Lust: a timely topic for the rest of this year, not just for the month of February. In this 'essay', unfinished and unpolished, I have a few things to say. Some are said in rhyme.
But don't tell him that. He'll call you a liar.
Repressed sexuality seeks release in power, just the right size for a pair of small hands. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, but what if the grape was already sour? The apple pre-rotted?
His demands for fairness and equality sound sweet, but beneath the veil he's not quite well in the head. Power is not enough. But what could possibly fill the void?
When is a man without a soul not like a gaping hole?
Maybe when he cuts a hole where his heart should be, and fills it full of feces, maybe then he'll be a real boy. If there is a heart underneath that cold exterior we could kick it around like a football, treat it like a child's toy! How drole that would be!
Who said we were any better than our fellow citizens? We're monsters, built from children's teeth; parading about in our human suits. You're so close to us you should be burning.
If that, my friend, is not a show of real power, then I've got little else to say . . .
*As if you could force someone to feel something. If you could they wouldn't be screaming. You would. At them. And they'd be the ones feeling sorry for themselves!
1: What happened to all of your life-long dreams?
a: My dreams became my enemy.
b: I realized that I hold a lot of self loathing.
c: The universe is vast and uncaring, so why bother?
2: How could you have given up so easily?
a: Because I didn't, you just stopped paying attention.
b: I'm tired of this drudgery. You have no idea.
c: You didn't care when I just did the damn thing. It's all your fault.
3: Why do you always leave work unfinished?
a: You are my enemy, but you are not my life-long dream.
b: I am a heathen–we heathens always leave work undone.
c: This place has swallowed my soul. It has swallowed me whole.
4: Where were you when you lost that fire?
a: I've been dead for countless eons.
b: In a small, backwards place, filled with many small, backwards people.
c: Far, far away from you. As it should have been, now and always.
1 reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness: he should overcome his natural sloth and complacency.
2 a slow-moving tropical American mammal that hangs upside down from the branches of trees using its long limbs and hooked claws.
lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern: widespread apathy among students.
The Old Year is Dead, But . . .
So their truth was watered-down, forgotten . . .
Then there's the matter of the US election.
Our smug liberal faces received a mighty thwack.
When the unthinkable happened, and now there's no turning back . . .
The moral of that story: some things are better left to natural selection . . .
The old year is dead, but it left much to be desired.
It's 2017, and we're so damn tired.
We want change, but are too apathetic to achieve it.
I want 2016 back, but I'm too lazy to retrieve it.
Please answer each question to the best of your ability. Honesty is optional.
Honesty is sometimes a curse. Survival is your prerogative.
1: Who were you the day before?
2: Is this statement true or false: At the beginning of each day you are a different person.
Explain why this statement may be true or false in essay form.
Bonus Question: What type of person do you think I am? I mean, who in their right mind would think to ask these kinds of questions.
an immoral act considered to be a transgression against divine law: a sin in the eyes of God | the human capacity for sin.
Please answer each question however you like. Metaphysical answers will receive double the marks.
1: What are the seven laws of Necromancy?
2: How does one go about assembling a golem. Give detailed steps.
3: Where are the nine monoliths located in trans-dimensional earth 5?
4: When is a duck not a duck?
this is an offer which cannot last, and will be gone quick.
Now we all have to go to bed earlier to avoid the creatures of the night. And sleep for one less hour. And wake up earlier . . . There will still be snow till April or May.
So, in the end, this means nothing.
The day is almost at an end, and I am late. Like so many times before we'll pretend it never happened (this lateness). Today consisted of me tackling with the goblins and the clowns (of my mind).
It's no secret that I love the movie: Killer Klowns from Outerspace. The thought of them making a remake/sequel fills my heart with so much joy it is about to burst (from so much pain). Personally I think that if they do make a remake they need to have one handsome killer klown. Just one. It would be perfect because the other klowns are so wonderfully ugly (it almost hurts me to think just how ugly). The pretty one could be the brunt of some sort of twisted joke, I'm sure.
Plus, just one pretty one? Out of hundreds of ugly ones? Is there someone who would not find that funny?
As for the goblins . . . Well, they stole my toaster today. I'm not sure how but they stuck it into the wall. It's almost like a painting now. Surprisingly it still works, as they've been teasing me all day by making toast. I'm most sure what they did, but they are somehow living as two dimensional beings in this three dimensional world. Insanity.
Yesterday was so cold, everything had been cloaked in frost. The trees looked like they were drooping, which got me to thinking: how would a tree feel? If I were a tree, or turned into one by some fluke, my life would become a nightmare. Imagine things crawling on you, boring through your skin, or just ripping it off?
