Museum

They want to destroy what I have collected. Creations culminate in a collation of those things most precious and beautiful, but the evil ones do not appreciate this. They who are invisible to my mind desire destruction thereof. I can run, and I do; I flee for hours and hours, but no matter how far I propel myself I am strung back by the spawn of my psyche, a boomerang that vacillates between distance and sensation. How can I save my loved ones, how can I preserve my prizes? Indeed my subconscious is altruistic in the extreme, though my armies fight for me whilst my back is turned. Oh I do long to return to the time of peace, when I wandered the halls of my vast mausoleum and exhibited the existential enterprise as a matter of philosophy. Of pride.

A Series of Questions Regarding Human Nature

In what way do feelings and emotions differentiate themselves?

On one level most emotions incur pleasure or pain, but is this the only difference?

Why do we not simply consign all emotions into one category?

Is there a significant difference between emotion and feeling or sensation?

What is the distinction between logic and emotion? Are they not simply differences in thought?

Is thought the epitome of human intelligence?

Is sensation equal in desirableness to intellect?

Is thought simply an extension of sensation, making all experience human?

Distance lessens sensation - does sensation lessen distance?

Are emotions and thoughts differentiated through objectivity?

Modulation

Lyrical modulation belongs to the frustrated conquerer.

Semantical modulation belongs to the frustrated conquerer.

Semantical modulation frustrates the conquerer.

Literature modulates for the frustrated emperor.

Literature modulates.

One Girl Moshing

I stand onstage
Alone
In front of thousands
Millions

Emotions astir as I fool them into thinking
I never meant to
But it had to come true

All the people who don't know me love me
But those who know believe

All who don't know me trust me
But those who know me run

They fear me,
When they hear me,
They kill me,
'Cause I'm still me

And though I feed this pressure
With my foolish immature ranting
I still look down and see on the ground
A single fan still standing

I hear the words she speaks to me
All the things she screams at me
There's nothing I can do you see
To ignore the one girl moshing

There's one girl in the mosh pit
She's the only one at all
She's standing, dancing, running, yelling
Banging on the wall

She's cooler than cool
And hotter than hot
But what she thinks I am I'm not
And so she follows me again
To the beginning
Or to the end

What do you say to the one girl moshing?
What do you do to make her leave
What can convince her that you're not worthy
Of anything you receive

This is the sound of one girl moshing
Strange
Deranged
Totally insane

This is the sound of one girl moshing
Eating her heart out
Just to hear you sing

This is the sound of one girl moshing
It rips me apart every day
On the outside I scream for her to leave
But on the inside I want her to stay

She's not perfect
But neither am I
And who is, nowadays

I just can't stand that she's loving a lie
A person who can't make up his mind
So confused...

She can't console me
She can only hold me
And stand there in the line
Waiting, waiting
For a signature
To add to her collection

She'd sacrifice so much for me
Or is that what she thinks
She crouches before the final song
Like a wildcat, a lynx

She leaps up on the stage
After all the music's gone
Her voice it stings
The tune it sings
The pitch it rings
But it's all wrong

Because she thinks she knows someone
But he's all but gone

Will he ever come back

I really don't know

Until then I have to just go with the flow

I can't seem to follow

This wake in my mind

So I'll ride the surf

Till the end of time

And hear the waves splashing

Hear my heart throbbing

And the sound

Of the one girl moshing

Trite

"The ambassador is here." The reedy-voiced woman ended her message with a cold metallic click, and representative Ingo Dominguez straightened his tie before calmly standing to greet his guest. He underestimated the time it would take the ambassador to travel from the receptionist's office to his own, and so he spent a few long seconds tapping his foot on the carefully polished hardwood floor. The similarly-paneled wooden doors slid apart in absolute silence as an aged Asian man gingerly carrying a briefcase stepped through, his patent leather shoes striking the floor with an unusually sonorous sound. Offering his hand, Ingo momentarily wondered whether he would be expected to help the man to his seat, so fragile was his stance.

