Smiles

I'm sorry it's not a poem, lyrics or a short story. For some reason, I just wanted to talk about smiles, and as it would be a little awkward to call someone up for the sole purpose of this topic, I thought it best to put in a blog post.

Smiles. Why can one smile make you think about someone completely differently? Why do we pay so much attention to them that we can tell when someone is faking it? What makes a smile great or pretty? That is, is fore familiarity with the person a requirement?

What inspires this blog post is a music group I've discovered recently. The thing is, my first exposure to them was actually over a year ago, but I didn't start habitually youtubing them until recently when I came across a different video in which they smiled. All of a sudden, I'm in love with them! All of sudden, they seem beautiful in all of their videos, whereas upon my initial viewing (before I saw the grin) I thought they were just weird and experimental in their appearance, to say the least. And the music? At first not my thing, but it definitely grew on me, so much so I'm going to buy an album.

But maybe, I'm completely off. Maybe I made the whole thing up about seeing their smiles and that somehow made their music better. But maybe, it was still their smiles that made me feel drawn and open to what they were offering, their smiles that made me interested and convinced me there was a depth I wanted to delve into.

I'd hate to say something to the contrary of all smiles being beautiful, but I've certainly noticed that I don't experience everyone's smile the same. How normal is that? Among my friends it tells me how they're feeling, but among strangers it might actually send my head reeling from the...profoundness of it.

As for me, I saw a friend recently who I hadn't seen in a while, and I grinned the whole time we sat in Starbucks, in spite of myself. I was just so happy just to see her. That kind of thing, my friends, does not happen very often. For me to smile usually takes wit and humor, dialogue and comical action, not something so trivial as seeing someone's face.

My concluding thought on this matter is that I hope someone out there enjoys my smile as much as I enjoy the one in this picture.

Anger Management

Listen to that drawl
voices through the wall
want to make you fall
want to watch you crawl


tear it all apart
throw away that heart
beat them at the start
pierce them like a dart

and lose the brawl
and lose it all
then watch you fall
then watch you crawl

Superlucky Part Two

Speedsters are subject to the same barriers as everyone else.

    Rick chanced a glance around the dumpster just in time to see a lime-green blur go by. He wiped away some spittle from the side of his mouth. The Speedster was running in a search pattern, but only through the streets and alleys. Rick needed to get into a building. He started trying all the doors in the alley. Finally, one opened and he disappeared inside.
    It was the fluorescent-lit workshop of a cake decorator. Stainless steel pots hung from the walls and a tower of cake pans had been stacked by the industrial sink. He didn't see anyone, but the cake decorated to be Noah’s Arc was not finished, as one giraffe sat on the starboard deck while the other stood lonely on the flour-dusted countertop. Rick debated with himself. A cake decorator would most likely be a normie, but there was the occasional super who preferred an artisan occupation. A normie would hide him, a super would definitely turn him in. Rick snapped out of it-- he couldn't take any chances.

Superlucky Part One

   "September the 28th. Normie Terrorism Blows Up Cornerstore.
    2 dead, 6 injured. At 2:00PM an explosive device was detonated at the Short Stop convenience store on the corner of Pine and Cedar Ave. A young adult male normie has been taken into custody on suspicion of ties with the terrorist organization NASM. A possible female super accomplice has eluded capture. If confirmed, this will be the fourth case of organized normie terrorism in the last nine months.

Song lyrics (incomplete)

Just because I feel like posting something (and no, this isn't inspired by life, just an idea):

Do you like music? Do you like beauty?
Hate to lose it? Just why is it, you never knew me?

Well, I like music. And I like beauty.
I'd hate to lose it. But I can't lose it, I never had you

I have lost my mind, I have lost my name
Was like a drive by, when you walked by, and didn’t look my way

I wish I were your enemy
Rather hate you than this apathy
for if I were your enemy
finally you would think of me

You are the brightest I have ever seen
See the highest, stars above this, black cloud over me

Am I a shadow, don't I radiate?
You just can't note, that I'm of note, till I black your day

I tell my agents, march against the dawn
war we wage then, feel my rage then, I won’t wait too long

and if I were your enemy
if I made you hate me
and if I were your enemy
would you then remember me

Would you rather

Have you ever played that game, "Would you rather...?" What if you were posed with, would you rather witness the earth at its creation, or destruction?

    For me it's no contest. I'd rather witness the Earth's destruction in all of its fireworks and majesty. Can you picture it? Witnessing the first light and the entire Earth in smoldering majesty? And to see evolution fast-forwarded and see all life snuffed out like so many candles before a tempest. I'm guessing, of course, that somehow humans will end all life, and the earth just then spirals itself into a wasteland. But maybe I'd get to see volcanic activity forming and shaping the earth,  glowing in an unimaginable molten red. Wouldn't that be something? To watch the planet go from red  to blue and all green completely gone, replaced by black ashes and a dry, cracked surface. But what am I saying? It wouldn't be complete without an explosion to start it all.

Hitch Kick

The sand was a yellow-white, combed with more care than a Zen garden. Jogo stared at the long jump pit, unblinking. A gentle breeze brushed the perspiration away from his cheek and brought the scents of autumn past his nose. The metal bleacher was no throne, and he was no king; his once straight back bent forward so his elbows could rest on his thighs. His hands were clasped before his mouth as if to prevent evil from invading, or escaping, his lips.

