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<livejournal>
<entry>
<itemid>152132</itemid>
<eventtime>2013-03-04 11:24:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2013-03-04 16:25:12</logtime>
<subject>One Book</subject>
<event>
by Redwin Tursor Don Diego del Fuego had commissioned a printing press And with it Through the largesse of the state He had commissioned books for all in the kingdom Demanding that all might learn to read. He believed in the power of these words And the value of knowledge Within the first year it had begun to pay off Merchants had a better understanding of math Farmers had a better understanding of their crops Churchmen upped their sermons to deeper subjects Old and young they heeded his words Obeying the mighty decree of the Sage Prince's will An old man Well into his nineties Unlearned what he had learned And opened the page of his life Committing the pains of his great years To ink and paper. Bitter were his feelings And folly were his hopes A young man In a desacated mobile corpse No dreams from the get go Harvesting on a farm Of barely subsistent living The short years Of the prince's peace Could not undo a lifetime Of war, famine, pestilence and plague The life of a peasant was unimaginable The pointless act of opening the mind When so many doors had been locked so early on Was madness But he was just a peasant And he knew the prince loved books So by writing the scribblings of his short Meaningless life The old man sought to crush the prince's spirit As his own had been so crushed long ago The book was both well and ill received It was a slap in the face Cold water on the burgeoning flow of knowledge So many had come to see from the new torrent of words And the kingdom drew to a standstill Only the most meager of activity was performed As the Book of Pain had been reprinted And spread So all could hear their words And the prince read the old man's book And wept for the pain he had been forced to endure. And when the old man died The prince had him buried in state With the kings of the realm And then redoubled his efforts There were schools And a library And the flow of learning commenced again A small plaque beneath the Old Man's tomb read "He died of pain And shared it That we might learn To open new possibilities For ourselves and for One Another." Every day a new flower is lain there Not by royal decree or command But simple gratitude of youths Who now have doors The generations before Never could have imagined. And the world moved on. As it is wont to do. As it always shall. For change is the one constant in the universe. And sometimes Only sometimes That change can be change for the better.
</event>
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</entry>
<entry>
<itemid>152507</itemid>
<eventtime>2013-03-19 13:19:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2013-03-19 17:19:58</logtime>
<subject>The Vanishing Wild</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other The Vanishing Wild Isn't Depending on how you define wild Or vanishing. Our tiny ball of nothing Floating in a sea of infinite dry ice Supporting us ants That cling desperately to the fumes of atmosphere So that we don't die Or get flung off haplessly Into the sun or into the uncaring cold of the cosmos... We're in trouble But the wild? The wonder never stops. Think a moment How magnificent that is We just don't find limits There are no 'here there be dragons' Though admittedly running into some actual dragons Face to face Might be nice for a change... The wonders of science Say there is no life on mars Say that you can't go faster than light Say that the standard model of physics is correct But for every answer we get There are more questions There might be martians somewhere Even if they aren't on mars And we see them now The worlds without number Out there Waiting for us to find them Between the spaces Infinite space lies undiscovered And beyond this universe We now have reason to suspect An infinite array of spacetimes All inviting us to play Sure... Sure... It might take a while to get there. Let's be honest folks We may never But the mind's eye The heart's wonder The soul's will They can take us to the realm of what MIGHT BE In the blink of an instant And for that I say we should celebrate the parade of possibilites Glory in the wonder of it all I look up And see not vast horrors of perpetrating darkness But infinite hope And wonder of things to explore. Up and out Out and beyond We tend to go where we're not invited Who knows Might even solve that pesky Light Barrier thing. Tomorrow is what you make of it And I intend to make mine nifty Thank you very much. We now return you to your scheduled program With the operative understanding That it is your program to schedule.
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</entry>
<entry>
<itemid>152689</itemid>
<eventtime>2013-03-25 12:30:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2013-03-25 16:30:56</logtime>
<subject>Poor Little Matchbook</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other The power of a match Is the flame it makes Fire can burn anything. Planted before time, before all, The world tree sprouts, Blooming in all possible worlds. The lumberjack had died Leaving behind a hungry daughter Who knew how to make matches. With her father's axe and her mother's eye for detail Deep into the forest she went. High upon the crest Of the impossible cliff where the holy branch sprouted Did the young girl cleave asunder. Contentedly she whistled all the way home Knowing many a skaldi who would handsomely pay For enchanted matches from gods knew where. Heedless of the dying forest around her She began to chop the branch into bits within bits Until only glistening kindling remained. She lit one to observe its bright light Euphoric about the power and visions it gave her Heedless of the curse that stained her soul. And off to the city the young girl went To sell the matches for coin And she counted her coins as she laughed thereafter. Abandoning the faith of her fathers She was babtized to fit into the elite of the city Spending her coin like waterfalls. The pretty little puppet danced each night And a second dance she did in bed With those she hoped to wed in an alliance of commerce. She gambled and she drank and she swore The other men pretended she was a companion Wheedling out her secrets and her treasure. All the while The tree waited And bided its time. Came a day when the rent came due And the lumberjack's daughter had no coin left to pay Not even that other coin she had so quickly thrown away. Out onto the street she was tossed Her dresses soon became rags All she had left was a single book of matches. She tried to sell them for more coin But the Skaldi saw her broken faith And would pay her nothing. Winter came sooner than expected And all she could do was light matches to keep warm The tree taunting her with visions of what she once had. The Lumberjack's daughter died And none of the Valkryie mourned her As they had her mothers back and back for thousands of years. The world tree sprouted and slowly regrew It was beyond time But it remembers with anger still and waits for those who strike the matches.
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</entry>
</livejournal>
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