Indefinite Hiatus

That is All; Thank You.

Adios.

Supernal Blessings, or Webcomics (Same Thing)

It is time to hand out webcomic link pimpage. Here goes:

The Misadventures of Hello Cthulhu - I pretty much decided to have a Link entry because of this webcomic. The first comic is my current wallpaper at work, and I am very finicky about background images. GO READ IT, NOW, WHORES!

Sore Thumbs Online - I enjoy this comic, mostly because it’s an interesting mixture of the absurd style of writing from Chris Crosby (author of Superosity) and an artistic styling that is some odd combination of anime/manga-influence and American influences. It’s funny, and that’s all that truly matters, except for Honey Nut Cheerios.

That’s it, two links. Short and sweet.

Adios.

Idiotic Observation of the Day

Man: “You are watching Water Boy on USA.”
Woman: “You know what I like to call it? El Agua Muchacho!”
Man: “Hey, nice!”
Woman: “Gracias!”
Man: “Heh heh, you speak Spanish.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! MY HEAD, IT BURNS!

[Editor’s Note: In Spanish, and most Romantic languages, the adjective comes after the noun it modifies.]

A Rivulet of Insignificance (The Most Pointless Entry #01)

Oye, I write so sparingly for this Blog, nowadays, that I wonder if I can keep it up-to-date this semester; no longer do I get much peace at work, and, at home, it is a flip-flop between playtime and working on class material. Still, I will persist. I will persist.
My new watch is the most useful thing ever, on a separate note.

Done.

Indigence of Meaning

My problem with writing used to be that I simply didn’t understand my own capacity for how much I could put out in one sitting. Given an infinite amount of time, I’d write for about half an hour and then lose my drive for it, or the product would just become so lackluster it would disgust me. I realised this looking back on old entries, many of which end with me declaring I “had more zeal” to write when I started, but it drifted away. I’m still unsure of as to what it directly relates to in the artistic process, but I know now that I can’t write a whole lot without getting not distracted nor bored, but . . . Exhausted, in a manner of speaking. It’s vastly different than from when I draw; that, I can sit and do for hours without dropping. Writing? I can write for an hour on really good nights. It may have to do with the fact that to draw, that involves having one picture in my mind — a goal of producing this single piece of imagery — but writing is made up of many, many pieces of imagery. I never was on to easily find my way to a goal, let alone a multitude of them.

I wanted to take my laptop outside and write like how I used to in the old days: perched on the bench in the backyard or on a stump, but my laptop’s battery is dead . . . Won’t hold a charge any longer, or the charger itself is broken (I really hope it’s not the latter). These days, I don’t have as much time to spend lurking in the night’s shadows as I used to, and I’m feeling nostalgic about that, lately, for some reason. Between work and class, I know when I stay up late that it’ll kill me the next day. Right now, for example, I know I should be sleeping, but I’m not — restless, need to write, need to ramble.

My English professor for the summer course I took — Approaches to Literature — wants me to present my final paper, the research project, to some across-the-curriculum conference. That really flatters me, in a big way that I can’t describe . . . Most people are very apathetic towards my writing, passing it off as acceptable but never really giving it any praise. I think there’s something about writers that makes them horridly detached people, because all their expression is being vicariously funneled into the writing, itself. Writing is a more impersonal art than visual arts, I’ve found; after a while, characters become independent beings, whereas canvases never cease being right there. Anyway, he wants to take it to this conference, and I want to really dress it up and expand upon it, more, because . . . Because, well, I’m a hideous perfectionist and there was a lot that I cut out of that paper, due to time and space constraints: it was 12 and a half pages despite being a 10-page assignment, already. It makes me nervous, though, taking my writing to a conference and presenting it to people.
I’ve never felt overly proud of my writing, because at best I felt it was very mediocre and sort of typical. Granted, I’ve never felt a whole lot of confidence in my art either, for the xame exact reasons . . . I suppose I undercut myself in a lot of ways, in the end. I can’t call myself a poet, I can’t call myself a writer, I can’t call myself an artist . . . Yet, I can, but I . . . Don’t want to? It’s comes and goes, because I know, if nothing else, what I do is unique. Different. That’s all I really want to be, is different. Because, by my standards, worth is derived from a sense of new. Repetitive productions aren’t worthwhile, without some sort of expansion or deviation.
There’s a reason why the idea of there being no such thing as an “original idea” bothers me.

