The Secret to Life

Of all the things we seek in our lives-- success, love, acceptance, car keys-- one particular item ranks the highest on our most wanted list. No, want is not even close to being the right word... I'm grossly underselling the value of the object in question. This particular aspect of our existence is so unequivocally vital that no phrasing in any method of human expression could ever adequately capture the-

Oh, enough hype already! This blog entry is about one's purpose. It's about your, mine and everyone's role in the grand scheme of things. I speak of course of the ever-sought after cosmic answer: the secret to life.

I'm aware of how bold of a claim this is. I'm sure you're thinking to yourself--and quite logically, might I add-- how could one lowly blogger with little acclaim and no name for himself possibly think he's got the answers? I'm on even terms with you, I'd say... for what difference is there in a man but surroundings he keeps? I bid you only the benefit of my words, so listen and allow my words to serve as their own resume. You see, life's secret is not well kept-- anyone and everyone can figure it out and understand it.

The most common answer a man will give when questioned about life's meaning is that it is dependent on success or happiness (often the two are regarded as synonymous),  but I'd say both are only partially true-- far too broad to be accurate answers. What qualifies as happiness and success can mean any manner of things due to the wildly divergent perceptions of the human population. So then, what's my take? What do I find to be the meaning of life? One word: experience.    

"Music Boxes in the Attic"

Childhood memories are held in a mind's music box. 
Open for a fond smile and let the tears talk. 
Whispering laughter in our old voice. 
Chimes of a time when ice cream flavors were our hardest choice.

CISPA BLACKOUT

Supporting the blackout by posting this, and delaying the article I slotted for today.
Don't know what CISPA is? Find out here.

Write to your congressman/ senator today. Demand freedom. Blackout in protest this coming Monday!

Note: I will be writing an article about Anonymous, Wikileaks, SOPA, CISPA this Monday in support, as a mere blackout of my site would do little for the cause. Look forward to it!

Announcing My New Fantasy Series

credit to: ~dman, deviantART

Foreword

Scribes and songsters alike immortalize many a hero as they traverse through time— terraforming the past with their footprints. Daring knights pulling out sabers drenched in draconian blood… Mages toppling barbaric dynasties and repelling raiders with sheer force of mind… Peerless Elven marksmen summoning a hawk’s eyes to snipe out evil via treetop… The cunning stratagems of Shaadric thieves turned princes…  Resourceful Dwarven warriors crafting fate upon a hot myrthralean anvil … All such figures are commonplace epics in the annals of time, told through their various channels. Alas, the handsome champions of yore are propped up by the jewels reaped from their spoils, overshadowing the true saviors— too humble or foolish for fame.

   

Aye, this tale I shall tell is one you can now only hear in passing at a pub— uttered drunkenly by a godforsaken creature with the longevity to have the memory but without the airs to deny its existence. This is an unsung hero, ignored even in the wake of his greatest of triumphs.  Not forgotten but blacklisted from glory. Though fully deserving of the praise, fate played out in the hero’s favor anyway as anonymity was his only desire in life. Ugliness hath spared the soul in question from the limelight, and though he left this harsh realm without a tombstone and barren treasury his blood still courses through the veins of his closest companion… and his impact on the world remains. When the master scribe’s scrolls unravel, this tale shall be omitted… but I am writing it nonetheless. There shall be nothing to substantiate my claims. for a request for this story even mutes the boldest bards.

The hero’s life, though tragic, drips with so many important defining moments that I am forced to tell it in its entirety, beginning at its very start so as not to rob you of the full effect. Rest assured that I am a man of numbers and logic, devoid of the fancy regularly associated with practitioners of my craft. There shall be no falsehood, bias or embellishment— just the absolute truth, magically transcribed from time itself. I have no motive, no lesson to teach. I make no request of you beyond your ear for a day or two.  You shall be better for listening anyway, at the very least for amusement’s sake. For it is a tale without equal, filled to the brim with heart, intrigue… and bloodshed.  

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"Bowling with a Crystal Ball"

Come in come in
Show me your palm
With your feet tired
Your mind calm

I'll tell you a tale
Summoned by spirit
Come from the future
For you to hear it

Love will be found
Wealth will be lost
You'll pay me later
At very little cost

Hold hands together
Hum OM with God
Strike down Satan
Spare the rod

The chime of box
A musical memory
She missed Auntie Ann
Not Uncle Henry

Two red shoes click
Osmosis dreams meld
The wick dampens
Fake wishes held

Smoke and mirrors play
A game left to snakes
Information withdrawal
Prone to shakes

What lies ahead lies
The truth, stuck to a shoe
The bottom of your soul
Walking towards what's true.

