Every once and awhile I have something I need to say, something that needs to be expressed the moment after it's felt. Even though it's much past when I'm comfortable being awake, now is one of the moments.
One of the worst things about these moments, though, is that it often involves not wanting everyone to know, but being unable to say it to anyone in particular. There are emotions that would be uncomfortable and even inappropriate to be shared with some people but would perhaps be suited quite well for other people. So I'm stuck in an odd situation of having something that needs to be said, but being unable to say it to anyone in particular (with the exception, maybe of my parents) and at the same time not feeling that it's appropriate to be shared with all.
When this happens, I always turn to my old standby; poetry. It's the best tool I have for saying something without actually stating it and also expressing myself in a way that is satisfactory for me that wouldn't give much away about myself that others don't already know. I think. Anyway, what follows is me poetically turning my thoughts inside out. It's coming out raw, so don't expect anything spectacular.
Blended worlds
A blender must be an exciting place to be
Swirls of color and sensation all
Mixing life together in a dazzling array
Of swoops and swirls.
Perhaps people even are like that blend
Of fruits and vegetables, ice creams and
Sweeteners, orange juice and raspberries
All swirling together.
The noise of such excitement
Can grind at times; while beginning
Or slowing down, but the middle of the incessant
Noise is bearable, even pleasant.
Each moment more life swirls by
To add to the color and flavor of the blend.
An excitement unparalleled inside
That machine Goes on and on, until it's done.
Speeding up or slowing down,
The blender is merciless in its march
I just wish someone could enjoy
The moments the blender stops.
Perhaps I wasn't as good at hiding the meaning behind this one. Perhaps I was. Only time (or you, the reader) will tell, and meanwhile, I feel better about the evening. I have a lot to think over. Goodnight, world.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A small (not short) story
Hello blogger friends! I admit with frankness, I'm not blogging very much, though the reason is an understandable one. Between the life of a working full time student who also is involved with both a choir and a play, I'm a little sandwiched at the moment, and find little time for much other than taking care of the various things I've already committed myself too. Still, I found time today for a little bit of blogging fun.
I just barely started an introduction to fiction class. One of the first things that the book of that class mentions is the ending of books, about how some books are written merely for the purpose of enjoyment, while others accomplish that while still portraying a message. I decided to try my hand at a short story today. You can pick it apart as you wish (and in fact I'd be delighted if you did). So I hope you enjoy this small story.
Crossing Point
By Major Bubbles.
"The middle ground is always the worst," he thought, as he cautiously approached the opening of his cave. His heart began to race as the cold air that always mingles on the edge of the cave encroached his lungs, stinging his throat all the way down. He shivered as he got closer to the edge, the white, dead light from the world outside now beginning to overwhelm the warm and friendly yellow glow from inside his cove.
"Could something be waiting for him, just outside?" he wondered, his mouth dry and his breathing shallow. Wishing there was another way, he slowly poked his head around the corner, his heart beating so fiercely that he felt it pounding in his head. Trying with futility to quiet both breathing and heart, he stuck his head a little further out. Now, at this moment, when he couldn't quite see around the corner, but someone could probably see the top of his head, was the moment of greatest alarm. Trying to swallow his dry tongue, he pushed out far enough to see around the corner. A sharp intake of breath and. . .
Nothing. Even though it meant temporary safety, all his nerves were tensed, every muscle ready, knowing that any moment the clear horizon could be smudged by a hostile observer. Wishing for extra eyes, and trying to see everywhere at once, he crept further out into the cold, hard light. He felt exposed, cold, and vulnerable. Thank goodness the distance to travel across the middle ground was not long.
He made his way across, coming to the place just around the corner of safety, of another secluded spot. Clutching his only protection close against his skin, he sidled around the corner, wary of anything moving. Suddenly, there was a sound! The soft padding of something moving, quietly, slowly behind him. His heart began to race, the adrenaline in his body surging as he considered what to do. Fight? No, he was much to vulnerable and exposed. Flight was the only option. The quiet movement behind him echoed in his ears, pushing his heart to greater limits. Blood rushing to his head, he fled.
