The wicked, brilliant poet:
With his sublimity and bitter resentment
he strips every woman of her clothes.
He shoves every man onto the stage.
With his pictures and cutting tongue
he removes every dishonest front.
He unveils true man.

And true man lies before the poet,
ashamed and embarrassed for himself.
O! Lord, how disgraceful we are in our humanity
and how shamed we are to be in your image!
A thousand curses to this poet who in his vanity
wanted to expose us to the ugly habits shared by all!
A thousand curses, and a thousand thanks!

Christmas Relations

"Uncle John, were you ever in love?" asked Marlee sweetly.

"Yes," replied John, "I fell in love many years ago - just about 20 years from this very Christmas."

"Was she pretty?"

"More than words could describe! She had the warmest, most welcoming eyes. They were the same color as your sweet Mr. Oscar-bear that you sleep with every night. And they were just like him, too! Every night those eyes kept away the monsters in my closet."

"Don't be silly!" giggled Marlee. "Monsters don't live in grown-up closets. They only like eating poor little kids like me. We can't fight back like adults can."

"Monsters live under every person's closet, dear Marlee. They never go away. We only get better at locking the door when they want to come out. And the monsters under my bed were real scary to me. Terrifying. Sometimes the only way I would be able to sleep at night would be by thinking only about those warm eyes. I have no idea what I would have done without them. You see, my grown-up key to my closet was still being made. It wasn't ready yet."

Marlee didn't quite understand this talk of keys, and consequently lost interest. She rocked back and forth on the carpet before John. All the time she held Mr. Oscar-bear high and paid him the highest respects. John had, apparantly, given the girl a more aware appreciation for the teddy bear. He smiled at this, glad to have done as much. For some time he sat in his brother's living room, keeping the child company while the rest of the family mingled. She had, for some reason, taken a liking to John ever since her new baby brother.

He started slightly when she spoke up. He had been lost in his thoughts, and temporarily forgot that he was actually here, and not some observer.

"What about her hair? Was it yellow like a princess?"

John gave a soft chuckle. "Someday you'll realize how fickle women are with their hair. Her hair was every color you could imagine, sweetie - of course not at the same time. But she was only happy with her hair for a short time, and then moved on."

"Were you happy with her hair, Uncle John?"

"I was more than happy. Everything she did to her hair was wonderful. Well, maybe that's not exactly true. I think the reason I always liked her hair was because I simply liked her hair, regardless of color. It was so beautiful."

"Why?" Marlee looked up confused and asked without acquiescence.

"I don't really know. I loved to touch it and play with it. I loved doing that as much as you love your pony's hair. And just like your pony, I brushed her hair every opportunity I had. It was something I enjoyed a lot."

"Uncle John, that sounds funny!" She thought a moment, eyebrows furrowed in the concentration known only to children. And again, another question. "Why did you love her?"

"Why? Well, I have no reason not to love her. I think we have a potential to love anyone. It's only when we find a reason not to love that we do not love. And with her, I have no reason not to love her. I simply do not."

Again the conversation fell into silence. The wisdom was not entirely lost on the young girl, but she did not know how to respond to it. It was not a topic on which she was particularly fluent. Familiar, perhaps, but not fluent. "Why isn't she my aunt now?" Marlee innocently asked.

Now, it was John's turn for silence. He, too, did not know how to respond. Shrugging his shoulders, he said simply, "some things just aren't meant to be."

She scrunched her face at this. And with the perfect bluntness only a child possesses, "I don't believe that."

"I don't believe that either, Marlee."

Life is a series of events used to distract us from the realizing that everything is finite. If we were to simply accept the finite, existence would be sublime.

http://www.modernpooch.com/archives/FarSideDogCartoon.jpg

I am torn between the physical ramifications of my honesty and the emotional consequences of my dishonesty.

11:11! Make a wish!

Self-referential statements lead one to contradiction. Identity is vague. We increasingly demonstrate the similarity of ourselves, the imperfect union of our unconsciousness. We cannot establish when one becomes a person; we cannot establish when one becomes a nonperson.

