- Our internet connection has been very sporadic lately. It makes spores. No, not really. It just isn't very reliable. In fact, there is a good chance that I will lose my connection before I'm done typing this sen
Just kidding.
- Blackmore's Night is a Renaissance band with some really cool music. I can't remember if I blogged about them already (since it's been like 52 years since I was blogging regularly). Anyway, the lead guiarist, Ritchie Blackmore, used to be a rock n' roll guy, and then he and his wife started a renaissance band and I think it's sweet. Some of their music gets a little rocky, but most of it sounds like something from Ultima V.... Stones, and whatnot.
- Final Fantasy 9 is way better than I remember it. I'm finally playing through it again, and I'm loving it. Hey, that's the McDonald's slogan! It gets into YOUR MIND and then it just lays there and burns...
_ I didn't blog about the NBA championships, but I really wanted the Celtics to win, and not only because "O.J. II" was on the other team. I wanted Kevin Garnett to get his championship. I always feel bad for those good athletes who get put on a rail because they didn't win the big game. Now he won it. And I've always like him when he played for Minnesota. Also, Bill Simmons has a way of making you root for his teams when you don't have your own to root for. I mean, what do I care about the Boston Celtics? Way more than I should, that's for sure.
- I've got a sweet MTG Mill Deck. It's so fun to play.
- I want to see "Wanted."
- I want to see "WALL-E."
- I want to see "Iron Man 2."
- I think Iron Man is probably my favorite comic book movie. Robert Downey Jr. was so fantastic and the Tony Starke character is perfect. He's better than Wolverine, and don't think that's easy to say. He's like a cool Brainiac (Brainiac's destiny number is Pi, btw. X deploy, Y forfeit, and then something about a square root for power. Look it up.)
- "Time flys. Especially sense I built a clock-a-polt. This Is the Colbert Report!" - Stephen Colbert
- I found the complete first season of Psych for $20! I was psyched! Hahahahaa! Get it? Eh? EHH?
- I had dirt cake for my birthday, and one of the red and yellow gummy worms was also half green and white. I named him Barack.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Isle of Aye
A short story I'm working on. It's silly.
Isle of Aye
I wasn’t sure what it was, at first, but that’s only because my eyes were unfocused. And that was only because I had fallen forever to land on a downy mattress, fluffed with a dozen pillows. Anyway, after a moment, I recognized it as a tulip.
It glared at me for a bit, turning a purplish hue, before straightening up and impatiently demanding I move. I rolled over and fell off the Flower Bed, and the tulip chortled. Or at least I imagined it did. Having never heard a tulip chortle, I could only guess as to what that might sound like. And I guessed it sounded like this gentleman/vegetation.
I stood up and brushed myself off. The air was pleasant, the view was pleasant, the smells were pleasant, but something didn’t seem quite right. For one, I couldn’t remember my name, but the Wal-Mart sticker on my shirt had “Michael” scribbled on it in childish hand-writing; also, one of my shoes was missing. The later didn’t distress me all that much, since shoes are bound to be lost when falling out of reality. Or into it, depending on one’s point-of-view.
“Where am I?” I queried, not the least bit worried I was addressing a giant flower.
It swayed a bit, sizing me up (I assumed; what else would it be doing?). “The Isle, of course,” it meowed. Now, you might be thinking, as was I, that this was poignantly absurd - flowers don’t meow. Yet this one did, and who was I to argue?
“The Isle?” I repeated in a ponderous tone. It was a tone I preferred to use to imply the person (or thing) I was dialoging with had been too ambiguous. The tulip understood, for soon he continued.
“The Isle of Aye.”
“An eye?”
“Of Aye,” he corrected; and if you think it was embarrassing being corrected by foliage, well, you’re only on the first chapter.
“Whose eye?”
“Not an eye. Aye, as in a word of assent, agreement, or confirmation.”
“Ah,” I said, the concept being much more abundantly clear. The tulip was apparently bored with our conversation, so he climbed into his bed, and promptly fell asleep.
The Isle of Aye was a lovely place. Green grass, rolling hills, smooth mountain sides covered in dozens of waterfalls that ran down to form crystal lakes. Flowers and fruit trees populated the landscape. But oddly enough, the Isle was not surrounded by water.
“Why do they call it an island?”
“The Island,” growled Sergei. Sergei was a GroundHog. At that time, I knew very little about anything, but that this rodent was named Sergei, I was more than certain. He poked his head out of a little hole, chattered his teeth together and stared blankly.
“Where did you come from?” I asked, but only to be polite.