"A few steps more, I mustn't be seen!" he plead to whoever listens to human thoughts. "Let me not be seen!"
The soft footfalls behind drove him on. One step. Two. The sound grew greater, perhaps more because of his fright than actual fact.
He practically flew into his safety, into seclusion from watching eyes, pausing only to shut the way behind him. Flicking on the lights, he breathed a sigh of relief, comforted by the warm yellow glow of familiar lights.
"That's the last time I forget to take my towel with me to the shower," he sighed, beginning to towel off.
I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope that it was enjoyable. Feel free to pick it apart, I'm kind of hoping you do.
I just barely started an introduction to fiction class. One of the first things that the book of that class mentions is the ending of books, about how some books are written merely for the purpose of enjoyment, while others accomplish that while still portraying a message. I decided to try my hand at a short story today. You can pick it apart as you wish (and in fact I'd be delighted if you did). So I hope you enjoy this small story.
Crossing Point
By Major Bubbles.
"The middle ground is always the worst," he thought, as he cautiously approached the opening of his cave. His heart began to race as the cold air that always mingles on the edge of the cave encroached his lungs, stinging his throat all the way down. He shivered as he got closer to the edge, the white, dead light from the world outside now beginning to overwhelm the warm and friendly yellow glow from inside his cove.
"Could something be waiting for him, just outside?" he wondered, his mouth dry and his breathing shallow. Wishing there was another way, he slowly poked his head around the corner, his heart beating so fiercely that he felt it pounding in his head. Trying with futility to quiet both breathing and heart, he stuck his head a little further out. Now, at this moment, when he couldn't quite see around the corner, but someone could probably see the top of his head, was the moment of greatest alarm. Trying to swallow his dry tongue, he pushed out far enough to see around the corner. A sharp intake of breath and. . .
Nothing. Even though it meant temporary safety, all his nerves were tensed, every muscle ready, knowing that any moment the clear horizon could be smudged by a hostile observer. Wishing for extra eyes, and trying to see everywhere at once, he crept further out into the cold, hard light. He felt exposed, cold, and vulnerable. Thank goodness the distance to travel across the middle ground was not long.
He made his way across, coming to the place just around the corner of safety, of another secluded spot. Clutching his only protection close against his skin, he sidled around the corner, wary of anything moving. Suddenly, there was a sound! The soft padding of something moving, quietly, slowly behind him. His heart began to race, the adrenaline in his body surging as he considered what to do. Fight? No, he was much to vulnerable and exposed. Flight was the only option. The quiet movement behind him echoed in his ears, pushing his heart to greater limits. Blood rushing to his head, he fled.
"A few steps more, I mustn't be seen!" he plead to whoever listens to human thoughts. "Let me not be seen!"
The soft footfalls behind drove him on. One step. Two. The sound grew greater, perhaps more because of his fright than actual fact.
He practically flew into his safety, into seclusion from watching eyes, pausing only to shut the way behind him. Flicking on the lights, he breathed a sigh of relief, comforted by the warm yellow glow of familiar lights.
"That's the last time I forget to take my towel with me to the shower," he sighed, beginning to towel off.
I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope that it was enjoyable. Feel free to pick it apart, I'm kind of hoping you do.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Vocabulary
Fwidipan, who I have made mention of before, once caught me in a web of kindly meant fabrication. I have the tendency to assume that people are better at things then they normally let on, and so I also am wont to compliment people for skills that I have not yet had the chance to see in action. In other words, I assume that people are good at things when it's very possible that they are not. Such was the case, once, with Fwidipan, who sought to disabuse my ideas of her ability on the piano by saying "Major, you've never actually heard me play." Her timing was most exquisite, as I was in the process of explaining just how good she was to my mother. It's a good thing that those sorts of fabrications never do much to hurt my self esteem, or I may have been irreversibly damaged.
