I spent an hour and a half in the CAD lab, and all I got to show for it is this 3D Lollipop I made..
Monday, September 29, 2008
*Insert No Sound*
I know you are here,
Here just happens to be There.
Our diction has grown...
repetitive, to say the least,
from the hours we have spent "together"
on the corner of Electric and Connection.
The Black beckons me to bed,
but the Silence keeps me here,
Holding hands through a phone line.
A sound gets so far.
A breath says so much.
We have found intimacy thirty-seven miles away.
I hear nothing,
And I like the sound of that.
Here just happens to be There.
Our diction has grown...
repetitive, to say the least,
from the hours we have spent "together"
on the corner of Electric and Connection.
The Black beckons me to bed,
but the Silence keeps me here,
Holding hands through a phone line.
A sound gets so far.
A breath says so much.
We have found intimacy thirty-seven miles away.
I hear nothing,
And I like the sound of that.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
I "Hate" These "Awful" Memories
She entered the room,
A haunting aroma of a stench I once knew
(And She was smelling as sweet as ever.)
Each breath brought the fume deeper into my lungs.
(How I longed each inhale)
I turned to face Her...
But...
My Nose deceived me.
I'm glad it wasn't her (but, I'm not...)
A haunting aroma of a stench I once knew
(And She was smelling as sweet as ever.)
Each breath brought the fume deeper into my lungs.
(How I longed each inhale)
I turned to face Her...
But...
My Nose deceived me.
I'm glad it wasn't her (but, I'm not...)
Dear Eyes,
I have come to inform you that as of now, you should see at least one poem a week from me due to my class requirments. I figure if I am writing them, you might as well read them.
Sincerely,
The Writer
Sincerely,
The Writer
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Look What I Found...
This is something I wrote awhile ago and I thought it might please my readers to post this story that I started roughly a year ago. Trust, I have a lot more to this story in my mind, I have deep characters with, what i find, interesting relationships and backstories, but I don't know exactly how to communicate it, so I'll work on it when i get to it, which is probably the wrong approach. None the less, here is the start of what i'm hoping to be a great story of inspiration and realization for both the reader and the protagonist.
The Writer,
Rabbit O'hare
As Ben walked into what would turn out to be the looniest place he ever been, he couldn’t realize that everything he would see would later help define who he would later become. It wouldn’t necessarily forge his destiny, but it would be a mirror of what he needed to see to become who he needed to be.
Ben walked towards the house whose location isn’t entirely known, but is said to be surrounded by trees of surpassing beauty. Lush green hills were also bountiful. However, the one hill in the region that didn’t look like the others was the exact hill that the house stood on. It’s wasn’t that it was different, it was just dead, covered with equal patches of dead grass and dirt. As strange as that sounds, there was one patch of grass that was greener than any one blade of grass in the entire country. The patch upon closer inspection looked like an “H” or an “M”. it looked more like an “H”, except that the middle section was more crooked like an “M”. Ben dismissed this little patch for the time being, but he knew that he would later come back to that spot, whether it would be by force, contemplation, or curiosity.
Ben knocked on the door to the house, and prepared for either the best or worst experience of his life. He received a letter from an unnamed source asking to take care of this estate since the owners had recently died from a horrible fever. Considering that Ben now had no job after being laid off from his job due to outsourcing and having no family left, nor any friends, he figured he had nothing left to do. After all, He was being paid to essentially live in the middle of nowhere, which is practically what he was doing to begin with. He thought about who would be in the house and what type of human would open the door. The letter merely said that there were residents currently inhabiting the house and that resources would be sent every Tuesday to the location. After contemplating all the events leading to this place, he realized that he had been sitting in front of the door for roughly 2 minutes, and he hadn’t heard a sound come from inside. Not being much of a patient man, Ben assumed that no one was home, and opened the door. Right after opening the door, he was greeted by a lady sitting in a recliner who was watching television. She leaned forward in her chair and shouted in excitement, “Wesley? Is that you?!” The voice seemed so excited that all the words sort of slurred into one large word. Ben could see that she really wished to stand up and greet him, but she look as if the program was almost more important than the fact they had company.
“I’m sorry, but my name is Ben Carrington. I’m here to help take care of this home.” Ben replied.