How can we solve these dilemmas? How can we retain our logic and consistency in light of these facts? We must deny the individual and our sense of identity. We must accept that we are all One, and to attempt to create discrete boundaries is absurd. We must be One.

How can a man express himself when he lacks the courage of conviction?

Why would you want to be a bird?

Why would you want to be a bird?

I want to fly. I want to sing. I want to sing about the world; I want to express its beauty. I want to tell everyone how beautiful this dark world is. I want to love. I want to care. I want others to be loved and to be cared. I want to love unconditionally. I want to be Jesus. I want to kiss the Grand Inquisitor.

Love is not conditional. Love is universal. Love is permanent. Love cannot be taken away. Love is not a privilege. Love is a gift. Love is a gift for the one who loves. Love is beyond Good and Evil. Love has no morals. Love is weak. Love is powerful. Love is without question.

What can not follow from Love?

I want to be a bird.

Dionysian desires - drunken revelry!
Let me into the party; let me into the party.
Irrelevant are the tangled masses, the furnace of perspiration.
I need flesh! I need excitement!
So says he of the brotherhood,
So says she of the first years.

And when they return to her room,
and initiate the insincere embrace,
they weep.
They pined for their loves, mourned the loss of dignity.
What is this existence?
What is this filth?

Free Meadows, Continued

...

I knew this clearing was not safe anymore. I gritted my teeth against the stiffness and lurched to my feet. Looking around I saw nothing but darkness. But I heard a chirp nearby. It sounded like that of a goldfinch. Using my ear I made my way towards the bird. It didn't move when I approached. I offered my finger, which had swollen from the splinter, to the bird. I felt it perch itself on the finger in the darkness and I stood there a moment, enjoying its company. It was a lovely bird and would not leave.

...

Before I knew it was dawn. The bird had kept me company during the night - I must have fallen asleep in its company. The sun pierced through the canopy of the trees overhead and I grimaced in pain. It felt like a long time since I had last seen the sun, and the light agitated my senses. I had grown accustomed to the darkness.

The goldfinch encouraged me, though. From its perch on a nearby log it stared at me and chirped. I returned the look for a moment and looked away. After a short time its chirping roused me and I forced myself up. My pain in my finger had faded and left my mind. Instead I gazed at the golf finch in admiration.

Why did this bird remain through the night? It must have a nest to fly to or some food to scavenge. It's a mystery, I thought, why the bird is still here. I have nothing to offer it besides appreciation. Perhaps it thought I would protect it from predators. Whatever the bird wanted, I was happy to fulfill. It had kept me company through the night.

With the bird perched again on my wounded finger we left the clearing and entered the thick foliage. The branches grabbed at me and roots tripped me, but I always recovered. Chirping softly after I almost fell, the goldfinch remained with me through all this bumble. I appreciated its persistence. Still I wondered why it remained. The thought could not let me focus on the path ahead.

Because of the distraction I almost fell into the brook in front of me. That was enough for the bird as it took off into the trees. I was dazed at the sudden appearance of the water and the sudden departure of the bird. Neither made sense to me. I had no reason to delay, though. One almost never sees the same bird twice unless he owns a bird-feeder. I knelt at the brook and cupped my hand into the cold water. Reluctantly I sipped from it, and tried to enjoy the brackish taste. It was all I had.

First Snow

It snowed today. It came fitfully and in a rage; it did not even want to come. It hid behind the rain for most of the day, and sulked in the clouds. But then it realized the inevitability of its fate. "Why," it thought, "should I stay up here? I am only going to fall anyways. At least on the ground I can rest." And so the snow spittled from the sky onto the ground, wind howling. There it melted and died.

The people begin to bundle up against the cold, against the snow. And they persevered over the conquered snow. Melted at their feet, the snow was dead. Soon, though, more would come. And the collective might of the powder would take its toll. The people will freeze in the cold.

And so the snow, defeated at first, conquers.
And the people, initially victorious, submit.

But what of the dead snow of the First Snow?
What of the fallen comrades of ice?

They are forgotten. They did not conquer.
- well then!