"Konichiwa Ambassador, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I trust your lift ride was comfortable?" The small man nodded and smiled blankly before producing identical sets of earbuds from his breast pocket. As he returned the man's smile, Ingo cursed inwardly. The ambassador obviously still spoke his native language exclusively, as was the case with many postmoderns: at least the ones still clinging to life. Reluctantly he accepted the proffered earpieces and the small box to which they were attached, hesitating for a moment before recalling how to use the archaic device. Into each ear he inserted the small, round electronics, and gestured for the other to seat himself. Ingo turned his back and allowed a small grimace to flicker across his face before returning to his characteristic charming smile. The eggshell shaped chair sighed slightly as he sunk into it, and he cleared his throat before speaking.

"As I said before, I hope your trip was relaxing and enjoyable." There was a slight feedback in his ears as the other man equipped himself similarly before responding.

"Naturally it was very pleasant." The metallic sound of the computer-generated voice was nowhere near as unsettling as watching the ambassador's mouth move seemingly independent of the words being filtered into Ingo's ears. "I expect you are eager to get talking?" Had he not been upset at the inconvenience the device was causing Ingo might have allowed his mouth to twitch upwards in reaction to the poor translation; as it was he simply leaned forward and pushed a folder across his desk.

"This contains all the information we are willing to release to your government at this time regarding the wells. Location will be divulged once the transaction is made final."

"What is the cost you are wanting?"

"Twenty three K." Ingo needed no translation to interpret the pained expression that sifted into the ambassador's sandy, wrinkled face, a face that was now staring out the window behind the desk.

"That is a difficult thing to say." More feedback in his ears as the translator tried to convey the heavy sigh that wracked the elderly man's body. "We are not a prosperous or affluent nation sir, it is difficult to say." More staring, this time his eyes peering beyond the window and the office into the past. "It is sad how we have fallen, to be bartering for oil like KSHHHHHH." Static burst into Ingo's ears and then faded.

"I'm sorry, but that price is non-negotiable: we have many other potential buyers who are willing to pay what we ask should your government decide against the purchase." Ingo's eyes met his adversary's, and for a moment he felt genuinely sorry for the decrepit figure hunched over in the ill-fitting chair opposite his own.

"Why must the world be ruled by absolutes...where is our freedom?" Trance-like, the ambassador drifted his fingers over his briefcase before opening it. The folder coalesced into the case, guided gently by the man's aged fingers. "Thank you for your patience" said the cold, monotone voice as the man's lips moved. He stood to leave, and Ingo quickly removed the earbuds, careful not to let his elation show. When he stood he moved with bewildering speed to return his manacles to his captor, one last handshake offered in final farewell.

Mocha

It's time I let you all in on a secret I've been keepin'
'Cause there's no time for yakkin' when my brain like tea is steepin'
What you can't guess though you harass me while I'm busy chuggin'
Now that I'm done I'll tell you 'bout a different kind of muggin'

Girls you see are pretty fine this much I must confess,
But there's one kind above all else that I love to caress.
I hope that when you look at me you won't see any less,
But this topic microscopic is causing me great stress.

Insipid and vacuous most girls are dumb like la roca
You ask them about hip hop and they respond with a polka
But I see something different in girls with skin like coca
Girls so fine they brightly shine quite frequently are mocha.

You might think it's superfluous that I keep on expounding,
But words and rhymes about these girls inside my head are pounding,
Truthfully I find this situation quite confounding,
But when she's staring back at me alarms just keep on sounding.

I'm not much of a talker, I'm a poet not a screamer,
And compared to those Haitian girls I'm white like coffee creamer,
But since those dames with English names lack epidermal toffee,
Baby won't you let me be the creamer in your coffee?

I hate the decision-making process,
Digression, with the incessant regressive lack of progress,

Fear.

Sweat running down my face as my mind shakes with the weight,
Of choice.

Heaven or hell, destruction seems inevitable,
My love and heat and hate are all balled into a single organism,
To create the schism in my mind,
The agony of philosophical proliferation.

I know all about your soul. I see it every day, and today I can say without a doubt that I have determined the exact measurements of your chemistry. You are not your own anymore. I can define you.