I thought about it later, though, trying to come up with a reason as to why I was so ready to accept that my friend was indeed the talented pianist that she later turned out to be, and I finally came up with a reason. Yes, my friends, I would very easily be scammed out of my mind (though it is still in debate how much good cerebral donations do anyone) because I based my opinion of Fwidipan's talent on one thing, and one thing only: her vocabulary was right.
Now, before you decide that I truly am a simpleton that enjoys writing nonsense on the Internet, and then checking to see how many people are reading it, I'd like to defend the intelligence of what I just said. I get a strange satisfaction out of sitting in front of my computer, checking the meter and saying "oh, look Bubbles, you got another one." But that doesn't defend my intelligence in any way. Now the defense may present it's case.
I call as my first witness my brother, who for the moment I will call Three (mostly because I'm stealing the idea from Tolkien Boy who for the longest time referred to me as four, and this is a pretty easy way to refer to someone in a nondescript way). My brother is a very intelligent guy, and understand computers and things to do with them and his job much more than I do. How do I know that? Well, because he talks about hard drive, gigs, memory, storing capacity, something to do with rams and fords, and other stuff like that. When a person understands (and can explain) the meanings and uses of the vocabulary, then more often than not they actually do know more about it than I do. Unless I can do the same.
Now, we go back to Fwidipan. She mentioned how much she loved playing different styles of music that I know I've heard of before, but most certainly couldn't tell you what they're like. Certain composers she mentioned (that I was vaguely familiar with) and I got rather intimidated. So, I came to the natural conclusion that she must be a good pianist.
Now, here's the clincher. Most of the time, and with almost all walks of life, I make up my own vocabulary. I'm worried that that means that pretty soon people will begin to either think that I'm a genius (which I'm not) or a simpleton (which I'm not) or just plain crazy (which I just might be. I've never been tested). What can I say? I'm a cahoodling maniacle. Of course, I might have just used two words that already exist (or maybe just one) that have absolutely no relevance at all to what has been said. Mlegh!
I thought about it later, though, trying to come up with a reason as to why I was so ready to accept that my friend was indeed the talented pianist that she later turned out to be, and I finally came up with a reason. Yes, my friends, I would very easily be scammed out of my mind (though it is still in debate how much good cerebral donations do anyone) because I based my opinion of Fwidipan's talent on one thing, and one thing only: her vocabulary was right.
Now, before you decide that I truly am a simpleton that enjoys writing nonsense on the Internet, and then checking to see how many people are reading it, I'd like to defend the intelligence of what I just said. I get a strange satisfaction out of sitting in front of my computer, checking the meter and saying "oh, look Bubbles, you got another one." But that doesn't defend my intelligence in any way. Now the defense may present it's case.
I call as my first witness my brother, who for the moment I will call Three (mostly because I'm stealing the idea from Tolkien Boy who for the longest time referred to me as four, and this is a pretty easy way to refer to someone in a nondescript way). My brother is a very intelligent guy, and understand computers and things to do with them and his job much more than I do. How do I know that? Well, because he talks about hard drive, gigs, memory, storing capacity, something to do with rams and fords, and other stuff like that. When a person understands (and can explain) the meanings and uses of the vocabulary, then more often than not they actually do know more about it than I do. Unless I can do the same.
Now, we go back to Fwidipan. She mentioned how much she loved playing different styles of music that I know I've heard of before, but most certainly couldn't tell you what they're like. Certain composers she mentioned (that I was vaguely familiar with) and I got rather intimidated. So, I came to the natural conclusion that she must be a good pianist.
Now, here's the clincher. Most of the time, and with almost all walks of life, I make up my own vocabulary. I'm worried that that means that pretty soon people will begin to either think that I'm a genius (which I'm not) or a simpleton (which I'm not) or just plain crazy (which I just might be. I've never been tested). What can I say? I'm a cahoodling maniacle. Of course, I might have just used two words that already exist (or maybe just one) that have absolutely no relevance at all to what has been said. Mlegh!
