Deplorable imitation.
1 day ago
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Fragility
There are times when she feels like old lace curtains that have hung in a window for too many years. They appear to be intact, but if touched, they will disintegrate.
So much violence has crept into her life over the decades, it staggers the mind. It came through the portals of direct information conveyed generally by phone, though sometimes the messenger arrived at the door.
There were trickier means also. For example, discovery of a murder, no, make that two, were via the Internet. If one could simply set the world to System Restore, go back, and never enter those names, never click on “search”, never read those pages, never dig for the outdated news articles….
The ringing of the phone. This is not the perky telemarketer announcement of an earnest broom or vacuum cleaner salesman, wanting to enrich your life with greater efficiency when it comes to the beloved American cleanliness fetish, anymore than the knock on the door is a delivery from the Chinese restaurant. The Internet information is not due to a misspelled name typed in haste, allowing one to exhale again.
Oh no, it is not benign data. We are indifferent to the benign. This information is of too much import, we are not indifferent here.
At this moment, the sky is gray and white as though all color had been erased from the world, leaving only a photograph in gray scale. It is Limbo, the place between Heaven and Hell of the heart gone away from average days, where the soul waits for good news, if it ever comes.
In theory, Limbo is temporary. It is there for the convenience of the gods. A storage bin filled with things to be decided upon, but not immediately. The gods do not appreciate being rushed.
But I digress where this tale is concerned. Forgive me.
Decades ago, an infinity it seems, the phone call came from a doctor announcing the anticipated death of her mother.
She was sedated by spirituality; buffered by belief and weariness. The howl came later. The grief, a river rushing toward a wall of stone, came later. Vestiges remain always, like stray hairs tickling sensitive skin, they cannot be ignored.
Her mother’s death was of natural causes, likewise, her father’s death.
The other deaths are the ones she counts on worry beads used as an abacus to keep track of violent unnatural events. She holds a cluster and counts them off. Four suicides. Another cluster…two murders, no…three actually if she counts the man she didn’t like, but did admire.
Then she hits a sticky area.
Does the accidental shooting of her young husband, many moons ago, count as murder or mishap? Shall she call it “uncategorized”? Now, if it’s murder, that would make four.
Four feels right.
Two fours equal eight. Eight is a fated number according to the study of numerology. Her name number is eight, as is her address.
Don’t try to tell her she’s not fated.
What could be more fated than a bullet from a small antique firearm which only holds one shell, tearing through a twenty-seven years old lung, leaving its owner waiting days for the rescue of death in a small hospital in a far away country?
She hates the uncategorized. At heart she is a file clerk in a narrow room fretting about a lack of order.
She could go mad from the weight of these folders containing so much intensity.
She could become Ophelia, pulling petals from flowers, keeping count, finally drifting in the waters that would claim her.
But then another would need to count off her beads, and add to a category. She doesn’t trust others with her record keeping. She doesn’t trust others, period, and exclamation mark.
The knock on the door is the worst. The parties on the other side know you are in that house, they will not go away. They will pound until the door too, disintegrates, and they will announce the uncategorized death while looking into your eyes to see if it is really true, or are they in a nightmare? Are we all in a nightmare?
Or it will be a single individual on business, announcing, after much cat and mouseing around in the name of said business, the fact he, she, or it, is not permitted to divulge the circumstances that led to this visit, but will pass on a phone number which will open the gate to another circle of Hell.
The man with the blue and white umbrella committed suicide early in July of 2009, taking her with him to Limbo. They are discussing things, and waiting for the wheel of karma to make another click.
Dear Reader,
Do not be misled by the apparent calm the above statement re the man with the blue and white umbrella implies. She is stuck together by a weakening will, and is not fully herself these days. She is being barbecued, turning on a spit over fire which does not cauterize, does not kill pain, as “normal” burning does.
It’s a messy business, full of anguish polite society can’t bear to witness. Her mother raised her to save face at all times so as not to divulge the inner heart, which would display weakness. Frankly, she would prefer to run through the streets screaming and tearing her hair out.
Suicides and murders are horrific happenings. She will skirt the recent awareness of a murder too close to the bone to think about.
For the benefit of polite society, she will be politically correct. She will state she suffers from overexposure.
What a strange circle she traverses.
No one knows her.
So much violence has crept into her life over the decades, it staggers the mind. It came through the portals of direct information conveyed generally by phone, though sometimes the messenger arrived at the door.
There were trickier means also. For example, discovery of a murder, no, make that two, were via the Internet. If one could simply set the world to System Restore, go back, and never enter those names, never click on “search”, never read those pages, never dig for the outdated news articles….
The ringing of the phone. This is not the perky telemarketer announcement of an earnest broom or vacuum cleaner salesman, wanting to enrich your life with greater efficiency when it comes to the beloved American cleanliness fetish, anymore than the knock on the door is a delivery from the Chinese restaurant. The Internet information is not due to a misspelled name typed in haste, allowing one to exhale again.
Oh no, it is not benign data. We are indifferent to the benign. This information is of too much import, we are not indifferent here.
At this moment, the sky is gray and white as though all color had been erased from the world, leaving only a photograph in gray scale. It is Limbo, the place between Heaven and Hell of the heart gone away from average days, where the soul waits for good news, if it ever comes.
In theory, Limbo is temporary. It is there for the convenience of the gods. A storage bin filled with things to be decided upon, but not immediately. The gods do not appreciate being rushed.
But I digress where this tale is concerned. Forgive me.
Decades ago, an infinity it seems, the phone call came from a doctor announcing the anticipated death of her mother.
She was sedated by spirituality; buffered by belief and weariness. The howl came later. The grief, a river rushing toward a wall of stone, came later. Vestiges remain always, like stray hairs tickling sensitive skin, they cannot be ignored.
Her mother’s death was of natural causes, likewise, her father’s death.
The other deaths are the ones she counts on worry beads used as an abacus to keep track of violent unnatural events. She holds a cluster and counts them off. Four suicides. Another cluster…two murders, no…three actually if she counts the man she didn’t like, but did admire.
Then she hits a sticky area.
Does the accidental shooting of her young husband, many moons ago, count as murder or mishap? Shall she call it “uncategorized”? Now, if it’s murder, that would make four.
Four feels right.
Two fours equal eight. Eight is a fated number according to the study of numerology. Her name number is eight, as is her address.
Don’t try to tell her she’s not fated.
What could be more fated than a bullet from a small antique firearm which only holds one shell, tearing through a twenty-seven years old lung, leaving its owner waiting days for the rescue of death in a small hospital in a far away country?
She hates the uncategorized. At heart she is a file clerk in a narrow room fretting about a lack of order.
She could go mad from the weight of these folders containing so much intensity.
