Well, I was a bum today. But I also wrote my first song. Go me! The Ballad of Blaggarty Bill. It'll be on Perse. I say it's a song, because you can actually put it to music. Not complex, orchestral, or anything, but it's got a tune and the verses fit. It's got a refrain! Heh, an interesting part of it is that you can change Blaggarty Bill to "Jasterly Jill" or "Dastardly Dyl" or what have you to fit whatever ya want. So if you want to read it, you'll have to read the next Perse entry (hopefully up tomorrow).
Eh, SAT tomorrow. And I don't feel like writing anything else. Good luck, good night, and good eating!
Friday, June 4
Thursday, June 3
Sprint
Too late to write. Hopefully lots tomorrow. In the meantime, answer me this: If I did it, would you blame me?
Wednesday, June 2
Addict? I can stop anytime I slobberslobberslobberglazedlookslobber
So I'm squandering my quite abundant free time on playing silly computer games. Really, it's almost ludicrous the lack of things I do. My right pointer finger is sore, either from lack of nutrients or too much work clicking and typing etc. So no Perse or long entry today. But I have ideas, oh how I have ideas! You people need to ask me to do something during a weekday. I might do it! Because if you don't, I'll atrophize and waste away. Nights there are parents who scare me. Days I'm free! Free! No charge! Call now and we'll even throw in this keychain! Throw it in! The pot! Pot of things you'll get! For free! With me! Hohohohehehe little brown jugs are all for free! Free! Free! Free! For a few more days. And then it's back to the bottom of the squid barrel for me. But at the moment I'm Free Free Free!
Tuesday, June 1
It worked!
Get down. Really down. Writhe in downness. Go crazy. Relatively crazy, but crazy. Then forget all about it. Let it all leave your mind. And then, finally, you're on the up and up! It's a treasure map to contentment.
Sweeping the Dirt under the
Carpet. Yes, the carpet. It looked at me with a gaze that could mollify tuna. Yes, tuna. Not a bad tuna, but one that kept going on and on in my head until I finally killed it. Killed it. JUST LIKE I'M GOING TO KILL THIS CARPET. And so the dance began. Parry. Thrust. Parry. Jab JAB JABJABJAB HACK HACK HACKITY HACK HACK STAB! Then it occured to me that not only can a carpet not fence, I can't hurt anything with a rubber wombat as my weapon. So I discard the wombat and grab a lamp. A lamp. Some hold genies, this one held a Halogen bulb that BURNED BURNED BURNED!!! BURNED LIKE THE SOUL OF A DISCO FIEND! Fiend. Yes. I brandished the lamp at the carpet. It catches fire. Fire?! FIRE!!! FIRE!!! RUN!!! Oh why didn't I pay attention during the pre-movie safety briefing!? WHY?!!?!?!? Why not? Because I'm going to burn not! Burn. Carpet. On fire. I win. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *COUGH*. Dear sweet mother of Pearl... Pearl. Yes, pearl. From an oyster. Oyster live in the sea. I see. No I don't, there's too much smoke! FIRE! No, we've done that. Or have we? Yes. No. Maybe so. ROUND&ROUND&ROUND we go where we stop nobody no's. Oh yes they do. No Smoking. I am Smoking. WRONG!
The Statue
An architect one night awoke from a dreadful dream.
The man had thought he’d seen his world as it should never seem.
A world of fallen Angels with joy washed away by time.
A world devoid of happiness; reason with no rhyme.
An ugly world, a corrupt world where no light would ere shine through.
A world devoid of beauty, shaded black but never blue.
So the architect jumped up and cried, “This world just cannot be!
To fix this task requires a man, an artist such as me!
I’ll make a statue better than all that came before.
A work of so much beauty, no one could ask for more.
A masterpiece of sadness, a triumph of so much joy;
A testament to Man and Hope and Every girl and boy!”
Thus he at once began his work on this monument so grand
And sought out the best materials and men throughout the land.
He found the greatest sculptor who could craft curves smooth as silk.
He bought 10 tons of marble whiter than whitest milk.
He hired the most skilled craftsmen to construct the monstrous scheme,
And finally he’d at last assembled his majestic team.
He devised a fleet of Angels, all beautiful and pure,
To stand for Hope and Beauty and to serve as mankind’s cure.
Some smiled, inspiring rapture; others sighed and sadness filled.
Some loved and laughed and died and cried; forgave but never killed
All that humans could become, the quintessential Man.
Such a work so grand and strong was the architect’s great plan.
But it wasn’t “meant to be.”
The sculptor was not sober,
The marble wasn’t free.
The craftsmen was one guy called “Moe”
Who worked for food and lived below
The bridge next to the architect’s cardboard shack.