Run Like Man

Long ago, there was an encampment of hunter gatherers in the African savanna. Among them was a father and son. Every time the men would leave to hunt, the son would ask his father if he could join, but the father had to refuse him. "My son," he would say, "you are not old or strong enough. You can not keep up with us."

One day, after the men had left to find their game, the son sat and cogitated. It occurred to him that if he could learn to run faster, his father would not deny him. All he needed, then, was a teacher. He looked around and saw a gazelle. He said to himself, "A gazelle runs effortlessly and surely faster than any man. He will be my teacher." So the son followed the gazelle, got on all fours and learned his ways.

When the father returned, his son bounded up to him. "See, father," he said. "None of the other children can catch me, I am so fast. May I join the hunt now?"

The father pointed to the gazelle they had killed and brought back. "My son, you must learn to run better than that, for we hunt the gazelle." The son was disheartened and sought after a new teacher.

When the hunters left again, the son set out to learn to run like a predator instead of prey. He finally decided on the cheetah. He crouched low and when the cheetah chased his dinner, the son would splay his arms in front likewise. His father eventually came home, and when the son ran to greet him, he could barely stop his momentum.

"My son, you have become very fast," the father laughed. He then pointed to a cheetah pelt over his shoulder. "But we must also outrun the cheetah. Don't worry, you will come with us when you are ready."

The son was greatly disappointed and would fall asleep every night trying to come up with a new idea. One night, when most of the men were gone from camp, the son noticed a pair of eyes in the darkness. Thinking that the eyes were set on him, and not wanting to endanger his mother by calling for her help, he slipped away from camp and led the owner of the eyes away.

At first the son walked carefully, but he noticed the eyes gradually gained distance on him. He started to jog, and it seemed the owner of the eyes did as well, but just slightly faster. The son utilized the speed he learned from the cheetah and finally put great distance between him and his pursuer. When he grew tired and slowed down, he saw the eyes again and became afraid, but no matter how many times he could muster his cheetah speed, he could not lose his pursuer. Finally, after being chased the entire night, the son was crawling back into camp, lacking the breath to call for help.

His mother came out from their shelter with a smile on her face. She called out his father's name and gave a warm welcome. The son collapsed into the dirt, knowing his father would save him. The son felt a strong hand on his back, and when he was turned over, he realized the one pursuing him was his father.

"My son, you now know what it means to run like a man."

The son nodded and was allowed to chase prey with the other men.

End u ran

Slap slap go the Saltwaters on my eight year old feet against the pavement. The trees shed their leaves, their branches caught in autumn's breath. Two laps around the man made lake is two laps more than my dad thought I would run. My brother only cared because his run was interrupted in order to look for me.
How far did you go, Rachael?
Two laps. I went two whole laps.
That's over a mile. If I had known you would get so far ahead of me, I wouldn't have let you run after your brother. I thought you would get tired sooner.
It was that day, I think, that the idea was planted. Not during Spring, when kids normally run around blissfully barefoot after the months of chill and snow, but during the Fall, when the big kids trained for cross-country, when my brother was training. The idea that I could run longer than others, this endurance, did not take long to sprout, though its vine would first scale around basketball before bursting forth on its own.
Clap clap go the converse against the cement. My bike has a flat and so I must catch the bus everyday to work. 7:00AM. If I miss it, I'm late, so I run to maintain that balance of sleeping as much as I can and getting to work on time. My legs roll downhill. It should be effortless, but I huff and puff and perspire slightly. I certainly got a bang for my buck.
Tap tap goes the metal rod against my fibula. Does that hurt? the trainer asks me. My face contorts. Yes, I answer.
So that's the spot. 2cm. In likelihood you have a stress reaction.
A stress reaction means no running. It means hours of elliptical or biking. Hours of keeping one's heart rate for that singular end. It is not fun. There are no endorphins. There is no banter between comrades. I sit out a race. I run to race, without competition it's a silly pastime indeed.
Pad pad go the Nike Zoom Miler against the red, flat 200m track. It's my third race in two days. I'm just happy that I have the opportunity to keep racing, though the first of my races ended in vomiting and left me stumbling. It's a new day, a new race, same distance. First lap, I'm in last. Second lap, I'm in last. Third lap, some girls are starting to falter, those first two laps were killer. My grandpa's dead? Fourth lap, smooth...relax the face...grandpa...breathe...toe plant below my center of gravity...and push off. A blast off in my mind, but I know it appears to be a typical, dying throw of a stride across the finish line. Seventh. People ask me about my race, I tell them seventh with pride and joy. They're awkward for a second. In the nation, I remind them. In the country. They nod their head, oh, that's good, then. Nice job. Way to go.
Pat pat go the hands on my back.

To Stare Down the Moon

There was once a time when the king opened a great contest to find the best painter in his kingdom, for he had wanted a portrait done of his fine and elegant wife. To the artists he had it decreed that they should capture the beauty of their magnificent country, and then they would be allowed the honor of portraying their queen onto canvas.