She could become Ophelia, pulling petals from flowers, keeping count, finally drifting in the waters that would claim her.
But then another would need to count off her beads, and add to a category. She doesn’t trust others with her record keeping. She doesn’t trust others, period, and exclamation mark.
The knock on the door is the worst. The parties on the other side know you are in that house, they will not go away. They will pound until the door too, disintegrates, and they will announce the uncategorized death while looking into your eyes to see if it is really true, or are they in a nightmare? Are we all in a nightmare?
Or it will be a single individual on business, announcing, after much cat and mouseing around in the name of said business, the fact he, she, or it, is not permitted to divulge the circumstances that led to this visit, but will pass on a phone number which will open the gate to another circle of Hell.
The man with the blue and white umbrella committed suicide early in July of 2009, taking her with him to Limbo. They are discussing things, and waiting for the wheel of karma to make another click.
Dear Reader,
Do not be misled by the apparent calm the above statement re the man with the blue and white umbrella implies. She is stuck together by a weakening will, and is not fully herself these days. She is being barbecued, turning on a spit over fire which does not cauterize, does not kill pain, as “normal” burning does.
It’s a messy business, full of anguish polite society can’t bear to witness. Her mother raised her to save face at all times so as not to divulge the inner heart, which would display weakness. Frankly, she would prefer to run through the streets screaming and tearing her hair out.
Suicides and murders are horrific happenings. She will skirt the recent awareness of a murder too close to the bone to think about.
For the benefit of polite society, she will be politically correct. She will state she suffers from overexposure.
What a strange circle she traverses.
No one knows her.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Rachmaninov Had Big Hands
This gem came to me from my sister, Alma Rands, jewelry designer and maker extraordinaire. Blessings on your head sistah!
Enjoy!
Presentation by:HirnW
Enjoy!
Presentation by:HirnW
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Impending Death
"The Dream Tigers", a small GeoCities site born on 7/29/03, is slated to be executed on October 26, 2009.
GeoCities, a Yahoo venture, will be no more.
UPDATE 10/28/09: GeoCities is kaput, finito, 86ed. If interested, use link to your upper right under profile, to see it on Blogger. Looks good.
If you wish to view The Dream Tigers in its original form before the lights go out, click on the title, or here, or copy and paste this into your browser's address bar.
http://www.geocities.com/the_dream_tigers/Dream_Tigers.html
Whatever rings your bell.
If I don't fall into a grand canyon before I manage to put this plan into action, I will be reconstructing The Dream Tigers in its entirety via a Hagfish blog titled, guess what...The Dream Tigers. No one will go there either.
The contributing artists were/are: A.Murray, Richard Sellers, and Nadine Sellers. All of whom are lovely talented people, who rarely smell too bad to sit next to.
Love and kisses,
Hagfish
GeoCities, a Yahoo venture, will be no more.
UPDATE 10/28/09: GeoCities is kaput, finito, 86ed. If interested, use link to your upper right under profile, to see it on Blogger. Looks good.
If you wish to view The Dream Tigers in its original form before the lights go out, click on the title, or here, or copy and paste this into your browser's address bar.
http://www.geocities.com/the_dream_tigers/Dream_Tigers.html
Whatever rings your bell.
If I don't fall into a grand canyon before I manage to put this plan into action, I will be reconstructing The Dream Tigers in its entirety via a Hagfish blog titled, guess what...The Dream Tigers. No one will go there either.
The contributing artists were/are: A.Murray, Richard Sellers, and Nadine Sellers. All of whom are lovely talented people, who rarely smell too bad to sit next to.
Love and kisses,
Hagfish
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Midnight Cop - A Hagfish/Hyacinth Review
I love this movie.
It's funny, cynical, and a nifty spine-tingler. It's also very European with good reason, it was made in Germany. It doesn't reflect an American sense of humor. Its wit is lost on many.
It’s got nice a gritty quality, with moody evocative night filming making a fine point from which to view it. It isn’t a lighthearted comedic venture, but it has its moments.
Speaking of visuals, the cop shop workplace is pretty good too.
The core of the story has to do with the horrifying accidental wounding/disabling of a young child during an attempt to arrest a major drug dealer by the lead character, Inspector Alex Glass, played brilliantly by Armin Mueller-Stahl, a man in wretched condition as the story opens.
He is sleepless, rumpled, irritable, and lacking in any kind of hope. All his life is sour, and he is being beaten down by the one terrible event of his existence, that has caused him to nearly lose himself.
Music is one of his few outlets.
Then, there's the job.
He has a new assistant, Shirley May, played wonderfully by Julia Kent, and a concerned friend, the District Attorney, played by Michael York.
Alex is a man quietly thinking out the case, as it escalates into a surreal nightmare, with nude bodies being found, abandoned, and smeared with grease; a profoundly obscure touch, which because of its very oddness causes a chill of disgust and discomfort. We know we’re not in Kansas anymore. A dark thinker is afoot, and his victims are giving no clue as to his identity.
Concurrently, Inspector Glass is also engaged in impossible attempts to break through the wall erected by his vengeful ex wife, between him and his daughter. He begins to unfold, and display himself for us: A sleepless man who spends nights tossing in bed while the neighbor on the other side of the wall has gleefully noisy sex. His answer is to pound futilely on the wall until he is called a pervert. It brings out the sneaky voyeur in me, making me wish I could see through plaster and paint to watch the couple wallow in sybaritic splendor. (see note*)
In trying to hold himself together, he finds more strings of himself unraveling until eventually he becomes involved with Lisa, played by Morgan Fairchild, an apparent bimbo, who manages to become another drop of the glue of life that keeps him from disintegrating entirely.
I was not impressed by Morgan Fairchild the first time I watched the movie. Like most others making hard comments, I thought she was an absurd choice. That is, until I thought it over for a while.
It dawned on me, she was perfect for the role; when she threw her head back and laughed in one scene with Mr. Mueller-Stahl, I fell in love with the character, and with the actress. She was funny, sexy and pretty as Lisa; and she was brave. Good for her!
Alex is older than she. So what? We should all be so magnetic and well-preserved as we grow older. They're a rather odd couple. This does nothing but lend a spicy, amusing and rather sweet atmosphere to a very gruesome and sometimes terribly sad tale.
Frank Stallone as the villain, makes me wonder how on earth the kid brother got so famous, and eclipsed him. I loved Frank as Eddie, the pugilistic, hot pistol ladies-man bartender in Barfly. Sly couldn’t have done that part with Frank’s panache. Sly gets kudos, Frank gets too short a role in Midnight Cop.
The way the cookie crumbles I guess. There ain’t no justice.
This is a movie that cries to be viewed with a sense of humor, and a little stretch of the mind, because it isn't for dummies.
