Widdle. Crash. Bang.
Widdle. Crash. Bang.
Hello, hello, hello! It’s a-me, that one guy here to tell the news:
I actually don’t have any pertinent matters on which to elaborate–sad stuff, I know, but the truth is, eh, pertinence is a matter of perspective for those experiencing pertinent events. Significance falls into that camp just as easily, and I’d say it doesn’t matter, save to those who endure significant what-sits and bingle-bogles along the life not so frivolously traveled.
The act of writing a blog post somehow implies a matter of utmost importance. Hm. I may concur, though in more instances than not, I wonder if the (a) post demands importance by virtue of its being written. Imagine that: a run-of-the-mill post foisting false honors upon itself before telling people, “HEY, LOOK AT ME! I’VE GOT FANCY COLORS AND A SPLENDIFEROUS SENSE OF ETHICAL PRUDENCE!” Not to mention, its fonts are, uh, real eye-catchers, Calibre and Arial Black getting ink injections at the local watering hole.
Let’s say this is an important post. Let’s say I’m writing this as a matter of duty to whatever principles swarm my mind for the next few days. You argue that this is an average post, and I respond: “But I said it’s important–look, there’s bolded words and–
You insist: “If it’s so important, then what is it about?”
“How ridiculous. You can’t write about importance. Importance insists upon itself.”
“I beg to differ.”
I mean, have you even noticed the citations I spent hours knitting together into a neat bibliographical quilt?
“Citations? I see no citations.”
Ah, you see, that’s because they’re at the end of the post, and you’ll have to take my word for it.
Important topics, important topics…maybe I can insert a talking point one of the most trending subjects in the recent three weeks—pssh, three weeks, make it about the last six hours. Certainly an option that is guaranteed to garner massive commentary and platinum ‘viral’ status. Great idea. Now I’ll go scroll through the headlines for the next thirty minutes and steal the more apt sentences, fitting them to my stylistic liking.
“Good morning, great people, and have you considered how long a dolphin can live?”
No, no. I can do better.
“Greetings, fellow bloggers, I’m writing about ‘such-and-such,’ oh, and I hope you don’t mind my kissing ass afterward in order to get more people on my site, get those numbers up. Season’s Greetings!”
[Incidentally, the post was published in July]
A valiant effort I can be proud of before I go about networking. Gotta make sure they’re all up-to-date and chock full of modern-day references.
As for an ending–well, it has to be memorable and witty and quite concise.
ID 124500090 © Savenkomasha | Dreamstime.com
Today, I saw a peace sign sticker on the rear window of a car with U.S Army plates. Fourth infantry division, it said; it’s funny how those who experience war are those most desirous for peace.
World’s full of cases like that, you just gotta go looking for them. We say things about things without ever truly experiencing those things, yet experience can land the things in the same piles. Thoughts travel consistent wavelengths.
I–I don’t know why the sun sets on the horizon, and I can’t tell you if it’ll rise again tomorrow. Much of what we base our knowledge on is formed of coincidence. Say the sky turned yellow tomorrow. Would we remark upon the event in educated soliloquies? Would we do much else but go about our days because, frankly, the sky is beyond our capabilities?
We believe the planet is under our control, that everything meant to occur does so only within our observation. Are we arrogant in that? Does our pride determine our power? We inhabit spaces, few of which are ours–and as for the rest–well, does a grassy field warrant immediate proprietorship?
Tomorrow, I’m not sure what I’ll see. Maybe the same thing, but probably not.
Photo Cred: ID 6058275 © Marcelo Poleze | Dreamstime.com
I worry about a lot of things. Of course, I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s, what, automatic and instinctual? methinks that is the proper phrasing–then again, words are changing so much these days, it’s hard to tell.
Nagging thoughts haunt me, these figmented imaginaries running miles upon miles in Brain-O-Cranium, Ltd. Some are strange, some are stranger than strange. It gets to a point, really, where I’m determining whether one thought deserves a straitjacket more than another oh oh oh oh yes thats right because theyre beyond rational investigation correctamundo!