When a farmer had heard this, excitement crawled all along his spine, for he had it in his heart his whole life long to be recognized as an outstanding painter. Surely, he thought to himself, no one knows the magnificence of this land better than I. It is not only my eyes that have taken it in, but my bare feet have taken root in the earth, my hands are filled with its vegetation, and my lungs draw in the whole day and night its fresh air. The farmer quickly went to work on his masterpiece, taking the entirety of three days. When his painting of rolling hills and a herd of sheep was completed, he took it by foot to the castle. Amongst the throng of other hopeful artists, the farmer was pushed and jostled until his painting dropped into the mud.

Horrified by the incident, the farmer did not notice when the king himself came out of the castle. The throng respectfully retreated back and provided their king with room. The king saw the farmer had not moved, and interpreted his stillness as boldness. Upon command a guard picked up the farmer's entry into the contest and displayed it before the king. The king pointed at the mud caked canvas, and along with all present, began to laugh and ridicule the farmer until he ran away in utter humiliation.

Taking refuge on a lonely hilltop, the farmer sobbed into his hands. When he raised his face again, it was night and the moon stared at him.

"Why must you stare at me? I have been ridiculed enough," he said to the moon.

The moon replied, "You are a funny little man. Only funny men present dirt to their kings when they ask for art."

"You did not see me paint it, then," the farmer answered him dejectedly.

The ornery moon goaded him, "I wish I had, for then I would have seen a funny man at work at his funny art. I will not miss what amusing thing you will do next.”

“Stop staring,” the farmer said angrily. “Stop staring and do not add to my humiliation.”

But the moon continued to stare the whole time the farmer marched to his home. The farmer briefly entered his lodge and came out again. With his back straight and his voice strong, he declared to the moon, “If you will continue to stare, then I will stare right back.”

The moon laughed, “You will not beat me at my favorite game.”

The staring contest had begun. Minutes passed by, then hours. The moon slowly inched away, but the farmer strolled so as not to lose sight of him. Dawn broke, and still there was not a winner to declare. The moon tried to get behind a curtain of clouds, but the farmer climbed a mountain. The moon attempted to hide behind the sun, but the farmer bravely asked the fiery tempered sun not to interfere with the contest, and he acquiesced. The moon was worried he might lose and tried inciting the farmer. “You can not win. Your eyes will become dry and tired. Your stomach will ache from hunger. Your throat will become parched. The breeze will carry pollen into your nostrils and you will sneeze. Achoo!” The moon feigned sneezing.

The man bore his teeth into a smile. “Sir Moon, even if I should blink first, I would still be the victor, for I have stared you down despite all my faults. I have stood, I have walked, I have you chased you at the cost of my own needs while you, sir Moon, have sat in the sky with nothing to press you.”

The moon, afraid, attempted to elude the farmer, but could not. Soon people all across the kingdom had heard about the contest and came out to watch the farmer, cheering him. After a day, the moon’s brightness was cut by a sliver, then another and another, as each day passed by. After fourteen days of the contest, the moon finally blinked.

The king himself had started spectating this extraordinary contest, and upon its completion he called the farmer to his side. 

“My good man,” said the king, “I am greatly impressed by your resolve to stare down the moon. How did you find it within yourself to accomplish such a feat?”

The farmer bowed his head while looking into his king’s face. “My lord, please watch closely,” and he blinked, revealing his eyelids to be perfectly painted irises.

The king gasped. “You have captured your own eyes! If you are able to perfectly mimic the very windows to the soul, then you are truly worthy of painting our queen. Allow my patronage and be honored in the manner you deserve.”

The farmer answered him, “I will paint our queen, but I ask for payment as well, enough to allow me to move all I have beyond the mountains. For, as an artist, I can no longer stand to live in a country that has lost its beauty to me.”

The farmer was then known as Master Painter, and his wishes were granted.

Moonblade, Ch. 1

Escape From Hiberia
Ch. 1

Playing in the shade of a requiem

"I don't think that's going to work," Akari commented as she furrowed her brow. She sat where she spent most of her lunchbreaks, beneath the large oak a hundred meters behind the school. Unlike most of her lunchbreaks, however, she was surrounded by the majority of her classmates.

As last years, they had gathered together under the oak's shade to discuss their farewell prank. Akari had little interest in the topic, but felt even less interest in leaving her favorite spot. Though often alone, when she leaned against the elderly trunk she felt a far away echo of an embrace, like a friend was nearby. The notion sounded somewhat insane, therefore she never expressed it aloud. Then again, no one had ever cared to ask her about her insistence on sitting here, and Akari knew herself that enjoying the company of trees was the least of what made her unusual.

So I want this story about Sly Dog and Silly Goose, two detectives who solve Carmen Sandiego type crimes. Yeah, I want to do that.