Bear With Me Please?

Hey guys!

Today I'd like to post to just apologize for my lack of posting as of late. I've been so busy with my book and such that I've had very little time to post regularly. Originally, I was going to be posting poems on a daily basis to fill the gap, but since the quality of my work fell by doing so (see previous entry) I'd like you to just bare with me for a bit as I get done what needs to be done.

I'm actually considering taking this blog to the next level and begin to promote and network outside of Google+ so I can expand my reader base and make blogging a legitimate source of revenue. That way, I'll have more time to focus on my writing, and delivering you enjoyable blog posts as well as finish the final draft on my to-be-published novel The Bard.

Unfortunately, this means I will be adding advertisements to the website. For the time being they may be a bit intrusive because, quite frankly, I have no clue as to what I'm doing on that front. I assure you, I'm doing my best though! I want to provide advertisements that would be literature and technology related. Hey, if they have to be here... they might as well be useful, right?

Please comment here to describe your experience with the ads on, and if it's negative I'll do my best to fix them despite my limited knowledge on the subject. If it gets too annoying, I'll just go back to being advertisement free, because honestly the only reason I'm adding them is to generate funding to support my writing.

 Thanks again for your continued support and understanding. I promise that by the time May rolls around, I'll be posting at a semi-daily rate again with high quality posts of various sorts!

Your blogger,

B

EDIT: Decided to not sell out! Staying ad free. Enjoy, friends.

Let the Force [Not] Be With You

This entry is both a change of pace and a return to form. I recently committed to a month-long poetry spree, tasking myself with the daily creation of a poem. It is with a heavy heart and an enlightened mind that I must now break that promise. It is not for lack of energy, effort or ability; rather, I learned something profound during my venture into the realm of spoken word. Something vital. A sagacity that has truly altered my general perspective for the better. In my hand, I grasp the key to writing and its various incarnations: natural flow. More specifically, the lesson I learned is that you cannot force a creative reaction. Ideas must be born naturally, and out of a genuine desire and passion to do so.

The epiphany came through the course of my poetry spree, as I found that the further along I pushed into the endeavor, the more diminished the quality of my work became. When I'd first started, I was firing on all cylinders-- I had a rhythmic frame of mind. The first few poems I wrote exploded on paper, filling me with pride with each read back. The poems conveyed messages, brimming with true power and emotion-- their symbols effective. Alas, by the time the second week's batch arrived, the dough had soured. What happened? How could this be? Doesn't practice make perfect? Honing one's craft is indeed a boon, yet forcing oneself to churn out shoddy creations like some kind of a soulless factory is a bane. Nobody wants to see acting that feels forced, nor does anyone want to read forced writing.

Force and art good bedfellows do not make, and I'd go so far as to say it force can ruin every action one can take in life. Brute force is one of the most garish and unappealing means to an end I can fathom. It's Plan Z, the last of all resorts. An arranged wedding never fairs well, and forced love fairs equally foully. Life doesn't exist within the screen of a calculator. You can't tap a few buttons and expect a clean, clear result.  A conclusion must be arrived to naturally and in the most practical and beneficial way possible, regardless of the time and effort one must spend to get there. When coaxing a skittish cat to eat food out of your hand, you don't chase it down rapidly and violently shove food down its throat as it desperately claws for freedom. No, you hunker down submissively, whisper gently, let it come to you and eat the food cutely off palm.

Trying to write through writer's block--something I see as just not being in the mood--is equally futile. If you force a girl to have sex with you when she doesn't want it, that's a legitimate rape. Why would you rape your mind? Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to do. Let your creative juices flow when they ready to do so. If you try drinking your creative spring before the spring of inspiration bubbles forth from your brain, all you'll be doing is churning out futility. You'll suck, like that annoying sucking noise made by children when they refuse to come to terms with the end of their milkshake.

So don't force anything. It's good to give yourself the kick in the pants you need to get up and go every once in a while, but let art make itself. Be a participant and a team player in your creative process-- not a desperate agitator and bully. Instead of blowing a whistle and demanding results, command a smile and create and guide a success like a thoughtful and caring therapist-- willing to offer as many sessions as needed until what needs to be done gets done.

Remember, you cannot force love... and love is the most important ingredient in anything worth doing. Especially writing.


- B

That Dirty Word (A Killer's Monologue)

"I used to be a man. A man with a mind geared for the petty and mundane… just like you.  I cared about things, some of which had eyeballs and hearts. Things like jobs, kittens, babies and clothes. Things I know now are all equally irrelevant. All cosmically insignificant and oh so squishable. What am I now, you ask? What can I be, if not a man? What creature looks and lives like a man, but is not a man at all? The hell if I know, still making sense of that myself. Other people call me names— people like the police or my relatives, but who are they to me? What gives them the right? Demon, madman, psychopath… all those labels make me sick, but of all the insults I’ve been called… I’d say being called human stings the absolute worst.

