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please “like” this post if you can see it…i’m trying to find out if i have to fuss at WP to fix the blog.  *grumbles*

new/expired blog… :(

I don’t know what’s going to happen to this blog, but I can’t afford to renew it…hopefully it will be available again at kyotzeta.wordpress.com.  *crosses fingers*  If not, please check Various and Sundry Nonsenses or KC’s Co-op for news.  *hugs*

One of my favorite poems:a dissection and a discussion

The Emperor of Ice-Cream

by Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15744#sthash.cpJCUm2i.dpuf

My take on this poem is that obviously it is about death…but I believe it is saying that death is normal, even homely, and not time for some big show.  ”Let be be finale of seem”  Let the things that are, the simple facts, at the end, conquer the illusion, the story that people tell themselves about each other.  Let what is be the end of what it seemed to be.  Do normal things, homely things, respectful things…remember the person, and that she had a life, not just a death.  Remember also that the body is only a shell, and don’t be afraid to look at it, don’t keep it in the dark and shiver.  I love this poem, both for its meaning to me and for its wonderful imagery…I can see every scene, every word, as if in a movie.  I can see the kitchen, full of mourning women in their everyday dresses, standing and whispering about the dead one.  I can smell the flowers, wrapped in wet newspaper, fresh from someones garden or yard or bush.  I can see the big strong man, uncomfortable in the tiny kitchen, but nonetheless making his contribution to the event.  I can see other women, filling the tiny bedroom, straightening the dead ones hair and dress, going to the dresser that along with the bed, almost fills the room.  Taking out the well loved sheet, smelling of cedar and outside air from a recent laundering.  Gently unfolding it so that the careful embroidery shows, and laying it over her as if she was sleeping…and only then pulling it up, over her face.  I can see the woman, the form under the sheet, her ancient feet with their well-earned calluses…a shell, but one that was well loved, and remembered fondly, but with clarity, not illusion.  This, to me, is “The Emperor of Ice Cream”

How to send your name to Mars!

This is my certificate commemorating my submitting my name to the Maven Space Program for a DvD that they are sending to Mars! I love this idea! Anyone may submit a name, and -all- will go. I thought I should put this here, as this goes to my twitter acct. as well as my fb acct., so the most people will see it…I hope.

http://lasp.colorado.edu/maven/goingtomars/send-your-name/

Desert Knight

city lives and canyon eyes, the blue of distant skies,
crystal air and pinon scent compete with smog and lies.
through city traffic, city noise, he walks as if alone,
his mind awash with starfields, and the scent of cooling stone.
the smell of burning refuse fills his clothing and his hair,
the flames that warm the icy night reflected in his stare.
the city teems with tortured souls, a million silent howls,
a beast that grinds the spirit fine within its slavering jowls.
he walks alone within its jaws, and dreams a different night,
cold and clear, the stars so near they fill his mind with light.
and as he walks, the starlight gleams, a shimmering silver glow,
it spreads its wings behind him through the dirty sleeting snow.
and everywhere it fills the air, the scent of pine and sage,
it stirs the stagnant city smog, and cools the sullen rage.
and in his wake, the city’s ache, the all-pervasive pain,
is smothered to a fitful glow, an ember in the rain.

Things You Need When You’re Sad

Reblogged from Thought Catalog:

Your world is falling apart around you, sort of like that scene from Inception where Juno is learning to build and destroy environments. You’re reverting to your most petulant childish self in response, because when the going gets tough, the tough sometimes take a while to kick-start. If you’re anything like me, here are some of the things you’re going to need to get you through.

Read more… 503 more words

This is a new favorite page for funny-sad-thoughtful-silly-and-sometimes-mildly-dirty-stuff. This one hit home, so I thought I'd share. :)

Sour Grapes

I really am nuts, y’know? Not a little bit, not relatively, just…nuts. Not “insane”, I don’t think. Well, technically, I suppose, but that’s -such- a broad spectrum, honestly. Just vague and diffuse…like the law…a net spread to catch the biggest fish, but tight enough to catch the tiddlers as well…when the Fishers want them. *shrugs*

But that’s beside the point. Back to “nuts”. I like that better. It’s perjorative, and offensive…unless you are, and you use it about yourself. Well, in -my- rules, anyway. Such as they are. Normal. Silly word, silly place, let’s not go there. *nodnod* Most people (“most”…another nonsense word) want to be normal. Correct? People want to fit in wherever they are, in whatever living environment they find themselves in, this time around. But some people don’t. Some people feel that it’s impossible to ever fit in, so in a sort of sour-grapes scenario they decide that being “normal” isn’t anything worth striving for. Just the opposite, they decide. Let’s be as -abnormal- as possible, and revel in that…in our separate uniqueness…just like everyone else.

