Moralam: Do you know who you are?

Caiphus: Yes.

Moralam: How?

Caiphus: I know myself by my deeds, for it is by deeds that men are measured.

Moralam: Then you know nothing.

Caiphus: How else are we to know ourselves?

Moralam: Who we are cannot be measured by our deeds, for deeds are fragile and mortal, changing and distorting with each day that passes. A yardstick is useless on soft ground, for where the measuring begins and ends changes each time. We must measure ourselves, not by the actions we take, for those actions may be misinterpreted, regretted, misused or forgotten, but by our intentions and desires, for therein lies our self.

Caiphus: But intentions are useless! If I do not help another shoulder their burden but instead desire to do so and refrain, I am foolish and cowardly.

Moralam: What you say is true, for intent without action is like rain that does not sink into the ground. If what we desire truly means something to us, our actions will coincide. It is the coupling of action and desire that we commonly refer to as character.

Caiphus: So you would say that a man of good character is one whose actions reflect his truest desires? What of men who lust for the great evils of the earth; power without repercussion, wealth without generosity, or fame without thoughtfulness?

Moralam: It is better to choose a path and follow it than to accomplish nothing while deciding.

Fa Fa Fa Fa

Fa Fa Fa Fa

Fa Fa Fa FA!

Too much to handle
Too much to eat
Too little bone
For all this meat

Too much friendship
Too much hate
Too many times
I stayed up too late

With you.

Fa Fa Fa Fa

Fa Fa Fa Fa

Fa Fa Fa FA!

Frequently the actions of extremists hurry that which is inevitable - in this way, they are visionaries.

Naturally (I Can Relate)

"The truth is that many people set rules to keep from making decisions."

- Mike Krzyzewski

The rational will save your life, but it is the irrational that will make it worth living.

I Love You Now Stop Struggling

Pining soul
Cage mesh,

Bone on bone
Flesh on flesh,

Smoke,
Tired smoke
Lazy, finds rest
In the lightest of breezes
In the deep of his chest

The one in the midst
Of the darkest of mists
Whirling around us in bitter drear
Faces that loom
Faces that leer

And he needs to escape but he doesn't know why
His opiate a bottomless grave
“Maybe this time . . .”
So he digs in deep
For a closer shave
And puts on another layer of brave.

“Come on boys, we’ve a world to save.”

The intake of breath,
The exhale of death
Truly, the life of the gods.

A liar does not demand truth from his peers, for to him it has no value.

Rock, Get It? (It's a Pun)

It’s true I feel the rhythm
Of the earth beneath my feet
For all of glorious creation
Has a tune or primal beat
But should you ever stop
And choose to leave me on my own
Remember:
Just because I rock doesn’t mean I’m made of stone.

Many times I’ve played
My companion only wind
When others of my kind
Their melodies rescind
But forget not my humanity
When I have perfect tone
Just because I rock doesn’t mean I’m made of stone.

If your feet begin to tap
With involuntary life
Or the piercing wedge of music’s edge
Cuts you like a knife
Don’t forget the one
Who endures on his throne
Just because I rock doesn’t mean I’m made of stone.

Epiphany in Blue

There are many destinies,
Some are manifest,
Some, though born, we detest.
And the ones we seek,
Or label ‘best.’
Are rarely the ones we attain.

So when I slipped in the fast lane,
Everything turned slow,
And I saw,
When you peel back the snow,
From the gash, ice will flow
And equanimity becomes impossible to maintain.

The Only Constants Are Exceptions

If never revealed,
Schrödinger’s cat still mocks us.
For without ardor,
Disease lies dormant . . .
Complaints are not the cure.

Refuse

Move my head up and down,
So you can add me to
Your carbon copy collection
Please, point me in the right direction
Distinction you stole from me
A puppet act that writes rhymes for free
Back to back to back to your mansion
So you can add my vocabulary like a brain expansion
Napoleon ain’t got nothin’ on you,
You’re at your best in this conquest
When you aren’t giving me your attitude,
You’re rude, living in the moment
Though it’s understood
That ‘the hood’ is just slang for
‘I got you good’
Well ain’t it now
Just precious how you mesh us
Like it’s a tightrope gig from the floor to the ceiling
When you’re feeling low
Don’t yell at me for insensitivity
It’s what you made me to be
When you took my personality
Yeah
That’s right I went there
‘Cause now that you’re dead
Who could care
What you scream from the afterlife,
Obscenities are your dull knife
And I won’t sharpen my murder weapon no more.

Technique and Composition in Music

That I might satisfy some unrest amongst my peers, what follows is the difference between technical ability and compositional ability in music, and how they interact with one another.

Technical ability is one’s ability to play different notes, rhythms, and other musical devices with ease, fluidity and accuracy. Technical skills are acquired primarily through the practice of etudes, scales, and rhythmic exercises designed to improve one’s playing ability. Examples of technical abilities include playing a series of notes quickly, learning to stretch one’s hand to attain certain tones, building up wrist strength to perform one-handed drum rolls, etc.

Compositional ability is when a musician understands either by theory or by intuition how to assemble tones and rhythms into a pleasing sequence. Composition is not limited by technical ability, in that a composer may imagine that which he cannot play - it is limited only by imagination.

These two facets of music are virtually unlimited, but must be combined to achieve any sort of recognition. Technical ability alone is soul-less, whereas composition is meaningless without the means to play it. Even if one possesses only one, and makes use of another’s skill, the best musicians make use of both to the best of their ability, and work very hard to increase that ability.

"Silence
Something about silence makes me sick
'Cause silence can be violence
Sorta’ like a slit wrist

If the vibe was suicide
Then you would push da’ button

But if ya’ bowin' down
Then let me do the cuttin'

Some speak the sounds
But speak in silent voices
Like radio is silent
Though it fills the air with noises
Its transmissions bring submission

As ya’ mold to the unreal
And mad boy grips the microphone
Wit' a fistful of steel"


- Zacarìas Manuel de la Rocha

"'It was easier when I lived inside a box,' he said. 'Being told what to do, what to think. Real life is too messy. People are too complicated. The real world isn't worth all the trouble.'
'Give it a chance,' she said"

- Gloria Skurzynski, Virtual War

"If Christ were here there is one thing he would not be -- a Christian."
- Mark Twain

"The Seven Blunders of the World:

Wealth without work.

Pleasure without conscience.

Knowledge without character.

Commerce without morality.

Science without humanity.

Worship without sacrifice.

Politics without principle."

- Mahatmas Ghandi

"Here the question arises; whether it is better to be loved than feared or feared than loved. The answer is that it would be desirable to be both but, since that is difficult, it is much safer to be feared than to be loved, if one must choose. "

- Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

"This wasn't funny at all. The people in the crowd shuffled their feet and avoided each other's eyes. Then for a third time, most quietly of all, Ira Hath said, 'O unhappy people. I hear your hearts crying, for want of kindness.'
No one ever said such things in Aramanth. The people heard her in shocked silence. Then they began to leave, in ones and twos, and Ira Hath knew she had proved herself a true prophetess, because none could bear to hear her speak."

- William Nicholson, The Wind Singer

“I just think, like our teachers here, that if ministers are effective, they’re good at asking questions to get you to think. I don’t think they’re supposed to have the answers. Not necessarily.”

- Elphaba, Wicked

Everything I try to say may be summed up thusly:

When you read, think.
When you think, understand.
When you understand, apply.

Rules

Life is full of rules . . .

Some are created by powers beyond our control . . .

Some are created by those above us . . .

Some are created by our peers . . .

In our desperate attempt to abandon these rules . . .

We end up creating more . . .

So the real question is not "will you follow the rules?"

The real question is: which rules will you follow?

The Irrational Response

Why do the fools
Who bend time with their rules
(Or so they think)

Instigate our ire
So we retaliate with fire
(Yet we thought ourselves wise)

Do they not then
Own us again
(As they once did, before they blinked)

Therefore, be restrained
So that they may be contained
(And we might slip through the gap in their eyes)

Ambiguous Youth and the Memory Thereof

Mmm,

How I long for youth
To be an eternal fire
Never hungering for fuel
Never knowing desire

What makes that event
Most pleasant to remember
Though the flames of glory
Throb now as an ember

Why?

Is it in the action we live
Or do we caress the wind
There finding our solace
In what we cannot rescind

We may try to forget
But in our hearts is pinned
That which we loved
And those we chagrined

For even when wary
When we keep our eyes skinned
While one minute holy
The next we have sinned.

Solar Flare

As fiery as the newest of virgin mornings, he unhinges his wings in the greatest of furies, for only the man of the sun may conquer the darkness. Certainly he lives with limitations, like the magnificent beast that watches his every move, or the black, winged creatures that clutch at his feet. Indeed, it is the shadows that, in his incandescence, he creates that will be his undoing, someday, at some indiscernible point in the kaleidescope of uncertainties that haunts his future. Still, for this moment he is alive, and in his youth there is nothing that can contain him.

His eulogy is silence.

Justification

Some screams are cut short
By the muffled cadence of
Swift justice,

Justice that echoes down night's lonely corridor.

So my children know pain
Pain that is the foundation
Of love,

Love that seeks shelter under the wings of a great beast.

Still more have seen
The brilliant light that pierces and slices and cuts
The light of truth,

Truth that heaves on its shoulder a weary mountain of deceit.

Deceit, that great mis-architecture,
Unfathomable how deceit when used,
Can become truth when abused,
And love, when it waits,
Quickly becomes hate,
And justice . . .

Justice knows no full form, for justice is the most cosmic of paradoxes;
Mixing facts with fiction,
Affection with friction,
To bring all, barring none,
Under its jurisdiction.

RIPEAP

'Tis naught
That I would not give
To realize but some fraction
Of that which dwells in my fragile mind.

But naught
That I would say
Would make you stay
So why attempt?

For my prose
Shares not
The fullness or faith
That I imagine myself to possess.

So flee from my
Dogged cliches
And at last you'll be out of my clutches.

Fire

Slow,
Fluid,
Attacking with great power.