First things last, junk heaps are actually treasure heaps, or that’s how the saying goes. It was told to me by that guy who was told by the other guy who heard it from the guy working in the soup kitchen where the first guy talked about it over hot cocoa. Now I remember, yes. Forgetting information is my game, and my name is–lemme get back to you on that one.
Three years later, and the same predicament reigns supreme. Who’da thunk it, certainly not me, ’cause I forgot it in the first place. You knew that already, but I betcha didn’t know the Moon is Saturn’s third cousin, twice removed. Few people do, not only because I made it up; however, nobody can tell the difference. Third cousin, fourth cousin. All those planets are related in some fashion. Similarities abound up there. Think about it. Most of them are big-ass space rocks…and that’s all I got.
I never passed astronomy.
I never took astronomy, either, but, hey, man, space is space. Everybody’s got a personal version of it.
Who am I to say there’s not an astronaut hanging out here and now, livin’ for that sweet space toothpaste? If that’s not an incentive to brush your teeth, then I don’t know what is. Maybe we should get all the non-brushing people together, stand them in a line, and hire WWE fighters to march past and rub their knuckles together. It might scare a couple of them, I dunno, worth a shot. It could also backfire and cause the non-brushers to go total Dental Rebellion and declare war on the toothbrushing industry, as if there’s one giant corporation devoted to the practice.
We’ll see if all matters pan out, we always do. It’s human nature. We look ahead and turn around and look back just because. HUMAN NATURE.
“Will worries never cease?” said Shakespeare, I think, but I’m guessing.
ID 10185556 © Ekaterina Staats | Dreamstime.com
Man, y’know, alphabetically speaking, there’s not that many letters in the word, ‘hello.’ What, five? make it six, and you got a winner! seven, you’re pushing the proverbial envelope postmarked in artificial cherry-red ink to Shangri-La. Folks try so hard to dig into mysticism and ulterior/interior meaning, but, hey, it gets them to a point of purposeful inaccuracy disguised as random guesses. Nobody can blame them because they don’t exist. Even if they did exist, they’d be too busy moving from one hotspot to the next to worry about our mumbling attempts to interpret the Jesus-shaped-watermelon-seed-madness currently gaining a following in America’s most populous retirement communities. EVEN—EVEN if that happened, and for shits and giggles, let’s say it did: well, my friends, there we have the runt of the littered questions strangers sketch into a two-AM sky without any consideration for the time and/or place on which they intrude.
Outrageous, really, how we figure it all combines in a fortune teller triangle, each flap representing our wild, zany, ridiculous predictions–of course, they’re not entirely ridiculous because ridiculous things have some attached meaning. Fry cooks and security guards, the working mill; oh, and we are so unsure as to their roles in the situation, like the hole in the donut. Question of the century, ‘Is It A Finger-Nook Or Just Make-Believe?’ All the same, we eat them, and soon, the donut is itself a hole.
Interpretations perturb the spectacled hedge-trimmers stalking the midnight burroughs of the sane and sound, and BLAAAAAOOOOOPPPPP! goes the elephant trumpet to warn of mental breach. A donkey sits at a porch table and recounts the tale of poor Nobody Nink, Unknown Occupant of Room ###hereitgoeswegoagainupandaroundandsidetosidealongthemerrigoroundoftime
Flying monkeys seem absurd to us because absurdity is naturally unnatural.
In what a world we live to see some truth, in what a world.
ID 143664990 © Jason Lester | Dreamstime.com
It means: “true democracy, let’s vote ourselves.” That is, the graffiti. Interesting choice of words, at least I thought so. They stuck out to me, looked particularly brazen. I wonder who wrote it, some somebody willing to stand out in a public space and deface a wall with their latest brain-picking. Despite curiosity, you never figure out who the person is. You get close, and out of a dozen or so lookalikes, there’s bound to be a trackable progress going in enough circles to convince you you’re getting somewhere good.