“From under the ground,” he said simply, and it all became clear to me.
“There is no water,” I explained.
“Are.”
“What?”
“Are no water,” he said definitively.
“Water is singular,” I argued.
“Nay, water is plural. You don’t have a ‘cup of a water.’ You have a ‘cup of water;’ like a ‘cup of monkeys.’”
I had to concede to his superior logic. “There are no water around the Isle.”
“Your point?”
“Why do they call it an island?”
Sergei sighed, which, frankly, is endearing in a GroundHog. “The Isle. Because it is not connected to land.”
I nodded. It most certainly wasn’t. Hanging in a pinkish-orange cloud-filled sky, absent of any support or means of floating (which it was), the Isle was reminiscent of a paradisiacal haven. Or a prison. A paradisiacal prison. “Do you really say that?”
“Say what?” he asked.
“’Cup of monkeys?’”
“Only when they all get out, of course.”
“Of course.” That only made sense. I began to walk away.
“Stop!” he bellowed suddenly.
“What is it?”
“You are walking on my ground!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This ground is mine, and you are standing on it. It’s mine!” the GroundHog said.
“Shall I stand there?” I pointed to a small river bank.
“No! That is mine too!”
“What about-”
“Mine!”
I frowned. Sergei had issues. “Aren’t you supposed to help me?”
He looked dumbfounded, then hung his head. “You can stand there. If you must.”
I smiled. I counted that as a win, and defeating furry rodents in battles of wits was a prime source of self-satisfaction. “I have questions.”
“I might have answers. I might not. I’m only a subterranean rodent.”
“First, how did I get here?”
“Dimensional vortex.”
“Really?”
“No.” Sergei sighed again. “You are too gullible. Dimensional vortexes are green, fool.”
I bowed my head, a bit ashamed. Of course dimensional vortices are green. I was scared to ask my next question for fear of even greater embarrassment, but I felt that I must. “What is this place-”
“The Isle of-”
“-for?”
“Oh.” His tail bristled. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You don’t know?”
“Of course I know! I’m your guide, remember? I know everything.” He paused. “Well, everything I know of, that is.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
He sat down and put up three fingers. “One, because it would not be prudent to hand out that information willy-nilly now, would it? No, it wouldn’t.” He put down his fingers and nodded twice.
“And?”
“What?” He looked at me with a blank expression and went back to brushing his tail.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“Practically or theoretically?”
“What’s the difference?” I asked, but only because I thought he didn’t know.
“One I can tell you, one I can’t.”
“Oh. Practically, then.”
He grinned. I think. “You are supposed to leave.”
“But I just got here.”
“I don’t make the rules.” He shrugged and began digging in the dirt.
“Will you help me?”
“I suppose I must.” Sergei scratched the back of his ear. “Contractually obligated.” I mentally breathed an air of relief (which isn’t easy). Bound by paper, I had no doubts Sergei would follow through with his duties.
Isle of Aye
I wasn’t sure what it was, at first, but that’s only because my eyes were unfocused. And that was only because I had fallen forever to land on a downy mattress, fluffed with a dozen pillows. Anyway, after a moment, I recognized it as a tulip.
It glared at me for a bit, turning a purplish hue, before straightening up and impatiently demanding I move. I rolled over and fell off the Flower Bed, and the tulip chortled. Or at least I imagined it did. Having never heard a tulip chortle, I could only guess as to what that might sound like. And I guessed it sounded like this gentleman/vegetation.
I stood up and brushed myself off. The air was pleasant, the view was pleasant, the smells were pleasant, but something didn’t seem quite right. For one, I couldn’t remember my name, but the Wal-Mart sticker on my shirt had “Michael” scribbled on it in childish hand-writing; also, one of my shoes was missing. The later didn’t distress me all that much, since shoes are bound to be lost when falling out of reality. Or into it, depending on one’s point-of-view.
“Where am I?” I queried, not the least bit worried I was addressing a giant flower.
It swayed a bit, sizing me up (I assumed; what else would it be doing?). “The Isle, of course,” it meowed. Now, you might be thinking, as was I, that this was poignantly absurd - flowers don’t meow. Yet this one did, and who was I to argue?
“The Isle?” I repeated in a ponderous tone. It was a tone I preferred to use to imply the person (or thing) I was dialoging with had been too ambiguous. The tulip understood, for soon he continued.
“The Isle of Aye.”
“An eye?”
“Of Aye,” he corrected; and if you think it was embarrassing being corrected by foliage, well, you’re only on the first chapter.