Forcefully effervescent,
It consumes.

A gaze into it's depths
Is a carnivorous glimpse of hell.

You will the swill into being,
But it only glares at you,
Forced into non-servitude,
For it serves none but its own.

Janus Assassinates Himself

Shake my hand
While my knees shake
Knock together when
You knock on the door.

All you can do
I fear you'll do
To me.

All that you have the potential
To achieve
I fear will be deferential
To the will of the crowd
To the face of love
To your own self

So slash your wrists
In ironic betrayal
It's bound to happen anyway,
Sooner

or

later

Five Days Since His Aircraft Disappeared

BleedingHeartCommunist: The manner and substance of my peers' conversation is frequently cause for frustration.

Kabri: I would venture to guess that it also leads to loneliness.

BHC: Indeed, but loneliness is to be preferred over social compromise.

Kabri: Perhaps, at times.

BHC: That is my justification; what exception do you find?

Kabri: Well, I find that in forced social obligations I can be alone in the midst of a crowd. Likewise the opposite may be true in the company of one. So the real question is: which is preferable?

BHC: The companionship of the few to the isolation amongst many.

Cry Softly, We Will Sell the Tears

I knew you couldn't,
Can't.

Hold a grudge for me,
As you can see,
It pleases me to see you,
Free.

Because to fly,
You must first shackle yourself to your wings.

Let me be your chains.

Fasting for Long?

Why do you hate me?
Oh murderous saint,
Do not abandon me in my quest,
Lest I faint 'long the way.

The heathens worship in temples,
But I worship alone,
In silence, suffer,
For mine is a cast-aside honor,
The honor of lone-ness.

So do not hate me,
Crying butcher,
Do not scorn my efforts,
Mine is a healing power,
But I cannot heal that which is not broken.

Don't be foolish.

The faith and the faithful couldn't be more different.

True beliefs are exhibited by the believer.

All that springs from their mouths is nothing compared to that which springs from their hearts.

So beware,
And judge not the judgmental, lest you prove them right.

So It Begins

Well, here I am. I am suspended over the chasm that divides apathy and intensity. I am caught up. I am being processed in a whirlwind of confusing emotions and logical paths that twine to and fro and twixt one another in the maze of psychological mess. In other words I have no idea what conclusions I have come to.

Every once in a while I need to descend into self-induced doubt concerning what I've seen, heard, and believed. It makes it all more real to me when I emerge finally, triumphant in my realization of some truth. But today I am fractured. Today my doubt threatens to break me.

I cannot lean one way or another, lest I lose my body to flames, lest I fall into a chasm of indeterminate size. I am torn. It is not always like this, but today I cannot yet fall into the ways of one belief or another. I cannot yet choose one structured mode of logic o'er another.

It is the way of things, that I should consider, reconsider, hypothesize, create, destroy - over and over again. It is the way I was made, the way I was born, even borne, and it is the way I will die. So I pray to any power that may be -

Please, I beg of you, do not judge me for thinking, for if thought, if reason, if searching for ultimate truth is sin, I want no part of you.

The Facets Of Power

What is power?

The ability to invoke change, great or small, intentional or otherwise.

Where does power lie?

In emptiness,
For that which is empty longs to be filled.

In friction,
For it is friction that produces change.

In words,
For with words, we implicate that which we desire into being.

In atmosphere,
For therein lies the ability to manipulate emotions.

In reason,
For through reason we may convince even ourselves of some truth or untruth.

In love,
For love in its truest form cannot keep itself from changing all involved in a most spectacular fashion.

Babel

Nearly all the world
Crumples at your feet
And you attack me.
What can I provide that you can't?

Why lean into
And over
The dike that retains
My self-loathing
Now take your finger out of the dam-thing!

Your feigned stupidity only makes things worse.

Sure I know what power words hold
But if you won't leave me be
I will return to the graceless scar
That is my inoculation
My transfusion from love's enlivening pains
How could suffering be so useful, Mister Gibran?

True,
I say many things
But you cannot hold me to them.

Foolish, that you fling your faerie-self upon me
A holistic whore
Bent on destroying body, mind, and soul.

Can you continue?
Still, my vagaries and vulgarities intertwine
Like our legs.

Like our thoughts.

Like our destinies.

Or so I thought.

Shut Up (I Won't Do What You Tell Me)

The bass
The rock
The mic
The treble
I like my metal
Without mindless psychobabble
And if the suicide
That I deride will coincide
With what you say
Does that make me okay?

The bass
The rock
The mic
The treble
I like my metal
Without mindless psychobabble
Just a some chick
And a dude being ironic
Maybe this time it'll stick
That there's more there than saying "dick"

The bass
The rock
The mic
The treble
I like my metal
Without mindless psychobabble
Sure I can live without
The self-doubt that you're about
But your clout is worth the shout
'Cause the music's what
You're about.

Be Adult About It

Adulthood is not age induced.

Adulthood is not based on one's demeanor.

Adulthood is not your diction.

Adulthood is not a thought process.

Adulthood is not when you provide for yourself.

Adulthood is not being mature.

Adulthood is not when you're accepted by other adults.

Adulthood is not _____ because . . .

Adulthood is a myth.

How do I know that
What is true coincides,
With the waxing and waning of
The ongoing tides?

And so my mind derides
My heart for its captivity-caused naiveté

Sciolism
Cannot hide you
Behind muscle-tissue textures
Because I have read so many faces
That, like an old series of novels
I can predict the end
Before it comes
And you
Won't.

Photographic Memory

Sometimes I find myself absently flipping through photos of myself for a great length of time. Many perceive this activity as one inspired by misplaced pride. I wish I could agree, but sometimes I have to see myself through another lens, either mechanical or otherwise, if only to keep in touch with myself.

Maybe it sounds strange, but perspective is crucial to my existence. I feel as though, given enough time to mull and muse, I could lose feeling in this extremity of the soul that we call the body. The emotional jetlag of being yanked from my mental wanderings back to my physical location is made less potent by not feeling at all. In this, I am failing, for I cannot find a way to feel and think simultaneously, so firm are the ways in which I explore my world.

Let me encourage you to not only ponder, but experience. Think and feel together, that you may encounter the fullness of life and not live in death of the soul; for spiritual death is the truest.

Joined End-By-End

Mutter,
Listen in the heat for stillness
Quiet is creation
Disgusted, destruction stops
Halted by the force of - change

The power of change is
The power of the silent
Slow, manipulation seeks a wedge
A silent edge
Slices like no other
Subtly dangerous
Wantonly creative
And always,

Cuts like change
Exchanging hands
Only becomes fouler
More putrescent
Eventually luminescent with filth
So can it shine again.

Advertising Takes Precedence Over Common Sense

Today I saw this on the back of a truck:

"My USA supports our troops whenever we go, no aid or comfort to the enemy (No Way)."

Are they implying that popping open the back of a truck belonging to another trucking company would yield hostile Arabs lounging in jacuzzi sipping fruity drinks?

Automatic of Observation

Del memorandum in tandem,
Sprachen en mi choleric sum
Don't you know fun?

All others see in kaleidescope periscope scopes,
But I see in gray skies and clouded eyes
Blue of the water and sea
Appeals to me.

Imprecision

Swing down,
Sweep me off my feet,

God knows I need it.

Don't hesitate,
A moment lost to indecision,
Is a moment lost to wisdom.

Wait, that can't be right.

If in caution lies wisdom, and wisdom caution,
Then where do I come in?
When do I get my turn at bat?

Coming and going,
Back and forth,
Taunting me from my position,
Firmly affixed to the back of the cage,
Like a well-worn wanted poster,
But all I wanted was
A chance.

I think in life it’s important that, every once in a while, we put on the high beams and watch the night light up like we’re on a roller-coaster through the New York skyline.

The Conductor

He who demands quality will receive quality.

He who demands participation will receive participation.

Therefore . . .

Do not be so arrogant as to presume that you will sacrifice nothing and gain everything.

From One Without Romance

“My soul is a passionate dancer; she dances to hidden music which only I can hear. . . . Whatever police the world may prescribe to rule the soul, I refuse to obey them.”

- Bettina Brentano

For my soul dancer:

I have fallen in love. This love may not be for you, but it was brought about by you, for it is you who inspired it. You, my muse of romance, you have caused my mindless attraction; for, I have been overwhelmed by the deep, sharp, shadow of what you signify.

My love is for you, my emblem, my motif. You do not know me, and my heart bursts with aching for I do not know you. I know only of you. I know of your desire for the objective and intellectual, your search for significance, and your longing for love.

Perhaps it is only coincidence that I share your vision. I have no great fondness for fate, either in theory or in practice. My inclination then is to communicate my thoughts so that you might know me more, and be inclined to return the sincere, if somewhat banal, gesture. In this way, we might not lose sight of one another too soon, and we might learn to know one another, both through pleasure and pain.

I have noted your inner calmness. You hold to pretenses of machismo and roughness, but you carry yourself with a natural grace that few have mastered, yet so many attempt to attain. You have shown yourself willing to be open, but seem to have difficulty expressing that openness, reverting to a baser demeanor and avoiding the conflict of inner and outer attitude altogether. I empathize with your predicament, for I too feel the opposing pull of social expectation and intellectual desire, like the twin forces of heart and mind.

I understand that this letter may change nothing, but at the very least I feel a great burden lifted from my shoulders, for at least now I may be honest. I do not know you, not in any real sense, yet I love you. Perhaps not in a romantic way, but in the way of the soul, that eternal being that prods us ever forward. My soul seeks the companionship of similar souls, but how can I know they are similar if they are veiled behind guise and guile? I ask not for your hand, or your heart, or your mind, or even your soul. I ask only that you grant me the opportunity to discover these things through my own effort.

I know you may fear a wound that cuts deeper than most if you allow me, as a surgeon, to peer into the vast inner workings of your very self; however, how can healing take place if you refuse the doctor access? True, the body heals itself with time. Likewise, the heart and mind, with the passage of time, may mend themselves. But the soul, oh the soul, that song sung to heaven with every breath we take, that cannot help but gravitate towards the light.

