Lovingly Ludacris

The book of love is long and boring. Peter Gabriel wrote that. I like to think that if I ever meet Peter Gabriel I will slap him in the face, call him an idiot, and politely ask that he never attempt to write his own lyrics ever again. And for the sake of the millions who can't stand him I'll also tell him to give up his musical career...but only if I feel like it.

Of course with my luck I won't get to meet the ancient fellow before he passes. Then again, he'll probably die of a drug overdose--and if you think that's a little pretentious then feel free to show me a musician who HASN'T died of a drug overdose in the past several decades.

However we must return to the main topic of this spiel before I forget exactly what it is in the first place.

The topic of this spiel is love, believe it or not(There must be some kind of record for going off topic right at the very beginning of a meaningless paper. If there is I've won it. Multiple times).

The reason I find Peter Gabriel to be an idiot in concordance with that particular line is because he couldn't be more wrong. Anyone who has ever experienced real, compassionate, unending, caring, patient and understanding love will tell you that love is anything but boring. Especially those who have experienced the kind of love a random stranger gives when they lend a hand without even being asked. Or the kind of love a songwriter has with their music and instruments, or an artist with their brush. Love is not boring to a 90 year old man who hardly has the strength to wake up in the morning, but still has the ability to muster a smile for his wife who he still finds beautiful with or without the countless wrinkles. Love is not boring to a woman who comes home every year to a different surprise from the man who never forgets their anniversary.

Anyone who has experienced real, pure love will tell you that there is never a dull moment in their lives, and that the book of love isn't long by any means; it actually never ends.

Unfortunately, the few who have experienced real love are too busy being loved and loving others so they don't have time to write on and on about the wonderful experiences they have. I have yet to experience real love, but I have done my best to demonstrate it to others, and I hope that you will do the same as I will continue to do so.

However, this is not the book of love, so it does have an ending. I think I'll put it here.

Giant Space Ships

People don't take life seriously enough. They also take life way too seriously. Of course, half the time they don't even realise they're doing either, and most of the time they know it full well but pretend they don't. The rest of the time they imagine what it would be like if they took the proper dosage of serious and stopped pretending not to know what they know about what they don't know in regards to seriousness.

Of course, a schedule like this leaves no free time, and so it is obvious that any self-proclaimed writer is immune to any such thoughts, but somehow victim to a thousand-thousand worse and more complicated ones.

But I digress(if you don't believe me check your local newspaper's mediocre section. They always have the latest news on the world's most boring habits. Digression is the newest addition; I'm currently ranked number one! If you're having trouble finding the mediocre section of your newspaper, go buy the most powerful microscope you can find and look under the period at the end of the last article in the newspaper; you'll find everything there). See?

My original point was that humans spend a lot of time wasting time by doing things that don't matter and having literally endless arguments about things that do matter, but most of the time end up not doing or learning anything about any of it.

If things were vice versa, there is a good chance that humanity would be getting a lot more done not only in respects to this lovely little planet which has so graciously donated its tender and beautiful surface for our destructive pleasures, but also in respects of space, time, and the universe. If humanity spent less time inventing potato chips and more time inventing giant space ships, we might know much more than what we like to think we know about much more than anything we can even begin to comprehend, never mind know.

I once imagined what it would be like if humanity built a ship the size of earth. I imagined humanity leaving earth upon completion of the project due to earth's general disappearance after having every last life-supporting-morsel sucked from its' veins. I then imagined humanity exploring the entirety of the galaxy, killing countless planets with pollution and resource abuse. Over time our pitiful species forgot all about the beautiful planet from which we originated, and quickly went extinct right after the death of the last known galaxy in the Universe--and no one was there to congradulate us for surviving the longest.

Needless to say I wasn't surprised.

One could argue that one can never be surprised by one's own imagination, and I'm sure one could have some very interesting points; possibly even winning the argument. Typical.

Timed Writing Collab

This is just a random collaboration of some things I wrote in writer's craft this semester. I'm gonna miss this class...
None of these are finished, they're what I came up with in 8-12 minutes of straight writing when given a single topic by Mrs. Crawford. Maybe you can figure out what all the topics are? Try it if you dare...
The titles are just that, not the actual topic for the piece. The topic is hidden within the writing.