The architect still planned and schemed
On charcoal sketches by polluted streams,
And the two men built a mound of dirt
Like that little Cupid squirt,
But his eyes were crossed
And his wings broken, merely stumps.
The mock-angel had a bow of plastic
And an arrow that was aluminum foil
From a meal less than fantastic
That the patrons of some restaurant had
Thrown Away
Onto the wretched, trash-strewn soil.
When it was finished, Moe died
Of a broken heart
Vessel and no one cried
Except the cupid and the architect. In the
Rainstorm of tears
The cupid was torn apart
And became the
Debris and a pile of mud
That it always was.
And the architect,
His plan a wreck,
Went back to sleep
Never to build or dream or fly or sing
Again
Sleeping on the dissipated ruins of
Cupid’s wing.
And then in sleep another nightmare of futures hence
Caused the god to bolt upright and at once commence
In crafting a wondrous beauty like the world had never seen
Ignoring verisimilitudes of a reality too mean.
The man had thought he’d seen his world as it should never seem.
A world of fallen Angels with joy washed away by time.
A world devoid of happiness; reason with no rhyme.
An ugly world, a corrupt world where no light would ere shine through.
A world devoid of beauty, shaded black but never blue.
So the architect jumped up and cried, “This world just cannot be!
To fix this task requires a man, an artist such as me!
I’ll make a statue better than all that came before.
A work of so much beauty, no one could ask for more.
A masterpiece of sadness, a triumph of so much joy;
A testament to Man and Hope and Every girl and boy!”
Thus he at once began his work on this monument so grand
And sought out the best materials and men throughout the land.
He found the greatest sculptor who could craft curves smooth as silk.
He bought 10 tons of marble whiter than whitest milk.
He hired the most skilled craftsmen to construct the monstrous scheme,
And finally he’d at last assembled his majestic team.
He devised a fleet of Angels, all beautiful and pure,
To stand for Hope and Beauty and to serve as mankind’s cure.
Some smiled, inspiring rapture; others sighed and sadness filled.
Some loved and laughed and died and cried; forgave but never killed
All that humans could become, the quintessential Man.
Such a work so grand and strong was the architect’s great plan.
But it wasn’t “meant to be.”
The sculptor was not sober,
The marble wasn’t free.
The craftsmen was one guy called “Moe”
Who worked for food and lived below
The bridge next to the architect’s cardboard shack.
The architect still planned and schemed
On charcoal sketches by polluted streams,
And the two men built a mound of dirt
Like that little Cupid squirt,
But his eyes were crossed
And his wings broken, merely stumps.
The mock-angel had a bow of plastic
And an arrow that was aluminum foil
From a meal less than fantastic
That the patrons of some restaurant had
Thrown Away
Onto the wretched, trash-strewn soil.
When it was finished, Moe died
Of a broken heart
Vessel and no one cried
Except the cupid and the architect. In the
Rainstorm of tears
The cupid was torn apart
And became the
Debris and a pile of mud
That it always was.
And the architect,
His plan a wreck,
Went back to sleep
Never to build or dream or fly or sing
Again
Sleeping on the dissipated ruins of
Cupid’s wing.
And then in sleep another nightmare of futures hence
Caused the god to bolt upright and at once commence
In crafting a wondrous beauty like the world had never seen
Ignoring verisimilitudes of a reality too mean.
An Answer
Haven't done that in quite some time. I just read Andy's post and got inspired. I should really stop, though. I mean, really. But at least this one got me thinking (And when I start thinking, it takes me awhile, so you might want to skip to the last paragraph which holds the more pertinent information, if that could be applied to anything I ever spit onto this thing. I've considered deleting the entire thing, but you're all responsible adults and can decide what's sheer nonsense (most of it) and how you use your time.)
"Inadequate." It sums up quite a bit. Reaching for the stars, only to be a few feet short and fall eons back to earth every time. Any accomplishments we may achieve, any virtues we may have, any positives we may believe are all tossed aside, taken for granted. It's only the negatives that matter, for those are the problems that must be addressed. Focusing on positives doesn't lead to self improvement. Only negatives.
And yet, no matter how hard you try to improve, no matter the goal, no matter the vision, it's not enough. Perhaps it's because you're focusing on the negatives and wouldn't notice if you did obtain what you sought. Perhaps it's because the goal changes as soon as you've accomplished the former goal, making triump impossible. Or perhaps all your efforts prove inadequate.
I suppose I write this drivel because I think some of these things out to be expressed. I don't know why, they've all been shown a countless number of times, all better, all more effective, but I still do. Perhaps it's an attempt to get them out of my system. Or it could be that ultimate goal of creating something "beautiful." Something that surpasses everything else. Something that you've created, look at, and say "That'll do."