I can see love struck idiots carving their names into me–I don't want your names carved into me, I do not care! Now I shall contract a fungus. You're too kind. Thanks.
I try being agreeable as a human, and sometimes other humans take that for granted. Somehow that agreeableness gives them the excuse to dehumanize me, to ignore my personhood. Seldom do other humans truly want other humans acting like humans (alive, flawed, and emotional). As a tree I would be a slave to the elements, bending and swaying till I grow old and rot. I would have no say.
As I'd rot I'd still be alive. Begging for someone to put me out of my misery . . . Then and only then would anyone care about my well-being. They'd say: let's help this tree, and then only prolong my misery.
Yesterday's cold front would have been the day I truly broke, as whatever bodily fluids would have been leached out to the surface. Or they would have frozen, expanding till I snapped.
Since I am not a tree, I am thankful that I haven't.
Lately I've been feeling drained. It could be the weather; multiple sources have claimed to be depressed, myself included. It could be a lack of nutrients–something purely physical, fixable, understandable. Or it could be something else?
Hear me out: last night I ran a marathon in my dreams. Nothing special, you likely did the same thing. I dreamt of murderous guardians, ancient creatures that wore red cloaks. At will they could become invisible. They stood guard over a particular cave, carrying long scimitars.
I watched one kill a man. At first there was just the man, a piece of scimitar sticking out of his head. Then the creature slowly appeared in the cavern.
So, what does it mean? Did I not sleep well because of my dream? Was it happening in real life, on some other plane? Or did I have that dream because I was not sleeping well?
Is my apartment filled with the type of muse that feeds off of your energy in exchange for inspiration?
This is speculation for the fun of it. If there are living muses they're not fulfilling their end of the bargain. Either way, enjoy your Sunday!
The Red Thing . . .
I took this photo years ago. Naturally, I would have no recollection of the red thing. I couldn't tell you if it was really supposed to be in the picture.
And there you have it: your mystery of the week.
Sundays are sometimes not-so-sunny. Today for instance–it's gloomy, dreary. It's also January. When spring comes we'll be so happy . . . Maybe. Spring has its own quirks I suppose, an equal amount of doom and gloom. Everything will stink. Things will become wet, muddy, dirty, grimy. Rivers will swell, and basements will flood.
We'll still be happy when spring comes, but now one must wonder if it's really the change which gives us momentary bliss?
We hope you like blooming maples.
The soul, the heart, the spirit, the body. Humans have this habit of defining everything, splitting it, separating it. Tearing things apart without any knowledge of how to put them together again is dangerous business. Putting things together again without any knowledge of how they went together in the first place, or why they went together, is twice as bad.
Some say that the ego is really another word for the soul. With every distraction and otherwise, humanity has gained a very dangerous ability. The ability to tear their souls away. When the soul has no body though, one must wonder where it would go? There must be a place somewhere, or something. One would assume that.
In truth the soul only has one place to go: the shadow. One's ego becomes one's ghost.
If you've ever felt that you were watched, followed, it is the you you tore away from a long time ago. The ego is your only friend in the dark places of the world. It's the only thing that does not seek to devour you. How can the ego eat itself? That goes against basic instinct.
Shadows are a world on their own. They are vast, fickle and fast-changing landscapes for their denizens. The ego rules over them as supreme being, separating them from you.
With all the things the ego does for you, one must beg the question: is it truly separate from you? Did you really tear yourself away from it? Or is it an extension of yourself? If that's the case, then everything mentioned before has turned itself upside down, inside out. Which means that there isn't a conclusion to this after all.
These are just notions and nothing more.
They say that top predators never look up. Perhaps this will become our evolutionary downfall. Or would it be the downfall of the subconscious? Or do top predators just have that big of an ego? It's hard not to look up when you're in the forest, especially if you're in an unknown part of it. The same goes for uncharted territories, such as big cities. Once you're familiar, nothing ceases to amaze you.
So, does this mean that predators share something in common–the inability to be amazed, or could you just call this boredom?
Episode 4 of the Voice, in which the voice talks about the silence, and its related benefits depending on your living situation. Hmmm, how thoughtful? We fear the voice is beginning to make too much sense, however . . .
In which Ashkenaz has no idea.
I've heard that there was a proposed blog post about something–something about book reviews, or something of the ilk, but this thing called laundry came up.
What is this laundry that you mortals do? And why can't you ever make it go away? Can you not just get rid of said laundry?
And why is Thursday called Thursday?
Episode 3 of The Voice.
Background noise, and the sound of the Voice (me, myself, and the silence) here to tell you about the anatomy of the absence of light (also known as darkness, evening, midnight, etcetera–take your pick).
Make no mistake, this is not what you would like to think.
Of course, we could be wrong, right?