Monday, October 28, 2013

Princess Nothing

             She was born from stardust.  Princess Nothing, they called her.  A wanter by trade, she sat on a throne fashioned from spider silk and the beaks of 10 albatross.  For that is what she wanted.  She refused shoes under any pretense or matter.  For shoes, she knew, would shatter her stardust feet and render her naught but Princess Useless.  For that is what she feared.  Her raiment was a gown of gold gossamer lined with black lace over a corset of velvet and whale bone, sewn by no less than a dozen motherless children.  For that is what she demanded.   Of no use to her any longer, she slaughtered the children upon a Parian marble slab and used their bones and skins to fashion a grandiloquent chandelier, under which she thought, one day, she may greet esteemed statesmen or knights of noble honor all vying for her affections.  
                Yet no matter how she masked herself as Princess Something, the townsfolk did not flock to see her; no suitors pursued her; she wandered upon the grounds of her aery castle of glass alone with an audience of scarlet firethorn to boo her.  Doing nothing.  Loving none.  Her hair told stories of the supernova remnant of the red giant from whence she came-  fire upon her head, unkempt, untamed, flickering in the twilights of the day.   Her wanting betrayed her.  Her fears consumed her.  Her demands unmasked her.  Her soul told stories of the black hole it became. 

Trifecta Week 101- Boo
3. (verb) to show dislike or disapproval of someone or something by shouting “Boo” slowly 


Friday, October 25, 2013

Wanna Have A Beer?

I don't "blog" the way I think.  For the most part.  If I did, no one would ever read it.  Or if they did, they'd suffer through it.  Perhaps, skimming, skipping whole paragraphs, before they get so sick of it that they click the little X and go bang their heads against the wall. 
Lemme tell ya.  No one wants to read your academic voice.  No one wants to read your preaching.  It's pretentious.  It's annoying.  Nine times out of ten, nobody gives a shit what you think about much of anything.
They just want to be dazzled, moved, like a little kid playing with a kaleidoscope.  What if, instead of pretty colors, that kaleidoscope flashed multiplication in front of their eyes?  In the trash goes the kaleidoscope.   Same with your "let me tell you what I think about X in my most smarty-pants voice" blog posts.  
I'm just as guilty as anyone else of waxing pretentious once in a while.  Usually, as soon as I am done writing it, I delete it.  The few things that actually make it through my bullshit filter and get published, I immediately regret. 
If you know me outside of blogging, you may already know all my different voices.  My loudest voice I call my WHAB voice.... or "wanna have a beer?" voice.  You know.  We're just talking, hangin' out, chill, whatev.  It's all good, right?  That's the voice most people relate to.  And you can say absolutely anything you want to say, even the most academic of topics, in that very layman's voice.  Just ask Stephen Hawking.  He's the master of it.  
Those who constantly feel the need to blog in their "listen to me because I'm so ridiculously smart that it blows my own mind" voice are the ones no one would ever invite to a sleepover.  Sorry.  But I ain't passing the bong or stealing my gramma's car or telling ghost stories at 2 AM with your pretentious ass. 
Don't fucking preach to me.  You're more than welcome to share your opinion, but don't hand it to me in a courier new, 11 font, professionally-bound research paper and actually expect me to do anything more than toss it in the proverbial blog trash in favor of reading Dolan and Gooby memes. 
And if your academic voice is the only one you have?  Oh dear.  Well.  I'm sorry.  Only the chameleons get in to all the good parties.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Trifextra Challenge- Alone

No man’s eyes can pierce the darkness of me.
No man can storm my shrouded wood.
Ever shall I be alone, the last of my kind.
She said.
Yet he
Is no man.


Yep.  I'm actually doing a Trifextra Challenge once again.  It's been a while, yeah?  This weekend, the challenge is thus- "We are looking for a 33-word explanation of what scares you"
Trifextra Week Ninety

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Mother, Mother, Mother, Please......

