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<livejournal>
<entry>
<itemid>136780</itemid>
<eventtime>2011-09-08 18:46:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2011-09-08 22:46:24</logtime>
<subject>The Silent Legion</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other The Silent Legion Marches On The Unsung Heralds of Dragon*Con Year on Year They sally forth To build a minor city of wonderment and glory. Their thankless jobs Stretched forth in the pits and steam tunnels of five hotels Bring happiness to tens of thousands more. They throw a party Like no other found upon the Earth. A thousand strong, And ever growing These militia men of mirth Sow seeds of hope Where there is often none From Dusk to Dawn and Dawn to Sun Twenty tracks compete for the eyes of the revelers There is never enough time. There is never enough of you. You could go 5 times, 10 times, 20 and still not accomplish it all. And yet... By day the corridors of wonder Ring of factions sight unseen By Night the party gets only louder The breath of summer ending on the green! One last dash into the impossible One last throw of dice of fate upon the rocks Every door knocked Every thread chased, no matter how bare Every lock is picked. When Monday comes and rolls around The world has come to claim its due But all take their memories forever Of a world that's truer than the true.
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<entry>
<itemid>137093</itemid>
<eventtime>2011-09-09 12:26:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2011-09-09 16:27:01</logtime>
<subject>Balm of Miasma</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other Did you ever wonder What happened to The Knight of Mirrors? Dr. Carrasco, that man who killed Don Quixote What ever happened to him? Let us peer then Through the mists of time And see an older man A wiser man One not so fixated upon the correctness of his position. One who is several heartbeats closer to the end of his mortal coil. Let us look then upon the face Of a healer who has not the tools of modern medicine But arrogant enough to pick up the surgeon's trade. How many have died at his hand? How many he cared about? The name "Don Quixote" is whispered upon the wind And it always will be There is a form of immortality in that And Carrasco knows it. But as a man of science he must respect the truth For this is a dawning age The age of reason And yet... And yet... When the old man looks into the doctor's eyes From those of the priest Asking the doctor to tell him if Heaven is real The doctor hesitates And the Priest scowls and smooths his robes. He coughs expectantly. It is not as if he has not given the answer "yes" Many many times. For are these not the days of the Inquisition? Where the stake and flame away But a word of half suspected heresy? Only a fool would answer "no." But for just a moment the doctor fancies answering so. Crushing the hopes of an old dying man Just like he crushed Don Quixote so long ago. There is a rush in that. There is a rush in being the agent of truth that few can comprehend. The marshal of might of right and reason. But if he was being honest, the doctor would say, "I don't know." Which would satisfy no one. Not the priest Not the old man Not himself. And so Carrasco answers, "Yes" But for a new reason. Not for his life. But for the old man. And like a lightning bolt It flashes inside of his mind And Carrasco understands. He comprehends. He repents. Long after the old man has passed peacefully away And the petulant scowling father has since departed Carrasco digs up books Books thought burnt And begins to read The fevers they bestir in his brain Unleash a strange melancholy A strange wanting A yearning A shaping A calling A forging And a taking. And thence forth The Knight of Mirrors Rides Commended to carry forth The works of the passed Don Quixote Visiting the places And the people Quixote once knew Righting wrongs no one else can see Helping them fight their demons In ways that others cannot understand Madness brings a cure all its own For mirrors may not only reflect They may distort And shift of shape The knight in tarnished armor Rides forth The noble cause therein to restore. Spreading forth the works of madmen Henceforth and forever more. Coda: On the deathbed of a certain damsel In the madness that ensued She thought she saw a shadow Of that which had never been And never was And never would be But for just a moment The mirrors showed her Who it was She absolutely had to see.