As most of you have guessed, it’s French. The “L’s” give it away at a first glance, but that it’s so attention-grabbing and straightforward also points to a French origin. It embodies everything I admire in the French people: a stubborn determination to be heard while retaining their cultural elegance. Nobody fights like them, nobody, because nobody’s got near as fierce a spirit. Spirit flows through all of those words splashed across the wall, and it’s important to remember spirit doesn’t emerge of nothing.
A member of the Yellow Vests (gilet jaunes) Movement sprayed the graffiti. You may not have guessed this, but I imagine the majority of readers had a gut feeling. I’ve been meaning to cover these guys for a while, if only because few people are. Last November, they burst into international attention, and the gamut of media churned out story after story on their shocking antics. Public defacements and mass protesting defined them; of course, the coverage was accurate, in parts. I read most of those stories, understanding the plight of the French workers and wishing for their success. Not two or three months later, all American coverage stopped, leaving me to scramble after foreign outlets for any new updates. BBC had its bits and pieces, but the French outlets either neglected to report the events or showcased them through biased perspectives. Unfortunate, yes, but it was not an unexpected action; it happens everywhere, so we have to sometimes seek out objectivity ourselves.
The movement has lasted for over seven months, and it still appears to be going strong. I can’t speak as to the inner climate. I have no idea what the people are experiencing from day to day–and this is perhaps my most important point, I hope the best for all sides. Too often, we lose ourselves to the inevitable tug-of-war ever festering in these kinds of movements. We focus on the aspect of success so much that we forget our own limits in reaching it. It goes either way, the end, settling in comfortable victory or exhausted failure, with no room for a middle ground.
To me, the graffiti represents an attempted middle ground. People will argue and battle; they’ll break ideological codes to ensure they are on the prevailing side before the whole situation resolves itself in forced silence. Not everyone’ll spray out graffiti, but everyone’ll read the message.
One message means more than a million broken noses.
ID 140302557 © Ymidio | Dreamstime.com
On any given day, I’d like to say it’s easy to tell who the good and bad guys are. Creating a dividing line is a satisfying feeling, solidifying the creators’ preconceptions and ridding undue stress from wearied minds. Classification of all kinds calms people down, since nobody (NOBODY) enjoys the unclear and unknown. They may get curious–at the most, terror will set in and evolve into hysteria–but you see, so long as there are names for the beautiful and the ugly, there’ll be moderate peace. Whether it stands or falls is another situation entirely, and it is one unanswerable by that eons-long plight. News flash: it’s lasted eons for a reason, so it won’t absolve itself of conflict within the next forty-eight hours. That is, at best, wishful thinking, and at worst, an acknowledgement of something greater than ourselves: time’s withstanding grudge against human intervention.
Good and Evil. We love them. They taste so nice on our tongues, four sy-l-l-ables capturing the respective epitomes of their concepts; oh yes that is GOOD and those are undeniably EVIL just look at the symbols and words and intentions my my how outrageous! We might as well be loading people and objects into duct-tape labeled, grape juice stained Kindergarten cubbies without a single regard for examination. Words supplanted by bigger words supplanted by bigger words. Then we wonder–we wonder, ‘oh, gee, why are they overflowing? are-are, they are–they’re switching places! how dare they!’
Make larger cubbies, say the pinstriped suit-wearing dude lurking outside the window, who, as a matter of fact, has never entered the classroom.
Cubbies are ordered, sir, say some rag-tag maintenance group no one recognizes–and hell, folks, these guys don’t even recognize Mr. Pinstriped Suit, but that doesn’t stop others from carrying out orders.
Cubbies come in, glorious tidings and champagne bottles for the people old enough to drink. There’s new labels, too, because after several millennium, the letters somehow lost their shine. They gleam in sunlight and blanket themselves at night. Reading them accrues no worth anyhow.
Cubbies are in, sir, and it’s a recorder looping an affirmation. Somebody shoved a box of chocolates beneath it.
Mr. Pinstriped Suit is gone. Some blue birdies are eating spilt seed on the windowsill. They make an incredible noise.