Monday, August 18, 2008
Not Sure
"Where are the clowns?"
I've decided that there are many things that may be counted on in life. The fact that I will be more serious when I'm physically exhausted is one of them. That I will be more spry and basically overly euphoric when I am physically brimming with energy is another. Yet another thing that I can count on in life is that my mother will continue to love me, that my father will continue to be there when I need it (and consequently kick my rear when needed), that friends will always be important to me, and that little children will always, always make me smile.
The problem is that there are things of which I am in a constant state of not counting on, or in other words that I am unsure of. For instance, I am unsure as to where the stinking clowns really are, though as Sondheim seemed to know, I'm begining to suspect that they may be closer than I could have expected or wanted. I'm unsure as to what I want to do with myself career wise, I'm unsure as to the whether tomorrow, and I most definately do not know if the apple I'm going to eat after writing this is going to be as scrumptious as the last one I ate.
It's odd that those things of which I am unsure could cause more commotion in me then the things of which I am sure. For instance, I know that if I go on a date, I will have a good time. Past experience has proven this to be the case almost exclusively, so I spend a sinfully small amount of time actually premeditating a date. This comes with a dependant clause, though (I'm thinking of opening it up with a 'because'), because if I should be very attracted to the girl, all bets are off.
I would explain, but that would give a large part of the "me mystery" away, so I will not be explaining, and you may draw all of your own conclusions. I suggest using a pencil.
I've decided that there are many things that may be counted on in life. The fact that I will be more serious when I'm physically exhausted is one of them. That I will be more spry and basically overly euphoric when I am physically brimming with energy is another. Yet another thing that I can count on in life is that my mother will continue to love me, that my father will continue to be there when I need it (and consequently kick my rear when needed), that friends will always be important to me, and that little children will always, always make me smile.
The problem is that there are things of which I am in a constant state of not counting on, or in other words that I am unsure of. For instance, I am unsure as to where the stinking clowns really are, though as Sondheim seemed to know, I'm begining to suspect that they may be closer than I could have expected or wanted. I'm unsure as to what I want to do with myself career wise, I'm unsure as to the whether tomorrow, and I most definately do not know if the apple I'm going to eat after writing this is going to be as scrumptious as the last one I ate.
It's odd that those things of which I am unsure could cause more commotion in me then the things of which I am sure. For instance, I know that if I go on a date, I will have a good time. Past experience has proven this to be the case almost exclusively, so I spend a sinfully small amount of time actually premeditating a date. This comes with a dependant clause, though (I'm thinking of opening it up with a 'because'), because if I should be very attracted to the girl, all bets are off.
I would explain, but that would give a large part of the "me mystery" away, so I will not be explaining, and you may draw all of your own conclusions. I suggest using a pencil.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Thought Tank
Salutations from the mind of Major Bubbles. It would seem that brilliance is not as hard to come by as would be imagined, or at very least that good ideas for very random and interesting blogs are not hard to come by. It's getting them to stay that is the problem. Perhaps I (being the mind and power behind this very blog) should take the time to consciously write down ideas, therefore assuring that those ideas stay concretely in the conscious world.
You see, I as a brain have a problem that is very difficult to overcome. I process more information, more electrons that fire, and more unknown stuff than any one computer, or probably any current string of computers does. I'm not sure (seeing as my carrier has not taken the time to present the knowledge to my connection to the outside world, the senses) whether this is the truth, but as a mind I'm allowed to be as vain as I want, as long as my carrier is good at repressing or at least masking that vanity in a more socially acceptable atmosphere.
Still, I have a problem. I've taken control, for the moment, or my carrier, to make sure that everyone may know that it's not HIS fault that there are long lapses in interesting and rather unique blogs, but rather that it is MY fault. Major Bubbles' Brain. If you want to, you may call me Charles. I will know explain the problem that I have is wont to make it difficult for the Major to display the normal brilliance that I am the author of but he gets all the credit for.