Have you ever heard it?  The Jonestown recording.  I've listened to it at least a dozen times.  

The first time you listen to it, you'll focus mainly on Jim.  His voice.  His words.  The obvious slurring of his speech.  His tangential thought processes.  The disturbing fatherly hold he has on his people.   Your brain will stagger as he convinces 1000 of his people that the only logical conclusion is "revolutionary suicide."  And, at least judging by the sound of cheers and encouragement from his audience, he succeeds.

The more you read and learn about what happened there, the more you hear.  The next time you listen, you may focus intently on Christine's argument, and her tete-a-tete with Jim.  The obscene backlash she faced from others and Jims' smooth mask of protection over her.  As he preaches ardently and proudly on communism, he gives this woman freedom of speech, of dissent, and at least verbally protects her as though he were exactly what they called him- Dad.  Though Christine was fierce, her protests were eventually quelled, and she acquiesces to the inevitable.  It is my firm belief that she was one of the many who were forcibly injected and killed.

The subsequent times you listen, you will begin to focus more on the background.  The eerie music dubbed in from a previous recording (Jim frequently reused tapes over and over again, causing the previous recordings to bleed into the current ones.  That is the music you are hearing).

You will hear the screams.  The screams.  The crying.  Of children.  Dying.  Jim's wife makes a lame attempt at soothing parents' fears and urges them to keep their children calm.  Jim repeatedly says that it is not painful, it is merely a "stepping over."

"Everybody relax and you'll have no problem." He says.

Some nameless followers pass the microphone around to give their thanks to "Dad," who eventually loses patience with them and puts a stop to it.  "Let's get on with it," he says.

And babies cry.  "I wanna see you go.  I don't wanna see you go through this hell no more.  No more, no more, no more."  He says.

And babies cry.  And scream.

They "appreciate the way our children are going."  Because Dad has convinced them that, because of the murder of Senator Ryan on the airstrip, the outsiders will do nothing less than parachute in there and slaughter their children.

Screaming babies.  Listen closely.  How many are being forcibly injected?  How many are trusting their parents and drinking the Kool-Aid? (It was actually Flavor Aid by the way).

They're dying with dignity, Jim says.  And babies scream.  How many are in their parents' arms?

"Lay down your life with your child, but don't do this."  This.  We can only imagine what "this" is.  Protests?  Desperate pleas?  Terror?  Outright refusal?

"Don't lay down with tears and agony........ Stop the hysterics!"

Oh, God.

And babies scream.

Free at last.

A child screams "No! No!"

"I don't care how many screams you hear, I don't care how many anguished cries.  Death is a million times more preferable than 10 more days of this life."

As he calls on the adults to "stop this nonsense."  Nonsense?  And again, you question.  Protests?  Desperate pleas?  Terror?  Outright refusal?

The screams of the children become ominously more scant.  And it hits you once again exactly what it is you are listening to.  Even in the silence.  Especially in the silence.  The silence tells of the number of children who were screaming, and the number of children who now are not.  The silence that you hear is death.  Children lying in the grass with the bodies of their parents.  No longer able to scream.

And yet he just wants peace, he says.

One after another, those who have not yet "stepped over" praise Dad for his kindness.  Proud of their revolutionary struggle.  Proud that Dad has given them the choice to lay down their children this way instead of giving them over to those who would most certainly slaughter them like pigs.  And to these people, at all makes sense.  Wonderful, transcendental, peaceful sense.

And babies scream.

And then Jim cooly interrupts a speaker by calling for a "vat."  A vat....... "so the adults can begin."

Congratulations.  Long about the 5th or 6th time you've listened to this recording, you realize you have listened to 41 minutes and 25 seconds of babies and children being murdered, either by their willing parents or forcibly injected by Jim's henchmen if the parents protested.  And the adults had not even begun.

"....... an act of revolutionary suicide protesting the conditions of an inhumane world."


Warped, dubbed voices.

Utter silence.