Cricket on the Windowsill

(a poem by myself)



Quickened step and daunting breath
Haste without intent,
For the wandering vagrant with eyes like death
Is carried forth by portent.
Under cover of nebulous cloud,
By the light of haughty fluorescence,
Was the Wanderer drawn by a voice so loud
Though ambiguous in essence.
This was the door, this was the night,
This was prospect in every right.
On went the Wanderer, onward still
Despite the cricket on the windowsill.

The Wanderer had a peculiar gait
Strident with ignorance pending,
The cricket did chirp, for response- await
The Wanderer’s feet meet their ending.
They halted not for the sorrowful stare
By the miniscule eyes below.
Though still they became, with a burden to bear
Only then did the stare prove thorough.

With purpose found and with purpose fulfilled,
The Wanderer made a retreat.
All at once, the objective feet-
How swiftly, how hushedly do they fleet
Oblivious of what they would one day know
Of the cricket they left in the snow.

With each passing day, sun up, sun down,
The door, by its hinges, swung in, swung out.
The Wanderer wore a solicitous frown;
The cricket, archaic, a heretic’s crown.
Seldom aware of the other’s demise,
Their coexistence was subtle;
To one, the other was subtle;
Though loud, the cricket was subtle.

The Wanderer’s ease brought the snow to a melt
The cricket was slave to the sill.
Tranquility chirped, and dissonance felt,
The repose made the Wanderer ill.
Why was the cricket so still?
The wanderer hoped with expedient will
That the cricket would jump from the windowsill.

Passing of date, and the Wanderer’s gait
Became more of a waltz or a promenade,
For the Wanderer felt that only by fate
Were the cricket’s chirps, in her honor, made.
Even, if only, she bade,
That, in her honor, gestures were made,
The eyes of the cricket, their rapture persuade,
Told her expedient heart to be still
And await the cricket on the window sill.

The lackluster sill was a glorified place
Where defiant silence would ring,
Silence that occupied abundant space
When the cricket refused to sing
And less did the cricket sing
As the Wanderer begged it to sing;
For lest there be song, the air was quaint
Beyond, before, below the door,
When seldom, the cricket would chirp so faint,
The cricket held intrigue no more.
The cricket lost his voice.
The Wanderer had no choice
But to exit the door, and exit in vain
The wanderer left, though her heart did remain
There with the cricket on the windowsill.

Cricket on the Windowsill

epiphonies hath occured

alas, the great empirical formula of the chemical we like to call "seretonin" has graced me beautifully tonight. all sorts of terrific thoughts are wondering through my head at the moment. events occured to me through the vines and willows that never occured before, although they could have and might have and wanted to. nonetheless, their day is to come. i can say that i sat, complacid with all that was elegantly balanced around me, and dreamed the wildest and most vivd of dreams. narwhals (yes, actual pale-white, silky, beautiful narwhals) were swimming rapidly through winding glass tubes through the crystal-navy ocean.
and then came terror.
these tubes were a great vacuum.
but fear not, my narwhal children.
for you are re-visiting a place called childhood.
childhood is where te mind returns whenever we discern the dullness of modern life.
we quiver.
we are vulnerable. we are more raw than a freshly-speared fish, as gruesome a comparison that may be. our omnipresent being has deterred and shown itself from the inside for the world to see. it's availble for all to see. it panics and dashes around.
I sang and everything was better. Much better. The sage cast upon me a blanket of protection. no one was out to get me. no one would harm me.
this i knew for certain and for sure

gluttony (a noun)

I love to bitch. Who doesn't? I try to avoid it as much as humanly possible, so as to withold my public graces and remain politically correct to some sort of extent, but there comes a time where a person like me simply needs to blow down the walls and relinquish. So, lucky for you, today's the day. What you are about to read are my blatant and unfiltered thoughts on a certain matter which has been haunting me discursively throughout the duration of this week... needless to say, I am probably going to offend a few people here and there. My apologies. Right. Well, here i go.