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<entry>
<itemid>137306</itemid>
<eventtime>2011-09-20 12:12:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2011-09-20 16:12:07</logtime>
<subject>Notes on the Fridge</subject>
<event>
by Redwin Tursor Comes a point in any work Where the practical clogs the artistic. Three of seven are complete Three more are pretty much defined But the hinge is broken And I’m not sure how to undo it. Scribbled notes In darkened corners of my mind Sketches Charcoal drawings Picked up and discarded Sometimes picked up again And written on Minor coffee stains And rings around the blueprints. The due date Is lumbering upward Like a relentless Romerian Hoard Uncaring Determined Inertia at its worst It is a work by me From me And of me But I demand that it continue Thus at war with myself I resort to throwing words up on a wall Spaghetti style In hopes that I’ll somehow work it out. But in many ways “I” am the worst to make this decision Since the subject matter Is more a matter of moonlight That day. But the poet writes when he wants And sits in his little mental trailer Being fed grapes By the nubile females of sexual imagination While “I’m” left to work out the practical details. Evil is such an intangible thing. One man’s good Is another man’s bad. What’s the lesson? What’s the focus? Do I really advocate a side of myself That exists purely for destruction? And yet a proper poem is unrestrained It demands freedom to maintain its integrity. So it has to Even if it is ends in tragedy Either for the subjects of its wrath Or the subject itself Or all. But the greater context Has only partially materialized. No critical lessons Rather a thousand little ones All forming a miasma I suppose Perhaps This might be the thing itself that is meant to be. But a craven misanthrope Hardly seems in even company With his betters. Then again again Who’d want to invite a sociopathic spectre Over for Sunday Brunch? A side is what it is It must be addressed Though oft it can’t be defined But it can be mirrored I am a Gaping Void At peace with the world around me At last I know I shall always feel disconnect But I can be a symbiotic Rather than a Parasite Attempting Spiritual reflection What cannot be engaged In herdlike mentality. I am what I am And as far as I progress Some things will never change. Statis has certainly won that bout. The doors of the mind Are as shut now As the windows of light I once allowed myself the illusion Of being open. But I see what is. That is ‘my’ curse. The more time passes The more I see So I fear In the end “evil” must be a contrast to everything else inside Rather than out Since out Only lives at the ember. So mote it be. I’ll think of something. I always do. The question is Whether or not it will be any good That entirely depends On who says what good is.
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<entry>
<itemid>137618</itemid>
<eventtime>2011-09-21 22:29:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2011-09-22 02:29:38</logtime>
<subject>The Price of the Gift</subject>
<event>
By Emmit Other Everywhere you go Everything you do Becomes a part of who you are Just like you leave a small part Of you with everyone you touch Sometimes forgetting is a kindness Everyone has the gift of the Mind's Eye But to open it You see things that sometimes you shouldn't Or wish you couldn't. People think I'm a saint sometimes But I'm not always kind because I'm a good person. I'm just a person like most people. But I can see Just like anyone who cares to Look. Sometimes its wonderful Worlds that never were Never could be Fantastic places And everything is connected. Insight into the worlds of shadow Bring color and wonder to this world as well. But to see things as they are And as they could be You come to learn That everything is connected And that time is far more fluid Far thinner than we make it out to be. Some hurts are so giant So unimaginable That the loss Or the threat of loss Can reflect backwards through time. This is more than a matter Of knowing the certainty of your own death The inevitable entropy that takes us all It is the loss of those that we lose The loneliness Unimaginable Unfathomable And yet despite the claims It can be imagined And it is terrible For it is the loneliness of loss Magnified a thousand fold. You can see clearly Hindsight with foresight And see the grand perspective of all things. What truly matters What truly is important. And this awakens a thirst That truly is unfathomable To those that have not tasted this loss For friends For family For every precious moment For the things that matter. Love. Wonder. Beauty. The finer things in life. Even the lesser things in life. No one who has not been suffocated Can truly appreciate the value of air Sweet oxygen itself The breath of life. And once opened This eye can never truly be closed No matter how oft we try to shut it. It changes you forever. And sometimes it opens far too wide To the point of madness never ending. But there are, like so many things Compensations for this. You learn wisdom You learn the value of time You learn the value of friendship And between the whispers of the madness You can help others bear the pain.
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<entry>
<itemid>137793</itemid>
<eventtime>2011-09-25 01:51:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2011-09-25 05:54:03</logtime>
<subject>Glory to [Insert Name Here]</subject>
<event>
By Redwin Tursor There is a certain kind of honor In knowing when your beaten When you recognize That the sympathy wasted On your pathetic attempts at success Could be better spend On the more intelligent Or more mighty Or more handsome species In the galaxy That voice that told you you're a loser Since the moment of your birth Was pretty much right And tis shown in everything you do From the time you get up Until the time you go to sleep. You're pretty much just an embarrassment So do everyone a favor And just stop trying Accept your utter mediocrity And the contempt that she has When she looks at you Because you really are just that pathetic At best someone they like Not really want around Because really Who wants to be reminded about that? Glorious cities Prepared from the beginning of time To welcome the conquering armies Of races far better than you are Comfort A commercial statistic Providing resources to a greater cause than themselves Not good for much else But a negligible And utterly boring contribution To the galactic economy beyond Their pathetic sphere of influence Accept your fate And things will be much more comfortable There finally comes a point At which the hope you felt that you had Is throttled in its cradle Finally dying the death That it was meant to. Accept what you are And move on So your betters Can find more interesting things to do Than waste their time with you You pathetic loser. You utterly contemptible organic mass It really would have been better If you had never been born But since you couldn't get even that right Let's just accept your lot in life And hope you just stay out of the way And let other people live their lives.
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</livejournal>
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