ID 21632081 © Brad Calkins | Dreamstime.com
On March 28th, 2019, Will Boswell, a sophomore at the University of Colorado-Colorado Springs, wrote a letter to the late American president, George Washington. His letter aimed to detail current changes in American society, as well as to compare these changes and their effects to Washington’s original vision for America.
Dear President Washington,
My name is Will Boswell, and I hope this letter reaches you well.
I’m an American citizen, and that should mean quite a lot to you. Let me add that it is 2019, and I am an American citizen. Despite previous attempts by the British to regain their colonies, we have prevailed, and oh, we’re friends with them now. We’re friends with most of the world, and as a matter of fact, we assist them with their many problems. Some have called us the ‘World Police,’ and the label’s not far off from the truth. That may surprise you, so I’ll throw in another surprise: the United States of America is a world ‘superpower,’ much like the British Empire.
You’re brimming with questions, I understand, but I think you should know I’m only nineteen. I know a bit about some things, but on others, I know too little. America isn’t as open to public knowledge as it used to be; we’ve become more secretive in our practices. In a way, it’s both necessary and frightening. What many see as governmental overreach is interpreted by others as necessary to preserving our liberties. Put simply, this is no small country, as you originally created it; in fact, as expressed before, it is a large superpower, this status coming with numerous foundational changes.
One of the largest changes, to you, may be that in 2008, we elected our first black president, Barack Obama, signaling an incredible alteration of the American perception toward minority citizens. Diversity has come a long way in our country—and what comes to mind are such watershed moments as the 1917 Women’s Suffrage Movement and the abolition of slavery in 1865. Our fourteenth president, Abraham Lincoln, abolished it by way of the Constitution, and this, among other reasons, caused his assassination. It was an unfortunate end to a true American patriot, a man I’m sure you would have greatly respected.
There’s too much to explain in so short a time, so I’ll get to my main points. Mr. President, America has changed. You can interpret that however you want to, and I hope you’ll understand my saying on some days that I feel as if no one listened to you. Due to your slave-holding past, many American citizens elect to listen to neither you nor your compatriots. You are all a part of a racist past, and while I acknowledge it as wrong, I also believe it’s important to separate the different qualities of a person before judging them according to the values of the time. I mean no disrespect to you, sir, grateful for what you did for this country, but our country’s values, along with our perception of historical figures, have changed—and they have changed for the better.
Aside from this small unification, our country is more divided than ever before. Politics has grown even more distasteful, neither side particularly appealing to the American public. Domestic terrorists have brought the battlefield to our schools and churches, concerts and clubs, gunning down innocent civilians for reasons we can hardly comprehend. As I write this, another shooting has occurred in which four people have been shot, one of them dead, at a synagogue of all places. The American public itself fights over the pettiest issues and at times, it’s as though we can’t compromise on any one thing.
This must hurt you to hear these things, but as you well know, no nation is without its battles. Of these problems, some may become trivial in the future, and some may linger on, challenging new generations to rediscover the national principles forgotten by previous ones. I feel that’s the story of America: a nation where values are constantly taken up and put down, new ones intervening on behalf of the ever-insistent vox populi striving after the solutions and meanings that, though not always the best, are the right ones for the time. It is that America you fought for, and it is that America we will continue to fight for, so long as we have a reason to.
The United States has come a long way in over two hundred years. I live in the twenty-first century, and I am a college student at the University of Colorado-Colorado Springs. I’ve witnessed hundreds of changes in my short lifetime, looking to create a few myself, and more are taking place minute by minute. I am astounded at the amount of ways society shifts, and people surprise.
With our Founding Fathers, a nation awoke, and without them, a nation perseveres. It is not for me to say where our focus will shift next, but I can hope it is in a good direction. We can survive anything that is thrown at us, rest assured of that.
May you rest in peace.