I. Hate. Fucking. Gluttons. I hate them. Nothing perverses me more than a person who only knows one way of life, that being the lifestyle of excessive fulfillment. By definition (and I quote dictionary.com), they are marked as "exceedingly voracious". These are the people who never seem to be satisfied with what they are given, namely when it comes to food. Oh yeah, food gluttons are the worst. I'm talking about those assholes that you find yourself to be stuck with, usually not by choice, that begin to mark their gluttony by declaring that they're hungry right after they just ate a substantial amount of food. As if they hadn't already mooched off of a good majority of your food in addition to theirs, they're still too damn hungry to contain themselves. So they demand you to find them food. You, being the benevolent person you are, get up and, in all reluctance, fetch them some damn food. They eat it, of course. All the while, you scratch your head and ponder just how they can manage to force that many calories into their body. Then they begin to question you about the next meal. And the next one. And the next one.
My favorite part is when you ask them who, exactly, is to pay for all this glorious and apparently much-needed food. Knowing that you are, at this point, dealing with a well-taught glutton, their greedy little fingers will be pointing at you. But mark my words, it can only get worse from here. By now, you will begin to notice that this person is exceptionally unfiltered and generally ignorant. They will openly and excessively voice their opinion on shallow matters such as the weather, their boredom, the view from the nearest window... and quite possibly your haircut. Of course, the only way to satiate their constant nagging is to satisfy one of their many gluttonous desires. Probably a food of some sort. If not, then it's bound to be some sort of material item that is of high value and little necessity, such as a body spray or a cell phone case. Or they'll demand to borrow your shit, because it's that much better when it belongs to you. Whatever the case may be, a glutton is always characterized by a gaping hole of desire that only grows larger and more insatiable with each incrament of time which you have the misfortune to spend with them.
Gluttons and their gluttonous behavior are usually co-characterized by generally assinine behavior, namely constant critiquing. They just loveeeeee to rip you the fuck apart. They will be the first to remind you that your shirt is on inside-out, or that you forgot to remove the tag from your ass pocket, or that you've put on a pound or two (needless to say, you could easily remind them of the food baby sitting in their stomach, courtesy of you and your wallet). They also expect a heaping round of compliments from you and everyone surrounding them. Because there's a whole lotta good to say about them, godchild that they are. This is the part where you are really resisting the urge to remind them that gluttony is a sin. Oh yeah. That shit's written in the bible. Bold faced, I'm sure.
Regardless, you know you want to punch them in the damn face by this point. But you don't. Because you know three things. The first is that, in the long run, your ass is going to look much better in your jeans than theirs... as long as genetics are not on her side as much as you aren't. The second is that you know in your heart that he or she is going to one day be spited. If that hasn't happened under their ignorant nose already. Thirdly, you just kind of like waiting for those moments when they really crash and burn, and you're right there to watch it. If that never happens, then hey- at least plans one and two more than likely fell though. With that being said, I hope that none of you ever have to devote more than about 3 solid hours with someone who falls into the category I have accurately established. Because I sure as hell did. It wasn't cute. But you know what is cute? Kitty kitties. That's pretty damn cute. Okay (pant pant)... I'm done. Over and out.

run run, rudolph

Dear kiddies,
So the holidays are vastly approaching... hell, they're already here. How else do you explain the alterations to Starbucks' drink menu, the eminating glow from every high-end suburban community you pass, and the stack of Chistmas carol sheet music lying atop my desk? Well anyways, I am not in my most intellectual state of mind at the moment, so I thought it best to take advantage of that and do a bit of pondering about the material world. Not that I'm expecting half of this shit, but it's still fun to make wishlists, right? Anyways, here goes...

1.) The Moog Little Phatty



what's more to say, other than it is unattainably divine?
sigh... a person can dream.








2.) a Nikon AF Macro lens (of any kind, really)














3.) these bad boys







4.) a new kitty kitty

yes, just like this one







5.) this sick-ass leotard (you know, for when I feel like prancing around)




6.) sibellius!


7.) a canvas and some paints


8.) some more records for the ol' crosley



9.) a round-trip ticket to India


10.) magical powers.

oh yeah... i'm talking black magic.


oh, and I almost forgot one very important thing...