The Five Senses:
It looks like garbage, smells like fetus, feels like goo, sounds like death, and tastes like candy. What is it? Who knows, and frankly, who cares?
I move on to the next sample. This one looks more like apples, so I'm okay to touch it. Ew: feels more like soggy diapers. Take a bite? Gosh, I really don't want to. I bring it up to my mouth, and am suddenly overwhelmed with a putrid stench of rotten raspberries. As I bite into this mushy munchable, it makes a crunching noise, which is odd because it felt so soft.
The taste is unbearable, and I vomit as I have so many times before.
"Take it away!" I cry, "I can stand this torture no longer!"
"But sir," whimpers the chef, "We have been called the greatest resturaunt in all of France and even Europe!"
"And I am known as the world's hardest food critic." I bluntly reply: "I bid you good day, monsieur, but know I will not be returning for a very long time."
I hate my job, but the pay is good, and no one knows my secret.
After all, being autistic DOES heighten one's senses.

Blanker Boy
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
Kind of sounds like bank.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
The sound of my pen scribbling this down on the paper reminds me of a drummer boy, proudly wielding his brand new snare drum through the town streets as a small addition to the glorious marching band.
He is happy, and pounding his drum with all the passion in the world. Blank. Blank. Blank. Do not read the word but hear it. Take a pen, and scribble it down as fast as you can.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Do you hear the drummer boy parading across your empty page? Do you see him on the streets making a glorious parade?
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
What a sound, what a sight! This little drummer boy is filled with delight!
Blank. Blank. Blank. Goes the drum. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. He is happy as can be, with his brand new little drum.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
I apologize if it is all you read, but the sound is fascinating and intriguing for me.
Blank. Blank.
"That is it and that is all!" he shouts as the song comes to a close, and finishes it off with one final beat of the drum.
Blank.

Searched
Finding a topic for writing is about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack--pardon the cliche--but it is. The ironic reason for this is that there are so many topics to choose from. One simply has to walk outside and witness whether the weather is good or bad, if the neighbor's dog is outside, or if the tree's leaves have changed color. Look at the sky, look at the ground, look left, look right, look at doors, look at windows(not in them), look at flowers, look at trees look at grass, look at sand. The list is endless. One simply has to observe, and the mind is flooded with ideas. But the problem is this: which one to use?

The Dress-Lady
She was enchanting. A long, flowing white dress and beautiful blond hair. She gazed at me with eyes so stunning and so...commanding...in a gentle sort of way. She led me through the dark, tormenting forest, and I followed with no question because...well...what else could I do but get lost even more so in the evil forest. She led me, but kept her enchanting spell of a stare upon me, always seeming to get further and further away. She glowed like a star at midnight, so it was not hard to keep her in sight as I did my best to match her alarmingly quick steps. It seemed as though decades had passed before she stopped.
And when she did, my heart nearly leapt with joy. We were standing at the edge of a large, open green valley--a haven amongst the terrible darkness of the evil forest. The lush plants were supplied with beautiful sunlight--something I had not seen in many days--and broke their glorious pattern only once to make way for an entrancing and roaring waterfall which ran its course into a river chich again flowed back into the hellish forest. I knew then, that this was the place I had been searching for.
I turned to thank the lady--but she was gone.

The Sandbox
Let's go on an adventure, let's get on a plane. Let's catch kangaroos and wildabeasts and gophers too. Let's go to Africa and roam with the lions. Let's get on a boat and sail across the ocean. We'll skydive and deep dive and maybe even tunnel dive to our heart's content. We'll climb the eiffel tower and worship every hour. We'll ski the alps, we'll tour Italy, maybe even visit Sicily. Let's go on an adventure, let's have lots of fun. We'll dance and we'll play and we'll laugh in the sun. Eat fine cheeses and dine on savory chocolates. An adventure sounds good, yes it sounds fun to me. We'll go on an adventure and we'll do it from our own backyard.