You are the loving enchanter of quiet hearts.

Look into my eyes
Don't try to disappear
I'm sorry you lack the ability
To feel, or love, or fear

Maybe I'm a liar,
But why would I lie to you?
You've always been there for me,
You've always opined truth,

I'm only sarcastic as a hobby
My full-time job is fear
So who am I when I'm with you
That you find time for tears?

How many times I've wondered
Of sympathy and loss,
But who am I to wipe your eyes,
And lips of morose froth?

I've lost count of your falls,
And times I've lent my hand,
To whom shall I report these things,
From whom will you demand?

Dead Haiku

Chaos of support:
Release itself through silence,
Erratic movements.

Chaos in support:
Confined within sound,
Don't move.

That Girl

"...and this one is a petunia. I call her Alice, because it seems like she's the sort that never really gets a grip on reality. The kind that goes on trying to be a rose, even if she's stuck being a petunia forever, y'know?"

The dark-eyed girl looked up from the melancholy plant, her left hand brushing her stick-straight black hair behind her ear as her right continued in the monotonous task of watering the flowers. A blonde boy stood to her left, equipped not only with a watering can but an infinite amount of patience as well. His calm eyes never left her, and she looked back up, nervous.

"I'm sorry, I tend to get carried away with that sort of thing. I've never really been that good at talking...y'know with people and stuff." The boy's smile was gracious and kind, and it made the girl feel like there was a light bulb on in her stomach.

"That's okay." His voice was soft like when you turn on the television during a party: loud enough to be audible, but really just background noise. They continued in silence for a little while longer, until the boy stopped suddenly. The girl looked up in surprise. "I ran out of water."

"Here, the faucet is right here. Um, come on." She led him past tangled vines, bright flowers, and other exotic foliage to a rusty paint-sink in the far corner of the room. They ran the water in silence, the pure liquid surprisingly clean considering the state of the faucet. Both were violently shaken from their thoughts when the water ran over the lip of the watering can. Reacting quickly, the girl turned off the faucet. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

"It's okay" the boy said as he tipped the can just enough to make it manageable. "See?" The girl blushed and smiled, though the boy did not return her gaze. She quickly turned on her heels and walked stiffly back to her petunia, resuming her arduous activity. It was a few minutes before the boy spoke again.

"I like that." The girl jerked, startled by his voice.

"What?" she asked.

"That you care so much...you know, about the plants." The girl's face flushed. "I don't know many people who pay that much attention to the important things." He looked at his watch. "I really should be going."

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Yea."

Then only his echoing footsteps marked his passage . . .

Logophobia

Words are frightening.

Truly the most inexorable of powers has been vested in communication. Words like "love" and "fear" and "hate" mean so much more to us than we realize. When someone looks you straight in the eye and says that they never want to see you again, how can you respond? Why would you throw more words at them?

Words are meaningless.

Such a potent effect on the psyche is not natural. One email, one conversation, one heart breaking message on your answering machine can ruin your day. Your life. Miscommunication can destroy a relationship.

Words are eternal.

Ideas never die, they are only recycled and vomited back onto the pages of some awful manuscript written solely to entertain a certain class, ethnicity, or age group. Why do we endure this fallacious enterprise?

Words are bridges.

If only we could beam our thoughts to each other, sending a stream of images, ideas, and abstracts, then we would could rescind this pathetic prose in which we engage daily. I would forfeit all the linguistic ability I have ever gained, all the knowledge I have ever acquired through reading, all the worlds that my imagination has violently extracted from the pages of a manuscript, if only to truly feel what he meant when he looked in my eyes and told me he was leaving.

I am an artist.

I do not answer or raise questions, I rewrite them.

Limitless Vision

Eyes.

What do they mean, what do they represent? It is everything except a person's eyes that indicates mood and emotion. The many temporal muscles that make up our face dictate to our observers our reactions, so why do the eyes play such a large part? Even focus of the eyes is shown by squinting, the eyes themselves remaining almost entirely static. Is it the dilation of the pupils? Our subconscious minds may be capable of detecting those subtle fluctuations in pupil width, perhaps it is this that causes us to be so obsessed with eyes.