I fear not a wound, only infection. I fear not love, only life without. I fear not rejection, only the death of my avatar, of that which I love.

Labyrinth

Why do I retreat?
To clefts of holy sanctuary rock,
Harbors where I rest my feet.

I would unveil my logic,
Like a rigid painting,
Fascinatingly beautiful.

Still, transfixed not by passion,
But by oddity they are kept,
Like some grim commodity.

Awareness of the human soul,
Therein lies the key,
To the puzzles I lock myself with.

True, my prose is excess,
The labyrinth before the laboratory,
Intertwined with superficialities.

But realization would dawn,
Like the inverted sunset of morning,
Were you to comprehend.

For my back-written prose,
Precludes me from those,
Who I hide myself from and side-in.

True,
My prose is arrogant.
But humility disguises only,
Holy pride,
And who may determine what is holy?

Nocturne of Hidden Mystery

"What the hell were you thinking? You know how she gets when she's left alone!"

He cradled her in his arms, and my inmost depths sighed in the way that only the deepest parts of you can.

"Yes, of course. Next time . . . I'll be more careful. I'll remember." My throat was suddenly dry. "That is, there won't be a next time. I'll be here. With her."

"I'm certain you will" he said, his grim pronouncement accompanied by the iciest of nonverbal melodies, a frenzy of minor harmonies twisting and gouging their way through his features. What a surprise, I do think I've heard this one before. Yes, yes I have.

Groupthink

How compelling is
Existential light?

And how unfortunate
Is nonplussed clarity?

Foolish wisdom is neither foolishness nor wisdom,
But some third party,
For:
As two brilliant minds condense
Nothing prevents
Another from entrance.

Dine

Fine,

Over all the dinner I could be having,
I will choose to dine.

In deference to your habits,
I must incline.

For mine is a sadist's fuel,
Morphine,
Cranial stimulation,
Fingernails . . .

Collected throughout my rule.

Yes!

It's true, I do prefer the finer things,
But those that throne me,
Have ensconced their bigotry,
So I will desist.

Deceased,
You'll be the last,
On my past line,
Writing a fine design,
Between ether and sky,
In cloud lettering entwined,
My face, immortalized,
Desensitized,

In and by

Time.

How can you steal my thunder,
When I'm only snapping my fingers?

Motor Heavens

So long I
Rest



Long dead
Wake


Lucid I am apathy
Entranced I am apathy
Apathetic I am asleep

Long sleep
Wake

Sleep now.

I Walk

Where my feet wander
I feel compelled to follow.
Like the subconscious ramblings of my inner mind
Are a road that leads from roughed trail to clouded sky.

So my unconscious and conscious become one,
As my eyes follow
The delicate leopard-skin of shadow and light
Splayed across the grass
Like a giant throw-rug
With all the comforts and atrocities that are attributed
Both thereof, and
To one less majestic.

Fear was farther than I wanted to travel,
So I stayed home and watched television.

A hovel is still home,
And is safe.

The mind is psychotic enough,
To slake the need for psychadelia.

Young Man, Fast Food, Slow Brain

Every ounce of energy has been overplayed into my evening. Here I am, overwrought and rejected, hand on the windowsill, wishing I could see past the reflected light into the star-ridden darkness. It's so hard to unwind sometimes. I could swear there are little termites in my head trying to chew their way out through my temples, and yet my feet feel warm and fuzzy. Hilarious. It's like my own body is rebelling against itself.

I wish I could lay off the stimulants, they probably only make me more exhausted than I already am. Still, I can't fall asleep. There's so much left to do, so much living to get done, that I feel vivacity flow into me, where it mixes with my tired blood into a cocktail of delirium.

I can hear you, stop shouting at me like your lips are a megaphone! I heard you the first eight times, and I hear you now as you blather on about current events and why I should care. I still don't. These times are just for living, just like all the times before. So many people miss out on that. They call it wisdom: I call it sacreligious.

Wisdom is living, not ordering a double-bacon-cheeseburger, large fries, and a diet coke.

Deutsche

Strangely my fears,
Erupt not in tears,
But dull complacency.

I know I've lost,
A presence dear,
But here
She still holds sway.

Like a queen,
Of a feifdom,
That in my heart lay
So she rules
For now and ever, today.

For tomorrow's dreams,
Are cold, it seems,
And fill my feet with lead
So rules the duchess,
Of propaganda,
"Fear not, do not dread!
For tonight we fear,
Tomorrow we wed!"

It is queer,
This presence dear,
That leaves my heart to ponder,
Whence ever came,
My propensity to grow fonder.

Still, I know now,
That I've learned how,
To live without its call.

But then . . .

What keeps me awake,
When sleep calls me
From 'neath my pillow,
What holds me as a thrall?

Education: A Response

BleedingHeartCommunist: “What you attempt is not educational if it is not difficult.”

Kabri: No

BHC: No?

Kabri: No . . . some things are terribly easy and educational too, like leaning against a tree and watching the clouds . . . making pictures out of them . . . daydreaming is another educational endeavor that is quite delightful.

BHC: But if it is easy then it comes naturally to you - therefore, you are not learning you are simply engaging in activities that stimulate you mentally or physically.

Kabri: Is not education supposed to stimulate you entirely?

BHC: Who says? I always thought that education was supposed to acclimate you to things you would not normally do, thereby widening your horizons.

Kabri: I always thought that the basis of an education was to let you know there were other options to explore . . . and where to go looking for information.

BHC: To me a truly educating experience is one that changes you forever – maybe not drastically, but in some way. In this way, education is the beginning of maturity.

Kabri: I know a few educated, pathetic, pitiful, persons that I wouldn't consider mature in any circumstance.

BHC: Then I would assert that they haven't really been educated. Education is not the memorization of data, but the taking of action that is for a greater good.

Kabri: A greater good for whom?

BHC: Oneself or another . . . some would consider greater good for another to be more mature, but I think that the greatest good affects both self and the object, if the object is available to be acted upon.

Kabri: Thinking about that statement.
I would have to disagree with you on that point . . . an education is the way we find out how little we really know. It isn't for the good - greater or not - it is to force us to use our minds for our own purposes.

BHC: But forcing our minds to do something is forcing them towards something they are not accustomed to, thereby causing some manner of friction. If the mind is not already tuned to that frequency then the experience is, by my reasoning, educational.

Kabri: You can learn something that you are not interested in and it will last only until the final test - then it will be relegated to the back of the brain where it becomes covered with cobwebs and totally useless junk. Learn something you are interested in, and it will stay with you for life . . . so forcing your mind to do something it doesn't want to do is not educational . . . it is torture.

BHC: You are correct in a sense . . . torture is a life-changing, mind-altering experience . . . it is educating.

Kabri: Educating? I suppose (I'll never have to do that again!) kind of educating.

BHC: I agree, and this is why to me there is a difference between temporary memorization and actual "learning.”

Do you agree?

Kabri: Yes, I agree

What you attempt is not educational if it is not difficult.

Someone Has the Moody Blues!

Dark,
Darkened darkness ensues,
When I feel the
Blues.

Long,
A great length of time,
When I cannot
Rhyme.

Feel,
Feeling fear of my own feeling
It leaves me
Reeling.

Left,
Now I am gone.

A Minimal of Repetition

I could faint if,
Faint could read,
Could hold my hand,
Hand me my slippers,
And say: faint!

A Minimal of Insomnia

Waking/sleeping
Sleeping/waking
Lineblur
Wakesleepsleepwakesleepwake
All the same
Dream you can't sleepwake up from

Wakesleep eternal.

A Minimal of Deafness

When all sound
Stops
Outside your window
Writing secret messages in silent dew

Quit tapping,
I see you already!

A Minimal of Life

Trials are but,
Foul fantasy,
Wrought in our ruin,
To imagine we are
Dying.

A Minimal of Exhaustion

When faced with terror,
The eyes fall,
Wrapped in lids,
White outside,
They hide.

A Minimal of Joy

All heartache,
In boundaries lies,
But feathered joy,
Foe-less
Flies.

A Minimal of Hindsight

Let my epitaph never,
From my cartouche rescind
And tell those still living,
That I was merely
Mumbling
Into the wind.

Logic of the Soul Immortal

Moralam: I have followed in the footsteps of Plato and considered his words, and those of the philosopher Socrates, in that great discussion of the soul, the Phaedo. I was surprised to note that neither man pursued a certain facet of his argument any farther than he deemed necessary.

Caiphus: What manner of logic is this, that ends before it has served all the meaning it can to the sophisticated palate?

Moralam: It is the argument for the immortality of the soul. I can agree with Socrates’ argument that, given the nature of magnitude and littleness, neither can exist within one another. In the same way heat and cold do not give to one another, but rather build upon themselves. With this in mind, it is obvious to me that indeed the soul must live on after the body, for in the soul is life, and there life remains.

Caiphus: This is the argument of the great philosopher?

Moralam: Indeed – but there is yet more that I feel should be considered!

Caiphus: Share with me, that I may understand that to which you refer.

Moralam: It is merely this: if heat and cold are relative to one another, as magnitude and littleness are polar, but only in regard to one another, are not life and death therefore relative? It seems then that it is equally possible for a soul to exist eternally in life as it may exist eternally in death. Not in death not existing, but in death, abstaining from that which is life.

Caiphus: Your words possess the façade of that which is logical, but I must consider them more before committing to your conclusion.

Meta - See The Future

Perspective is a window through which we view the world. Truth, or the search for truth, is like a strong light which illuminates wherever we point it.

When the light is shed only on ourselves it becomes almost impossible to see out the window. The future, and the way things really are, all but disappears. We become lost in our own image, as though we are staring into a mirror.

When the light is shed only on the outside, we lose sight of what is, and fall in love, enraptured with the way things may become. Potential becomes our prison.

For these reasons, it is important that we search for truth in all places, for any reason at all. For truth, in balance, shows us the entire picture: the future overlaid with the past, the internal measured against the external.