Neglect

A graying man seated by the water jet
a sign in his lap asking for charity,
a pen in his hand, the tip no longer wet,
his belt revealing help is a scarcity
I'm curious, so I ask him one time
why do you sit here alone with a sign,
having people toss up a nickel, a dime
isn't there some charitable hotline?
He shakes his head, surly and sour
I tried speaking, but no one had heard
so rather than waste another hour
I saved my breath and wrote this word
But your sign, I reply, says help please
I believe that is two words, isn't it?
He grimaces at my joking tease
the problem is no one else notices

A young woman enters the fray
offers the man a sandwich and turns
It's my friend who vanished one day
she says to me, you know what burns?
When you feel you have to disappear
for people to finally remember you
as if by being mute, they'd want to hear
everything, but that's just not true
wait, I interrupt, where did you go?
You felt ignored? Why the pretension?
It's your fault, you had let no one know
No, she breathed, no one had paid attention

Magic Notebook part 1

    I clutch my red spiral to my chest as I lean in for a drink of water. It's passing time, and I have but four minutes to make it to History of Western Civilization from "the stupid math", the level of math that means I'm just average. They happen to be on opposite sides of the poorly designed, oblong campus. At a leisurely pace, it takes easily six minutes. I'll have to jog part of the way, because there is no chance I am going to let my mouth stay as dry as that math class was. I really should start bringing a water bottle.
    "Kim, we gotta go!" someone says right before they pull my backpack in the direction of History. I get a little water sprinkled on my notebook and shirt.
    "Thanks," I reply a little sarcastically before I turn to my friend.  I see that it's Michelle: brown hair, blue eyes, befreckled. She must have hooked my backpack right after coming out of the bathroom.

Call Me

    It was the shrill sound of a midi ringtone that awoke the young man from his nap on the park bench. At its peel his eyes flew open and his ears instinctively acted as radars to determine its location. He leaned over, surprised to find the phone face down on the ground.

Deathday Club - part 2

There’s a confidence fueled swagger that you only see on actors on the big screen. The one that says, “I can’t die, sucka.” And it’s true. The character can’t die in the film. But actors have to dip into their craft for the effect. Mine is second nature, and it’s real.

Deathday Club - part 1

When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed up in victory."

1 Corinthians 15: 54

    I stand in front of a window display. I remember a time when purple was the new lime, which was the new red, which was the new black. Black's made a comeback, with the intent that it won't be replaced soon nor easily. The evidence of which isn’t what I’m immediately looking at, but is rather in the peripherals behind the display. The display itself is instead a vomit of celebratory colors. I almost chuckle at my own wit: if you combined all these hues, combined their voices into one, it would create black.
    Others stream behind me, passing by and buying. Some glance at the exhibition of jubilation. Their eyes completely skip over me. I'm not here. The sun soars west beyond an interruption of clouds while the breeze floats east. The traffic light ignites into green. The river of cars instantly changes its current.
    Be alive, get moving. Everything else is. Not everything that moves is alive, but I'm beginning to think, in a dulled world, the one thing that glitters must be gold. I don't feel like that thing, and I don't feel like moving.

Bham

Now this video is a true tribute to Bellingham. What I'm about to share comes more from my love of word play than Bellingham, though (see video) Bellingham is a place worth loving.


Whatcom what may
I'll be here to stay
I don't want run away
I'll stick around the bay
we'll all frolic and we'll play
cause we like fair playin'
with all the hippies down here in Fairhaven

On the west coast
there's just one silver beach
next to the baker
who's never out of reach
no one's stuck in a rut
can't catch a can but
we can chuck a nut
and I tell you what
if you forget your clothes
then picnic in the cove
where nobody cares
and life's all teddy bears
where nobody cares
and life's all teddy bears

Take my hand, we'll fly to sunnyland
if it's up your alley, we'll run to Happy Valley
cause it's fun to skip, it's fun to roam
as long as everyone can Sehome

The weather may sadden
but don't lose that Padden
it will keep you warm when
the valley turns Sudden
when you need an idea
just scream Eureka
and just don't care how long it takes ya

It's good to have friends

If you read this, read it aloud:

Wine by the fire, you sayin' sweet things
I know you're a liar, and everything
the birdie kuckoos, you glance at the clock,
then I'm starin' down the barrel of a glock

pull the trigger bang bang I fall on my back
you kneel down on the ground and feel my neck
but my heart's beating strong and you, boy, were dead wrong

you jumped back, scared to death, I'd broken your flow
"Darn it all, you wore Kevlar, but how did you know?"
I must say it's the rage today, yeah a growing trend,
Baby it's good, oh baby it's good, baby it's good to have friends

I lift up my dress, withdraw the blade
by the stroke of twelve, we'll know who got played
in my hand he's my man say hi to bowie
so unlike you, he actually knows me

all my strength drive it deep into your chest
we tumble down on the ground both out of breath
I rip out my knife, no blood on it, oh, boy, now I've done it

whip out the wallet from your pocket, a hole in it
so you knew I've been screwed now how'd you spin it?
you smiled said the same reason you didn't meet your end
Baby it's good, oh baby it's good, baby it's good to have friends

A name change

I've changed the name of this blog. Previously, it was Parasitical References for my English 203 class, in which we explored the idea of parasites and then tried to think up whatever we could to blow our minds. That class is over, and I've decided to rearrange the furniture (not get rid of it, it's perfectly good furniture!) in order to make it a suitable space for whatever I feel like. Feel free to scroll down and peruse my ramblings on parasitical notions, or don't. But starting now, or rather, with "Odd Odysseus", this blog is a scrapbook.

And what of the name Fathoms? Well, if I ever had a studio or creative crew (like the all female staff CLAMP) I think I would want to name it "Fathoms". This blog naturally contains my creative aspirations.

Odd Odysseus? Circe’s Island Explained

Nearly a year after the release of Homer’s critically acclaimed biography of Odysseus of Ithaca, other eyewitnesses of the famed journey have stepped forth claiming that Odysseus’s account of the voyage are flooded with inaccuracies.