It's a spoof on American cop pictures, where the hero never misses, and sex as audience bait, takes the place of acting.
Yes, there's sex in it, and most of it is hilarious. However, there's never a glimpse of action on-screen. That's a nice change from all the sweating and heaving that goes on here in the U.S. for the purpose of keeping our limited attention on the movie.
There is nudity, but unless you're into necrophilia, it's not going to tweak you.
While the story deals with a serial killer doing his thing, it isn't full of gore and splattered brains. In fact it's an excellent flick, in part, due to what you don't see.
Three great points:
Armin Mueller-Stahl stuffing a lettuce leaf into his pocket.
Armin Mueller-Stahl’s underwear.
A beautiful rendition of A Lighter Shade of Pale, which opens the film.
See this movie. And use your brain. Have no expectation, either good or bad, and you'll be pleasantly surprised!
*note: “wallow in sybaritic splendor”, swiped from the online dictionary. Thought it was overblown and funny.
BEST PRICE: AMAZON
Friday, February 16, 2007
The Zippered Man
Once she had a dream lover. She would lay in his arms all night long, feeling safer than she had during most of her life. She thought at times, it would be nice if he had a zipper running the length of his body. There was a good deal of comfort to be derived from the idea of climbing into him, and zipping him up with her inside, hidden from the world. The world is a dangerous place in the best of times, and deadly in the worst.
Of course she was crazy.
That was a frequent judgment.
She was adjudged to be amoral a few times too, by quizzes applied through several authoritative online sites laden with expert analysts for the benefit of hungering masses in quest of an answer as to who they actually are.
Armchair psychologists and dilatants plastered to television sets, tend to enjoy these sites.
The experts gave their opinions which nothing could sway. They were based on ironclad courses taught at various universities noted for their pompous conspicuously moral wisdom-dispensing professors.
It seemed a feather in her cap to be amoral. It meant she was running against the odds, since the “average” were generally moral according to the rules.
Morality in her opinion, amounted to a collection of regulations laid down by the elite for their own convenience. Therefore, to be amoral was to shake free of them and their iron fists.
She thought there should be something for everyone...many sets of rules, without religion connected to them.
The word regulations had too militant a connotation for comfort.
She thought religion tended to complicate things unnecessarily. An entire collection of esoteric regulations plagued many religions. Far too many regulations would need to be remembered if they involved religion too. Also, people sometimes killed each other because of conflicting attitudes stemming from religion. So perhaps it was best to keep religion and guns separate from each other.
Guns would be secular in their nature.
Therefore, all rules laid down outside of religion, should never contain even a whiff of sectarianism.
There was one universally applicable rule everyone would have to obey. Just one: Only the most reasonable and responsible secular leaders could have anything to do with guns.
They would be very reluctant to kill anyone, since everyone obeyed their own rules; there was little, if any, major discord. Eventually they would realize how stupid it was to have guns, but never shoot at anything. So why bother to have them?
Of course though, she was crazy.
In thinking it out on a deeper level, if there were too many sets of rules, anarchy might ensue.
Anarchy seemed so exhausting.
The zippered man was her best idea in the long-run.
February 15, 2007
A. Murray
Of course she was crazy.
That was a frequent judgment.
She was adjudged to be amoral a few times too, by quizzes applied through several authoritative online sites laden with expert analysts for the benefit of hungering masses in quest of an answer as to who they actually are.
Armchair psychologists and dilatants plastered to television sets, tend to enjoy these sites.
The experts gave their opinions which nothing could sway. They were based on ironclad courses taught at various universities noted for their pompous conspicuously moral wisdom-dispensing professors.
It seemed a feather in her cap to be amoral. It meant she was running against the odds, since the “average” were generally moral according to the rules.
Morality in her opinion, amounted to a collection of regulations laid down by the elite for their own convenience. Therefore, to be amoral was to shake free of them and their iron fists.
She thought there should be something for everyone...many sets of rules, without religion connected to them.
The word regulations had too militant a connotation for comfort.
She thought religion tended to complicate things unnecessarily. An entire collection of esoteric regulations plagued many religions. Far too many regulations would need to be remembered if they involved religion too. Also, people sometimes killed each other because of conflicting attitudes stemming from religion. So perhaps it was best to keep religion and guns separate from each other.
Guns would be secular in their nature.
Therefore, all rules laid down outside of religion, should never contain even a whiff of sectarianism.
There was one universally applicable rule everyone would have to obey. Just one: Only the most reasonable and responsible secular leaders could have anything to do with guns.
They would be very reluctant to kill anyone, since everyone obeyed their own rules; there was little, if any, major discord. Eventually they would realize how stupid it was to have guns, but never shoot at anything. So why bother to have them?
Of course though, she was crazy.
In thinking it out on a deeper level, if there were too many sets of rules, anarchy might ensue.
Anarchy seemed so exhausting.
The zippered man was her best idea in the long-run.
February 15, 2007
A. Murray
Friday, February 09, 2007
Bertha, Ella, Sid, and the little green apples...
a peculiar little tail.
Bertha shoved the broom across the kitchen floor, muttering to herself, "damn filthy little bastids, makes me want to squash their little heads with the heel of my boot…"
The mouse sat in the entryway of his apartment complex, whiskers twitching, eyes shining like new shoe buttons, and ears turned to the sound the giant was making.
The mouse spoke minimal English, but enough to get by on. He was hungry and tired. He'd been travelling for days to get to the place where he would spend the winter this year. The last house was drafty and immaculately clean. He'd caught a cold at Thanksgiving, and kept it until spring. And because of perverse hygiene on the part of the farmer's wife, he'd nearly starved to death during his stay there, emerging a mere shadow of his former self. He shuddered to think about it now.
A vicious swipe of the broom too close to the molding nearly knocked him off his feet. Considering this to be a portent of doom, his own in fact, he decided to crawl back into bed for a little nap. It was early, and dinner wasn't on the table until some time around five-thirty. There was plenty of time to rest before the job of harvesting from the floor, where some of his favored delicacies were generally plentiful, thanks to the smaller giants who ate there on occasion.
He understood the salient points of the conversation the giant was having with herself, and it's not so underlying rage, was enough to breed caution even within such an adventurous soul as he. So he turned, and to his undying regret, missed the most interesting thing of the day. He heard about it later, but would have given an especially fine whisker to have seen it first-hand
All in all however, at that moment, life was good again. At last….
"Next time I catch them little rats thrown' food across the room, I'm gonna break an arm first, and answer questions later…spoiled little crap-heads, killin's too good fer 'em."
A disembodied voice floated near enough to halt Bertha's fury laden diatribe. "What on earth are you nattering about Bertha? Milk gone sour again? Sorry if it is, I can never get those damn incantations right."