In addition, we must be careful not to allow our perspective to become corrupted or cloudy, for then we are blind to all things. Blindness . . . self-incurred blindness . . . this is the greatest sin of all.

I apologize for my abruptness: I have not slept well these last few nights.

Academically Speaking

A devout follower of Socrates, Plato taught even after the great philosopher's death in a grove called Academus, from which we derive the word academy. This was the first institutionalized school of philosophy, and a most interesting inscription was carved over the entrance:

"Let no one ignorant of geometry enter here."

What does geometry have to do with philosophy?

. . .

Consider that.

Wickedness

I really have nothing to say today except this: I've become enchanted by tragedy. I'm amazed at how two different individuals could contribute to one another's differences, magnifying and concentrating them. It seems impossible that the goodness of one could bring about the death of another, but it is so.

I leave you with these words:

Do not presume to know for certain what is evil and what is not, for that is the duty of those who are completely righteous. Instead, be open to all things, old and new, that when you shut the door you may be affirmed.

Half Empty

Is it possible that we're too slow,
And will never know,
How much we're missing?

Could it be that fate,
Is a myth,
And we're just swimming upstream?

Or perhaps when we step on the gas,
And rush through our day,
Lest the minutes pass,
We never consider,
Whether life is too fast,
Until we sip from the bottom of the glass.

A Series of Questions Regarding Neutrality

At what point does neutrality become a handicap?

How do you balance aggression and neutrality?

Are right and wrong a matter of perspective?

If all parties have benign intentions, how does conflict arise?

Gnomish

In earthy silence only,
Do the sleeping wait,
No smiles,
No fools,
No customs,
No rules,
As they have been allotted by fate.
But peace can destroy
For boredom will maim
All that you thought you had known or obtained.
In earth they will dwell,
A vacuous hell,
As from death, like life, they abstain.

Life and death,
Each gives the other meaning.

A mouth for war
Brings naught but more
And all but the honest, quiver.

When that not heard
(A peaceful word
Echoed by the river)

Sends shards like the knives
Of innocent lives
Through my spine and neck like a shiver.

Life and death,
One makes the other more pleasurable.

Just waiting for fate to pull us back together,
Like gravity causes an orbit,
So we are entwined,
Related, reacting, but alone.

Senseless Verbiage: A Response

Recently I have been confronted by this individual's stark assertion regarding the use of obscure words, which she hypocritically insinuates are irrelevant and extraneous. What I fail to see is any real clarity, depth, or substance to her accusation.

Ironically enough it seems as though she's made this statement without giving adequate thought to the words she's wasted.

If words like "aptitude" and "indiscriminate" are considered commonplace, what then is her standard? I have, in the past, had companions who were incapable of defining words such as these. Again I ask, this time more directly, what is the standard to which you so fervently hold that determines what writers are overtly in-understandable, and what writers are as candid as yourself?

I don't wish to appear hypocritical or intentionally malignorant (a word which has just now taken the first breath of new life), so please allow me to explain my stance.

I believe strongly in many of the principles expressed in your post. While I won't go into detail here, suffice it to say that I have explored this path before, and found the journey most satisfying.

Yes, writing is a compulsion.

Yes, some are born to writing, and some have writing thrust upon them.

No, I will never refrain from using a word that I feel is more accurate because someone, or a great many someones, may require additional education to understand that which I am attempting to express.

It is preposterous to assume that most of those individuals who read my blog are incapable of learning, but let us, for a moment, do just that.

Suppose I indulged in a style of writing which immediately and overtly expressed precisely what I meant it to, in a way that required the fewest words, and therefore the smallest margin of time to digest. What if I was concise? Meaning is then lost.

But if I were to equivocate and expound and explain until I was certain that everything I had attempted to say had been said in a way that most closely mirrored my internal monologue, would I then, according to you, be writing extraneously?

Please understand that I am a firm believer in writing in a way that communicates most efficiently; however, you must also understand that I find accuracy preferable to conciseness. These two aspects of writing, of which a careful writer must be cognizant, are two extremes between which all writing must balance. As I shared with a fellow blogger a few days ago, the most important part of blogging is the ability to communicate. Who you communicate to, and in what way, are highly relevant to this balance.

With that said, has it occurred to you that perhaps some of us read to expand not only our minds and philosophical horizons, but our vocabulary and ability to comprehend? I do identify with the reader as well as the writer, for I have done a fair amount of both, and I find that your careless presumption strikes a most painful nerve. I do not wish to attack your character, but instead ask only that you consider all the ramifications of a statement before you make it.

In this way you may consider yourself, at the very least, convinced of your own correctness.

Foundations

Caiphus: What is the foundation of relation?

Moralam: Interaction.

Caiphus: What is the foundation of friendship?

Moralam: Love.

Caiphus: What is the foundation of love?

Moralam: Friction.

Caiphus: How does friction relate?

Moralam: It is relation at its core, an essential disturbance of difference, caressing and coursing and causing to flame. It is each one of us when we are laid bare and made whole by our incompleteness in one another.

Caiphus: How then do we love?

Moralam: It is an illusion – we do not love. Love, e’re so briefly, chooses to inhabit us. We do not control or command it, it controls us; we are at its mercy.

Caiphus: Mercy?

Moralam: Love overflows with it.

Provisions are a stronghold for the flesh . . .
But flesh still fades.

Many trials weary the spirit . . .
But the spirit never dies.

And somewhere in between,
Lie heart and mind,
Which stretch on till time,
Halts.

At the world’s edge,
Before making the plunge into eternity.

Whitewashed Tombs

What are you thinking?
Mister mountain monkey-man.
Are you thinking
Or are you a stone Buddha?
Inanimate avatar of thought,
An epitaph for the intellectual.

Organic Love

"I'd love to get up for you but I can't." Puzzled, I balked, a confused expression frozen on my face. Quickly he clarified. "If I get up the music stops, and we can't have that, can we? The music cannot stop, it can never stop." And so he remained seated, the smooth sounds coalescing around and amidst his appendages.

It was many a night before I could sleep restlessly again.

Conclusions Et Al

How strange it is when obsession doth rise
For sameness,
For change,
For compromise,

For blankets to lift,
From weathered eyes

For the rangy filth,
Of repeated lies,

For whenever she lives,
For certain she dies.

How strange it must seem when we love in faith,
In hope,
In peace,
That ethereal wraith,

In aimless sleep,
She calms the lathe,

In turn it does sow,
For the needy,
The waif,

But regardless of sleep,
When she opens her eyes,
The sooner she lives,
The sooner she dies.

Liquid Dropping Sun Up

Cold, damp air
Wanting to leave
Strength in the rain
Repetitive motion

Reflected through a droplet
A single light
Unused, not needed
Repetitive motions

Stiff, controlled,
Many
Forlorn glance within
Repetitive motions

Red and white shutters
Gold turned to hay yellow
Black to distorted gray
Repetitive motions

Cold, damp air
A single light
Forlorn glance within
Repetitive motions.

Subjectivity of Judgement pt. 2

Actions speak louder than words, but attitudes are more potent than either.

Burn Through the Witches

Don't be led by,
Frankenstein's bride,
Amalgam of estrogen and chocolate.

She rides a corvette,
Sans collapsible roof,
And feasts on the souls of the dead.

When she dances fast,
She'll set you on fire,
To chip a hole in the ceiling of hell.

But when she slows it down,
Better run for your life,
'Cause hell will freeze cold,
So scared'll it be,
When she,
Attacks.

So get back on track,
Stick with the easily fed,
If you want to hold the leash,
And not be choked by the collar.

Because autoerotic asphyxiation only goes so far.
Specifically, until you die.

A Series of Questions Regarding the Subjectivity of Judgement

Is not appearance a physical manifestation of behavior?

Why then does it not follow that appearance is criteria worthy of use when discerning people's intentions?

If interpretation is the issue, consider: are not actions also subject to this?

Are actions are less subjective?

Is this why the Bible recommends against judging people?

In Case of an Emergency

Sudden complexity:

Slows down time.

Wrap your mind.

Around.

Tomorrow

Dagr jfarri koma
Dagr jfarri vesa
Nu fœra
Dagr jfarri

Tomorrow comes
Tomorrow is
Today is where
Tomorrow lives

Informal Discourse on Writing

As I write now I write with a strange sort of conviction. Despite the fact that I have a deep hatred of my own handwriting, partly due to my own sloppiness and partly due to the inefficiency that writing by hand represents, I have found that there is definitely an unusual quality that handwriting has that is impossible to duplicate. I have heard a man speak of the crude destruction that writing usually entails as with carving or scratching meaning into an object; indeed, while at the time I did not hold with this philosophy, I now understand his passion.

Writing incurs an imbalance between creativity and destruction. To write, you must be assured of your own rightness, that you may conclude that your destruction was justified by the creation of something new. In a way a good writer must have a sort of god-complex. When you write you must be totally convinced that what you have to say is worth the time and energy it takes to write and read. In essence, you are saying that your violation of the natural order of things will bring about greater good.

This thought established, does it not seem then that the sharing of ideas is the counter to the social application of the laws of thermodynamics?

You Are Everybody

You are everybody,
You meet,
When you're walking
Down the street,
And they smile so sweetly.

You are everybody
You know,
But you know you're not,
Anyone
To me.

Regicide

On your knees,
Do it now,
Maybe I will spare,
An appendage.

I'm tired of you,
Your "be-good" jargon
Resounds like a pallid eructation
On my fallow ears.

Why do my senses
Lie stagnant?
Your lies have left me blind,
Though they are tasteless.

So now it's back to work,
The sun a cruel master,
And the moon,
Knows only sadness;

(A poor friend
Offers only tears.

All of life occurs,
Within boundaries.)

Yes you've beaten me,
I'll live in your world,
While you play with mine,
But still, somehow, some way, some day . . .

You'll rescind your disgust,
Your cautions disdained,
And give back my life,
The one that you've maimed,
Crippled, disjointed,
Frustrated, disappointed,
Lamed,
All so that you
Would have someone to blame,
And thus will it end,
My ardor, my pain,
And so will your words,
Your glory and fame,
Or as I know it to be,
Your goring by flame,
Not a clever pun,
But an accurate refrain,

Which I will do no longer,
Henceforth, however uncouth:
I deal only in truth.

