Untitled

All that is left
is a blackened pot
drying on a rack
cutlery scattered
under it, kindling.

Cold to the touch
as if it were iron
or had burned under
cold fire:

If things were -- different --
the water drying
would be your tears,
something left behind.

Small little poem found in a file

I've been plotting out your thoughts, I have to say:
Following down your neuron pathways
Isn't quite the same when all I'm doing is waiting
For you to think my name
With another word than friend.

I'm making t-shirt slogans from your dreams
Soothing all your unquiet fears
Never wondering what I'm doig, from this task
Never pausing, only waiting
For other than the ending.

The machine keeps making noises, I keep making notes
Funding's cutting, i'm low on choices
I want to turn off the machine, turn it all off and ask ...
(I can't keep loving you by rote)
Can you just once not codescend?

small mercies of youtube

“barbie cthulhu” video results 0 0 of about 0

... Well, I found barbie death goth so I figured this had to exist as well.

Why

Why?

It is one of the first things we wonder. For some, the only thing we ever really say. But there is never an answer. We think there is, or should be, but all we have is this life, and then death. It's all we know we have, all we really get. Everything else is guesswork, desperation, faith.

We pray when the dead are dying, when we're in pain, when hope has fled us, when we have nothing else -- prayer is what is left when there are no other options., no other changes, no other hope left to us. That's the only time faith comes in. We only mean then when they're all we have left, when everything else has failed us and we can only hope for miracles or gifts, or rewards.

We offer anything, then. And those we care for still die. Nothing changes that. Not magic, not will, not power. In the end, our god fail us as much as everything else does. We end, and we die, and our story is over. no matter our goals, hopes, desires, dreams -- in the end it all comes to naught, nothing, finished.

We finally learn that our desires cannot change the ways things are. But this is not the worst thing, no, not at all. Even outliving those you love is not that. But part of it is in there. They die, and we go on. They die, and the world goes on. We who have lost so much, been so deeply shattered, waken to realize it means nothing. The world continues as it was. As if nothing happened.

So, to the why, there is nothing. We will die as well, and the world will continue. People wll get up, and go to work, and laugh and love and hate, and we will be only the past, and they will all look to the future. We will learn that the world doesn't break when we do, how insignificant we truly are.

And I wonder, walking, if old people wonder this, with eyes still clear and hands close to the triggers of bombs. If they think they would matter, if it ended with a bang and not a whimper. If they ask why, and all they get back is

"Why not?"

.. should not be forgot.

Dearest Andrew,

Beginnings are easy. We don't always see them, but they are there. New loves are the most common kinds, easily definable. New jobs, loss of jobs, loss of love: the more visible the ending, the more obvious that there is, or was, a beginning. No layers to peal back, you see; only a clear gaze pinned onto oneself.

I have been thinking about you a lot lately. About us, sometimes, but mostly you. R----- left me, today. His father left his mother; I should have seen it in that. I think I thought I could change him, the dream my mother gave to me. It may be the dream of all women, to shape men with their wiles. And like all dreams, there is nothing of truth to them. Love, beauty, hope: all our dreams fade away as we grow older and see clearer. I sometimes think that revenge is the only one we keep.

Hate keeps us warm when all the other fires have grown cold.

I know you will be wondering; so, yes. I have been drinking. We find what solace we can on dark nights. This isn't one, never fear. It is a night like all the others, no better and no worse. I thought of you when he left, because of how it happened. There were no angry words, no slammed doors, no curses. Only young love is still that volatile.

I found myself unsure of what we had when he left, beyond habit. It made me think of you, strangely. I am not sure why: Perhaps because you were my first, or because R---- reminded me of you, in some small way. I think what we had was not love, if it was only to try and recapture you. It was a hollow ending.

Even when I am in love, you know, I understand that it is not a real thing. Not a quantifiable thing. I understand it in the way we know solids are empty spaces. Did you know that the space between the heart of an atom and where electrons roughly are is greater, dear, than from Sol to Pluto? I can know this, but I cannot imagine it. And I have never been able to fool myself about love.

I wonder if what if why you left, the real reason. My failure of imagination. That I could not give enough. I doubt it was the only one, but I'd like to think you saw that deeply into me. With R---- it was something else, Andrew. I will not bore you with the melodrama of it. it It was, merely, that love was his gift, and I was to receive it. An offering, on his terms, and nothing more.

You kissed me when you left though. A kiss as strong as our first, a farewell. Few are as strong at the end of things as at the beginning. I think, if I was to remember you by only one thing, that would be it. Our real gifts are ones we do not we have. Things we give away that do not return to us.

Because memories are surer that dream,

- Deliah.

Thoughts on nano...

So, for this year I wanted to do something involving superheroes. Only not a parody/satire in the direct sense, since that has been done to death. The interesting problem is that the resulting novel will not be a superhero one, in a strict sense.

Time passes. People age,die, grow up. Change.

Superheroes do not change. It's one of the defining characteristics of the genre. Many Famous Detectives also follow the same mold (you could throw James Bond in it too). They don't age. Each story is complete, itself: it leaves no scars, no wounds that last, no baggage to drag a character down with. We grow by experience, but we learn via scar tissue.

So I am not quite sure what this nano will end up as, for all that it will hold the tropes of a superhero story.