Unbelievable
The sun said no. I can't believe it. After thirty years of partnership, the Toronto Sun turned me down. That is, until the dragons showed up. The Toronto Junior Dragons: A local child's sports team who had recently been involved in a most unfortunate series of events. I wanted to write an article on the outlandish ongoings of the young athletes, but the Toronto Sun wouldn't believe a single word I said.
So I called the team. Every single little sports fanatic showed up at the door of the paper's big-city-high-rise and testified to each and every one of my claims.
Billy DID land in an erupting volcano while skydiving. It was a science project gone wrong at the local fair.
Jonathan's grandfather WAS up for the electric chair. It was a new kind that did special massages
Matthew DID have an invisible tumor the size of your face--on his face. It was an excellent drawing.
Alex could NOT find his pinky toe for the life of him. He really needs to lose weight.
Jerry CAN jump over the moon. He just has to wait until it's as close to the horizon as possible.
And Larry WAS just robbed of a million dollars without the authorities giving a care. Some people just don't know how to play monopoly.

The Christian Count
"Welcome to the count's ball monsieur. We've been long awaiting your arrival."
I smiled curtly at the french valet as I stepped outside of my road-weary coach, then turned to assist my wife on the coach steps.
"You ready?" I asked as she placed her foot on solid ground for the first time in three hours.
She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
We linked arms and made our way to the large front doors of one of the most magnificent ballrooms in Paris.
"This is quite the anniversary present." giggled my wife as a tuxedo-clad butler smiled, bowed, and slowly opened the door for us.
"Enris is a very generous man." I replied, then looked at her and added, "and a very good friend to have indeed."
We made our way down a long, wide, red-carpeted set of stairs into the party.
There were people everywhere. Rich people, poor people, black people, white people, pretty people, and ugly people.
"But he's obviously a christian." I frowned.

hard soft spots
There is a hard spot in a very soft place many many miles away. I know not what it is or where it goes or how it goes or why it goes, but it goes. And goes, and goes, and goes, and goes. Forever and ever. Always. It never stops, never will stop, never can stop, and never wants to stop. I don't know hy. I just know it does. And does, and does, and does, and does. Somehow it is always full of energy: never even slowing. I wish I could be like the hard place: long, black, noisy, and with a dotted line running down the middle.
Like a snake.

The END

Thinklings

I love blank pages.












They're so smooth and crisp. Smudge-free, ink-less, and--not to be taken offensively--white, a blank page is almost completely and totally inviting.

Almost.

The only thing I hate about a blank page is exactly the thing I love a bout a blank page: It's so perfect. The first and last thing I want to do when I chance upon an un-tainted piece of industrialized tree is ruin it with smudges and scribbles and ideas which usually won't make it past a few comments and, "likes" on facebook and other various websites I make the mistake of posting my mind ramblings on.

Still, I quite often find that I can't help myself, and the page that was once a beautiful metaphor for so many pretty things becomes an adjective one would use to describe laundry that's seen a little too much of the inside of a furnace(Yes, there are oddish people who accidentally place their clothes in furnaces instead of dryers because they're too preoccupied with being worried about the next family party occuring at five minutes past noon but everyone arrived at four minutes past noon and so they now have to rush to get wood in the fire AND get the laundry done all before the dog starts puking on the floor from being fed too much human food).

Many people often try to convince me that the page is in fact not ruined, but is instead made more beautiful with the ideas of a creative mind. I then promptly inform these disillusioned people that I wish my ramblings were the result of a creative mind, but more often than not, whatever creative idea may have started the writing is quickly overpowered by an inner dialogue-argument between my mind and my brain about something totally unrelated to which I am currently writing. These inward arguments also cover the topic of inward arguments versus creativity every time I lay eyes on a blank page, and so such comments from friends and passers-by are quite often totally unnecessary but quite easily forgiven with the donation of an extra-strength pain-killer for the headache. Unless of course the inner-conflict has not yet been resolved in which case such comments are more than welcome so as to sway the argument in creativity's favor and get rid of the headache without the aid of chemically enhanced drugs.

In short-and as you have no doubt been praying for-conclusion, a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and a blank page is a terrible thing to waste. Even if it means enduring endless hours of torturous mind-banter.