“Whose eye?”
“Not an eye. Aye, as in a word of assent, agreement, or confirmation.”
“Ah,” I said, the concept being much more abundantly clear. The tulip was apparently bored with our conversation, so he climbed into his bed, and promptly fell asleep.
The Isle of Aye was a lovely place. Green grass, rolling hills, smooth mountain sides covered in dozens of waterfalls that ran down to form crystal lakes. Flowers and fruit trees populated the landscape. But oddly enough, the Isle was not surrounded by water.
“Why do they call it an island?”
“The Island,” growled Sergei. Sergei was a GroundHog. At that time, I knew very little about anything, but that this rodent was named Sergei, I was more than certain. He poked his head out of a little hole, chattered his teeth together and stared blankly.
“Where did you come from?” I asked, but only to be polite.
“From under the ground,” he said simply, and it all became clear to me.
“There is no water,” I explained.
“Are.”
“What?”
“Are no water,” he said definitively.
“Water is singular,” I argued.
“Nay, water is plural. You don’t have a ‘cup of a water.’ You have a ‘cup of water;’ like a ‘cup of monkeys.’”
I had to concede to his superior logic. “There are no water around the Isle.”
“Your point?”
“Why do they call it an island?”
Sergei sighed, which, frankly, is endearing in a GroundHog. “The Isle. Because it is not connected to land.”
I nodded. It most certainly wasn’t. Hanging in a pinkish-orange cloud-filled sky, absent of any support or means of floating (which it was), the Isle was reminiscent of a paradisiacal haven. Or a prison. A paradisiacal prison. “Do you really say that?”
“Say what?” he asked.
“’Cup of monkeys?’”
“Only when they all get out, of course.”
“Of course.” That only made sense. I began to walk away.
“Stop!” he bellowed suddenly.
“What is it?”
“You are walking on my ground!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This ground is mine, and you are standing on it. It’s mine!” the GroundHog said.
“Shall I stand there?” I pointed to a small river bank.
“No! That is mine too!”
“What about-”
“Mine!”
I frowned. Sergei had issues. “Aren’t you supposed to help me?”
He looked dumbfounded, then hung his head. “You can stand there. If you must.”
I smiled. I counted that as a win, and defeating furry rodents in battles of wits was a prime source of self-satisfaction. “I have questions.”
“I might have answers. I might not. I’m only a subterranean rodent.”
“First, how did I get here?”
“Dimensional vortex.”
“Really?”
“No.” Sergei sighed again. “You are too gullible. Dimensional vortexes are green, fool.”
I bowed my head, a bit ashamed. Of course dimensional vortices are green. I was scared to ask my next question for fear of even greater embarrassment, but I felt that I must. “What is this place-”
“The Isle of-”
“-for?”
“Oh.” His tail bristled. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You don’t know?”
“Of course I know! I’m your guide, remember? I know everything.” He paused. “Well, everything I know of, that is.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
He sat down and put up three fingers. “One, because it would not be prudent to hand out that information willy-nilly now, would it? No, it wouldn’t.” He put down his fingers and nodded twice.
“And?”
“What?” He looked at me with a blank expression and went back to brushing his tail.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“Practically or theoretically?”
“What’s the difference?” I asked, but only because I thought he didn’t know.
“One I can tell you, one I can’t.”
“Oh. Practically, then.”
He grinned. I think. “You are supposed to leave.”
“But I just got here.”
“I don’t make the rules.” He shrugged and began digging in the dirt.
“Will you help me?”
“I suppose I must.” Sergei scratched the back of his ear. “Contractually obligated.” I mentally breathed an air of relief (which isn’t easy). Bound by paper, I had no doubts Sergei would follow through with his duties.
Friday, June 20, 2008
me, again
- I doubt anyone still checks this. I wouldn’t, if I were you. Thank goodness I’m not. J/k. You’re all wonderful people.
- I finished my history class. I loved this class; the first one since my second freshman semester that I looked forward to. By the way, writing for history is so… gray compared to the writing I like to do. They want brevity and precision. They want structure. It’s great for my debating skills, and other stuff, too, I’m sure. It’s just a boring way to write. Oh, oh - I have a new record. I wrote a six-page paper in an hour, the morning it was due, and got an A. Woot.
- So, I’m planning on marrying Tuesday. We’ve talked about it a lot, and that part’s decided. I haven’t officially proposed yet, but it’s decided. She got Mercedez (her daughter) permanently (at least for now (see, I misused “permanently;” I can do that ‘cause this is a blog)). Mercedez is six. She is a beautiful, energetic, lovely young girl. She also has not been raised in a Christian environment and has a strong will.