“She can’t hear you,” said a timid voice from a wing bat chair facing the television, “She can’t hear anyone.” Those were the last words the wing bat chair would speak for a long time. Suddenly, a wheel chair rolled in from the dining area that was straight ahead of the doorway. Sitting in the wheel chair was a man in his boxer wearing a bandana with skulls and cross bones strewn about. The man appeared to be missing a leg, until Ben realized the man was sitting on his left leg as though he wanted to look like he was really missing his leg.
The Writer,
Rabbit O'hare
As Ben walked into what would turn out to be the looniest place he ever been, he couldn’t realize that everything he would see would later help define who he would later become. It wouldn’t necessarily forge his destiny, but it would be a mirror of what he needed to see to become who he needed to be.
Ben walked towards the house whose location isn’t entirely known, but is said to be surrounded by trees of surpassing beauty. Lush green hills were also bountiful. However, the one hill in the region that didn’t look like the others was the exact hill that the house stood on. It’s wasn’t that it was different, it was just dead, covered with equal patches of dead grass and dirt. As strange as that sounds, there was one patch of grass that was greener than any one blade of grass in the entire country. The patch upon closer inspection looked like an “H” or an “M”. it looked more like an “H”, except that the middle section was more crooked like an “M”. Ben dismissed this little patch for the time being, but he knew that he would later come back to that spot, whether it would be by force, contemplation, or curiosity.
Ben knocked on the door to the house, and prepared for either the best or worst experience of his life. He received a letter from an unnamed source asking to take care of this estate since the owners had recently died from a horrible fever. Considering that Ben now had no job after being laid off from his job due to outsourcing and having no family left, nor any friends, he figured he had nothing left to do. After all, He was being paid to essentially live in the middle of nowhere, which is practically what he was doing to begin with. He thought about who would be in the house and what type of human would open the door. The letter merely said that there were residents currently inhabiting the house and that resources would be sent every Tuesday to the location. After contemplating all the events leading to this place, he realized that he had been sitting in front of the door for roughly 2 minutes, and he hadn’t heard a sound come from inside. Not being much of a patient man, Ben assumed that no one was home, and opened the door. Right after opening the door, he was greeted by a lady sitting in a recliner who was watching television. She leaned forward in her chair and shouted in excitement, “Wesley? Is that you?!” The voice seemed so excited that all the words sort of slurred into one large word. Ben could see that she really wished to stand up and greet him, but she look as if the program was almost more important than the fact they had company.
“I’m sorry, but my name is Ben Carrington. I’m here to help take care of this home.” Ben replied.
“She can’t hear you,” said a timid voice from a wing bat chair facing the television, “She can’t hear anyone.” Those were the last words the wing bat chair would speak for a long time. Suddenly, a wheel chair rolled in from the dining area that was straight ahead of the doorway. Sitting in the wheel chair was a man in his boxer wearing a bandana with skulls and cross bones strewn about. The man appeared to be missing a leg, until Ben realized the man was sitting on his left leg as though he wanted to look like he was really missing his leg.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
"...To You"
I dropkicked a Pinata today.
I did not apologize; I did not mend his wounds.
I let him lay in pieces on the soft, green thorns.
It started as a lynching.
But the event turned sour as his blood smelled sweeter.
I was the Berserker the Army sent to end him.
I let the rod in my hand beat him until the noose snapped free.
He laid on the asphalt,
His clown eyes met mine,
And his clown mouth would not stop smiling at me.
The Army grabbed the prisoner to protect him.
"We must keep in good sport," they told me.
But I did not listen.
The Pinata Must Bleed.
I poked and prodded the Pinata,
Each strike driving deeper into his flesh,
But he would not bleed.
I threw the creature to the ground.
His blood was now starting to show it's true colors.
The Army could smell it's sweetness,
And they wanted it.
They brought him to me and cheered,
begging me to finish preparing their meal.
I held the Pinata in my hands,
And even though his arm was missing and he could no longer walk,
His head hanging by a flap of cardboard skin,
He would not stop smiling at me.
I dropkicked the Pinata.
I did not apologize; I did not mend his wounds.
I let him lay in pieces on the soft, green thorns.
The Army applauded and smiled, gorging on the innards of the prey.
As the blood of the slaughtered ran down their chin,
They erupted in a resounding anthem, but i only heard two words...
"Happy Birthday..."
I did not apologize; I did not mend his wounds.
I let him lay in pieces on the soft, green thorns.
It started as a lynching.
But the event turned sour as his blood smelled sweeter.
I was the Berserker the Army sent to end him.