Perhaps . . .

What if
Famine?

What if
Drought?

What if
Hunger?

What if
Doubt?

What of
People

Who scream and
Shout?

What if
Dreams?

What if
Glide?

What if
Streams?

What if
Tides?


What if . . .

What if regicide?

Logolust

This is the deepest, darkest place I have been - ever. I have frequented this wood since the days of the youngest part of my childhood. When I wanted to avoid chores, this is where I hid; when no-one else was there for me, this is where I cried; and now, now that I love my work, now that my companions love me, I come here to think.

It's not the kind of thinking you'd expect, I suppose. I'm not into deep psychological mysteries, or unlocking the secrets of the universe through philosophy. I just like to sort things out and turn them into something I can manage. It's like refrigerator magnets - life fills me up with all these different words, and they don't make sense by themselves. Sometimes I'll be eating breakfast and a word will come to me. "Justice," I'll say. "Why, that's a fine word." And then, when I'm washing my hands: "Power."

That's what it's like, all day, every day. So that's why I come here. I like to take all those words and think about them until they mean something. Now, I don't mean "mean something" like how the Indian name for the creek means "lovely daughter" or how "neo" is the Latin word for "new." Those things are fine, but I don't want to just know what the words mean, I want to feel what they mean.

The problem is, most words don't mean much by themselves. I mean, who cares what Webster says about glaciers or monkeys or houses or shirtsleeves? I want to know how all those words fit together. I figure that that's the only way I'll ever understand how this world works. Still, it's not easy.

It helps sometimes if I write them down, so's I can remember. After all, if I feel a connection between those words, it'd be foolish to forget it. That's why I come here.

When I was young I loved the sunny glades and effervescent brooks, the beautiful flowers and the glorious trees, the happiest, most carefree parts of the forest: these were my home. I still love those places, but they aren't so good for thinking. At least, not for the kind of thinking I do.

That's why I go deeper now, deeper into the forest. I have abandoned the cheerful stream for the stagnant pond, and those wonderful flowers for moody ferns. I have done this because in apathy there is peace. The young trees of the forest are too full of vigor, too full of uncontrollable emotions to really appreciate life. When I am among the most sedate of the ancient oaks, there do I feel secure.

I don't know why I'm writing this all down, except that I know that these words are all flowing into my head at once, and I gotta' do something. It hurts, it hurts a lot when the words don't make sense. It's like thousands of needles, all pricking into your head at once. You've gotta' take a needle and thread it through the cloth: then, slowly, forgivingly, all the others will fall into line, weaving a most incredible, intricate tapestry of paper and ink. And paper and ink is just different words for flesh and bone. True, that's not what they mean, but that's what they feel like.

I would know, I think about these things.

Tera

It's like raining,
On a sunny day,
When the sky is alright,
But your heart is all gray,
And the trees move with,
Your legs as they sway,

That's what it's like with Tera.

When her eyes see,
The worlds you describe,
And she laughs,
And you hear,
The outgoing tide,
When your mind is at ease,
Though your heart will not rest.

That's what it's like with Tera.

When you run in the sand,
And the soles of your feet,
Are dirty and brown,
When the two of you meet,
And two lives are like one,
'Neath the gaze of the sun,

That's what it's like with Tera.

They say that her mind,
Open,
Loving,
And fair,
Is so open it needs,
To be closed for repair,
But that's what it's like,
When you are without need,
Except the need for her love,
Desiring a friend,
Amending the deep of your soul.

That's who you trust,

That's when you care,

That's what it's like with Tera.

Human Understanding

Caiphus: How do I fully begin to understand?

Moralam: To understand anything you must first think, for thought is the foundation in which the pillars of knowledge are cemented. Knowledge without thought is hearsay; furthermore, it is a heresy.

Caiphus: So thought is the key to understanding?

Moralam: True understanding also requires experience. Experience is the crowning glory of knowledge, it is an impenetrable shield. What tribute to the gods is a temple with a leaky roof? Truly experience is that roof.

Caiphus: Then sensation and intellect are inextricably intertwined.

Moralam: Yes. There is another aspect of this relationship, which is the presence of feeling. Empathy is the beautiful story of life that is carved into the temple walls, it is the wonderful beautification of homely knowledge, transforming it into something aesthetically pleasing. Emotions are key to the truest understanding, for knowledge in and of itself is like a great fortress with no warriors. Without passion we are dead in life, loveless we bear our soul's coffin, and logic is but an effervescent machine - active, efficient, but without desire.

The Bender

What would we do,
If the stars were our guide,
And we knew all we needed,
To know?

Of ourselves,
We'd be free,
Together we'd see,
That it's not who you are,
But what you can be.

Is potential the only,
Road to survival,
Or is there more to life,
Than accepting your rival,
As friend?

Absolute,
Subjective,
Intrinsic,
Collective,
Superfluous,
Rejected.

Can anybody see her,
When she's out there in the cold?

When she runs and hides,
And cries,
In the throes of loss?

She knows . . .

The only time worth spending,
Is time not wasted waiting.

Secular Spirituality

Caiphus: What is secularity?

Moralam: An illusion.

What?

Where do we
Go.

Expect.

Aspect.

What is the ratio of
A heart in love?

"Fourteen and twelve"
He called.

Wrong,
It is fourteen and three.

I hate to fail a brilliant mind,
But he has clearly
Never loved

No.

It Suits You

It is simple,
It is sweet,
When we wipe the dust from our feet,
And sweat from our face,
When we engage,
In terrified embrace.

Only an idiot,
Would die twice the same,
And yet here you are,
Smiling and lame.

I have nothing more to say,
So just
Stay,
That way.

If the boot fits,
Then take a hike.

Lost Eyes, Lovely Eyes

Without support a leader falls,

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

Only silent do we differ,
When clamoring we're all the same,
Just noise, just dust,
Only dust in his eyes.

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

United we are lost again,
Each one, alone,
This is the plan,
United we will die again,
Though once it served us well.

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

I look into your smile,
I am dazzled by your grin,
It only hides,
Your sin.

Not mine.
I still see mine in your eyes,
Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

Jihad United

Frosted mountain filled with cheer,
Dwarven men meet often here,

Exhibit each, their deadly prize,
Before another's greedy eyes,

Gladly one will pay each price,
Illegal goods an exotic spice,

Within, without,
With silent doubt,
Marauders creep and sign,

Communicate,
The mountain's fate,
Through the darkness grim.
Many men will lose their lives,
To rid the earth of sin.

One, not one, regrets their choice,
As they scream out with one voice,

And leap, at last, into the fray.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 9)

“So Dagon isn’t officially in charge here?”

“No,” Vertigo replied, “but he’s taken over with incredible ease, even though he only has ten guards at the most.” Notek’s visage clouded over.

“Then why can’t you all free yourselves? He’d be no match for the students here if they chose to rise up against him simultaneously.” Vertigo looked away from Notek, unable to return his gaze. “Verti,” Notek said as he gently took her hand. “What are you not telling me?” Vertigo’s head sagged, and as she relayed her story she could not stop her tears.

“There was an uprising almost immediately . . . every student that had trained in hand-to-hand fighting and those few teachers who possessed weapons rallied together and tried to repel Dagon and his men.” She sobbed. “They were slaughtered. Everyone that offered resistance was mercilessly destroyed. Notek . . . he’s more powerful than you can imagine.” With vengeance burned onto his face, Notek stood.

“I must go,” he seethed. “I’ll bring help, and together we will repel this evil.” Vertigo stood and took hold of his shoulders.

“Please don’t leave me here Notek . . . please . . . not again.” The light that invaded the room was dimming, and Notek remembered Dagon’s threat as he brushed Vertigo off.

“I have to hurry, it will be dark soon.” He looked her straight in the eye. “You’ll be safe . . . I promise.”

“Notek,” Vertigo said, anger boiling the tears in her eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Burning Shadows (Chapter 8)

“I didn’t know that lavabious creatures were even able to vomit.” Notek complained, disgusted at the brown, viscous, gunk that steamed slightly as he washed it off of his hands and arms. Vertigo laughed at his reaction, and her laughter was light and fluid.

“Oh Notek, will you always be this afraid to get your hands dirty?” Notek’s face softened, and he gazed sideways at Vertigo as she also cleansed herself of the headmaster’s accidental secretions.

“You’ve changed a lot Verti . . .” Vertigo’s manner grew more subdued, and she replied softly.

“I know . . .”

“What happened to the little girl I left here five years ago?” Vertigo’s expression betrayed her pain.

“The war happened.” Notek started and blinked, momentarily unsure of his hearing.

“War?!” Vertigo stared at him in disbelief.

“You didn’t know? A rebel faction of symbiotes has declared war on the High Master. They claim that the only route to peace is through democracy – a council of symbiotes to govern the rest.” Notek was puzzled.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“They just want power, and they’ll slaughter thousands of innocents to get it” Vertigo said. “The council will all be members hand-picked by the faction for their loyalty, and it will be presided over by Dagon.”

“The man who struck the headmaster” Notek said with sudden realization. “Was that Dagon?”

“Yes . . .” Vertigo said with some puzzlement. “How did you know?”

“Just a feeling . . . like I’ve seen him somewhere before . . .” The moment of silence that followed was broken by Vertigo’s smiled invitation.

“You should come back to my quarters – I can get you something to eat and I’ll catch you up on everything that’s happened in your absence.” Notek smiled back.

“I’d like that . . .”

Burning Shadows (Chapter 7)

It was like a fog had settled. He saw the students, felt them pass him by, but his eyes never moved, and his heart never changed. His pace was slow and soft, a tribute to the innocent nostalgia that overwhelmed his senses. He knew how different he must seem. No longer dressed in the crisp white robe of the acolytes, he had taken to wearing a jumpsuit of the deepest, most mournful black he could conjure up. The darkness of his clothing only served to accent his proud, porcelain skin and sad blue eyes. Still, the thing that set him most apart, the one feature that seemed to alienate him from the others, that they would whisper his name in fear and distaste, he could not identify.