Then there are the nuts. They…we?…just live. Well, try, anyway. It’s really very difficult to swim downstream in a world of spawning salmon. When the race is to be uniquely different but in a way that fits in with ones chosen social group in such a way as to not outlaw the possibilities of being fertile within said grouping…people who for whatever reason don’t have/want/use that drive can be easily lost in the crowd and drowned.

One of the horrors of being…asexual? ish?…is the absence of touch. People were designed to need touch. Physical contact of even the simplest kind…a hand on a hand, a touch on the back…people without these things will become ill, and can even be driven insane, or become so depressed that they die. Not suicide…just die. Most people don’t think of these things because for them, they are touched every day. One way or another. A quick “snack” during the day. A handshake, a quick hug between friends, even a bump from a stranger on a bus or subway. And a full meal, at home. The loving touch of family, birth or found. The surety of knowing that you have permission…you have the right…to touch and be touched. That you will not be winced away from, or avoided, or rejected, dismissed, or reviled.

However, when people touch, something is transmitted, from skin to skin. A basic assumption, a sort of signal, that no matter the relationship, age, or physical condition, says the same thing. “This person is capable of physical love…this person is normal.” You’ve seen what happens when someone in whom that signal is missing or corrupted touches someone…or attempts to. There is an almost automatic repulsion, an anger that borders on fear…because they feel “wrong”. Instinct says “This person is an evolutionary dead-end…a thing to be avoided”.

Of course this is all hooey…straight out of the “Sour Grapes” file that lives in my twisted little mind. I mean, really. I told you I was nuts! But think about it. Watch for it. And if any of that hits home to you…don’t let it. Fight it. Work for what you need…or what another needs. Thank you.

The Nutter

 

Song

what good are words when I can’t even tell that the mind in my head has gone numb, I can’t taste the world, I can’t feel the pain, I sing while I sleep, and they come.

I can’t feel at all, or maybe too much, an overload bearing me down, I try to distract, to make a new track, but I sing a sad song, just a clown.

the words come at night, at sleep and at play, they dance and they sing through my mind, I sleep all the day so I don’t have to hear all the people who try to be kind.

they can’t understand, they can’t feel the pull, the rhythm insistent and clear, they say write it out, just put it down, and they don’t know that’s just what I fear.

what good are words when I can’t even tell that the mind in my head has gone numb, I can’t taste the world, I can’t feel the pain, I sing while I sleep, and they come.

Fear

I need to make it clear,
the deadly way I feel,
that all the while I’m here,
this world is not quite real.

The floor beneath my feet,
the walls that box me in,
the voices on the street,
the screams beneath my skin.

My eyes within the glass,
my heart within my chest,
my too abundant mass,
a long unwelcomed guest.

I strain to breach the wall,
to shatter all the lies,
but still the wall stands tall,
and the world wears its disguise.

My fight will never end,
my dawn will never come,
my signal never send,
my voice is locked, and dumb.

The words come from my mind,
and from the deepest well,
and every line is signed,
with love, to you, from hell.

Writing practice: 5 minute stream of consciousness, subject: School Days

walls of shattered glass scribbled with lipstick hieroglyphs, an ancient language of rage and hate and pain and love and other unsavory things above the surface bearing eons of genetic markers in smears of blood, tears, sweat and skin, a history of life contained within four walls. in the halls, scattered floes of paper, lines dripping down the page, clumped and lumped like biology experiments gone wrong, any moment wait to see them raise their monstrous heads and roar the power words of Trigonometry or Calculus until the walls drip and show the secrets of the Universe…or the library, whichever comes first.  metal coffins line the walls, lids sagging open as if hungry for more young flesh, for the scent and taste of …teen spirit?  empty chamber, with sagging scuffed marked and pocked wooden floors, still echoing with screams and moans and cheers and sighs, with bounds and rebounds, falls and recalls, and buzzers ring.  above, sullen light flickers and crackles, dust-covered tubes hanging, some dangling almost to block the path, almost to mark the path, to show the way to yet another hall, another bleak perspective.  tumbled tables, legs in the air, helpless dinosaurs tossed across the tiled room to land where they will.  phantom scent of grease and mystery, of hunger and appetite denied, leads to the chamber of horrors, each counter scarred and marred by generations of vessels slammed ringingly on their surfaces, and giant utensils whipped and dragged and slicing into vegetable matter and flesh alike, indiscriminately.