I let the rod in my hand beat him until the noose snapped free.
He laid on the asphalt,
His clown eyes met mine,
And his clown mouth would not stop smiling at me.
The Army grabbed the prisoner to protect him.
"We must keep in good sport," they told me.
But I did not listen.
The Pinata Must Bleed.
I poked and prodded the Pinata,
Each strike driving deeper into his flesh,
But he would not bleed.
I threw the creature to the ground.
His blood was now starting to show it's true colors.
The Army could smell it's sweetness,
And they wanted it.
They brought him to me and cheered,
begging me to finish preparing their meal.
I held the Pinata in my hands,
And even though his arm was missing and he could no longer walk,
His head hanging by a flap of cardboard skin,
He would not stop smiling at me.
I dropkicked the Pinata.
I did not apologize; I did not mend his wounds.
I let him lay in pieces on the soft, green thorns.
The Army applauded and smiled, gorging on the innards of the prey.
As the blood of the slaughtered ran down their chin,
They erupted in a resounding anthem, but i only heard two words...
"Happy Birthday..."
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
"Are These Thoughts, or Is This Just My Imagination?"
Is there a difference between Sound and Noise? Personally, I find Noise to be imperfect; Rather bothersome with lack of harmony or rhythm to any of it's surrounding peers. Sound inspires me, always soothing me with it's beautifully abundant varieties. The best examples of what I'm saying would be when the Motor Vehicle is sick, the Doctor asks, 'What noise is it making?' In the Park, hearing the sound of children at play or the Wind whistling through the Trees often pulls one to ease from the noise of the city.
But, then I think... What if Noise is merely premature Sound? Perhaps when we listen to noise, it wasn't ready to be heard (Or possibly, we weren't ready to hear it)? Maybe Noise just needs to find it's voice, so it may speak in clearer consciousness what it was truly meaning to say. But since Noise is so young, it doesn't know where to look to find it's voice. Which makes me think, maybe Noise and Sound aren't so different. Perhaps Sound is Noise that found it's harmony and rhythm and knows how to express it.
But where did Noise find harmony and rhythm? Nothing spontaneously changes in neither in Chaos or Harmony without intervention. It takes two things to create change things. Maybe Sound is stretched Noise, altered to a Controller's will, but that wouldn't create harmony if It is forced into a state of unwanted cooperation. I purpose that Sound is Noise that has found it's complimentary Noise, that Noise has found it's voice in another peer; That when Noise finds another noise that harmoniously fuses with it, they mate and mature drastically into something as lovely as Sound because all they needed is each other to find their true potential and beauty.
Sometimes I feel like Noise. Quite imperfect, bothersome at times, a lot like most of the World; Without rhythm or harmony. But maybe I'd feel a lot less like Noise if I knew how to love and find harmony in the Noise around me, so the whole World would sound a little sweeter. But, what I really want is to find that one Noise that will complete me, help me mature, and compliment me in every way, because I don't want to be Noise that's finding it's Voice; I want to be Sound that's found it's Voice.
But, then I think... What if Noise is merely premature Sound? Perhaps when we listen to noise, it wasn't ready to be heard (Or possibly, we weren't ready to hear it)? Maybe Noise just needs to find it's voice, so it may speak in clearer consciousness what it was truly meaning to say. But since Noise is so young, it doesn't know where to look to find it's voice. Which makes me think, maybe Noise and Sound aren't so different. Perhaps Sound is Noise that found it's harmony and rhythm and knows how to express it.
But where did Noise find harmony and rhythm? Nothing spontaneously changes in neither in Chaos or Harmony without intervention. It takes two things to create change things. Maybe Sound is stretched Noise, altered to a Controller's will, but that wouldn't create harmony if It is forced into a state of unwanted cooperation. I purpose that Sound is Noise that has found it's complimentary Noise, that Noise has found it's voice in another peer; That when Noise finds another noise that harmoniously fuses with it, they mate and mature drastically into something as lovely as Sound because all they needed is each other to find their true potential and beauty.
Sometimes I feel like Noise. Quite imperfect, bothersome at times, a lot like most of the World; Without rhythm or harmony. But maybe I'd feel a lot less like Noise if I knew how to love and find harmony in the Noise around me, so the whole World would sound a little sweeter. But, what I really want is to find that one Noise that will complete me, help me mature, and compliment me in every way, because I don't want to be Noise that's finding it's Voice; I want to be Sound that's found it's Voice.
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