didn't remember, and how incredibly different the movie really was. Truly staggering. I am still impressed by the movie though, even though there were massive changes, I felt that they stayed true to the spirit and the feel of the books, and the characters felt similar as well. It wasn't like theNorthern Lights Golden Compass, which was a fundamentally different story with fundamentally different characters, which just cheapened the whole tale, but then, Spiderwick isn't quite as epic, either.
I've recently discovered that there are continuations of The Spiderwick Chronicles, title aptly Beyond the Spiderwick Chronicles. I guess only one book is out so far, so I'll have to snag it somewhere and read it.
But seriously, Holly forwarded me a poetry competition, and I think I'm going to enter a few poems. I can enter three, so I think I'll do the one I posted below, a moderately old one, and a really old one. I'll post them here when I pick them out.
I have now officially completed the Spiderwick Chronicles again, and I am astonished by how much I didn't remember, and how incredibly different the movie really was. Truly staggering. I am still impressed by the movie though, even though there were massive changes, I felt that they stayed true to the spirit and the feel of the books, and the characters felt similar as well. It wasn't like the
I've recently discovered that there are continuations of The Spiderwick Chronicles, title aptly Beyond the Spiderwick Chronicles. I guess only one book is out so far, so I'll have to snag it somewhere and read it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Book Meme!!!
Step one is to take the first book you lay eyes on that fits the rules. Not your favorite book, but the closest at hand:
The rules are as follows…
1. The book must be over 123 pages.
2. Find page 123 in the book.
3. Find the first 5 sentences.
4. Post the next 3 sentences.
5. Tag other people
Book: Diamonds Are Forever, Ian Fleming
"The joint favourites, No1, Mr C.V. Whitney's Come Again, and No3. Mr William Woodward's Pray Action were both forecast at six to four on. Mr P. Pissaro's Shy Smile, Trainer R. Budd. jockey T. Bell, was forecast at 15 to 1, the bottom horse in the betting. His Number was 10"
Alas, I have no other blog friends to tag. I am an unwelcome visitor to the blogosphere. Like a blogging hobo. The littlest blogger. Maybe tomorrow.... (get it?)
Sweet dreams, true believers.
The rules are as follows…
1. The book must be over 123 pages.
2. Find page 123 in the book.
3. Find the first 5 sentences.
4. Post the next 3 sentences.
5. Tag other people
Book: Diamonds Are Forever, Ian Fleming
"The joint favourites, No1, Mr C.V. Whitney's Come Again, and No3. Mr William Woodward's Pray Action were both forecast at six to four on. Mr P. Pissaro's Shy Smile, Trainer R. Budd. jockey T. Bell, was forecast at 15 to 1, the bottom horse in the betting. His Number was 10"
Alas, I have no other blog friends to tag. I am an unwelcome visitor to the blogosphere. Like a blogging hobo. The littlest blogger. Maybe tomorrow.... (get it?)
Sweet dreams, true believers.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
From one side to the other
I just got back from Chatham! I went to Morpeth for dinner (Dad made ribs, fantastic!), and then dropped in to hang with Andy for a while. We eventually went to subway and had a great time acting crazy mainly for the benefit of the kid at Subway. I proceeded to ask him which school he went to, and he goes to the one which is not the one Little Bird goes to, so he didn't know her, go figure.
We watched Stardust again, as well. I love that movie. So much! But it upsets me, because I so dwell in fantasy that worlds so finely crafted and appealing make my heart nearly burst with longing for that kind of thing. It upsets me that my life is so dreary in comparison. But then, I felt the same way after seeing Cloverfield, so maybe that's just my issue.
Hey guess what I realized for the millionth time? I need to start writing! Writing constantly! I hate this not writing bull crap that they's all be tryin' ta pull at. I don't understand it either kids, but it's two thirty-eight, so cut me a little slack.
Make it stick.
No music, Wife is sleeping.
We watched Stardust again, as well. I love that movie. So much! But it upsets me, because I so dwell in fantasy that worlds so finely crafted and appealing make my heart nearly burst with longing for that kind of thing. It upsets me that my life is so dreary in comparison. But then, I felt the same way after seeing Cloverfield, so maybe that's just my issue.