Because in the end of things, words that are written on paper and then typed onto the everlasting internet will outlive me even when I've outlived them. And someday I'll come back to my thoughts and be reminded that thinking is only for those with far too much time on their hands, and writing is for those who wish there was a pest control for the stuff.


Oh, and happy birthday dad :)

Daily Mind Grind

Emotions. All over the page. Feelings splayed everywhere. Like the legs of a lazy chair. Creativity running dry. Need an idea; something to spark the tip of my pen and set my mind to racing. Once racing I'll need some fuel. No NASCAR champion ever became that way on one tank of gas. They also never stopped, because then cars start passing, and ideas stop flowing. The brain loses interest, and falls prey to facebook, youtube, or some other form of deadly time predator.

It's a weird feeling when the brain and mind conflict. I don't know many who suffer this sort of torture, but I endure it almost daily. I find my mind trying to hit the daily grind again and again with ideas through the roof-the roof being my skull-and my brain will repeatedly refuse to provide material with which to support said ideas, and they then begin to argue about how feasible the idea is in the first place. When this happens I begin to write the ideas in spite of everything, and end up having ridiculous ramblings like the one you are currently forcing yourself to read.

I don't mean forcing in a bad way, but you wouldn't be reading if you weren't telling your brain to read now would you? I wish I had that sort of control over my brain. It would make writing SO much easier.

But here I sit: pen still moving furiously and my mind and brain still having a go at eachother-it's giving me something close to a headache-and all I wanted to do was tell Melissa Smith what a wonderful person I think she is.

That's all.

Grammar has always fascinated me-or should I say fascinated I?

The reason people tell you not to say, "me and so and so" is because it would be weird to say, "me went to the bar last night." or something like that, but the latter sentence shouldn't even come into question. I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." I'm saying, "me and so and so went to the bar last night". I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." so why are you asking me if I would say, "me went to the bar last night"? I obviously wouldn't say that because it sounds ridiculous, but it does not come into play in the other sentence! So you're being completely illogical!

That's all.

A Much Needed and Well Overdue Nap

The Universe is constantly expanding, but the world isn't. And the human population is. What will happen if there's too many of us? the other day I sat and wondered what would happen if there were so many people covering the surface of the earth that one couldn't even sit down without crushing a baby or a foot of some strange person you don't even know. Would gravity even put up with that sort of nonsense?
Everything has a limit, so either gravity would grow exhausted from the effort of holding onto several zillion people, or the crust of the earth would simply say something along the lines of, "Fuck it" and collapse under the pressure of a seemingly endlessly powerful force of gravity. If gravity continued to stand faithfully oblivious by its post even after the collapse of the earth's crust, then the end result would look something like a mass of melted crust, humans, buildings, animals, and steam. The reason it would look like such is because it would quite literally be such.
The other option for gravity at this point would be to agree with the earth's, "Fuck it" decision and let go as well, at which point space would suddenly be filled with tiny imploding, exploding, and screaming humans and animals. I can't imagine the buildings would complain much; they're already used to being walked all over.
So it appears that even if we don't rape the earth of its resources or kill each other with wars over those resources, or if our star(sometimes called, "the" sun...don't know why we act like it's so important though...it's actually one of the smallest stars in the universe) doesn't die of old age or kill us with the same energy that keeps us alive, then we are bound to kill ourselves anyway by simply living. There's some iron for your diet.
Now imagine for a moment that gravity is on steroids and has chosen to split the steroids fifty-fifty with the earth's crust-as if the surface hasn't gone through enough abuse already-and both manage to sustain the ridiculous pressure that is literally a mass of humans covering the earth's surface. The only plausible thing to happen is that many would die of mass disease and starvation due to the inability to move around much. The starvation would lead to cannibalism, and the disease would most likely lead to a zombie epidemic of some sort. Humans would eventually die out, and the earth would breathe a sigh of relief as the last most intelligent earthly organism passed into oblivion.
With a slight smile, earth would probably simply let loose all the stress of supporting self-centered, reckless organisms, and enjoy the peace and quiet, perhaps even uttering a little, "Good riddance." before taking a much needed and well overdue nap.