Miss Conception

Reserve the single judgment
that was tethered to your bed,
lay it down with no remorse
no caution in your tread.

For she walks toward you nightly
raving of her endless trust,
while the clock ticking without end
watches and gathers dust.

Sit still and listen to the sound
that punctuates the night,
a laugh for your judgment's final turn
and of her last delight.

Now in the bed you made for her
the sheets forgive your haste,
of hands so timid upon her breast
the clock had thought misplaced.


The cry, the judgment at last released
into her waiting womb,
now the secret tethered to the bed
will follow you to her tomb.

Irene Instills Initiative. Interesting...

Sweet mother of [insert deity here]!  Isn't it astounding that I can go four months without writing in here, without so much as an explanation?  Is it more or less of an insult to my intelligence that I cannot even reason with myself to come up with an appropriate excuse for my literary hiatus?  A hurricane has to make landfall for this saga (for lack of a better word) to be reopened, apparently.  I'm not sure if an apology is in order or not.  I suppose I will have to resort to the usual technique; write incessantly until all memory of my literary drought is washed away.

Two distinct moods are present within my empty apartment.  On one hand, it is somewhat therapeutic sitting alone in this enormous space, with nothing heard but the rain, increasing wind, and my own keystrokes.  On the other hand, the silence is eerie and foreboding, and the emptiness somewhat saddening.  Perhaps it is this very duality that has finally put me in the mood for writing again.

If the amount of writing I attempt coincides directly with a contradictory, yet ultimately pleasant mood, I fear for my future career.

So far I have been successful in saying nearly absolutely nothing in the most verbose way possible.  I suppose I have all of those years of high school writing, that is to say writing about something I clearly have scant knowledge of.  Yet I was in the top ten percentile of my high school graduating class.  Add that to the list of things I truly don't deserve, with all of the nonexistent effort I put into high school academics, it would have been more appropriate for me to be a C student, at best.  College sure was a wake up call- actually having to try to earn good grades?  There's a concept that is very foreign to me.

Writing to cure boredom is a dangerous hobby.  Unfortunately, it has become my first line of defense against the most contagious of mood-altering disorders, boredom.  Boredom is an interesting concept.  (Irony!)  There should be no reason for a person to be bored at all, considering the options available to amuse oneself at any given moment.  Granted, my opportunities are somewhat limited by the arrival of bad weather, but even that is by choice.

Simply put, we are bored by choice.  The opportunities one has at any moment are so vast, it would be impossible to name them all.  I myself can think of several stimulating, or otherwise productive activities I could potentially be engaging myself in.  (I'd rather not list them all, as it would only further the guilt I feel in not pursuing these activities.)  I'm fairly certain that I'm not alone in this type of thinking- there is a whole host of interesting things to do, yet the initiative to actually start them is not present.  Therefore, it is not boredom itself that is the factor here, laziness acts as the catalyst to boredom; because simply, it's too damn tiring to actually try doing anything.

Hopefully future entries will not be as sparsely placed, and although I can promise nothing, I can certainly take the initiative to try and write more.  Unless it gets boring, of course.  Thank you for reading!

Word of the day:
penurious - adjective:
1. Extremely poor.
2. Extremely frugal or stingy         

Zombie Jesus - Christianity is Terrifying

I'm always a little bit unsure as to how to start talking on here.  Do I just type whatever comes to mind, and hope that through the endless stream of nonsense comes a glimmer of rationality?  Fuck no.  I just like to type whatever pops into my head!  Well, not whatever pops into my head.  I'm sure that almost none of you are thrilled to be reading about my sexual fantasies.  Or perhaps you are; I'm not going to make sweeping generalizations.  I hate sweeping generalizations.

Speaking of things that I hate, Easter is coming up in around two days.  That's right; the day that the supposed son of God resurrected, and we hide chocolate eggs and eat lamb to consecrate this miracle.  Now I love chocolate and lamb as much as the next guy, and I'm certainly not going to knock commercialism (let's face it- Christmas would be the most boring fucking holiday in the world without its rampant consumerism and schmaltzy decorations) but I just find it hilarious how such a religious holiday could be transmogrified into something so hilarious.

Leave it to us to sugar-coat (literally) one of the most profound tenets of the Christian religion.