Hey guess what I realized for the millionth time? I need to start writing! Writing constantly! I hate this not writing bull crap that they's all be tryin' ta pull at. I don't understand it either kids, but it's two thirty-eight, so cut me a little slack.
Make it stick.
No music, Wife is sleeping.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Fine.
Here's a poem. I like it. It is my most recent. 5 points to whomever can guess when!
--
What of the Dead
and what of the cold dawn
what of the light
that creeps o'er the mountains
and freezes us all
what of the child
what of the night
the darkness that buries
and ruins us all
what of the words
that were never said
to the loved one lay dying
or already dead
what of the sparkle
what of the tears
the division of eyes, of hearts
that limits us all
what of the fear
what of the sadness
that lives on the inside
and sickens us all
what of the love,
we never expressed
what of the emptiness,
and how they'll be missed
a salute to the living
means naught to the dead
for the relief that we're bringing,
is all in our heads
--
Still on lunch...
Still at work...
Still not a master of the kefitzat haderech...
--
What of the Dead
and what of the cold dawn
what of the light
that creeps o'er the mountains
and freezes us all
what of the child
what of the night
the darkness that buries
and ruins us all
what of the words
that were never said
to the loved one lay dying
or already dead
what of the sparkle
what of the tears
the division of eyes, of hearts
that limits us all
what of the fear
what of the sadness
that lives on the inside
and sickens us all
what of the love,
we never expressed
what of the emptiness,
and how they'll be missed
a salute to the living
means naught to the dead
for the relief that we're bringing,
is all in our heads
--
Still on lunch...
Still at work...
Still not a master of the kefitzat haderech...
Disasteronomer.
Hey Kiddos!
I am getting pretty fed up with myself. I am lazy and out of shape. Also, I do not mean lazy as in the purely physical sense, but also in the mental, and especially creative, sense. I have ideas in my head that need to be released. I have stories that beg to be told. However, their captors are stronger than initially anticipated. i have fears that keep my ideas locked up. I have a notepad, but i do not write, because I am afraid of what will happen when I do.
Several nights ago I got up out of bed, without waking Mal up, and proceeded to read my poems, my old poems. not the really old, crappy poems that i wrote in grade 9, where I was all "oh, look at me, I'm in grade nine", but the really good ones. I used to post them on a website, but this one time, I joined a forum, and the people did not like me very much, and so they copied and insulted my poems to no end, and I was so upset, that I took down the site, and now am too afraid to post anything. I am not so afraid of people insulting them, because I know that some won't like them, but I think that some might. I am afraid of people stealing them. With the internet the way it is now, I have no way of stopping people from copying and duplicating my poetry and other writing.
Perhaps I am being ridiculous. Perhaps I should just write, and then whatever happens, happens. Maybe that will be enough.
No music, for I am at work, on lunch.
I am getting pretty fed up with myself. I am lazy and out of shape. Also, I do not mean lazy as in the purely physical sense, but also in the mental, and especially creative, sense. I have ideas in my head that need to be released. I have stories that beg to be told. However, their captors are stronger than initially anticipated. i have fears that keep my ideas locked up. I have a notepad, but i do not write, because I am afraid of what will happen when I do.
Several nights ago I got up out of bed, without waking Mal up, and proceeded to read my poems, my old poems. not the really old, crappy poems that i wrote in grade 9, where I was all "oh, look at me, I'm in grade nine", but the really good ones. I used to post them on a website, but this one time, I joined a forum, and the people did not like me very much, and so they copied and insulted my poems to no end, and I was so upset, that I took down the site, and now am too afraid to post anything. I am not so afraid of people insulting them, because I know that some won't like them, but I think that some might. I am afraid of people stealing them. With the internet the way it is now, I have no way of stopping people from copying and duplicating my poetry and other writing.
Perhaps I am being ridiculous. Perhaps I should just write, and then whatever happens, happens. Maybe that will be enough.
No music, for I am at work, on lunch.
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