Humankind. What a miserable bunch. At the very least, I’m an honest being— open with my odium. Hypocritical cowards, every last one of them. They’re revolting. They lie to everyone they meet about everything, trying to hype their accomplishments or downplay their failures. They want praise, pity or any form of goddamn attention in between. I just got promoted! My wife died! I have cancer! Why the HELL should I care!? Do you shed a tear when you step on an ant? Cheer when you see a bee pollenate a flower? A human being is nothing but meat with self-awareness, riding high on their horse of moral resolution. The containment of thoughts within the brain is the only thing stopping humanity from killing each other. In that sense, I guess you could say it was my outward thinking and openness that caused me to do what I did. Honesty is my only sin. I’m far too genuine to be a human.  I don’t fit in their fake system… their crappy circles… their grubby little ‘families.’

Nauseating. Utterly nauseating. FAMILY. The very word induces vomit. The concept of family is nothing more than a pathetic excuse to exclude others from receiving your kindness. Another selfish ploy to horde love and supplies— a shameless extension of man’s obsession with immortality. You live for your family? You mean your only purpose in life is to ensure the perpetuation your meaningless genetic code. How fucking noble. Of course I hate family because it’s basically just a fatter selection of humanity, a crappy clump of man meat innately huddling for an inane desire for ‘evolution.’ Of course they arrogantly assume the continuation of mankind is considered beneficial. For whom? Not animals. Not the planet. NOT ME.

Society is the longest running joke there is. Every day is progress? Yeah, progressively worse. What does society create? What does it accomplish? More human beings and less human beings, yet sadly fate favors the former. The only reason mankind isn’t already extinct is because fucking is more socially acceptable than killing. Both are forms of pleasure. Don’t think so, eh? Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.

C’mon, now… Haven’t you ever hated someone? Not annoyed… irked… bothered… hated. ABSOLUTELY DESPISED. This person—a lightly used term—has face on which the slightest smirk can set your soul on fire. Boil your blood! RUE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE. You can think of someone… I’m sure you can. That asshole boss or backstabbing co-worker? Fake friend or a real enemy? Maybe Mom, sis, bro… or is it dear old dad? A cheating spouse perhaps? The politician ruining a country? A group you hate? That sick animal abuser you saw on the news. Rapist...? A terrorist group…? The whole country from which they hail? A serial-killer? Everyone who has ever murdered?

You see it don’t you… the color grey. It paints over that bullshit code of morality and ethics that you and the rest of your kind clutch so dearly to. You can call a grizzly bear invisible, but it will still bite your head off. You can call a lie the truth… but it will still live inside you and tear away at your mushy little human parts. When given the acceptance of society, mankind will willingly commit to committing genocide. You think you’re so different than Nazi Germany? The Pope commanded the Crusades, an absolute bloodbath. Why is a Muslim’s death more acceptable than a Jew’s? America, land of the free. Home of the brave. Site of the massive slaughter of an entire culture. God bless our troops— government sanctioned serial-killers.

              

There’s that word again… serial-killer. That magic word that makes everyone simultaneously defecate themselves and turn their noses in a conditioned response of disgust. I suppose you’ll tune me out now. Go ahead… go on your way and go about your day, thinking you’re morally superior. I don’t care what you think, and nor does history or the greater cosmos. I’m the happiest man alive— doing what I love."

"Dinner Reservations"

Tonight we dine in hell
Tomorrow we lunch in heaven
Last week we brunched on Earth
But when will we eat the truth?
I've been dying for a restaurant with real atmosphere.

"A Match Lit in Hell"

Single Female; Twenty-Five

Seeking truth and man with a roof

With proof of residence  

Life's a race and people are hurdles

Crime's a passion and I'm a stunner

She's a runner so give chase

Doing donuts like a retired dirty cop

Learning life lessons the world forgot

Wash out with soap sessions 

Poetry and songs have similarities

Like family familiarity, so broken

As spoken by the noose

We seek the crop circles of meaning

Double teaming the secrets down

Wearing a crown of thorns

Thank Jesus for all the good because

You should and Bible type dealios

Eating cheerios, mocking TV

Married Male; Thirty-Seven

9/11 and Looking for redemption

Her intentions are my accident

Free flowing like bricks of clay

Moral decaying the wild woods

White hoods burning crosses

Things don't make sense until the end

We pretend, fake understanding

Life isn't a game--

It's non-withstanding