He couldn’t know what evil was about to unfold.

Eventually Notek found himself avoiding the corridors most often used in favor of the less populated passageways. Using this method he found his feet leading him, involuntarily, to the one place that he had not wished to see. Kneeling, Notek rested his head on the white marble column that erupted from the ground like thousands of others around it: the grave of Kra L’il.

“So much has changed since you’ve gone. I’ve become a better person . . . a better symbiote.” Notek’s next breath was choked his in his throat. “I know that I could never redeem myself for what I . . . what I did to you, but I know that if you were alive you would forgive me.” He raised his head, bitterly. “You always forgave . . .”

“You!” Notek leapt and turned simultaneously, preparing to defend himself from the accusatory tone of his aggressor. “Are you Notek Soofor?” The speaker was tall and humanoid, with features vaguely reminiscent of noble birth – sharp, defined facial structure, narrowed eyes, and dark skin. At this moment the headmaster trundled onto the scene.

“Please don’t hurt him, he is not one of us!” Notek’s heart stopped for a moment when he saw a trim, feminine figure standing in the dim light behind the headmaster. Could it be . . .?

“Silence, you imbecile!” The tall man delivered a hit so intense that it sent the massive creature sprawling onto the well-trimmed grass of the graveyard. Suddenly angry, Notek spread his feet ever so slightly into a fighting stance.

“I don’t know who you are, but you have no right to treat him like that!” The tall individual laughed – a singularly mocking gesture.

“I’m not sure whether to interpret your boldness as bravery or stupidity, but your candor will do you no good. I expect you to be off of this property by sunset, or I reserve the right to terminate you.” With this proclamation he strode cockily off the grounds, back into the school complex. Notek rushed immediately to aid the headmaster, but the girl was closer and reached him first. It was Vertigo.

Her dark hair was longer now, it fell down over and past her shoulders as she leaned over the great creature that now lay still on the ground.

“Notek . . . he’s not breathing!”

“It’s alright” Notek uttered in as calming a voice as he could muster amidst the chaos in his heart. His eyes stared blindly as he spread his hands over the headmaster’s injury. At least Vertigo still spoke to him . . .

Burning Shadows (Chapter 6)

“Again, that was sloppy!” Notek’s tears and sweat mingled on his forehead as he struggled to maintain his focus. With a sudden exhalation of breath he dropped to the ground, eyes shut tight. Akuta’s voice rang with silent satisfaction. “This ends the exercise . . . we will return.” Notek stood, pain mocking his movements. Silently, numbly, he began to climb.

The yellow-green grassy plains of this world frequently gave way to rocky cliff face, and it was there that Akuta had taken Notek. Five times had the barely-habitable ball of rock orbited its star, and there were many days when Notek gazed, longing, towards that star’s rise, knowing he could not go back.

Not yet.

***

“You are upset.” The many pits and scars on Akuta’s sandy features were accentuated by the light of the fire, causing his visage to appear corrugated in the near-darkness. Notek maintained his silence, and Akuta shook his head. “You may share with me . . . you know that I will not violate your trust.”

“It is nothing master . . .”

“The desires of the heart are everything.” Still Notek did not speak, shamed by Akuta’s perceptiveness. Sensing Notek’s discomfort, Akuta again spoke. “There have been many who have desired my teachings, but none who were able.” His eyes glared through the flames towards Notek, and his voice betrayed his conviction. “There is no doubt in my mind that I was right in my choice. However . . .” Notek shifted his weight, surprised at the addendum. “You have surpassed my desires. There is more to teach you, but I cannot hold you any longer.” The pale humanoid met Akuta’s gaze. “If you wish to leave, I will not stop you.” Notek responded instantly, appalled at his master’s assertion.

“You have done so much for me, I would be worthy only of disgust if I were to leave you now.”

“Incorrect – your debt to me is no greater than mine to you.” Notek fell silent in humility. “Consider my words carefully, and do not forget to weigh what you feel with what you think, for reason and emotion must be carefully balanced.” Akuta smiled lovingly. “You tend to consider only your intellect Notek; please, do not let your emotions be forgotten, for while it is the rational that will save your life, it is the irrational that will make it worth living.” Notek stood and maneuvered himself to the mouth of the cave, his eyes roving absently from star to star, only those small points of light visible in the inky blackness.

In the morning he was gone.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 5)

“Akuta has taken him in.”

“Good, my patience was beginning to wear thin.”

“I’m surprised you even know the word.”

“I’m surprised that you are treating this topic with such frivolity. Our fates hang in the balance, and by extension the stability of trillions of beings scattered across the universe.”

“I have not forgotten the odds, I’m merely celebrating our victory.”

“We haven’t won – he may yet turn from the path we have set up for him.”

“Our path.” The speaker spat in distaste. “It was difficult for them to sell us their child . . . you could see it in their eyes. How difficult was it when they had to watch him die?”

“One life sacrificed for the lives of many, many more. Is not such a sacrifice worth any price?” The silence pressed in around them like the tangible darkness.

“But what will be that price? How many . . . how many more must be sacrificed?”

“As many as it takes.”

“You are a cold soul.”

“You are mistaken, it is the breeze that chills you so. Come, let us depart from this wretched place.”

“Very well . . . we shall meet again?”

“As always.”

Desert Ends

Trailing in the desert,
Tail tucked 'neath my feet,
I wander alone,
In the dust, in the heat
The cacti my footstools,
A shadow, a treat.

No rest for my body,
Won't rescind, won't retreat,
Create for me sudden,
A woman entreats,
"Lend hands to my burden,
And you may suckle my teat"

I don't stop for any,
My mind is at ease,
I go where I wished,
I'll do what I please.

Almost Blind

What a fortuitous exchange to hear,
And ever closer the smell of fear,
But only any simpleton can see,
That eyes, cold eyes, are failing me.

What good are those,
Who oft behold,
But ne'er do stay to help?

And who can lie,
And say that I,
Have not seen the truth?

I bring to bear,
The senses bare,
That naked, see the light,

But even so,
I taste my death,
When I find I see no right.

How clueless I am in my senseless cries,
But you all know I've been wronged,
I know!
I can!
Argue until,
I realize the uselessness of eyes.

Kabritomatic

So today I put on my coat and hat,
All of what I tried was,
Wetted by the rain.

My mind revolves,
On the mobius strip of,
The atom.

Hallelujah, scream the angels,
While hell to pay,
Is a restaurant's demise.

Message in a Cyberbottle

The words from the future,
Of your long-dead wife,
Harvest the sheaves,
Of the heart:
A hallucinatory scythe.

True, the pain is imaginary,
But my mind is all I have,
So oft I am more wary,
Than necessary.

So:

Here lies the love,
That I hoped to posses,
When in fact it disguised,
The love to undress.

The bruises don't heal,
When consoled by a friend,
The abuse will repel,
Lest a friendship end.

And although my mother,
And sisters,
And brothers,
Were prone to love others,

I love only myself,
And my self is my cover.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 4)

She stepped gently into the doorway, a silhouette against the white and blue marble hallway. Notek sensed her presence, and altered his posture slightly.

“I’m sorry for the way I acted before.”

“I know.” Cautiously Vertigo stepped into the dimly-lit room, her feet probing carefully lest they disturb the slumber of the indigenous candles, manuscripts, and ashes that littered the floor. Notek continued his packing.

“I made you something.” Vertigo’s heart leapt and was quieted by her memory of the scene in the chamber just a few hours ago as Notek held out his hand, never changing the direction of his gaze.

“It’s beautiful” she gasped; and it was. Smooth and silver, the small spiral-shaped talisman hung on a thread of the purest white.

“I just” Notek choked on his words. “ . . . I just didn’t want you to forget me.” Vertigo’s dark eyes brimmed, but she felt her heart sink into the icy depths of inevitability.

“You won’t be gone for long I’m sure. The headmaster will let you come back next year, I’m sure of it!” Notek shook his head.

“I don’t think I’m destined for this.” Here he gestured, and his fragile hands seemed to encompass the entire dome with their subtle movements. “This isn’t my home . . .”

“This isn’t mine either.”

“Don’t say that Verti.” She took a bold step forward, chin raised.

“But it’s true, and you know it!”

“Don’t say that Verti!” Notek spun around, fury burning dark and deep in his pale blue eyes. “I can’t live like this! I can’t live this life . . .” He stalked past her and let his legs carry him woodenly down the cold passageway. Abruptly Vertigo felt her legs fail her, and she sank, cross-legged, to the floor. The sobbing that ensued would last until the evening meal.

But this story is not about her.

This story is about the young symbiote who met with Master Akuta Sagon as a wretched outcast of the council and emerged victorious as the legend that we know him to be today.

That story continues.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 3)

“You must let him stay. It is imperative that he trains further.” The headmaster squelched in his seat, uncomfortable with refusing the pleas of his senior.

“He is powerful . . . gifted. But he cannot stay. He has been the cause of many . . . problems - and now this.”

“I understand, Mal.” The two fell silent for a moment. “Well, I suppose I should go talk to the boy.” The tentacle that rested on the desk twitched in sudden arousal then lay still.

“Don’t do anything rash Akuta.” The small lizard-like creature leapt onto the headmaster’s desk and gently stroked his appendage.

“Old friend . . . I will do what I must.” He turned his sandy head skyward and smiled benignly as the headmaster towered over him.

“That does not reassure me.”

“I did not expect it to.” Those words signaled the end of the conversation for Akuta, and he slithered down the leg of the desk, onto the floor, and out of the headmaster’s office.

* * *

Notek’s hair was clean now, and it hung in long, bright lengths over his white robe. His forehead rested gently on the dark wood of the long box in front of him, and with his eyes open it seemed as though the marble room might swallow him whole in righteous fervor.