Women? Women . . . women have been bother me. No, not women . . . People — they have been bothering me. But, I notice the trait I’ve been being irked by more often in women than men, because men . . . Matter less to me, in a way. A part of me is programmed to be more concerned with females than males, which I’m not entirely certain is cultural, hereditary, or biological. People don’t know what they want, enough. They don’t know what they want, or are so afraid of pursing it that they repress their true desires in favour for a “low road” that is less fulfilling and more convenient, or less difficult, or less strenuous. It’s a laziness on a grand scale. But? But . . . Who am I to talk about that? I do a very sufficient job of rerouting myself into settling for what I don’t’ exactly want in the name of not being willing to work hard enough for what I do. It’s frustrating, because we live in a society . . . A society, period, not even a society with characteristics specific to itself, but just a society, in and of itself, that causes this. Class, castes, money, economics, whatever . . . It all boils down to the idea of being barricaded from some luxury of life in the name of socioeconomic circumstance. Bullshit, I tell you: bullshit.

Speaking of women . . . I’ve been personally debating between the idea of companionship versus solitude. Is one better than the other, or does one possess as much benefits as the other? Solitude makes me productive, it makes me driven, it makes me . . . Productive. I don’t do as much when I’m with people, because . . . I’m with people, and that, in and of itself, is a preoccupation. It sort of worries me that if I were to be tied down to or attached to any one person so deeply, then I’d stop being an artist, I’d stop being a poet or writer or . . . Anything. I would just be with that person, and that would sum up my existence. I don’t want that, but I can see myself letting me do that because I’d . . . Because I’m me. Deprived? Certainly. Lonely? Absolutely. We all are, to one extent or another; it’s what makes us human, it’s what makes us seek.

A part of me is hideously insecure. The part of me that has spent my entire life listening to people. A part of me is pretty confident — almost arrogant. The part of me that has spent my life hearing people. I can’t forget what people have said to me, about me. I can’t forget what I’ve done, though, to persevere through everything, what I’ve accomplished. Yet, I know, my life is not unique . . . Not special . . . My life is pretty cushy, comparatively, and I could’ve had it a whole lot worse. In a way, I am absolutely spoiled: I have enough pretty lenient civil and financial freedom. But . . . Not everything was easy. Not everything was smooth. Being virtually alone isn’t enjoyable, no matter where you live or sleep. There are so many stories about people who find happiness is the most barren refuge of the world because they have each other. Then, there are so many stories about people who are downright miserable in the lap of luxury and success.
Where will I be, in the end? Surrounded by my . . . My Art . . . And alone? Will it mean anything? Will it have amounted to anything . . . Were I to change the face of Art, would I care, at the end of the day? I know what I think about right before I sleep. I know why it is that I generally don’t dream. I know what it is I would give away everything I have for, when the sun is gone and my eyes turn to the bright-lit moon. I know why it is I create my Art. For what. For who.
I know.
I’ll be alone. With my Art. And miserable. I don’t want that. I don’t.
I can fool myself into thinking that all that matters is Art, for a time. I can bask in the glory of a great creation and forget everything else that I lack in my life. I can celebrate a good poem or story, piece of art or essay, with a toast to myself and a piece of chocolate. How . . . How pathetic, I am, though. How pathetic is that? Quite. Quite pathetic.

I know why it is that I can’t write for long. Because I can’t forget. I can’t forget why it is that I write. Only for that short period where I’ve forgotten this, do I write. That is when I can blissfully indulge in words and phrases, sentences and paragraphs, and all is glee. All is bliss.
But, I remember.
I don’t forget.

What about, now, though? Writing about it? I was thinking I’d no longer feel the urge to continue writing, once I’d said all that. But, I still do. It’s strange.
I need sleep, though. Or tomorrow will be Hell.

G’Night.

They say you gotta love somethin',
Aromatic flowers blooming in springtime
or pungent whores trolling the night;
They say you gotta be in love
to be alive, they say you gotta
know yourself--to see the sky?

Black car at red light, stalled;
Misbegotten, nameless fool: called;
Too flowery, so I bit my tongue,
And who appreciates a diseased dowry?

Anyway, they say a lot,
They say too much, I say--
It's contrived, but that's the way it goes.

My Quotable Quote: "Only liars fall in love."