The disembodied voice grew nearer…the house was so cavernous, it was an echo chamber. Whispered conversations could be eavesdropped upon conveniently from what seemed like miles away if one was aware of all the strategic positions for doing so. The speaker was.
Bertha managed to pull her act together with effort. She wasn't in the mood for the "lady" of the house. Last night had been terrible; and she was tired, hungry, perplexed, and crotchety.
The voice drew nearer.
"So what's wrong today Bertha?"
"Nothing special Missus, just them kids hurlin' food across the room like it was a game a that Frisbee stuff instead a supper…little savages…. At least a damn Frisbee thing is made outta plastic and it don't shed crumbs an' muck all over the damn place."
"Ah, is that all? I thought a spell I was trying out last night had backfired again."
The disembodied voice became full bodied and astonishing in it's appearance. Bertha did her best to act tactfully, and disallowed her jaw to drop in an impolite rube-like manner.
The "Lady" of the house was standing in the doorway with the usual disreputable plaid bathrobe gaping open to reveal one of a collection of the worst nightgowns Bertha had seen before coming to the Big House as a charwoman/raving lunatic/superstitious native, and half-assed friend. Floppy slippers adorned large feet, which were also encased in purple socks. The entire costume shrieked "BAD FASHION SENSE".
But that wasn't the cause of Bertha's jaw struggling with gravity. It was the hair.
It was green, and huge…like a gigantic fern that had grown from the top of the woman's head.
"Oh good lord," Bertha said to herself. "The poor thing."
"What was ya tryin' last night", she asked tentatively.
"Eggnog."
"Oh, of course, eggnog." Bertha couldn't tear her gaze away from the apparition standing in front of her.
Ella, for that was her name, reached up as though to fluff the atrocity, but instead whipped it off her head, much to Bertha's relief, and shook it like a recalcitrant fuzzy animal.
"Dynel," she said, giving it another vigorous shake. "Wash and wear! Don't you just love it?"
"Well, it's certainly differnt," Bertha stated, with as much diplomacy as she could muster on short order. "D'ye you care for a cuppa tea now? I feel the need a one myself at this very moment." With that, she turned toward the kitchen, and to the safety of sane company.
Sid sat in the Kitchen window seat, moodily staring out at the landscape stretched endlessly before him. He noted with horror that every tree within his view was full of lovely little green apples. This would have been wonderful if they had been apple trees. Alas, they were not.
"Uccccmmmpphhh", he sighed, shaking his head with a certain weariness that bespoke of long practice at it, as he wondered aloud, "What in hell did she do THIS for? I can't leave her alone for a single evening without coming back to yet another bloody fiasco. The woman needs to be kept on a leash. A short one at that!"
He bent to wash his tail, which usually restored his spirits, and increased his pleasure in contemplating the fresh bagel sitting on the table, waiting to be devoured by the she-beast, which was how he was perceiving Ella at the moment.
Dropping nimbly down from the window seat, he meandered across the kitchen, and jumped up onto the table. Ah, good…the bagel was still warm. He gripped it in his teeth, then leaped off the table, and dragged it to his favorite rug in front of the fireplace. There was never a better breakfast in any kingdom, than a fresh toasted bagel with cream cheese.
Bertha clumped into the kitchen. " 'Mornin' Mister Sid," cuppa tea?"
"Why yes Bertha, that would be nice." Sid licked cream cheese off a paw, then said with the sarcastic chuckle that had become ingrown over time when discussing Ella's fiascoes, "I assume Bertha, you are aware there are green apples growing on the blue spruce, the oak, the maple, and every other damned kind of tree for miles around this misbegotten village…that is since you did walk here from your home, and had to have noticed…"
"Oh yes Mister Sid, I noticed indeed."
"So tell me Bertha, have you a clue as to what she was up to?" Sid sat looking at Bertha as though she had all the mysteries of this complex corner of the universe, tucked under her bandana, waiting for her to whip out the answers to life's most perplexing questions, no matter what they were about.
"Eggnog."
"Ah! Eggnog. Of course I should have known. How silly of me. She's up and about I assume?"
"Yes Mister Sid, and headed this way," Bertha said, eyeing Ella's half-eaten bagel on the rug beside the scraggly long bodied cat.
Sighing in resignation at the inevitable screaming match about to begin, she set about preparing tea.
September 27, 2004
Bertha shoved the broom across the kitchen floor, muttering to herself, "damn filthy little bastids, makes me want to squash their little heads with the heel of my boot…"
The mouse sat in the entryway of his apartment complex, whiskers twitching, eyes shining like new shoe buttons, and ears turned to the sound the giant was making.
The mouse spoke minimal English, but enough to get by on. He was hungry and tired. He'd been travelling for days to get to the place where he would spend the winter this year. The last house was drafty and immaculately clean. He'd caught a cold at Thanksgiving, and kept it until spring. And because of perverse hygiene on the part of the farmer's wife, he'd nearly starved to death during his stay there, emerging a mere shadow of his former self. He shuddered to think about it now.
A vicious swipe of the broom too close to the molding nearly knocked him off his feet. Considering this to be a portent of doom, his own in fact, he decided to crawl back into bed for a little nap. It was early, and dinner wasn't on the table until some time around five-thirty. There was plenty of time to rest before the job of harvesting from the floor, where some of his favored delicacies were generally plentiful, thanks to the smaller giants who ate there on occasion.
He understood the salient points of the conversation the giant was having with herself, and it's not so underlying rage, was enough to breed caution even within such an adventurous soul as he. So he turned, and to his undying regret, missed the most interesting thing of the day. He heard about it later, but would have given an especially fine whisker to have seen it first-hand
All in all however, at that moment, life was good again. At last….
"Next time I catch them little rats thrown' food across the room, I'm gonna break an arm first, and answer questions later…spoiled little crap-heads, killin's too good fer 'em."
A disembodied voice floated near enough to halt Bertha's fury laden diatribe. "What on earth are you nattering about Bertha? Milk gone sour again? Sorry if it is, I can never get those damn incantations right."
The disembodied voice grew nearer…the house was so cavernous, it was an echo chamber. Whispered conversations could be eavesdropped upon conveniently from what seemed like miles away if one was aware of all the strategic positions for doing so. The speaker was.
Bertha managed to pull her act together with effort. She wasn't in the mood for the "lady" of the house. Last night had been terrible; and she was tired, hungry, perplexed, and crotchety.
The voice drew nearer.
"So what's wrong today Bertha?"
"Nothing special Missus, just them kids hurlin' food across the room like it was a game a that Frisbee stuff instead a supper…little savages…. At least a damn Frisbee thing is made outta plastic and it don't shed crumbs an' muck all over the damn place."