My thought tank has a hole in it. This is no laughing matter, I assure you. Other people have referred to this same problem as attention deficit disorder (and done so mostly in jest, though I'm told it's really quite a serious issue). Every brain, or I at least, takes a moment while it's still in the development stage to order a thought tank, a great big vat where all the information can be stored, either to be swirled together or kept separated by tiny vials of precious information. I can't tell you what a mess it makes when information that is supposed to be kept separate from the rest of the soup is smashed open and mixed with all the rest. I understand that happened to Albert Einstein's brain once and the result where some rather controversial theories that threw everyone into a stew. I digress.
My point is, my thought tank has a leak. I've been coming up with new and brilliant ideas to put into the mix, and so I store them in the tank, only to come back five minutes later to discover that my precious thoughts have all leaked out onto the floor! It makes a terrible mess, and as any brain knows, the more thoughts get lost, the more the carrier has to blow his or her nose to get rid of all the congested thoughts that end up pooling there. (That's what nasal congestion is, didn't you know?)
The effects of a leaky thought tank are disastrous. Not only does it lead to a congested respiratory device, it also leads to short attention spans and very short term memory. When I say short, I mean the shelf or tank life of a thought is about four minutes. The carrier of the brain (as is the current case with mine) then exhibits attitudes that other carriers associate with mental instability. Talking of random things, thinking that things are happening that aren't (that's some of the thought that ends up stuck in the tank), and the such.
So please, if you see my carrier blowing his nose consistently, or even if you notice a slightly maniacal tendency with him, be considerate and forgiving. He's trying to deal with leaky thought tank.
You see, I as a brain have a problem that is very difficult to overcome. I process more information, more electrons that fire, and more unknown stuff than any one computer, or probably any current string of computers does. I'm not sure (seeing as my carrier has not taken the time to present the knowledge to my connection to the outside world, the senses) whether this is the truth, but as a mind I'm allowed to be as vain as I want, as long as my carrier is good at repressing or at least masking that vanity in a more socially acceptable atmosphere.
Still, I have a problem. I've taken control, for the moment, or my carrier, to make sure that everyone may know that it's not HIS fault that there are long lapses in interesting and rather unique blogs, but rather that it is MY fault. Major Bubbles' Brain. If you want to, you may call me Charles. I will know explain the problem that I have is wont to make it difficult for the Major to display the normal brilliance that I am the author of but he gets all the credit for.
My thought tank has a hole in it. This is no laughing matter, I assure you. Other people have referred to this same problem as attention deficit disorder (and done so mostly in jest, though I'm told it's really quite a serious issue). Every brain, or I at least, takes a moment while it's still in the development stage to order a thought tank, a great big vat where all the information can be stored, either to be swirled together or kept separated by tiny vials of precious information. I can't tell you what a mess it makes when information that is supposed to be kept separate from the rest of the soup is smashed open and mixed with all the rest. I understand that happened to Albert Einstein's brain once and the result where some rather controversial theories that threw everyone into a stew. I digress.
My point is, my thought tank has a leak. I've been coming up with new and brilliant ideas to put into the mix, and so I store them in the tank, only to come back five minutes later to discover that my precious thoughts have all leaked out onto the floor! It makes a terrible mess, and as any brain knows, the more thoughts get lost, the more the carrier has to blow his or her nose to get rid of all the congested thoughts that end up pooling there. (That's what nasal congestion is, didn't you know?)
The effects of a leaky thought tank are disastrous. Not only does it lead to a congested respiratory device, it also leads to short attention spans and very short term memory. When I say short, I mean the shelf or tank life of a thought is about four minutes. The carrier of the brain (as is the current case with mine) then exhibits attitudes that other carriers associate with mental instability. Talking of random things, thinking that things are happening that aren't (that's some of the thought that ends up stuck in the tank), and the such.
So please, if you see my carrier blowing his nose consistently, or even if you notice a slightly maniacal tendency with him, be considerate and forgiving. He's trying to deal with leaky thought tank.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)