It is good. Perfect? No. But good. It accomplishes what you set out to do in an adequate way. Adequate seems to imply the bare minimum. But it actually means satisfactory. And that is one of the highest bars you can set. Thus you have artists. Some "art" because they are "talented" and are able to. Some "art" because they enjoy it. Some "art" to make money, become famous, become renowned. And some "art" because they're searching for something. Trying to achieve something. And all their flops in between almost pain them with their inadequacy.
The dream alone is not enough. A dream of utter beauty. The very idea alone cannot suffice. Why? Perhaps because we don't really know what it is. It's an idea. A formless, vague idea. We can't summon up emotions and feelings at will. We can't all magically be happy or feel awestruck by beauty all time. Maybe we don't want to. It sounds easy enough, just put a positive spin on everything. But we have to have reasons. A reason for happiness. A reason for sadness. A reason for bliss, for ecstasy. Something uncontrollable inside us must be satiated, turned on, lit up, energized, sparked. It must be inspired.
So why do we bother trying to form beauty in reality? Why not search and philosophize and dream until we know what true beauty, true happiness, true rapture is? Then, after we know, we can go about trying to create it in "reality." Heck, why even bother with reality? Why not be satisfied with the dream and just conjure up the image whenever we want to be stricked with the desired emotions?
Well, some people may be able to accomplish this. I seem to fail. I can't fathom perfection, probably because apathy and nihilism block my view. So I suppose I write, trying to hope that that unconquered subconscious of mine will provide it for me. Thus I write and at the time it doesn't feel so bad and I go off into an escape or whatever, content that I've created something adequate. But it's not. I look back the next day, the next week, the next year and see how truly pathetic and inept it is. "Poetry" especially. I haven't created a single thing I can look back on and say "I liked that" and have it suffice. It's not because the very vast majority is depressing, either. It's because it's jumpy. Incomplete. It doesn't have a solid center, a flow. It isn't beautiful, it isn't nice. It isn't "good." The same thing unfortunately plagues Perse. I write that because the majority of it is a comedy. It's zany, all over the place, taking all comers. Even the semi-down parts pick back up into a tone that is more irreverent than anything. But I look back and it's incomplete. It doesn't flow, there's no central uniting force. Perhaps because I don't have a plan, I just run with it. Or it's more likely a lack of ability on my part. But I plod on. All of it, inadequate.
Maybe that's why we pursue love. We seek to obtain beauty. It is not enough to merely see it. To interact with it. To dream of it. No, we must own it. It must be ours and ours alone. And once we've obtained it, met the object of our affection's approval, we become adequate. We have been judged by wondrous beauty to be worthwhile, to be satisfactory. And that's all we need.
You could still create art to celebrate your triumph. But you're no longer seeking adequacy. You have obtained it. All previous attempts were a search, a dangerous expedition in a futile attempt to conquer the untamed wilds of reality, of the human experience. What more could you ask for than to be judged worthy by something you so admire and cherish?
You know, I think I like this Romantic stuff better than nihilism. At least Romantics have a chance to succeed.
HAHAHAHAHA Good ole pessimistic silliness. The best thing about all that drivel above is that once I've written it, I look at it, feel ashamed, and hide in degrading optimism. It's all silliness, just forget about it, denounce it, and you won't have to feel so wrong. So foolish.
Alright, now that that's thoroughly out of my system, I can get on to business. I suppose I'll create that drama-ish spinoff that looks more to be a philosophical romp with Lucifer and company sometime soon. It sounds like fun and I'll get to play with the characters some, hopefully. For those who aren't reading Perse, I'd encourage you to do it. The fact that you still bother to come here and read any of this tripe bewilders me to no end. I keep thinking you'd have run away in disgust and terror, but you keep on coming back apparently. Well, although most of the stuff in this blog is flat out wrong, terrible, and negative, Perse is crazy and irreverent. It's fun, too, and although it's not terribly well-written, it's certainly a better alternative than this blog. So head on over to Successfullyfailing and read through the archives. If you read this, you've obviously got too much time, are bored, or something. Can't be good, at any rate. But I can definitively say, Perse is better than this. Tonewise, if anything. Or, at the very very least, join www.abnerdoubleday.blogspot.com and put up what you didn't do today. You'll be glad you didn't.
"Inadequate." It sums up quite a bit. Reaching for the stars, only to be a few feet short and fall eons back to earth every time. Any accomplishments we may achieve, any virtues we may have, any positives we may believe are all tossed aside, taken for granted. It's only the negatives that matter, for those are the problems that must be addressed. Focusing on positives doesn't lead to self improvement. Only negatives.
And yet, no matter how hard you try to improve, no matter the goal, no matter the vision, it's not enough. Perhaps it's because you're focusing on the negatives and wouldn't notice if you did obtain what you sought. Perhaps it's because the goal changes as soon as you've accomplished the former goal, making triump impossible. Or perhaps all your efforts prove inadequate.