"Ah, is that all? I thought a spell I was trying out last night had backfired again."
The disembodied voice became full bodied and astonishing in it's appearance. Bertha did her best to act tactfully, and disallowed her jaw to drop in an impolite rube-like manner.
The "Lady" of the house was standing in the doorway with the usual disreputable plaid bathrobe gaping open to reveal one of a collection of the worst nightgowns Bertha had seen before coming to the Big House as a charwoman/raving lunatic/superstitious native, and half-assed friend. Floppy slippers adorned large feet, which were also encased in purple socks. The entire costume shrieked "BAD FASHION SENSE".
But that wasn't the cause of Bertha's jaw struggling with gravity. It was the hair.
It was green, and huge…like a gigantic fern that had grown from the top of the woman's head.
"Oh good lord," Bertha said to herself. "The poor thing."
"What was ya tryin' last night", she asked tentatively.
"Eggnog."
"Oh, of course, eggnog." Bertha couldn't tear her gaze away from the apparition standing in front of her.
Ella, for that was her name, reached up as though to fluff the atrocity, but instead whipped it off her head, much to Bertha's relief, and shook it like a recalcitrant fuzzy animal.
"Dynel," she said, giving it another vigorous shake. "Wash and wear! Don't you just love it?"
"Well, it's certainly differnt," Bertha stated, with as much diplomacy as she could muster on short order. "D'ye you care for a cuppa tea now? I feel the need a one myself at this very moment." With that, she turned toward the kitchen, and to the safety of sane company.
Sid sat in the Kitchen window seat, moodily staring out at the landscape stretched endlessly before him. He noted with horror that every tree within his view was full of lovely little green apples. This would have been wonderful if they had been apple trees. Alas, they were not.
"Uccccmmmpphhh", he sighed, shaking his head with a certain weariness that bespoke of long practice at it, as he wondered aloud, "What in hell did she do THIS for? I can't leave her alone for a single evening without coming back to yet another bloody fiasco. The woman needs to be kept on a leash. A short one at that!"
He bent to wash his tail, which usually restored his spirits, and increased his pleasure in contemplating the fresh bagel sitting on the table, waiting to be devoured by the she-beast, which was how he was perceiving Ella at the moment.
Dropping nimbly down from the window seat, he meandered across the kitchen, and jumped up onto the table. Ah, good…the bagel was still warm. He gripped it in his teeth, then leaped off the table, and dragged it to his favorite rug in front of the fireplace. There was never a better breakfast in any kingdom, than a fresh toasted bagel with cream cheese.
Bertha clumped into the kitchen. " 'Mornin' Mister Sid," cuppa tea?"
"Why yes Bertha, that would be nice." Sid licked cream cheese off a paw, then said with the sarcastic chuckle that had become ingrown over time when discussing Ella's fiascoes, "I assume Bertha, you are aware there are green apples growing on the blue spruce, the oak, the maple, and every other damned kind of tree for miles around this misbegotten village…that is since you did walk here from your home, and had to have noticed…"
"Oh yes Mister Sid, I noticed indeed."
"So tell me Bertha, have you a clue as to what she was up to?" Sid sat looking at Bertha as though she had all the mysteries of this complex corner of the universe, tucked under her bandana, waiting for her to whip out the answers to life's most perplexing questions, no matter what they were about.
"Eggnog."
"Ah! Eggnog. Of course I should have known. How silly of me. She's up and about I assume?"
"Yes Mister Sid, and headed this way," Bertha said, eyeing Ella's half-eaten bagel on the rug beside the scraggly long bodied cat.
Sighing in resignation at the inevitable screaming match about to begin, she set about preparing tea.
September 27, 2004
One of the worst old stoner jokes
so why am I laughing?
The Monkey and The Lizard
A monkey is sitting in a tree smoking a joint when a lizard walks past and looks up and says to the monkey, "hey! what are you doing?"
The monkey says "smoking a joint, come up and have some."
So the lizard climbs up and sits next to the monkey and they have a few hits.
After a while the lizard says his mouth is dry and is going to get a drink from the river. The lizard is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls into the river.
A Crocodile sees this and swims over to the lizard and helps him to the side, then asks the lizard, "what's the matter with you?"
The lizard explains to the crocodile that he was sitting smoking a joint with the monkey in the tree, got so stoned he fell into the riverwhile taking a drink.
The crocodile says he has to check this out and walks into the jungle, finds the tree were the monkey is sitting, finishing the joint. He looks up and says, "hey!"
The Monkey looks down and says, "man, just how damn much water did you drink?"
The Monkey and The Lizard
A monkey is sitting in a tree smoking a joint when a lizard walks past and looks up and says to the monkey, "hey! what are you doing?"
The monkey says "smoking a joint, come up and have some."
So the lizard climbs up and sits next to the monkey and they have a few hits.
After a while the lizard says his mouth is dry and is going to get a drink from the river. The lizard is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls into the river.
A Crocodile sees this and swims over to the lizard and helps him to the side, then asks the lizard, "what's the matter with you?"
The lizard explains to the crocodile that he was sitting smoking a joint with the monkey in the tree, got so stoned he fell into the riverwhile taking a drink.
The crocodile says he has to check this out and walks into the jungle, finds the tree were the monkey is sitting, finishing the joint. He looks up and says, "hey!"
The Monkey looks down and says, "man, just how damn much water did you drink?"
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Oh Ji Ho - Objecitfied
Oh Ji Ho is a prime example of objectification. His face, which is his fortune on one hand, becomes a liability on the other. It is thought by some, that were he less attractive to women, he would garner roles of a more varied nature. His last vehicle produced in Korea, Couple of Fantasy, clearly displays his capacity for comedy, a thing that has been demonstrated time and time again.
His capacity for portraying sadness, even desperation, has been amply demonstrated in the movie La Belle, and in A Second Proposal, a basically comedic role that evolves into one of a far more serious nature, and shows another side of him entirely when he discovers to his surprise that he loves a woman who does not return his feelings. His performance was heartbreaking.
Unfortunately though, when a very handsome man might pull an otherwise sluggish plot across the finish line, he's often the one. He has name recognition among women as a sexy looking drama idol, and acts as an audience magnet, which is unfair to him, and does nothing to further his reputation as a good solid actor. He's had some poor direction in the past. The audience tends to put the blame for that squarely on the shoulders of the actor. All they take away from viewing a bad piece of work, is his indelible physical image in their minds. He becomes an object.
Recently, the American actor Leonardo DiCaprio complained in an article about having been objectified as a result of his role in the film Titanic.
