I stopped thinking sometime last year
I stopped my hopes, my joys, my cheer
I stopped dreaming and gave up hope
I stopped striving and now only cope
I stopped it all, the growth, the living of life
I stopped the battle, the trying, the strife
Stopped it, Halted, Ceased to be
This is my path, Land of the free
I stopped it,
And it stopped me.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Suppose
Once in a while I am beset by mood and craving to have someone unto whom I can spill the entirety of my thoughts unfettered by the fear of repercussion. But in my pondering I am hampered by the dire reality that few are the possibilities of such an exposition. Not even the anonymity of the internet is a grace to such a situation as it is not the real you that is shown, but an immortal amoral self forever flaunting itself into the minds of those who are unfortunate enough to encounter it.
Suppose that I were to write that when I drive, I visualize increasing the speed of the vehicle and ramming my moving death trap into the barrier of a brick wall, the dark cloudy depths of a creek, or the immobile embrace of a tree. Suppose I wrote that oft times when I am new a person I visualize kissing them or killing them. Suppose I wrote that when I were in the kitchen each knife brings to mind the image of blood on my wrists, up my arm. Suppose I wrote of the scenarios lovingly crafted in my mind of wrapping a belt round my throat then slowly giving into the strident prickly embrace of asphyxia.Or suppose I wrote of the curious longing that threatens when I see a gun and the sensory fear of placing it appropriately for use.
Suppose further that I wrote of the dark moods and ease of anger that sporadically besets me. Or of the lethargy that consumes, a moment at a time, the joys of life.
Suppose further that I confessed to having no goals or aspirations in life beyond that of being a father and husband. Or of the dreams that settle in my mind like a gauze of reality. Or of the nightmares that reek of normalcy among the exotic and frightful.
Suppose, just suppose, as by now many suppose I just have, that I wrote all this. Forever and always anyone encountering it would offer condolences or sympathies, perhaps offer expressions like "been there" or "I feel the same", but worst is that the image of me would be sullied; not just now, but whenever this was encountered. Or if the person proved untrustworthy, then these private confidences would find themselves broadcast beyond my control.
So you see my dilemma.
Suppose that I were to write that when I drive, I visualize increasing the speed of the vehicle and ramming my moving death trap into the barrier of a brick wall, the dark cloudy depths of a creek, or the immobile embrace of a tree. Suppose I wrote that oft times when I am new a person I visualize kissing them or killing them. Suppose I wrote that when I were in the kitchen each knife brings to mind the image of blood on my wrists, up my arm. Suppose I wrote of the scenarios lovingly crafted in my mind of wrapping a belt round my throat then slowly giving into the strident prickly embrace of asphyxia.Or suppose I wrote of the curious longing that threatens when I see a gun and the sensory fear of placing it appropriately for use.
Suppose further that I wrote of the dark moods and ease of anger that sporadically besets me. Or of the lethargy that consumes, a moment at a time, the joys of life.
Suppose further that I confessed to having no goals or aspirations in life beyond that of being a father and husband. Or of the dreams that settle in my mind like a gauze of reality. Or of the nightmares that reek of normalcy among the exotic and frightful.
Suppose, just suppose, as by now many suppose I just have, that I wrote all this. Forever and always anyone encountering it would offer condolences or sympathies, perhaps offer expressions like "been there" or "I feel the same", but worst is that the image of me would be sullied; not just now, but whenever this was encountered. Or if the person proved untrustworthy, then these private confidences would find themselves broadcast beyond my control.
So you see my dilemma.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Review: Hogfather
Title: Hogfather
Author: Terry Pratchett
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
ISBN: 978- 0-06-105905-6
Yet again we venture into the Diskworld. In the dead of winter a nefarious plot is hatched to do away with a figure of some prominence. Meanwhile, Susan - Death's granddaughter - is busily protecting her wards from boogiemen, when a sense of remembering the future hits her. Soon a struggling Tooth Fairy is kidnapped, imps and impossible anthropomorphic personifications are popping into existence, and Death himself is posing as the Hogfather (a version of Santa Claus). Susan must find out why? Where is the Hogfather? And who is behind his disappearance? Humor abounds in this tale. In the end, Susan learns the necessity of the magic and little lies of childhood and the Hogfather.
Terry Pratchett's Death is by and far my favorite character in his books and by association Susan is no slouch either. The story is well told with excellent "flawed" mirroring of our world - ie: the Hogfather in place of Santa Claus - adding a great element of humor. Terry uses sound theories and explanations - well as much as possible in a story including magic and fantasy elements - to prop up and give depth to the story. By and far, the reading of a few pages quickly shows how this particular story gained in popularity to the point it was made into a movie by BBC. One which I take pleasure in watching every Christmas Season and have managed to use to gain converts to the works of Terry Prachett.
Additionally, Prachett uses footnotes to add humorous asides to the main story. They aren't necessary to the story, but reading them adds an extra depth that would be sorely lacking should he desist in the practice. I highly recommend reading this story, or at least slacking of for an evening of watching the BBC movie.
Author: Terry Pratchett
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
ISBN: 978- 0-06-105905-6
Yet again we venture into the Diskworld. In the dead of winter a nefarious plot is hatched to do away with a figure of some prominence. Meanwhile, Susan - Death's granddaughter - is busily protecting her wards from boogiemen, when a sense of remembering the future hits her. Soon a struggling Tooth Fairy is kidnapped, imps and impossible anthropomorphic personifications are popping into existence, and Death himself is posing as the Hogfather (a version of Santa Claus). Susan must find out why? Where is the Hogfather? And who is behind his disappearance? Humor abounds in this tale. In the end, Susan learns the necessity of the magic and little lies of childhood and the Hogfather.
Terry Pratchett's Death is by and far my favorite character in his books and by association Susan is no slouch either. The story is well told with excellent "flawed" mirroring of our world - ie: the Hogfather in place of Santa Claus - adding a great element of humor. Terry uses sound theories and explanations - well as much as possible in a story including magic and fantasy elements - to prop up and give depth to the story. By and far, the reading of a few pages quickly shows how this particular story gained in popularity to the point it was made into a movie by BBC. One which I take pleasure in watching every Christmas Season and have managed to use to gain converts to the works of Terry Prachett.
Additionally, Prachett uses footnotes to add humorous asides to the main story. They aren't necessary to the story, but reading them adds an extra depth that would be sorely lacking should he desist in the practice. I highly recommend reading this story, or at least slacking of for an evening of watching the BBC movie.
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