“I thought you might be here.” Not even the familiar ring of Vertigo’s voice could disturb Notek’s mourning, and he ignored her when she sat by his side. “It’s not your fault you know.” Notek’s chest heaved with self-restraint. The two were quiet for some time, Vertigo wondering at her friend’s state of mind, Notek swallowing the cyanide of bitter regret. Neither noticed the soft sound of gentle footfalls until a third creature joined them at the coffin. Standing upright on its hind legs, the gecko-like creature bowed its head, sandy skin complemented by the oaken finish it faced. Despite its minute stature, it seemed to exude a presence and authority that wrenched even Notek from his reverie.

“Kra Li’l was a gentle soul, gifted with the spirit of peacemaking. He would have had an enormously positive impact on the council had he survived.” The lizard slowly waved its hands back and forth across the surface of the wood. “He will be sorely missed.” Notek, nonplussed, turned his head back towards the coffin.

“And what of his murderer?” Now his head jerked up violently, and was met by an icy reptilian stare. On all fours, the sandy creature glared down at him from atop the coffin, hissing. “What shall be done to him?” Vertigo prepared an indictment of the lizard’s coarse words, but Notek’s glance muted her in an instant. His stomach knotted, but his voice betrayed none of the remorse that he felt.

“I could not have known that the sludge in that tunnel was poison to his species! Toxin identification is a talent that very few have!” The snake reared up, poised to strike.

“Is that all you have? Excuses?! Excuses are meaningless. Excuses will not resurrect the dead. Excuses will not prevent your expulsion.” Notek choked on a tear.

“I would not have stayed . . . I will not be responsible for any more deaths.”

“No . . . you will be responsible for the deaths of many, for the blood that you refused to spill has crippled you.” Notek’s confusion tied his tongue momentarily. “When you are prepared to leave, seek me out. I make my home to the west of this dome.” With those words, the creature agilely skittered out of the room.

“What a rude person,” Vertigo opined. “I can’t believe he’d say those things to you. It obviously wasn’t your fault!”

Puzzled, remorseful, frustrated, and no longer desiring any sort of companionship, Notek stood to his feet and stalked out of the room, leaving Vertigo’s cries of consolation behind.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 2)

“ . . . and then he left with Kra Li’l!” The headmaster’s eyes hardened and he dismissed the tearful girl with a wave of his tentacle.

“Is there a problem headmaster?” The headmaster, an aged lavabious creature vaguely reminiscent of both a lobster and an octopus did not turn his wizened head when he responded.

“That idiot Soofor managed to convince Kra Li’l to accompany him on an unauthorized investigation of one of our old silos.” The headmaster’s aide started, but quickly recovered.

“Shall I dispatch a rescue party?” Slowly a crusty eyelid creaked shut over the globulous eye as the aide waited patiently for a response.

* * *

Slimy and covered in verdure unimaginable, Notek emerged victorious onto the barren surface. One coughing fit later and Kra Li’l’s wearied body was likewise hauled to the lip of the rounded opening. The two youths collapsed back onto the ground, gasping for sustenance in the coarse, dry air. It was some time before either of them spoke.

“I’m never gonna’ get this crap out of my hair” Notek moaned, running his fingers through his locks, now darkened with filth. In between pained breaths Kra Li’l spoke.

“It’s a good . . . thing you found that . . . tunnel. We . . . probably wouldn’t have . . . .” He lapsed into another, more vociferous, fit of coughing, spitting blackened blood onto the dust. Notek sat upright and stared worriedly at his partner.

“Kra, you alright?” Notek noted the dimming of his friend’s usually bright skin. “Listen, you just stick here, I’m gonna’ go get a ‘port and a medteam. How’s your symbiote?” Kra Li’l’s dark eyes rolled up in pain.

“Feeling . . . weak . . . Li’l . . . is gone . . .” Notek recoiled in horror as the cold blue of Kra Li’l’s skin began to sweat black droplets. Hesitating, he finally compelled his feet to obey: he leapt into a frantic sprint back towards the school.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 1)

He was never a big fan of rules.

“Notek look out!” More debris fell from the roof, and Notek began to reconsider the wisdom of his hasty investigation of the facility. “Come on man, we’ve gotta’ get out of here!”

“Right, follow me.” With one pre-emptive glance over the wall of mortar he leapt recklessly into the darkness that followed. A few shallow breaths later and a bioluminescent biped jogged past him.

“You’re an idiot! I can’t believe I listened to you for even the smallest fraction of a second!” Notek cast a dark glare into the depths of shadowy sharpness.

“We don’t need to discuss this right now.”

“No kidding! What we need to do is get to the surface, but thanks to you these three tiers are collapsing in on themselves!” The note of panic that had been in his voice had begun to harmonize with itself in a grim concerto of fear. Unsteadily Notek felt his way along the passage.

“Don’t worry, there should be vents here . . . and here.” He ran his hand along the rough wall until it caught. Deftly his fingers sought the comfort of the smooth, rounded depression. “It’s jammed.” Notek’s partner hovered anxiously over his shoulder.

“Now what are we gonna’ do?”

“Relax, I’m sure I can dissipate the rock here.” The soft glow dimmed for a second and returned, brighter than before, lighting Notek’s pale fingers as they rested.

“Notek . . . be careful . . .” The warning soared on the wings of caution, but its target was too focused to take notice, and Notek’s hands sunk quickly into the crevice before withdrawing with a pained gasp.

“Augh . . .” His companion quickly stepped closer, but Notek withdrew into the shadows, where his feet were grabbed by a small outcropping and immobilized whilst his body tumbled ever onward. Hearing his cry, his friend called out.

“Notek, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I tripped.” A massive shockwave shook through the cavern, and Notek mused and cursed simultaneously. “There must be another way out . . .”

Burning Shadows (Introduction)

I’d like to tell you a story. Don’t worry it won’t take long – I’ll break it up into pieces. Pieces yes . . . what a pleasing metaphor . . . he would be pleased. Who? His name is difficult to remember, although I’m sure you’ve heard it. If only he hadn’t forgotten his name, even his own face, he might still be with us. It is a sad fate, when someone else must tell your story as I am telling you his.

How does one forget their own face? It is akin to looking at yourself in the mirror. Truly the mirror gives a clearly defined image, but imagine that as you grow older your eyes grow foggier and can no longer achieve the clarity of perception that they once were capable of. How then can you know your own face? That is how he forgot himself. What is his name?

He is known by the world, no the universe, as Master Soofor. Still, I do not wish to tell you a story about him, I’m sure his fame has brought you word of many. No instead I want to tell you about that which has been kept locked away in the most secret of places. This is not the story of Master Soofor, but of the young boy that we know only as Notek.

Accept the Pregnant Future

It was so heavy . . .

It's rained hard before of course. The rain is usually light, but it does . . . pour.

Never like then. It wasn't just raining, it was heavy.

Very.

It was kind of like, when you're carrying something and you put it down for a moment to rest your arms, that really lightweight feeling, only backwards. Like when you've eaten too much pizza, and all you want to do is sleep, but you're wide awake.

Today is one of those days.

And so, as I put my feet to the bicycle pedals and block out the voracious feeding noises of highway traffic, I know that today may be the last day. My last day. I can hoist my backpack higher, but I know that I'll never escape this road. I am destined to live here . . . perhaps even die here.

I am ready.

All death is just,
And all life, gifted grace,
Continue, continue,
Lest you fall on your face.

Continue, continue,
When you're slapped in the face . . .

Is (Two Voices)

I am.
Like a rock.

I am . . .
Ice,
Water.

I am.
Like earth.

I am . . .
Fire,
Electricity.

Who am I?

What am I not . . . ?

Pseudo-Asian Philosophical Argot

Whenever we stop,
For time
Does this not seem foolhardy?

It's ridiculous,
We wait
Even while all the world lives.

I think that wisdom,
Is when
We lay our apathy down

Try and die without
Any
Befuddled experiments.

It's ridiculous,
We rush
Even when all the world dies.

Muzak Nation

It has become increasingly obvious to me that the musical tastes of the culture in which I am immersed have dramatically affected, or at the very least are an accurate representation of, the model of our national psyche. With greater and greater frequency we are becoming used to "hearing" sounds without actually consciously registering them. Background music has become a way of life, indeed even a metaphor for our daily activities. The fact is that there are very few who truly listen to music simply for the sake of listening to music. Two hundred years ago there was a barrier between the drudgery of daily life and the fantastic enterprise that was the music industry: now, no such barrier exists - any and all music can be transferred and transmogrified until it is unrecognizable.

Consider this: when was the last time that you ceased all activity and merely listened to a song? It is rare that this happens, for we are consumed with efficiency, and stopping all activity when we could be doing something seems ludicrous. Certainly there are levels of activity, but I have found that I tend to listen to music while doing both more and less - writing a paper, falling asleep, reading, exercising, driving, etc. These varied levels of activity still denote the presence of something which consciously or subconsciously occupies some part of our mind, thereby diluting the musical experience.

The point that I'm trying to make is that it is incredibly important that we do not adopt a philosophy of partial involvement. This manner of world-view will make even the most involving tasks apathy-inducing and dull, as there is always some corner of our mind that we reserve for . . . something else.

Listening to music.

Remember:
Sensation and intellect are meaningless without one another. Strive to keep them in balance, a pleasant duality, not a warring schism.

The Congregation Rests

Four thousand dead now,
How many more must follow?

In truth I feel faint,
Though I know my cause is just,
My heart beats slowly.

It is shameful love,
That supplants my boastful voice.

That brings my knees down,
And despairs my closest friend.

Truly this must end
And I will do my best
So, the congregation rests.

Violence

Caiphus: If men are inherently violent, then what affect does the efficiency thereof have on our perception of violence?

Moralam: It is true that all men are prone towards violence; furthermore, it is also true that, given the lack of a spear a man will turn to a stone to bash his enemy's head in. However, is it not true that the death by spear is a more humane death?

Caiphus: I believe that that is a misleading phrase - there is no such thing as a humane death.

Moralam: Explain.

Caiphus: How can death be humane at all? Is not all forced death a violation of life, and therefore painful to the environment in which we are immersed?