“Oh yeah, I don’t know where he got most of that stuff that he told Homer. But I can’t say I’m surprised. With his mental breakdown and exposure to hallucinogenic plants, Odysseus saw a lot of things that the rest of us guys didn’t see, if you know what I mean,” states an unnamed sailor of the Ithacan crew.

Of all of the fantastical events described in his Homer’s book, the eyewitnesses are only able to find a factual basis for the incident at Circe’s island.

“I don’t know where he got that Cyclops from, or those things that supposedly killed us all, but I think I know where came up with the island of Circe,” says another unnamed crewman. “Circe was the name of this beautiful young woman, that much was true. She moved to this island to get away from the mortal princes fighting over her. She was a goddess, but not an enchantress. She was a very hospitable hostess,” the sailor talked fondly of Circe.

He went on to explain the transformations Circe supposedly performed, “That deal with the some of the men turning into pigs? Well, there we were sitting on the beach, when this wild pig comes bolting from nowhere in particular. We’re thinking, ‘Great, food.’ But not Veginitis, he always had a soft spot for pigs. So, he rescues it claiming it’s his new best friend, and then he named it after a warrior we lost back in the Trojan War, a warrior he was close to. So we let him have the pig to keep him company.”

Eurylochus, Odysseus’s first mate, stepped forth to explain the temporary “disappearances” of the group he had led to explore the island. “It was true we came upon Circe’s house, but she didn’t turn my men into pigs. She invited us in for a meal, as is Greek custom for travelers, but I went back to tell Odysseus. At this time, Odysseus was having a hard time understanding anything we said, and I evidently got there after the thing with Veginitis and his pig. Odysseus thought somehow the pig had been a crew member. I tried explaining that my group was just having dinner, but he was convinced otherwise. Eventually we did get him to come with us.”
The eyewitnesses also had a discrepancy with Odysseus over the amount of time they stayed at Circe’s island. Though Odysseus reports that their stay was a year, the others all unanimously agree that it was only one week.

“If there was anything negative about Circe’s place, it was that she had a drug problem. What's more, Odysseus got a hold of some lotus blossoms,” stated Odysseus’s attendant.

Whether these revelations will hurt Homer’s sales or not remains to be seen.

I've gotta feva, and the only cure is...

And now, for something completely different. On a bus ride to Nampa, Idaho from Bellingham, I asked some teammates to give me a theme or topic to try to write a rap about. You see, I had bought an album from K’naan and was so impressed by his craftsmanship that I too, as John Dorian would put it, wanted to play with words. I figured the best exercise would be to receive a random topic. My teammates thought it would be clever to offer me “being lovesick, but with actual symptoms of being sick.” At first disheartened, I then boldly took on the task, the results of which are displayed below. The rhythm is bad, but I’m proud o’ me rhymes, yo.

I'm burnin up/ I've got a feva
I don't exaggerate/ I'm not a deceiva
so listen up/ become a believa
I say this is real/ and this is true
I got an infection/ brought on by thoughts a you
my blood's pumpin' faster/ to kill the invader
lettin' you close/ my biggest failure
and now I'm breathin harder than Darth Vader
Turnin' way greener than that Ralph Nader
they're outta control/ my swollen lymphnodes
nose is runnin' out on parole
hearing sounds like Depeche Mode
white cop cells cruising patrol
brain punchin' emergency codes
cause she thought it'd be slick
that scrawny girl Cheryl
to see me rap bout being lovesick

So, why include this in my blog? Well, we’d be really lost if we didn’t have symptoms. Symptoms, much like pain, let us know something is wrong. The difference lies in that symptoms are the effects of the body fighting, and pain is the body letting the brain know that it is being damaged and something should be done. These two mechanisms often collide, however. What to do when the symptoms cause pain? The body needs to fight, but the nerves are picking up distress signals. We are spurred to action, to relieve the symptoms and consequently the pain. Or as the case may be, we are spurred to inaction, to rest and wait it out.

It is interesting, that no matter which version of myself I am portraying (all versions are legitimate, of course), in the physical world the symptoms and/or pain will effect me equally, and this may be evident to others likewise regardless of with whom I am interacting (classmates, family, friends). But it is in that other realm that these corporal concerns stop short, and the only effects may be what the symptoms have on my sanity.

Sickness is contagious, it goes from person to person. What does my self have to fear from interacting on the internet? Is my internet avatar not only safe from the plague of real life but also immune to distresses in the internet world? Nay, I say. (I will disregard computer viruses.) Given that my avatar has no real internet body in which it can ground itself into an internet world of boundaries and laws, and since it is just a mental projection, I theorize that it is that more susceptible to the mental projections of others. When I am not careful, these influences will and do trickle their way to me, the source. Things are typed without the customary layers of filtering because there is far less fear of things being traced to the source, but in actuality this is the opposite, it is a false sense of security.

These raw thoughts perpetuate themselves, go on to influence others, and will in turn reach the source in the form of changed reality, changed interactions. I might argue that it could easily be a bad thing, since I feel that thoughts should and need to be weeded, trimmed, and refined to the sophistication complementary to our dignities as human beings. Degenerate thoughts are unfiltered thoughts, and when they become more and more the norm, so people start to feel it’s more and more alright to lower the fences and bars. We start to think of the world and especially people differently, for the worse, and the worst is that our minds, the source of our language, have answer to no symptoms of their own, no nervous symptom to warn that something is wrong.