Eyes...orbs of pure emotion. Without the eyes we are not simply blind, but others are blinded as well. It is a mutual blindfold, a two-way mirror, a kaleidescope of congealed shapes and colors, a fiend who displays our innermost desires on a crudely-written poster board message.

I look into your eyes and I see nothing. A blank brick wall greets me, chains and long-forgotten cinderblock littering the broken ground. This should not be, why am I so blinded? Was there something I missed, some abstract memo, some coded secret that I was unaware of? I feel imprisoned outside these walls . . .

We climb the walls because they are there. What an awful reason to learn about someone. Personalities are not set up for your conquest, they are works of art subject only to the viewer's interpretation, not modification! Psyches are not reverse engineer-able. When you break down a mind you will never be able to restore it to what it once was, for God-like abilities are reserved for God alone.

How angry I become when I consider the selfish motivation for such behavior.

Domai

Instinctual train,
No end for my mother,
Lace, feathers, and tea,
Tired faces,
From whom does the Frosty snowman give birth?
Cut wide open 'neath the pages,
Naked, sans the paper,
Prison bars.

Christopher U. Robin Esquire

Hey there little buddy,
How's your heart feeling?
Still in pain?
That's a shame.
Maybe if you shaved your mane,
Grew out your claws,
And changed your name,
Maybe you'd feel better,
Better than you were.

Hey there little buddy,
Why so blue?
Why not try living life for once?
You were born that way I know,
Maybe you should try a different medication,
So your hut will stop swimming.

Hey, what are you doing?
Where's your home,
Your heart,
Your hospitality?
You're a fool you know,
They'll never accept who you are,
Not in a thousand years.

That fool, that jackal,
All he wants is to keep his garden in order,
Perfection is his goal,
And you've got to be kind of anal to get there.

And that cheery fellow,
Does he realize the whole world is crumbling?
I see him you know,
I see him sitting in the back room,
Sniffing at his dope,
Making pleasured noises,
I can't remember the last time his shelves weren't bare.
He's got that little man working for him,
Not his fault,
Just born in a bad way I suppose,
Imported labor is real cheap I hear,
But he can't afford it,
Someone has to work for him,
That glutton.

There's another,
The lofty one,
I know he could do it,
I bet he would join you,
If you could tear him away from his books,
Knowledge was his paradise,
Now it's his prison,
His birdcage.

Shed a Tear for the Fool

In my previous post I discussed the nature of intelligence as I saw it. However, I have come to believe that what I was defining was not intelligence at all. Rather, it seems that what I was speaking of was a sort of psychological "survival of the fittest" or in this case the happiness and satisfaction of the fittest mentally. I am no great supporter of the theory of macro evolution, but survival of the fittest is most assuredly a cold, hard fact. Indeed, even when those who are "fit" spare the lives of those who are not or sacrifice themselves they are demonstrating that they are not fit enough to survive!

In any case I have formulated a latin phrase that I will use to refer to this theory of mine in the future: "compleo calx". A rough translation would be "to bring to fruition one's goals". Compleo calx is the desire, whether subconscious or conscious, to steer one's entire life in the direction that will make oneself most happy.

There are a few skills that affect compleo calx, but the most notable of them is precognition. Foresight is crucial when it comes to determining the outcome of your decisions, and as such can have the effect of making your compleo calx more efficient. In this way one can effectively determine how intelligent someone is. The sooner an individual begins to focus on the ramifications of their actions, the sooner they'll begin to fully take advantage of their situations.

Another interesting effect of this theory is the reality of a lose-lose situation. Without sufficient precognitive ability lose-lose situations will be all too common for an individual. A lose-lose situation is any time that shifting one's focus and keeping one's focus static both yield pain, or at least a result that is equally unprofitable. A well developed precognitive intuition or rationale would help an individual in determining the preferred course, which is why that skill is so important.

Also important is confidence, or courage. If someone is too wary of changing their focus, then the pain incurred by that change may be greater than the reward, therefore creating a complex situation out of which there is no escape.

More ruminating on this subject is required.