THIS

(it definitely gives the snuggie a run for its money)


I hope that thoroughly left you bewildered. Happy holidays, my lovelies.

you can have whatever you like

Freedom is truly a commodity rather than an asset. You come to realize that in the best way possible when the source of your authority has all but lost complete respect for you. You learn to realize just how much you once valued that sacred mutualism you had established between yourself and your authority. Because you are never your own authority, no matter how much you would like to belive that to be true. In fact, unless you possessed the seven seas, an innate ability to communicate with felines, and the entire stock market, chances are some bastard would still have you wrapped around his golden little finger. But this is extranneous and beside the point. The point I am trying to make is that I have recently come to find that I took for granted all the years that my authority was on my side. Those were the days when I could make her a christmas card or a batch of cookies, bring home straight a's, and win a writing contest and receive that approving smile. For what it was worth I did not know until this point in my life. This is the point where her all-knowing authority coincides with what I believe to be humane, and they unfortunately do not agree on any level. I have made my choice. I chose to make my best attempt at defiance, which only led me to a place colder than the antarctic and more lifeless than a post-nuclear war zone. Yeah, it bites. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, the point I am trying to get across is... be good. If good can even come close to being conceptualized.

An inquisitory essay on War of the Worlds

War of the Worlds is a prime example of how H.G. Wells is capable of portraying many different thematic elements in a small yet eloquent piece of writing. In any case, one of the most prominently explored themes in this given narrative is the theme of ‘lack of urgency when faced with something that does not pose an immediate threat’. This theme is most apparently represented in the book’s first few chapters, when the danger of the extraterrestrial creatures remains to be a potential threat rather than an actual one. This theme can be further exemplified as we observe the story’s events on a more detailed scale. Three key events that well embody this theme are the detection of odd activity on Mars’ surface, the landing of the first cylindrical martian pod, and the first emergence of the creatures from their pod.
We can initially begin to detect the theme in question from the very moment in the story when the narrator speaks of reports of unusual activity on Mars. As soon as chapter one does our unnamed narrator mention to us that his friend Dr. Ogilvy was aware of an eruption on the surface of Mars. Not only did a singular eruption occur on this planet’s distant surface, but this eruption was followed by nine other timely and subsequent eruptions of the exact same nature. Already, it would be natural of the reader to expect a panicked reaction of sorts from the general public in the story. This, however, was not the case. Hardly any feelings of disconcert were mentioned thus far, by the narrator or any other character alike.
Following this first example of the story’s theme of lack of urgency, the theme prevails yet again. As the story goes on, the danger finally makes its arrival on Earth as the first martian tripod graces a small town in England with its landing. As the narrator explains it, the people of this town are stricken with awe, curiosity and fascination. They even make a point to gather round the cylindrical object as close as possible to take in the sessile spectacle of it all. None of these reactions, however, come quite close to constituting any level of fear, let alone panic or distress. In turn, no precautionary actions have been made at this point in Wells’ story.
To further demonstrate the lack of urgency of the characters of War of the Worlds, we can look further yet into the story. Inevitably, the martian cylinder that landed in Woking didn’t remain intact for very long. Succeeding its arrival by a few timely days, the object’s top unscrewed from within and out came a group of monstrous and seemingly lethargic alien creatures. One would assume that the sight alone would be enough to instill terror among the witnesses. This was, again, not the case. Because these creatures seemed to be so lethargic and harmless, little precaution had been taken by any of the story’s characters. It was not until the martians did attack that any of the characters of any significance did show signs of distress.
In conclusion, the lack of urgency when faced with something that does not pose and immediate threat is a theme which Wells thoroughly exemplified in the novel. As we can see, there are countless occasions in which any of the characters could have detected the imminent threat posed by the strange activity on Mars or the presence of the creatures on Earth. Whether it may have been to achieve some sort of effect or to cryptically degrade the rational capabilities of human nature, this was one of many themes which H.G. Wells expertly included in his writing of War of the Worlds.