They say that the true character of a human being is only revealed in the wake of death, in the hours that follow the termination of their lifetime, when the ripples are spreading fresh over the River Styx as the ferryman drives his dead soul to the afterlife. What is said about him, what is known of him, what is shown for everything he worked for and accomplished, that is what they say a man’s character can be derived from, not rumours and falsehoods or facades of social status and well-to-do tidings, but the words spoken in secret between two of his acquaintances at his funeral. Human beings, undeniably, are repulsive creatures in their treatment of each other.
Not in life, but in death, can only truth appear? The tragedy of loss sheds the first light on a man’s face, his features illuminated just then, in his coffin, for all to see and admire? Could not his value been asserted minutes preceding his departure from the living world, not while he walked along the living could his accoutrements to his self been acknowledged? They march forward in time, as a race, striving for victory in struggle and greatness in living, but glory comes only in the black march to the grave, afterward, for mankind? Can not it be for humans to experience the celebration of their own life?
They walk, their burden upon their shoulders like a hollowed cross within the confines of which lies their dead kin, primped in black suits and stark, white shirts, legs stiff in the winter snow, as solemn as grieving soldiers after a lost battle or mournful wives over sain children, their minds not on their lost one but on everything else . . . In their eyes swirls the contemplative thoughts of ones pondering their own death and wondering over their own significance, how shall their funeral fair — droves in attendance or sparse company to cry over their corpse? Selfish, selfish, unjustifiable mongrels, these humans with their worries of notoriety, their lives ticked away every instant closer to inevitable doom and yet not do they award their kind with love or celebration until it is their still, lifeless bodies they must bury in their backyards.
In their flesh rushes the rejuvenating force of their blood, flushing their faces in agitation of the chill wind that blows westward into their peeled eyes that drip not for sorrow but for cold; not a tear shed for the wretched dead but for their own inconvenience and how they were put out for this occasion, how their schedules were interrupted in the name of this hollow funerary procession. They drove up rapt in chittering over the gracious event that was the death of Marcus Redford O’Briarfield and the relief it was to the family to lay him to rest in the green earth, quiet and forgotten to rot to dust and be nibbled by the worms. How they breathed a collective sigh of thankfulness when the news reached their ears, followed promptly by an exasperated sigh of displeasure over the unavoidable circumstance of his burial, in unison they mourned the lost time — time that could be spent golfing or perhaps dining with businessmen in Armani suits trimmed with diamond cufflinks and other symbols of their superior nature and existence. Sooner they would lap the thrown-away scraps of leftovers from the plates of the well-to-do rich and famous than spend the afternoon gathered together to care for the final rites of a fellow kinfolk shot and murdered. Surely they would go to church on the next Sunday and mime their prayers, emulate perfectly the practice of worship to a God they gave no more thought to than the dead boy they carried upon their shoulders now. They were, after all, proper, God-fearing Christian Protestants.
The women, in their dress not even respectfully black or somber, carried their purses by their side like they hefted their indignation upon their backs every morning over the insult of the reality of where they resided in a socioeconomic sense; shoulders high, arms crooked, hands clutching the straps tightly and knuckles white from the grip they gave their purses in the thought of their not being recognized as famous wives of millionaire husbands. The wrinkles around their eyes told of the strain upon their bodies they went through each day, carrying with them the weight of denial of opportunity and rightful justice, the corners of their mouths taut and drawn as was the result of mouthing so many unhappy smiles. The makeup they wore to protect their true identities as aging mortals instead of Olympian goddesses eternally young was economical, the cheaper brand on the second shelf at the supermarket, it was tainted with the filth of middle-class, coated with the smell of coupons and credit cards. Everything about them from their hair to their toes was painted with the effort of living by means impossibly high and realistically unachievable; today, they thought as one mind, would better be spent in a beauty salon — one that charged seventy dollars for the latest style of haircut.
After the ceremony, they’ll swarm out of the grounds and pile into their sports utility vehicles, the ones with four-by-four, off-road capability that never saw anything harsher than highway pavement and with forty gallon gas tanks that allowed nigh fifty miles of travel. The black, white, green, yellow, blue, orange machinations of waste and pollution that trucks their families from place to place, their kids to school and their wives to parent-teacher meetings, their husbands to the sky-rise office buildings and then to hotels where the husbands consort with their mistresses. It was a piteous servitude to be the vehicle of these despicable families, but the human beings created and therefore ruled them as they saw fit, of course.
I hate them. I hate them all: every single, individual one of them, each of them in their toupees and wigs, in their pointlessly high-priced jackets and shoes, in their bust-enhancing bras and silly sock-suspenders. Each and every single human being in this place, on this planet, in this world, deserves nothing but contempt. I hate them with the fiery passion of one thousand Hells and with the force of a million demon wings beating in the red skies of the deepest Abyss. There are no words in any language, human or otherwise, that convey my true hatred for them.
I will watch them die, I will see them burn. I will smile as the façade of their comfortable, coddled lives are peeled away from them like the skin off their bones with pain and devastation, deaths they can not ignore with no funeral marches to make for there shall be no one remaining to hold them. They shall make light of this death at this time, because they have never seen what it means to die at the merciless hand of Fate.
I am their Fate, and I damn them all.

I'll Call It "When Movies Attack"

WOMAN ONE: Hi, my name is Resident Evil: Apocalypse! I'm a completely trite, Hollywood piece of eye candy that hinges on the sex appeal of aggressive, dominant women as main characters. In truth, I wish I were more like Aliens.

WOMAN TWO: Really? Me, too! My name is Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, and I am totally all about selling a movie based on hot female leads and overdone CGI effects, as well. We should get together and hang out, sometime.

WOMAN ONE: Hey, wanna go beat up Catwoman? She's such a slut.

WOMAN TWO: Yeah, for real, girl!

[And this is when Ghost in the Shell 2 should swoop in to kick their asses.]

That's my movie idea, thank you.