Follow conspiracy theories, our minds wide open to propaganda beyond that of what we realize...

Anti-resurrection

An interesting thought that I have not typed until now: vampirism is an anti-resurrection. In the Christian idea of resurrection souls go to heaven and bodies rot in the ground. With vampires, the soul is trapped or absent (my best guess, anyway) and it is the body that continues its animation (anima- soul, spirit, breath in Latin). Whereas the Christian ideal is to proceed to heaven, and the Roman Catholic teaching that souls in heaven pray for those on earth, vampires instead prey on those on earth, cursing them to a hellish fate rather than blessing them on their own way to heaven. To be in heaven is communion with God, the vampire is repelled by Godliness. God rocks, vampires suck. Nothing too ground breaking, but I found it interesting that since vampirism seems to be the exact opposite of what people would hope for after death, it must be what is most dreaded, and perhaps impurely, guiltily appealing: to be driven by desire and the primal rather than a higher and harder calling. It seems a consensus in a lot of Vampire literature, however, that it is indeed no way to live, die, or to be resurrected.

Murrrrrr...

No, I won't say it.

Actually, I think I have to. It used to be a perfectly good word, but it's been taken from me. Or rather, it's a word I don't want anymore because it's become infected. I simply can't say avatar without people thinking about the James Cameron movie. I knew this day was coming, ever since I learned that M. Night. Shyamalan's rendition of Avatar: The Last Airbender would be known simply as the "the Last Airbender".

The Last Airbender is probably my favorite animation of all time, and I've watched a lot in my time, both American and Japanese. Airbender embodies my ideal mixture, ideal style of story telling: clean but hilarious, epic but with lighter moments, goreless but with a seriousness to the violence, romantic but without any lust (a bit redundant, since I don't find lust romantic at all). The point of bringing up this masterpiece, besides telling you, my dear reader, to just go and watch it, is that I can not bring it up by the name I had known it as in casual conversation. With my brother, sure, if given the proper context I can simply say "Avatar" and mean the cartoon, but that's it. Now I always have to say "The Last Airbender", "Avatar, that cartoon", "the Nickelodeon kids' show formerly known as Avatar". Bummer. If you would believe it, this is not the first time I've had the word "avatar" taken from me.

Quite a while ago, I had this idea for a series. The basic premise is that the mythological pantheons are based on beings that existed, but the stories of them differed so much from the source as to be near unrecognizable, somewhat like the Bishop St. Nicholas and our modern Santa Claus. Given that these beings, twelve in number, were present all over the world, stories of pantheons also exist all over the world. These beings decide to disappear for a while because they didn't like being worshipped, but vowed to return when the earth was in trouble. In the near future, twelve superheroes are born as successors, possessing only a portion of the original godlike powers, since they're human. Avatars. Avatar is such a great term to use with them, even though they're not technically reincarnations (the identity crisis of these heroes is a major theme, as they don't know if they are reincarnations or just the next holders to the torch). Then I heard about the cartoon, and decided I should stay away from, at the very least, entitling my series "Avatar", though perhaps I’ll still use it to refer to the superheroes in story. Now, of course, using “Avatar” anywhere in any sort of title would probably not be in good style. Not for many years, anyway. I must wait for that parasite that has latched onto those six letters to die, when people stop thinking about smurfs at its sound and perhaps think about Indian mythology instead, Vishnu rather than Jake Sully. Time heals all wounds, perhaps it’s also the best antibody.

But isn’t time the very thing parasites steal from us? Whether it’s shortening our lives or disrupting them, we lose time over parasites. Something interrupts us, and we say, “I don’t have time for this”. We never have time for parasites, so parasites have to take it. What happens if we gave our time to parasites? They stop being parasites. We volunteer to help the homeless, they stop being leaches, they become those in need. We bat away the mosquitoes who are after our nutrients and blood, but we purposely attach a baby to our breast so he or she (not it) drains as much as he or she needs. We yell at strays, but feed the dog we’ve adopted into the family. Family is always worth our time. Sometimes. When we find that family members have become too disruptive, too much of an inconvenience, they too become parasites. “No, I don’t have change” or “No, I’m not going to come and get you from the police station.” Even if they don’t end up taking our wanted money and gas, loved ones may weigh on the mind, taking our valuable thought.

However, love might overcome the disruption, the love that propels one to swim oceans and climb mountains for a person. If someone does something for another out of love, it’s not a parasitic relationship, though it can appear that way to outsiders. I’m writing of true love. If I would be allowed to speak of theology for a moment, and I am because it’s my blog, it’s true love that decrees us as children to God rather than parasites of His creation. No matter what we do, we can not inconvenience or disrupt God. Unfortunately, I don’t think love will help me get that word back, unless I can create something even more beloved than James Cameron’s Avatar. Time will tell.

reincarn8ed

Avatar according to the Merriam-Webster online dictionary:

1 : the incarnation of a Hindu deity (as Vishnu)
2 a : an incarnation in human form b : an embodiment (as of a concept or philosophy) often in a person
3 : a variant phase or version of a continuing basic entity
4 : an electronic image that represents and is manipulated by a computer user (as in a computer game)