ID 11695975 © Christian De Grandmaison | Dreamstime.com
Oh, man, how about this world? have I told you, or have I not? Funny place, to be honest: I’ve never encountered more humor in so small a frame. Maybe it’s a large one, medium-sized, and maybe these things differ with seasoned years [ha, as if we’re sirloin steaks sitting out on the stove!] Perspective enlarges and minimizes, objective actions without any moral obligations–ahem, to be frank: “neither good nor bad has any proper proper standing in this, our grand establishment, world of wonder and woe.“
Take a load off, people say, and you do, then they tell to you take off another one. Ludicrous notions, and it is hereby proclaimed, “how dare the usual strangers submit outrageous propositions within so close a proximity!” Ugh, said the pack-mule before trudging off into realistic delirium where supposedly his cousin, Camel, was doing a photo shoot for a cigarette company. The smarminess of the guy, thinks he’s got skill, talent, know-how, who-what.
If we took half of the world, then, and dragged a scimitar through it, would it spew confetti? Millions believe so, and millions are not wrong–millions are never wrong. Millions walk dogs at sunrise. Millions drink orange juice on trampolines. Millions work in workplaces situated in the work-buildings of Work-a-ton. Millions–ope, no, dozens…Nevermind. The list is blank, and the sun has just mooned us for the fiftieth time today. Turn to page fifty-four for a concise summary accompanied by
bright ’50s era sketches designed by an underground hermit named Garth–[say hi, Garth].
At least it’s not falling apart and tearing at the seams and going down the crapper and swimming [swimming?] without a paddle. At least all of the dogs are fine; they’re always so pleasant. As a matter of fact, in recent years, studies have shown, things are supposed to be–whoah, did you see that whale skateboarding?
From time to time, I wonder why I see so many flags flying in the streets. Neighborhoods, institutions, shopping malls; all of them have at least one flag flapping on a pole–if it’s a location for social gatherings, it’ll have another one placed distinctly on a wall, or on another, smaller pole close to the ceiling. People notice them in that familiar manner so especial to drive-by landmarks and panhandlers, considering them for a moment before proceeding on with life. It’s no biggie. It’s a flag. It’s the flag hoisted above them so repeatedly it has little significance other than as “The Object Particular To This Here Pole.” There’s no blame to pass around for the dismissive attitude, as it’s the expected attitude. To think otherwise is to refuse observational surrender, not letting the flag be a symbol unique in its repeated mental onslaught: a national reminder.
Forgetfulness always arrives unwanted, the houseguest to which somebody neglects to not pass an invitation. We wander through life, dreading it and preparing ourselves for its eventual appearance on our doorstep. A slovenly figure, it plops on the porch, trench hat muddied and strode upon by the more abusive few; it has nothing to tell us, as it turns out, and apologizes for any undue intrusion into our “well-off” [spoken in a low murmur] lives. It leaves, and despite the sun’s summer preference, it gives way to hard rain, and forgetfulness raises the face we never see and lets [he lets it] the drops stream across whatever features dare settle into that mystery. Every time, it breaks us–the pain, that is, so sorrowful, and we feel ashamed for not offering a drink, a place to rest. The figure is familiar; we do know him, after all, but for one reason or another, we cannot remember his name.
We succumb to absent-mindedness. Despite our safeguards, we never expect the unexpected: a paradox in itself, as if we daily battle the inevitable. Wandering leads to intrigue and nostalgia, yet it also falls prey to soreness and fatigue. Exhaustion besets the best of us, and we sleep on our feet, still moving, still seeing. Objects are blurs, concepts even more abstract than before. At a time, we fought and found and lived; now all we do is flounder. We are for the world’s taking, its curiosities our binding chains.
We walk and walk and walk some more on roads tarred in tears. Our stride grows lanky, made up of the antique movements inner clockwork deems sufficient ’till breakage–and it emerges without a whistle, gears a-busting, spindles spun to sputters, the clock-face punched out of its trappings and clapping a cold floor. Destruction. Nothing else remains in our minds. Near dark, close to oblivion, yet from out of the spiritual withdrawal flutters a flag, colorful and grand. It beckons us, and we remember.