Moralam: Death is a natural part of life - there is no question of death's certainty, only of its timing. Even death by old age is a death caused by some rapid change. It is just as forced as when one's life is ended by a weapon; therefore, all death is violent. Because all men are violent, and prone towards violence, it is fitting that their lives should end violently. Given that something "humane" is something that represents the epitome of human achievement, and that there is only one sort of death possible, a violent one, I know that the absolute best possible death is still the worst, and this makes it impossible for one kind of death to be better than another, except in the instances of pain during life.

Caiphus: So when you speak of a humane death, you are making reference to that death which is preceded by the least amount of suffering while that person is still living.

Moralam: Yes. Now, to return to what we were discussing: does more efficient violence begat more violence, or does it simply make deaths easier to bear?

Caiphus: Are you arguing that efficiency makes deaths more humane?

Moralam: I was considering it; however, after much deliberation and examination of the evidence I have found that it is the cruelty of the man behind the weapon that determines the suffering incurred, and not the efficiency of that weapon.

Caiphus: Indeed, even the smashing of one's head with a stone can be merciful when compared to the ritualistic tortures of the spear.

An Ode of Anxiety

Gradually you begin to feel your veins
Inside your mind,


You've come to find,
There's not enough room in your brain


Though everything is so dimly lit,
And all the world opens her arms
wide,

You fear to come
inside,

Welcome,

To the world as we know it . . .

Righteous In Loneliness

Morals were a cautious dam,
When released the land caught fire,
But who can know when the dam will go,
And free hedonistic desire?

If just one man,
Or woman stands,
Before the dam's untapped flow,
Then would not the fire,
Be forced into place,
That, molded, it would glow,
And shed the light,
That, calm this night,
Our innocence dissuaded.

And silently the townsfolk sleep,
Protected in illumination,
For all it took,
Was a worried look,
To enforce what we created.

Prison Invisible

I knew it was only a dream.

That's all I am after all, a lonely dreamer, afloat in a sea of tranquility. They thought I was crazy, but it doesn't matter. I made them in my mind, made them up. I breathed life into them, every one. The mailman, the lonely collegiate girl, the elderly woman who set aside a portion of her meager income to pay for birdseed . . .

They are mine.

They would argue, have tried to argue with me, but how can you argue with a dreamer? Speak not to me; I am only a corpse in this world. I am only a corpse to this world. That is why I am here, in this morgue of men.

How I got here I do not know, that part of this dream is vague and difficult to remember. My mind is clouded and filled to bursting, bursting like a can of beans dropped carelessly in the path of an oncoming train.

There are other corpses here . . . I can sense them. Some of them live with me, even after death they live. I am pleased that this is only a dream, for when I live I may control my fate, but in my dreams I am powerless, powerless in this prison invisible.

War of Science

He struggles,
Every pore
Poured out onto the workbench,
Coarse hands shaken,
Shaking,
As, caustic,
It is administered,
Carefully measured
One increment at a time,
Closer and closer,
To more efficient violence.

Ode to the Children

It is,
The most beautiful thing,
When together they sit,
All alone on the swing,

Not a moment is shared,
Like the one come before,
And each moment is shared,
Before an open door,

Yet each kiss and each touch,
Enters muffled and hoarse,
While his legs become rough,
And her smile grows coarse

When into the room,
They leap,
Where does innocence sleep?

Religion, Faith, and Spirituality

Caiphus: What is the relationship between faith and religion?

Moralam: Religion is the unfortunate byproduct of mankind's attempt to instill faith in others. Unfortunately this is futile: it only summons the barest mist of faith to hover about for a while, concealing an individual's true nature.

Caiphus: But what of faith?

Moralam: By faith I assume that you mean spirituality, that being the search for any ultimate truth. This search may take many different forms, but can only have one outcome. If this were not so, then that truth would no longer be ultimate, and would therefore be useless.

Caiphus: How does religion come into existence then?

Moralam: Religion is created when an individual believes that they have come to the conclusion of this spiritual journey, and therefore have nothing more to seek.

Caiphus: How sad.

Moralam: A better word might be pitiable.

Love and Life Lost

Oh how I long,
For dawn's lovely grin,

To wipe out the scourge,
Of dusk's only sin,

That it brings back my life,
The one I tried to rescind,

When I would spend many nights,
Sitting 'lone in the dark,
Waiting for the day to begin.

Love, Mathematically Speaking

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Two is to three,
As I am to you.

<3

The Obvious

You cannot help,
What you cannot hope to hold back.

You cannot contribute,
To what you cannot contain.

And:

You cannot show,
What you cannot see.

Power through knowledge,
From whence does knowledge arrive?
Knowledge through power.

The Antisocial Response

Then they finally came into view.

One of his buddies was with him, riding a low-cal dirtbike behind his ATV, kicking up dust with the indifference of someone who believes that he owns that which he beholds. They stopped, the older one's tagalong, not taking the hint, abruptly braked and squealed past me, managing to avoid an awkward collision. I turned my back on him - he wasn't particularly concerning, and fourwheels obviously had some mischief in mind.

"Hey kid." Fair enough, I probably didn't look that much older than him.

"Yeah."

"You got any gum?" Gum? What? Obviously not the brightest cherry on this branch of Rednecksville, U.S.A.

"No."

"Well me and my buddy here think it might be best for you if you did." At this point he took off his helmet and I got a good look at his face. Not hard to tell that he was new at this - his blotchy cheek was smooth like fresh laundry. At this point I knew his friend was probably getting ready to bean me with a crowbar or something, so I threw him a bone I knew he couldn't resist.

"What, you can't take me by yourself?" His face got even more blotchy.

"Sure 'nuff I can."

"Lets see it."

"Don't be dumb, I ain't no fool." He took a step back. "Y'all got a switchblade or something and I'm not gonna' step up to no ghetto kid with no switchblade."

"So you're scared?" His fists clenched.

"Look, you asking for a fight?" This was it, this was his loophole.

"No man, I don't wanna' fight you." He managed to look relieved and dissatisfied at the same time.

"Good," he said, spitting. "I wouldn't want to fight me neither!"

And then the fun began.

"Bet you couldn't." The total confusion that wiggled its way through his features filled me with malevolent glee.

"Couldn't what?"

"Fight yourself."

"What the hell are you talkin' about? You sure is dumb, t'aint nobody can fight themselves."

"You're just saying that because you can't. You're weak."

"Excuse me?" A cool wind started blowing, and I wished I'd worn a sweater. Oh well, the fires of hell are pretty warm, and it's pretty certain that that's where I'll be headed after today.

"You heard me. You're weak: you can't hack it. Back where I come from a boy's gotta' beat himself before he becomes a man." His eyes widened just a little, but he kept his cool.

"I'm more man 'n you, that's for sure."

"Well then, prove it."

"Alright then I will!" He looked down at his fist, hesitantly, as if unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do. I let him figure it out.

After the third hit he was on the ground, scrabbling with himself, clawing and shaking like a possessed animal. It didn't take quite three leaps and I was seated in the saddle of his still-running ATV, stamping on the gas. I think I might have broken a couple of his ribs when I ran over him, I but I couldn't be sure. By this time his cohort was jumping on his bike, starting it, preparing to give chase.

It wouldn't be hard to track me on these dusty roads, so I did what little I could to shake him before I stopped completely and bailed. Unfortunately for him my prediction was correct: his reflexes failed him and he glided through the air awkwardly, like a stork. Yes, a strange breed of stork that crumples into an unmoving ball where it lands. I considered consoling him; reminding him that the dust would clot the blood quickly, and he might not die; but the wind was picking up, and I didn't wear a sweater.

Ego

The whole nation celebrated when the news hit. And did they ever celebrate. News anchors drank on live television while the streets overflowed with dancing, laughing, overjoyed Americans. For the next day or so the roadways were so crowded it was impossible to drive anywhere. Not that anyone cared. There was much cause for jubilation, and the president agreed, officially marking that day, January 26th, as a national holiday. Soon the street fiestas abated, and life went on. Or perhaps it began anew, new in the hearts and minds of the people, new in the way cautious smiles were reciprocated by total strangers.

Elsewhere there was a similar initial reaction. When Studebaker and his colleagues had taken the stand and announced themselves cancer free the whole world had taken a collective intake of breath. Surprisingly calm, Studebaker himself had followed up the announcement with his proclamation that administration of the drug would start immediately, as soon as the pharmaceutical megacorporations could be shipped the ingredients necessary to begin manufacturing.

It took four full days to create enough of the tonic to begin application, and another week went by before anyone realized the truth. And it didn't take long before people started reacting. Not the Americans of course, they had all the medication they needed. No, it was the Japanese who struck first. First it was a hospital in South Carolina, then one in Texas. Russia followed this with a daring attack on the Grand Central Hospital of New York. Nation after nation began to invade in a concerted effort to acquire this miracle drug, the cure for man's most dogged, seemingly insatiable disease.

We never even put up a fight.

Five hundred thousand died over the space of a week, unbelievable numbers I know. I cannot even go outside anymore, the carnage is too great. Our once great country has been ripped to shreds by greed. Not their greed, no, they were just doing what they needed to in order to survive. No, it was our greed, our insatiable hunger to be on top, to be the best. Well it seems we pushed them a little too far. Our capitalistic attitude wasn't even the worst; it was when we restricted access that things changed. I wish there was someone else to hold responsible, someone else to blame: but I know, deep down, there's no one.

So as I, James T. Ross, huddle closer to the monitor of my laptop and pray that the power holds out just a little bit longer, I needs must confess: I knew why we were so easily defeated. I knew then, and I know now that all over the world, millions - no, billions of people are experiencing the very same thing. This miracle drug, this cure-all, is a poison to the mind. It eats away, not at the physical body, but at the soul of a human being. It makes us passive . . . weak.

I can feel the ground shaking now, at precisely seven-second intervals. It's probably the Germans; they've been bombing the area for weeks now. As it stands those few pilots buzzing overhead and myself are probably the only ones on earth who are still capable. Coherent.

Alive.