Let me be clear; I have nothing against the concept of Christianity, if it gives you hope, a reason to live, happiness, that's absolutely fine.  It must be pretty important if schools close do to Christian holidays.  (I fully support this endeavor.)  Just please don't try and force me to believe something that I don't think is true.  I take somewhat of a modern view of religion, I consider it to be more of a philosophy than anything else.  Granted, it's a philosophy that people will literally die and kill for to protect it, but it is a philosophy nonetheless.  A philosophy is nothing more than a belief.  You can base your life on your own beliefs all you want, just don't try to change mine.

Back to what I was saying, I always wonder how religious holidays get transformed the way that they do.  The Easter bunny is an excellent example; a giant fucking rabbit going to houses leaving chocolate eggs among other candies in baskets by your fireplace.  What is it about a magical being breaking into your house and leaving gifts that is so applicable to children?  I'd be fucking terrified knowing that at some point a giant rabbit is going to be inside my house.  Furthermore, how does this rabbit know which houses celebrate Easter to leave your baskets?

Silly conspiracy theorists, the government isn't watching you, the Easter bunny is!  

Speechless Doesn't Exist In My Vocabulary

Thus ends another Tuesday.  Don't be deceived by the timestamp for this blog post, it's actually three hours shy of the actual time.   I'm not entirely sure how exactly to change that; and believe me, I've looked.  Apparently I'm on the west coast though, that's what the time explains.

Right now is one of those sparse moments in my existence where I'm actually at a loss for words to type.  Normally on an occasion such as this I would refrain from posting entirely.  However, it is integral that I learn to write even when topics for writing are very scarce.  Whatever the English major I have finally decided on is preparing me for will undoubtedly involve a great deal of writing, even when I have next to nothing to say.

I must admit, despite the sarcastic nature of my blog's title, it is a genuine fear of mine that the things I say are no more than a meaningless conglomerate of thoughts.  Clearly if this is so, there is literally no purpose for writing.  My endeavor to broadcast my thoughts with the world has become stream of consciousness writing. (Which I despise to no end.)  But that brings a much larger concept to the forefront of the discussion. Does there need to be an absolute purpose to everything one writes?

Think back to your childhood days, where I'm sure most of you kept some kind of journal or otherwise written log of your thoughts.  I particularly remember that my journal was intermittently punctuated with pictures amid all the writing of what had happened during the day.  Those journals are now long lost. Do the entries themselves, and the whole journal, by extension, become completely and utterly worthless?  Did I waste my time in the past, writing these thoughts, feelings, and events down, only to lose them?  Furthermore, is this blog nothing more than a high-tech, less secretive copy of what I was doing during my childhood?

Have I changed at all since childhood? The answer is no.  I'm very nearly the same as I was, only with more social conditioning.

Admittedly the journals I kept back then, and keep now, were and are a very successful form of catharsis.  All of my feelings and thoughts purged from my mind onto the physical or in this case computer generated page.  Writing all of this simply makes me feel better.  It also allows me to catalog my thoughts to a certain degree (for can one truly "collect" one's thoughts?) and revisit them.  That's all well and good, but what of the very words I'm typing now?

I have long since abandoned keeping a written journal (other than a small poetry journal) and my musings are, for the most part, written here.  This is as much for me as for anyone else.  From a very young age I've wanted to find some way for my thoughts to be presented to the world.  I did, and still do believe that my thoughts are of some worth to the world.  Who's to say whether one person's thoughts are more or less significant in the context of the world?  It's all a matter of networking and popularity, (think about it, philosophy is little more than well-publicized products of the philosopher's mind) which leads me back to this blog.

This is why I love blogging medium of writing.  It is an excellent way to publicize my thoughts, as well as coming to conclusions that I would not have otherwise drawn.  Until next time!

Neglect, the Lifeblood of Destruction

At this point in my blogging career, I'm facing an existential quandary.  What exactly was the purpose for this blog, and why have I been putting off writing in it so much lately?  I can answer the first question with very little thought.  I blog because I have shit to say, shit that I can't announce in public without drawing in suspicious glares.  Shit sometimes so deep (at least to me) that if you stepped in it, it would bury you right up to the neck.  (I decided to spare the "so deep it's over your head" metaphor, lest you imagine inhaling my shit.)  Without rambling too much, essentially I've just got a lot of shit to say, and I don't really give a shit whether you think my shit is worthwhile or not.  Thus ends the discourse about my shit.