I suppose I write this drivel because I think some of these things out to be expressed. I don't know why, they've all been shown a countless number of times, all better, all more effective, but I still do. Perhaps it's an attempt to get them out of my system. Or it could be that ultimate goal of creating something "beautiful." Something that surpasses everything else. Something that you've created, look at, and say "That'll do."
It is good. Perfect? No. But good. It accomplishes what you set out to do in an adequate way. Adequate seems to imply the bare minimum. But it actually means satisfactory. And that is one of the highest bars you can set. Thus you have artists. Some "art" because they are "talented" and are able to. Some "art" because they enjoy it. Some "art" to make money, become famous, become renowned. And some "art" because they're searching for something. Trying to achieve something. And all their flops in between almost pain them with their inadequacy.
The dream alone is not enough. A dream of utter beauty. The very idea alone cannot suffice. Why? Perhaps because we don't really know what it is. It's an idea. A formless, vague idea. We can't summon up emotions and feelings at will. We can't all magically be happy or feel awestruck by beauty all time. Maybe we don't want to. It sounds easy enough, just put a positive spin on everything. But we have to have reasons. A reason for happiness. A reason for sadness. A reason for bliss, for ecstasy. Something uncontrollable inside us must be satiated, turned on, lit up, energized, sparked. It must be inspired.
So why do we bother trying to form beauty in reality? Why not search and philosophize and dream until we know what true beauty, true happiness, true rapture is? Then, after we know, we can go about trying to create it in "reality." Heck, why even bother with reality? Why not be satisfied with the dream and just conjure up the image whenever we want to be stricked with the desired emotions?
Well, some people may be able to accomplish this. I seem to fail. I can't fathom perfection, probably because apathy and nihilism block my view. So I suppose I write, trying to hope that that unconquered subconscious of mine will provide it for me. Thus I write and at the time it doesn't feel so bad and I go off into an escape or whatever, content that I've created something adequate. But it's not. I look back the next day, the next week, the next year and see how truly pathetic and inept it is. "Poetry" especially. I haven't created a single thing I can look back on and say "I liked that" and have it suffice. It's not because the very vast majority is depressing, either. It's because it's jumpy. Incomplete. It doesn't have a solid center, a flow. It isn't beautiful, it isn't nice. It isn't "good." The same thing unfortunately plagues Perse. I write that because the majority of it is a comedy. It's zany, all over the place, taking all comers. Even the semi-down parts pick back up into a tone that is more irreverent than anything. But I look back and it's incomplete. It doesn't flow, there's no central uniting force. Perhaps because I don't have a plan, I just run with it. Or it's more likely a lack of ability on my part. But I plod on. All of it, inadequate.
Maybe that's why we pursue love. We seek to obtain beauty. It is not enough to merely see it. To interact with it. To dream of it. No, we must own it. It must be ours and ours alone. And once we've obtained it, met the object of our affection's approval, we become adequate. We have been judged by wondrous beauty to be worthwhile, to be satisfactory. And that's all we need.
You could still create art to celebrate your triumph. But you're no longer seeking adequacy. You have obtained it. All previous attempts were a search, a dangerous expedition in a futile attempt to conquer the untamed wilds of reality, of the human experience. What more could you ask for than to be judged worthy by something you so admire and cherish?
You know, I think I like this Romantic stuff better than nihilism. At least Romantics have a chance to succeed.
HAHAHAHAHA Good ole pessimistic silliness. The best thing about all that drivel above is that once I've written it, I look at it, feel ashamed, and hide in degrading optimism. It's all silliness, just forget about it, denounce it, and you won't have to feel so wrong. So foolish.
Alright, now that that's thoroughly out of my system, I can get on to business. I suppose I'll create that drama-ish spinoff that looks more to be a philosophical romp with Lucifer and company sometime soon. It sounds like fun and I'll get to play with the characters some, hopefully. For those who aren't reading Perse, I'd encourage you to do it. The fact that you still bother to come here and read any of this tripe bewilders me to no end. I keep thinking you'd have run away in disgust and terror, but you keep on coming back apparently. Well, although most of the stuff in this blog is flat out wrong, terrible, and negative, Perse is crazy and irreverent. It's fun, too, and although it's not terribly well-written, it's certainly a better alternative than this blog. So head on over to Successfullyfailing and read through the archives. If you read this, you've obviously got too much time, are bored, or something. Can't be good, at any rate. But I can definitively say, Perse is better than this. Tonewise, if anything. Or, at the very very least, join www.abnerdoubleday.blogspot.com and put up what you didn't do today. You'll be glad you didn't.