I quote here from that article of January 23, 2007
(Original source: Newsweek)
“Leonardo DiCaprio wanted to give up acting for a time after the hit movie "Titanic." DiCaprio was back to being considered "another piece of cute meat" after the 1997 film's spectacular box office success, an image he had wanted to get away from after his days on the cover of teen magazines, he tells Newsweek in this week's edition.”
‘"It was pretty disheartening to be objectified like that. I wanted to stop acting for a little bit,"’ he said at the magazine's Oscar panel discussion with other actors. ‘"It changed my life in a lot of ways, but at the same time, I can't say that it didn't give me opportunities. It made me, for the first time, in control of my career."’ But after many successful movies and critical acclaim, DiCaprio said he loves acting.
‘"There's no other art form in the world that affects me more. There's nothing that I walk away from feeling transformed by, the way I do with cinema,"’ he said.”
Oh Ji Ho is not as famous as DiCaprio, but they have shared a similar phenomenon in both having been objectified.
DiCaprio, who is only two years older than Oh Ji Ho, but a thousand miles farther ahead in his career, is no longer an object, no longer a teen idol. He has outlived that phase, and is now seen as person of stature.
But Oh Ji Ho, at the age if thirty is still, “another piece of cute meat” and worse than that, he’s ever more objectified. He is a Sex God, A Hunk, Gorgeous, Hottt, Hawttt, and even described tastelessly as “meat” at one unnamed site.
He has become the object of a sex fantasies, and his humanity has taken a back-seat to desire, to lascivious fascination, to wishful thinking. Even more than DiCaprio ever was, Oh Ji Ho has become an object without a mind, without a soul, without sorrow, without longing, without loyalties, without a tired back after long hard days, or burning eyes after being fried under the stage lighting, having troubled sleep because there isn’t enough of it, feeling hunger or cold, having worries, responsibilities, family obligations… Do I really need to go on?
It wearies this writer to see all the shallow perceptions across the screen as they pop out time and time again. The depersonalized object, like a doll, a toy there only for a moment of amusement, of titillation, and left behind until the next time he comes up somewhere.
This is a human being. First, last and always, he is a human being. He has embraced acting, it is what he wants, and maybe, needs to do. There are some people who have a fire within themselves that brings them to a place in life they love. DiCaprio says, “There's no other art form in the world that affects me more. There's nothing that I walk away from feeling transformed by, the way I do with cinema…"
It’s hard to imagine that Oh Ji Ho feels any less fulfilled than Leonardo DiCaprio, when his own work is done, and he has completed a project that lasted days, weeks, or months.
When he retires to the privacy of his home, what exists that says he doesn’t celebrate in his mind, in his soul; the joy afforded him by doing this labor he loves? And who is to say that he does not reflect on his good fortune to be a part of this; to be an actor, or entertainer on whatever screen or stage he happens to be occupying at that time?
Only the objectifiers, who never look beyond a face, never look beyond a body, never see the whole person they rob of identity, every time they refuse to see a complete human being.
It might be asked how they would feel to be looked at as only breasts, or hips, or thighs, as impersonally as one would look at chicken parts in a grocery store, while assessing their edibility. Like meat.
NOTE
Oh Ji Ho's situation has not changed in just a few days (see commentary below). His career is in jeopardy, he is also dealing with the loss of his companion, and with the gossip and ugliness certain types enjoy spreading via the Internet.
If you wish to send a card or note of encouragement and support to Oh Ji Ho, please click here. Request the address through the contact button.
Hyacinth
A man at his work. Top: Reading script for Super Rookie. Bottom: At a script reading for Couple of Fantasy.
His capacity for portraying sadness, even desperation, has been amply demonstrated in the movie La Belle, and in A Second Proposal, a basically comedic role that evolves into one of a far more serious nature, and shows another side of him entirely when he discovers to his surprise that he loves a woman who does not return his feelings. His performance was heartbreaking.
Unfortunately though, when a very handsome man might pull an otherwise sluggish plot across the finish line, he's often the one. He has name recognition among women as a sexy looking drama idol, and acts as an audience magnet, which is unfair to him, and does nothing to further his reputation as a good solid actor. He's had some poor direction in the past. The audience tends to put the blame for that squarely on the shoulders of the actor. All they take away from viewing a bad piece of work, is his indelible physical image in their minds. He becomes an object.
Recently, the American actor Leonardo DiCaprio complained in an article about having been objectified as a result of his role in the film Titanic.
I quote here from that article of January 23, 2007
(Original source: Newsweek)
“Leonardo DiCaprio wanted to give up acting for a time after the hit movie "Titanic." DiCaprio was back to being considered "another piece of cute meat" after the 1997 film's spectacular box office success, an image he had wanted to get away from after his days on the cover of teen magazines, he tells Newsweek in this week's edition.”
‘"It was pretty disheartening to be objectified like that. I wanted to stop acting for a little bit,"’ he said at the magazine's Oscar panel discussion with other actors. ‘"It changed my life in a lot of ways, but at the same time, I can't say that it didn't give me opportunities. It made me, for the first time, in control of my career."’ But after many successful movies and critical acclaim, DiCaprio said he loves acting.
‘"There's no other art form in the world that affects me more. There's nothing that I walk away from feeling transformed by, the way I do with cinema,"’ he said.”
Oh Ji Ho is not as famous as DiCaprio, but they have shared a similar phenomenon in both having been objectified.
DiCaprio, who is only two years older than Oh Ji Ho, but a thousand miles farther ahead in his career, is no longer an object, no longer a teen idol. He has outlived that phase, and is now seen as person of stature.
But Oh Ji Ho, at the age if thirty is still, “another piece of cute meat” and worse than that, he’s ever more objectified. He is a Sex God, A Hunk, Gorgeous, Hottt, Hawttt, and even described tastelessly as “meat” at one unnamed site.
He has become the object of a sex fantasies, and his humanity has taken a back-seat to desire, to lascivious fascination, to wishful thinking. Even more than DiCaprio ever was, Oh Ji Ho has become an object without a mind, without a soul, without sorrow, without longing, without loyalties, without a tired back after long hard days, or burning eyes after being fried under the stage lighting, having troubled sleep because there isn’t enough of it, feeling hunger or cold, having worries, responsibilities, family obligations… Do I really need to go on?
It wearies this writer to see all the shallow perceptions across the screen as they pop out time and time again. The depersonalized object, like a doll, a toy there only for a moment of amusement, of titillation, and left behind until the next time he comes up somewhere.
This is a human being. First, last and always, he is a human being. He has embraced acting, it is what he wants, and maybe, needs to do. There are some people who have a fire within themselves that brings them to a place in life they love. DiCaprio says, “There's no other art form in the world that affects me more. There's nothing that I walk away from feeling transformed by, the way I do with cinema…"
It’s hard to imagine that Oh Ji Ho feels any less fulfilled than Leonardo DiCaprio, when his own work is done, and he has completed a project that lasted days, weeks, or months.