It remains to be analyzed why exactly I haven't been writing here.  I have thoughts that I wish I could proclaim (to anyone who wouldn't murder me for them,) more frequently than I could possibly produce a statistic for.  Then why, in glorious Cthulu's name, have I been neglecting to write in it?  I'm just going to reason out all of my excuses for neglect.  Let's see where this goes.  I'll play both the role of prosecution and defense here.

1) I'm in college.  I've got, you know, homework to do, exams to study for, and a social life to keep well-oiled.  Plus, I like to sleep.

Well this one I can disprove easily!  The average amount of homework I have nightly now amounts to about an hour and a half.  Occasionally more, and quite frequently, less or none at all.  I also don't study a great deal for exams.  This may be detrimental to the learning factor, but I generally receive good grades.  I also don't go to sleep until about 2 am. 

So that only leaves room for the social factor.  I love to be around people, as any human does.  Whether you believe it or not we thrive on companionship.  It is, after all, the only way to assure a constant stream of reproduction.  However, there are times where I find myself with socialization on the lower end of the "What I Want to Do Today" spectrum.  So naturally, those few introspective moments should lend themselves well to blogging my ideas, right?  Nope.  This is mainly true because of my second point:

2) The Interwebs are fucking distracting.

If there's one establishment I've been the most ambivalent about, it's Facebook.  Obviously it's an excellent way to keep in touch with people, and further share my thoughts with the world.  It's also detrimental to my blogging career, if you can even call it that.  (What a fantasy it would be, being paid to do this.  Alas, I can only dream...)  I further cite my social life as reasoning for not writing.  Facebook is the electronic equivalent of hanging out with friends, only without the constancy; the most you can get at one time is a snapshot of life, that updates every few minutes or so, depending on the activity of the Facebooker. (Facebook worm, perhaps?)  It doesn't really require constant attention.  Yet I stare at the page for minutes waiting for something to happen.  If I added up all those minutes, this blog would be a great deal more enriching.

I guess all of this adds up to the ultimatum that:

3) I'm lazy and easily distracted, realize it, and do nothing about it.

Awesome.  Now that I've identified the issue at hand, I can (hopefully) take care of it.  Or perhaps, I won't.  Either way, I'm about out of things to ramble about at the present moment.  Until later, then!

Identity Crisis

What makes me a poet?
Is it that I write with intent,
or that you read what I write with intent?

What if there is no intent, just words;
meaningless, seemingly nonsensical and superfluous verbiage,
and you manage to decipher a meaning from it?

Further, is it poetry if I did not mean for meaning,
or if I simply meant to take away the means
by which a reader such as yourself would interpret any meaning?

Do my emotions have any weight, any substance at all;
so that in weaving the thread of stanza, rhyme, and meter,
they provide the dye of comprehension?

How do I know that if I scream anger on paper
sadness will not effuse from your eyes?

How do I know that if I laugh at the page with mirth,
or press it to my heart with grief,
any blood or tears of mine are of any worth,
other than your own personal belief?

I can't assure a single thing, can I?
You love to keep me guessing, don't you?

The joke's on you this time, I'm afraid.
Keep me guessing and struggling to assure myself that I am a poet,
because as long as I'm doing that;
  
I am.

Hideaway

I'll take you to a place.
A place you've never been before.
Won't tell you when or where,
Or how I'll get you there.
But I can promise one thing,
You've never been there before.

I'll let you in on a secret.
This place you'll go, it has no name.
A location, for sure,
Though nothing more.
But I can assure one thing,
You've never been there before.

I can only give you three hints, one,
You've seen it somewhere recently.
Perhaps in a dream,
Certainly, it would seem.
But I can confide one thing,
You've never been there before.

Another hint I'll give you, two,
I talk about it all the time.
Soft, spoken words,
I'm sure you've heard.
But I can ensure one thing,
You've never been there before.

The final hint I'll give you, three,
It's much closer than you think.
Deceivingly near,
Don't draw a tear.
But I can pledge two things,
You've never been there before;

And once you have,
You'll never want to leave.