I’m going to be her father, in a way. The responsibility of her being raised rightly is going to be on my shoulders. I’m going to have a six-year old daughter. It’s daunting. She has been staying here while Tuesday works (Tues works overnights) and has had trouble staying in bed. A new place, and all that. So tonight I went up there and almost spanked her. I probably should have, but it was too hard. So instead I got stern and threatened spankings. It worked, but I wonder if I would have followed through. I better get some resolve, and fast. I think I would have. I have to.
It’s all new to her. She had been living with her dad, mostly, for the past year or so. She wasn’t made to mind, she wasn’t given any structure. And now she is going to have to. But I don’t want her to hate me. I know, that sounds so petulant, but it’s true. It’s going to be tough for awhile, so pray for me, and Tues and Mercy. And Katie. She and I have always been so close, and this is hard for her to see another little girl taking a prominent place. It’s hard on me too, to see it being so hard on her.
- I almost cried again this past Sunday. I got thinking about Dan, and how Tuesday would never get to meet him, here on earth. Lots of memories. Pastor has been preaching a series on Heaven, and how Christians ought to long to leave this world to be there. Well, nothing reminds a Christian of how horrible it is here and how wonderful it will be there like the passing of a loved one. Thinking of Dan always makes me hate this place so much. I wish Tues could know him. I think she and Mercy are coming for the 4th, and I want to take her over to the cemetery. I used to feel so weird talking or writing about him. I hate that. When I go, I want you all to talk about me. I know, that’s shallow; but it’s true. I want people to talk about me. I want to have made an impact on you. Dan made an impact on me. Dan was incredibly important to me. Here I am, crying again. I wish he could have been at Dave’s wedding. I wish he could be at mine.
- I'll try to keep up on this a bit more. I guess no one knows what's going on in my life, so I'll try to share.
- I finished my history class. I loved this class; the first one since my second freshman semester that I looked forward to. By the way, writing for history is so… gray compared to the writing I like to do. They want brevity and precision. They want structure. It’s great for my debating skills, and other stuff, too, I’m sure. It’s just a boring way to write. Oh, oh - I have a new record. I wrote a six-page paper in an hour, the morning it was due, and got an A. Woot.
- So, I’m planning on marrying Tuesday. We’ve talked about it a lot, and that part’s decided. I haven’t officially proposed yet, but it’s decided. She got Mercedez (her daughter) permanently (at least for now (see, I misused “permanently;” I can do that ‘cause this is a blog)). Mercedez is six. She is a beautiful, energetic, lovely young girl. She also has not been raised in a Christian environment and has a strong will.
I’m going to be her father, in a way. The responsibility of her being raised rightly is going to be on my shoulders. I’m going to have a six-year old daughter. It’s daunting. She has been staying here while Tuesday works (Tues works overnights) and has had trouble staying in bed. A new place, and all that. So tonight I went up there and almost spanked her. I probably should have, but it was too hard. So instead I got stern and threatened spankings. It worked, but I wonder if I would have followed through. I better get some resolve, and fast. I think I would have. I have to.
It’s all new to her. She had been living with her dad, mostly, for the past year or so. She wasn’t made to mind, she wasn’t given any structure. And now she is going to have to. But I don’t want her to hate me. I know, that sounds so petulant, but it’s true. It’s going to be tough for awhile, so pray for me, and Tues and Mercy. And Katie. She and I have always been so close, and this is hard for her to see another little girl taking a prominent place. It’s hard on me too, to see it being so hard on her.
- I almost cried again this past Sunday. I got thinking about Dan, and how Tuesday would never get to meet him, here on earth. Lots of memories. Pastor has been preaching a series on Heaven, and how Christians ought to long to leave this world to be there. Well, nothing reminds a Christian of how horrible it is here and how wonderful it will be there like the passing of a loved one. Thinking of Dan always makes me hate this place so much. I wish Tues could know him. I think she and Mercy are coming for the 4th, and I want to take her over to the cemetery. I used to feel so weird talking or writing about him. I hate that. When I go, I want you all to talk about me. I know, that’s shallow; but it’s true. I want people to talk about me. I want to have made an impact on you. Dan made an impact on me. Dan was incredibly important to me. Here I am, crying again. I wish he could have been at Dave’s wedding. I wish he could be at mine.
- I'll try to keep up on this a bit more. I guess no one knows what's going on in my life, so I'll try to share.
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