When he retires to the privacy of his home, what exists that says he doesn’t celebrate in his mind, in his soul; the joy afforded him by doing this labor he loves? And who is to say that he does not reflect on his good fortune to be a part of this; to be an actor, or entertainer on whatever screen or stage he happens to be occupying at that time?
Only the objectifiers, who never look beyond a face, never look beyond a body, never see the whole person they rob of identity, every time they refuse to see a complete human being.
It might be asked how they would feel to be looked at as only breasts, or hips, or thighs, as impersonally as one would look at chicken parts in a grocery store, while assessing their edibility. Like meat.
NOTE
Oh Ji Ho's situation has not changed in just a few days (see commentary below). His career is in jeopardy, he is also dealing with the loss of his companion, and with the gossip and ugliness certain types enjoy spreading via the Internet.
If you wish to send a card or note of encouragement and support to Oh Ji Ho, please click here. Request the address through the contact button.
Hyacinth
A man at his work. Top: Reading script for Super Rookie. Bottom: At a script reading for Couple of Fantasy.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Oh Ji Ho and the Korean Caste System
Note: Oh Ji Ho is a Korean actor who has recently achieved much deserved acclaim in his country for his role in a TV romantic comedy/drama titled, Fantasy Couple, or at times referred to as Couple of Fantasy.
Asian movies and dramas have a certain liquidity when it comes to titles, an aspect that can be both frustrating and amusing.
I am a hard core fan of Oh Ji Ho's, so, when the news broke in The Korean Times, that his woman friend and companion had committed suicide, I was horrified at the tone of the article by staff reporter,Chung Ah-young, and the often ugly response of the Korean public.
In the blogs that I publish having to do with Asian film/drama, I do not post the link to the article. It has already achieved it's purpose in slandering a newly, and vastly popular actor, who has been working hard at his craft for more than the seven years the author, Chung Ah-young, cedits him with.
Link to the article.
Here then, is a take on...
Oh Ji Ho and the Korean Caste System
"Judging from the many hits I’ve had here at the site, I feel it safe to assume the word about Oh Ji Ho’s companion committing suicide has hit the fan, and everyone wants to hear all about it.
"I probably know as much about it as you do, but do you know…?
"Korea has a distinct caste system, although they are loath to call it that. Instead they excuse it by calling it tradition. I have despised it since I became aware of it, and I don’t excuse it on any grounds.
"There was an amusing piece about K-Dramas posted at K-PopVideo recently. I thought it was pretty funny and close to the bone, so I posted it at The Hyacinth Papers.
"Yes, it’s funny, but, there is something unfunny about the nasty truth it reveals.
"Exerpts:
8. When someone hits a subordinate, it is always on the head, and most often across the back of the head.
"My note: why feel so free to hit a subordinate?
9. The wealthy have contempt for those without, and those on the lower rungs kiss the feet of their superiors. Korean society treats the wealthy and the poor completely differently.
"This applies to those public figures that have achieved fame also. And it is a very powerful force in the culture of Korea, and within families where the bludgeon of guilt is useful.
"If a family doesn’t want a son or daughter to marry someone they don’t feel fits their idea of ‘correct’ in terms of status, for one thing, the marriage is almost impossible to achieve. (See My Lovely Km, Sam-soon for the perfect example, or if you can stomach it, see Memories of Bali, an unfunny terrible story of family, business, and propriety according to the omnipotent parents who lean on custom like a crutch, and wield it like a club, in order to control, and incidentally destroy, their younger son who loves a ‘common’ girl. Nobody wins in that one.
"Oh Ji Ho is a victim of this societal structure, this caste system. He is a Korean. He was raised with the customs, and has evidently buckled under their weight. You have to have seen Memories of Bali to appreciate just how intense that weight can be. It is The Irresistible Force.
"You have no doubt seen the news coverage regarding Oh Ji Ho. In a sense, it makes him look so guilty because he lied.
"Guilty of what? Self protection?
"Yes, he did not tell all when the news first leaked out. His career is in jeopardy now, and in fact it may already be in ruins because this unhappy woman killed herself, and initially he denied being involved with her.
"According to some articles I’ve come upon in a very conservative online version of the news(The Korea Herald), suicide has become almost a national pastime. I just typed the words korea suicides into Google, and got 1, 800,000 entries to choose from. It seems to have become the awful solution for so many woes.
"When I view this situation in that light I see it from a perspective that is very saddening, but also more understandable. I have trouble with Oh Ji Ho’s denial, but I also have a real problem regarding doubtless extreme blame that will be launched at him from so many sides.
"The bottom line is this though: This young woman made a choice. She took her own life. She was not murdered. She killed herself.
"I am not romantic enough to believe that love is something you kill yourself over.
"In my country, it would be viewed as a tragedy for all involved, definitely including Oh Ji Ho. He would be supported by those who care about him. He would very likely not be dumped alongside a cliff because he has become a financial liability. Actually, here he would not become one. We are not as a nation, so full of self-righteousness.
"He will feel guilt for the rest of his life because the culture has failed him as it has so many others. It has formed him; it has overburdened him with obligations to a skewed societal structure. The woman was a bar hostess. So what? If he loved her here, they'd be left alone to live their lives and flourish. That's called Democracy.
"The Korean culture creates people who are driven to be successful from the first minute they enter school. They are obligated the second they are born. Bucking up against the parental, scholastic, employer related, public related wall of demanded obedience to that society is to crash and burn.
"It will be easy for some to say things about him that are damaging to him because they have an image of this man that is not accurate in the least. It is a dream.
"He is imagined to be a hero of some sort. He is imagined to be a great lover. He is fantasized about as the rescuer who will ride in and take many women away from their drab lives. He is envisioned as a prospective husband to thousands of wishers.
"He is none of these things.
"He is human. He has his failures and flaws of personality. He has weakness and fear within himself. He is, simply put, just like me. And if you are honest with yourself, just like you too.
"I will continue to support him, and I will continue to give all my heart over to understanding the entire thing with clarity, and good judgment.
"There is a song sung by Tom Rush from a long time ago. One line always stands out in my mind. It is, “Don’t confront me with my failures, I’ve not forgotten them.” Right.
"And just before you say, “I would never have done what he did”, remember this: never is a long time, and you don’t know what’s around the corner."
Hyacinth
Posted at the Oh Ji Ho website
If you wish to support Mr. Oh as an actor with a right to continue his career in peace, and hopefully, prosperity, you are requested to send cards or short notes of encouragement to Mr. Oh. See the site dedicated to him for details.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Rivi's Dog
Rivi’s dog went missing. She was gone for two days.