Etymology: Sanskrit avatāraḥ descent, from avatarati he descends, from ava- away + tarati he crosses over

"Avatar", a word which has frequented more lips than usual as of late. A word that previously referred to deities descending, crossing over into our realm is now used to name the picture that is supposed to represent us, a picture always of our choosing. Like gods reducing themselves to a human form, are we so much greater than the picture that is our face to the digital world? Perhaps more puzzling, is the internet an even less worthy world, a lesser realm than the one our physical bodies inhabit? It is certainly an interesting notion, since like our world to the gods, we are the creators of the internet. This "world" or "plane" came from us, it is our possession, and it is unfit, incapable to house the vessels that we call our real bodies. Ironically, though most would agree that if humans do possess a soul it would be housed in our bodies, many people do pour out their "soul" into the internet. How is it that the internet is not good enough for our bodies, but is allowed our souls? Numerous mythologies have dictated that the soul is far more precious. Perhaps it is because humans are too weak willed to live with their bodies as they are, something over which they have little control if they only view their bodies as a means to please and attract others. One can put on certain clothes, get a certain haircut, but noses are something else, and fat content takes effort to keep at an agreeable level. We have little control in the world our bodies inhabit as well. We create a world, choose an immaculate picture that says exactly what we want it to say, the picture we want people to see when they think of us and recall our name. But even our name has changed. There is no more confusion, because we make sure we are the only ones who possess it: affirmmeimg8, iwantura10tion, and some1loveme.

But we musn't forget the third definition: a variant phase or version of a continuing basic entity. We've reduced ourselves to nameless, bodiless, parasites.

Serres somesing strange

Reading Michel Serres has been a lot like trying to read an arrangement for an orchestra. The notes are all there, and I know what they all mean (that is, I know what a single note represents, much as I understand what a single word means), but it is near impossible trying to imagine them all coinciding at the same time being played by the respective instruments. Likewise, Serres draws up a variety of diagrams, often introducing the next one before I have fully grasped the previous, and he continually refers back to obscure references of fables I'm not familiar with. To top it off, he seems to write in a style that I would equate with a genius 10 year old who was dictating to a computer of his own invention. In other words, I feel that if I wrote like Serres, my essays would be thrown back at me.
However, Serres is well acquainted with the approved styles and organizations of writing, which makes me think, or hope, there is some method to the "madness" of his words. True, this was translated from French, and I've seen it written that his work has been regarded as untranslatable, but I don't feel that this has to do with the awkward and disjointed phrases that I'm perceiving. Many sentences do not have a subject or they do not have an independent clause. What is? His point I wonder.
It is his point that I’m after, not that of the book so much, not that of the ideas that have been printed. It is in him I’m interested in because he does not distance himself from the words. Why go after printed letters, when they just represent sound, which just represent words, which just express ideas, when I can go after the source? ‘I’ is a mainstay, ‘I’ is among the letters, standing tall and directing traffic, though if the goal were to expedite and ensure safety of understanding for the reader, it fails. ‘I’ throws a giant lasso around the pages, so large the reader doesn’t even notice it. A lasso to wrap around the words. “Mine” says the lasso. But the lasso is drawn by a pen, thrown by an ‘I’. Serres. One notices the odd language, the odd syntax. One can’t ignore it. Perhaps more effective than what the words actually mean, than by what examples he actually brings up, Serres expresses in the very way he writes how everything is a part of a parasite relationship. Though instead of a guest/host, he really plays on the reader/writer. The reader is dependant on the words of the writer to be a reader, but the words are an interruption, they don’t seem fruitful, they are essentially the visual representation of noise, of static. The writer can only be fulfilled while he has readers, so he uses his noise, he produces the letters, he captures readers in his lasso. While the reader reads, there is only one ‘I’. Serres.

Did go to the last class? Do you intend to reply?

At the start of my last English 203 period, a statement that I feel inclined to mention will become void at 1PM on January the 26th, the professor, or, rather, the man who changes the lighting in the room when appropriate, decided to initiate discussion by being orally silent. Instead of his usual pacing to and fro, his hand to chin and his chin to his chest, he sat at the table in front of the class and communicated through the use of plurk, a Twitter like website derived from the contraction of "people" and "lurk". It was befitting that it was not Twitter, but the tool called plurk, because indeed his point "lurked" about in the shadows for us to jump, point, snatch and pontificate at as we saw fit.

Though one might come to the conclusion that, given 20+ individuals were faced with this unprecedented procedure of opening class discussion, there could be potentially 20+ different reactions. However, to put it briefly, there were only two main varieties of reactions: the silent and the eager. Though the "silent" may have been as silent as the man with the mac, they, like the man with the mac, most likely were not silent in their thoughts. A key difference, however, was that they did not utilize an external tool to voice their opinions. But whatever for? Surely a university class, for which one is paying, would call for the participation by all those present. Thoughts are free to give and to receive and to express them requires little more than lowering the bottom jaw, rounding the lips, and exhaling strategically. Mechanically it is simple, and I can say with confidence everyone in the class, myself included, had mastered at one point in their life the skill of human verbal communication. The catch is those belonging to the silent group were either not comfortable or not enthusiastic. I am of the opinion that if the class had been reduced in its numbers, say one by one removing those belonging to the “eager” category, those belonging to the silent group would have been altered. It might have driven some to speak because of the inevitable vacuum of silence the depleted eager would leave, and for others it may have been that a smaller audience meant an increased bravado for expressing one’s ideas. Whatever may have happened is rather a mute point now, since whatever would have been said indeed never was said and so the thoughts of the silent don’t exist as far as our concerning the 22nd of January.