Rivi was upset and sad, and also afraid that something terrible might have happened. He didn’t sleep well with her gone. When he woke up because he thought he heard her outside, he was happy for few moments until he realized she was still gone.
In the morning, his eyes burned, and she was his first thought. His heart was heavy. He felt an enormous empty place inside. She’s relatively small, how could she leave such a huge hole in him? It was a cavern.
He felt tears stinging the way they do when you first feel them, some fell, and he brushed them away. Perhaps he had alternating feelings of anger for a moment because she was so inconsiderate to leave, then desperation and worry, and guilt because he had been annoyed. Hours were days, and always, there was the listening for the familiar sounds she made. Her tags, the click of her toenails, the doggish vocalizations…
Then she was back. Pure joy and celebration. So many strokes and congratulations for having returned, and so many words telling her how loved she is. A few admonishments…she must never do that again. Not ever. All that relief, the lifting of the heart. The eyes not able to be filled with enough of her little face, her color, the shape of her ears, her tail…her self.
And her? What was her return like? Did she have good drink of water first thing? Did she flop down in a favorite spot, lying there with her tail thumping on the floor when anyone spoke to her?
Did she have that mysterious dog expression? An expression that said, “I know everything. I had an adventure. I’ve been to secret regions, and smelled things you can’t imagine. I have slept in new places. I have looked at the deep sky filled with more stars than any human could possibly count, and I was there when the sun decided to come out for me to see. I know where the sun sleeps now.”
Rivi was upset and sad, and also afraid that something terrible might have happened. He didn’t sleep well with her gone. When he woke up because he thought he heard her outside, he was happy for few moments until he realized she was still gone.
In the morning, his eyes burned, and she was his first thought. His heart was heavy. He felt an enormous empty place inside. She’s relatively small, how could she leave such a huge hole in him? It was a cavern.
He felt tears stinging the way they do when you first feel them, some fell, and he brushed them away. Perhaps he had alternating feelings of anger for a moment because she was so inconsiderate to leave, then desperation and worry, and guilt because he had been annoyed. Hours were days, and always, there was the listening for the familiar sounds she made. Her tags, the click of her toenails, the doggish vocalizations…
Then she was back. Pure joy and celebration. So many strokes and congratulations for having returned, and so many words telling her how loved she is. A few admonishments…she must never do that again. Not ever. All that relief, the lifting of the heart. The eyes not able to be filled with enough of her little face, her color, the shape of her ears, her tail…her self.
And her? What was her return like? Did she have good drink of water first thing? Did she flop down in a favorite spot, lying there with her tail thumping on the floor when anyone spoke to her?
Did she have that mysterious dog expression? An expression that said, “I know everything. I had an adventure. I’ve been to secret regions, and smelled things you can’t imagine. I have slept in new places. I have looked at the deep sky filled with more stars than any human could possibly count, and I was there when the sun decided to come out for me to see. I know where the sun sleeps now.”
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Litany Three
Almond eyes
Skin of ivory
River of hair
Taste of a woman
Taste of a man
Scent of heat
Curve of an arch
How beautiful
How beautiful
Eyes of earth
Black silk hair
Mahogany skin
Curve of a cheek
Voice of a bell
Voice of a gong
Scent of passion
How beautiful
How beautiful
Eyes of blue water
Hair of golden curls
Skin of snow
Dimpled elbow
Rose lips
Curve of a hip
The call of doves
How beautiful
How beautiful
Crinkled hair
Black sky skin
Eyes of night
Flashing smile
Full lips kissing
Feet of a dancer
The length of thigh
How beautiful
How beautiful
How beautiful
How beautiful
How beautiful you are
Humanity
January 14, 2007
A. Murray
Skin of ivory
River of hair
Taste of a woman
Taste of a man
Scent of heat
Curve of an arch
How beautiful
How beautiful
Eyes of earth
Black silk hair
Mahogany skin
Curve of a cheek
Voice of a bell
Voice of a gong
Scent of passion
How beautiful
How beautiful
Eyes of blue water
Hair of golden curls
Skin of snow
Dimpled elbow
Rose lips
Curve of a hip
The call of doves
How beautiful
How beautiful
Crinkled hair
Black sky skin
Eyes of night
Flashing smile
Full lips kissing
Feet of a dancer
The length of thigh
How beautiful
How beautiful
How beautiful
How beautiful
How beautiful you are
Humanity
January 14, 2007
A. Murray
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Oh Ji Ho - A New Year
This,
NOT this.
The sun rises at the Unification Observatory in Goseong, Gangwon Province. The year comes to a close with tension between the two Koreas following the North's missile and nuclear tests, and suspension of inter-Korean dialogue. [Kim Myung-sub/The Korea Herald]
2006.12.29
Peace, Health, and Happiness to all.
Hagfish
NOT this.
The sun rises at the Unification Observatory in Goseong, Gangwon Province. The year comes to a close with tension between the two Koreas following the North's missile and nuclear tests, and suspension of inter-Korean dialogue. [Kim Myung-sub/The Korea Herald]
2006.12.29
Peace, Health, and Happiness to all.
Hagfish
Friday, December 15, 2006
Dedicated to Michael J. Sakara
Please Click image to view full size.
Your Death
Was an ignominious act,
performed by a madman.
Allowed through an error in judgment
by the gods who look after souls like yours.
They failed to see the future on that night.
I stared at the computer screen
that brought me the news,
years old, and quite
incomprehensible at first.
A friend came by to see me
bringing me a nicely wrapped gift.
It’s Christmastime now and
I can’t tell anyone you’re dead
because if I do I will begin to sob
with sounds that come out as
short barks, like laughter, and
if they love me, their day will be ruined,
since the entire tale is so off-the-wall
horrendous, and so filled with
unspeakable images for the prudish,
it’s too tawdry for their tender sensibilities,
and so agonizing to the wild hares who move
among the allegedly normal,
disguised as shop clerks, and waiters,
and plain looking people who live
alone in small apartments, and read
esoteric literature, and date librarians…
the ones with empathy, who will immediately
understand the entire thing, and shudder,
and momentarily go faint with the horror of it all.
You are so out of place Michael.
Can you hear me?
You are so out of place.
You belong somewhere else. You’re supposed to grow old.
You’re supposed to love life until the last possible ancient breath you draw comes out in a sound like a rattling windowpane.
The friend who dropped by wanted me to look at the present, but I had only known where you are now for less than an hour, and I was shaking too much, and I cried like a lost dog that was broken in half, while I pressed my face into her soft winter jacket, and suffocated in her well-meaning platitudes.
For Michael J. Sakara
A. Murray
December 14, 2006
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