And of the thoughts of the “eager”? The thoughts of the eager, those which were expressed either verbally or over plurk, may have existed, but will soon fade from memory. Even some of the alphabetic representations of ideas as posted on plurk only came to the attention of all at the mercy of the man with the mac (the very one who normally switches the lights on or off as the situation requires), so that even some of those wishing to play the game may not have been heard (that is, read, through the aid of a costly projector). With the silent having nonexistent ideas and the eager projecting ideas that may never see the light of day or producing sounds to be carried off by the breeze, what really comes from such a social experiment of conducting a discussion both visually and orally? In the opinion of the writer, ideas are powerful things that can act as seeds growing into mighty redwoods while simultaneously instigating countless ripples in the mind. Though much may not have been said or read, chances are the entire class will remember the day that the professor communicated exclusively for a short period through a social networking site.

What this writer is truly trying to get at is that words have the capacity to be very much superfluous, but ideas not so much. Words are thrown around everyday, mostly on the internet where it might be seen by the largest audience, in an attempt to create oneself as oneself wants to be seen in the mind’s eye of others. In class there has been a fair amount of pontificating, but legitimate ideas have been mixed in as well, both serving as an anchor for the speaker to lodge his or herself in the listener’s brain, while at the same time giving his or her idea wings. The ideas that may have been sparked by the professor’s antics are very much real to the individuals who conceived them, and the ideas expressed thereafter may have ignited other flames as well. Most of the class was silent, but their minds probably were not. Though it seemed at the time that only a few people spoke and “played along”, the only thing lost are the exact words that were spoken, and perhaps the people by whom they were spoken by. Words, after all, are only representations of ideas, just as letters represent sound. Ideas, of course, are parasites, and so belong very much to English 203.

Parasites on TV

Admittedly, I did not get Shivers at first. I hate horror movies with a fiery passion, and it was as a horror movie that I approached Shivers. Even after the first day of watching, I went onto Wikipedia to see the summary, so that I knew what to prepare for and hopefully find the point. Wiki didn't really help with the latter, but it was interesting to see that the filmmaker had received a lot of grief over his "indecent" production. After finishing the film, however, I began to possibly see the grain of good that might come from such a film. That is to say, not only are parasites dependant on us for survival, but by extension they're dependant on our interactions with other humans. This is good to know, especially in such a connected society where our value is often measured by our social interactions.

As if interacting with each other wasn't complicated enough, with innumerable unwritten rules that change depending on to whom you are talking, parasites give us to consider exactly what it is we are passing on to others. In the case of Shivers, those infected were driven to spread their "guests" through sexually charged contact, so we also have to be on the watch for what it is we're receiving from our socialization. It would be ideal to be aware of the parasites inside us so that we may protect others, but since it is in the best interest of the parasite to remain unknown to our consciousness, this is not something we can always count on. This, of course, may lead to paranoia in those not infected.

I recently watched an episode of Farscape that focused on a virus that had been brought onto the ship. In brief, the virus would hop from host to host as its only defense, and it could not inhabit the same person twice. If it was allowed to remain in the same host for a certain period of time, then it would incubate and eventually release spores so that all present are infected. The catch is, there is virtually no way of detecting who is containing the virus. The host will act completely normal. The only time when the mind control on the part of the virus is apparent, is when the host has been backed completely into a proverbial a corner, and thus, when the parasite is being directly threatened. The way it can change hosts? Only by direct contact.

Amidst the finger pointing that is sure to follow in the wake of a stealthy, disruptive enemy, the humanoid characters naturally revert to a more "immature" morality in the interest of self preservation. Thusly, not only do parasites feed on us and depend on our own largest key to survival (ie, socialization) to achieve its own purpose in life (to multiply), but in its invisible face the worse is brought out in us, arguably making us less sophisticated than the virus itself. In any case, the virus is much better composed and harmonious with its million parts than we are even in a group as small as a handful.

Could it possibly be, however, that our own tendency to not get along with everyone is a defense mechanism even against viruses? After all, by avoiding certain groups altogether, say certain tribes that have no interest in interacting, then the an epidemic that strikes one may not reach all of humanity. In modern times, but with the internet and our own interweaved existence with every point on the globe, this "negative" aspect of our nature can act in much of a defensive manner, since it is near impossible to isolate ourselves by groups. It seems to be all nothing, be one of the throng or be a hermit, and should it occur when we are struck by paranoia in the face of a virus, what previously may have acted in our defense will not just tear us apart.

These lines of thought deal mainly with a virus or parasite that isn't evident to us, as the greatest threats are sure to be. In Shivers, however, it was quite apparent who was and who wasn't infected, though the infected acted so quickly that it soon didn't matter. In the end, what can we do to thwart the attempts of hostile take over of us and our friends and family? At best I might suggest to be vigilant, but try not to lose sleep. That would weaken the immunity system.

(You may have to turn up the volume)