Finish

Please don't scrape the table. The paint has yet to dry in many spots, and in most cannot stand a butter knife. If you must, please use a coaster for your beverages. That is the proper way to not hold a beverage while enjoying it. Beverage scenery. Scene with me this cocoa, it appears very warm on my table above my coaster.

Outside the frosty blooms attack our windows vigilantly. There is no time for them to resolve any personal family issues or speak allegorically, they simply must go, go, go. In the morning they can rest like dreams in the incorporeal sunlight. They never remember the next night their simple little games. Come summer they won't remember at all. A sad existence where one must simply cling, watch the subject. The frost makes an excellent special agent.

First, if you look and do not watch I must tell you to take again another look. This is not the time to consider, George, the morning we have not yet lived. Watch it, watch it closely. The day has yet to begin and you already think of tomorrow. Attack them with a sincere please, shake their hands with a fervent jest, then flee before they get a chance to question your sincere nature. People can justify anything.

We don't want anyone scratching your paint, your finish. Let them watch in awe.

Glittering Silo

I have no intention of just sitting here. I've been here a while, sure, but I get the impression you think I've been doing nothing. I will have you know I've been entirely taken using every function I can with this body, just not my kinetics. I simply have no use for them. Sure, breathing was a little difficult to let go of at first, but I got used to it. You simply have to start living asphexiation.

You should feel lucky. We are few. Comamites we jest, but nothing indicates we are really in a coma. we simply do not like to move. Or inhale. We inhale illustration. We exhale art. We drink crearivity.

Fires in my footsteps

An average day of work for the man was filled with several key components. Dividing the deep, returning the lost, and looking amiable while doing it. Easy as a thought, a whisper, a walk, a hand in the ill touched places. Of course, easy jobs make easy pains, and those are perhaps the very worst kinds. The kinds that everyone suspects and no one talks about. the day can continue with an easy pain, continue into the unmentionable night, until the moment finally severs and a man will be incapacitated. It is difficult to think of tomorrow when the simplicities of today are what weigh us down. They just seem so normal.

And that is perhaps the stigma of an easy job. For those who think dividing the deep and returning the lost seem like complexities, not even mentioning the lofty goal of amiability, we can change your mind with a few different verbs and nouns. Anyone could and anyone does. It is all how you spin the tale, and right now we are spinning it backwards. Where the ones with the small jobs, the easy ones, all think they are small people. Easy men. Easy women. The ones with complexities are given a wide birth. That they both bear burdens is quite true, but when the world is running amok with irregularity and the honored get to work in their honored way, we forget the juxtaposition it is to our easy men, our simple labor fellows, ordinary day.

Left isn't the only direction

Left isn't the only way I can spin. I can spin right as well. I'm unidirectional. Just sometimes, I think it far too much trouble. Hard to change directions without a clear reason and life seems so easy to maintain in stubborn constant. Then, one day, you wake up to realize that spinning left and spinning right aren't even a major focus of life, merely transportational skills you will need to learn how to wood work or walk or climb, and that even those things are just simple elements that let you sit in cozy places and read, and even that is only so that you can get knowledge so that you can do even more. Where does it end? Well, never. But, a better questions is where does it begin. Simple. With a quest for true love. I'm not entirely referring to the mushy lovey dovey accepting kind understanding overcoming love between man and woman, though that plays a key part of it, I speak of the love for all people, all knowledge, all emotion, all goodness. I am talking about charity. I am talking about the same feeling you get when you are eating warm tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches at a table seating only the most wonderfully eccentric and good people in pleasant jubilation. No. It isn't only seasonal. This is for all year. So is love. Not just the grilled cheese.

I will use this holiday season to tell you all I love you. Every. Single. One. And, may you enjoy the time you spend in a world like this. Where there are turkeys, pizzas, and spinning and mind-bogglingly fast speeds.

Rich content

If works of art were sentient the truth is certain. Writers and painters and sculpters everywhere would be making much less money. In fact, through raising fees and time spent we would be quite in the hole. Starry Night would be some tubbish spoiled thing that demands ice cream, The Lord of the Rings would be trying to pass itself off as over eighteen and eligible to LARP, and the David would be the pimp daddy of Rome. Of course, we aren't that far from the truth. Who would waste time with such a fruitless field as artistry. Aesthetics aside, the meaningful is vastly underrated, underpaid, and misunderstood. Let me rephrase that. We are losing money because of our art. Works that are born and matured and rarely ever make a return. Why, this sounds like simple foolishness. Who wants to raise anything that never seems to make a return and may consume our entire lives? Oh, wait.

All things considered I conclude I am in no position to judge the moral value of raising something that doesn't entirely make a financial return; sitting in my parent's house eating their pasta salad and transfixed to their streaming-conference television. But, if not for a return than why? Why create and raise something stiflingly meaningful with a life of its own and less regard than it should, in most cases, have for it's crafter?  This is one of those pseudo impossible questions that only horribly vague responses can answer. It means something, it creates something, Its return is intoxicatingly satisfying. And, when that life of its own webs and connects in most positive ways with the world around it we snap our fingers. We've done it, or someone did. We've helped it, this hidden thing, rise from obscurity into sudden, triumphal, grandeur.

The undoing

Examining the wall is a solid pretense. It resists even my glare in unyielding. I press my fingers against the cold cement and force them until I shake. It fights back like a bowl of jello, quivers, and then pops. Sinking in momentously, careful not to slow and die like carrots in some strange abstract luncheon dish, the world of absolutes passes behind me. I leave it behind. I can pass through walls. I can warp through substance. Life has no more hold on me. What I cannot do has no bearing, nothing but immaterial filters in my vision. I can accomplish anything, be anyone, go anywhere. Nothing can stop me.

By half past noon, however, I found my temprament stooping with my fatigue. In a few hours my first hunger pains began. For a fleeting moment I found food, and for a fleeting moment I was no better than a mouse--uninvited dinner guest. In the morning I discovered a desert is still a desert and my incorporeal is as real for my chums as it is for me. And then I knew it had to stop. That when you isolate yourself from reality you forget that it isn't your inabilities that will stand in your way. It isn't your lack of skill. It is your lack of existence.

Different shades of green

The park across the street features tall, healthy, trees. Their green leaves sway in today's sporadic weather. Up and down, back and forth. Wave hello friends! Wave hello. An arbor zoo. I see pine, maybe maple, and... that other one.  What a few. they close a good near half of my sky view from my seat near the window. They fill it with meshes and clashes of greens. Darker, lighter, but all green. Team green. They were out for the win ten decades ago, but you know nothing lasts forever. Now we contain them in blocks like rare specimen. They are (mostly) harmless, playful. They even let you climb on them. Kids gawk at their sticky hands and pull away in disgust relying on manufactured soaps to scour them pure. Just like that time the gum got stuck in hair. The tree shows no emotion from the messy contact. Tree's don't feel. But, somehow, sappy tears pour and somewhere, outside of the confines of this strange populace, a rain forest loses its head. Coincidence? If a tree falls in the forest can anyone


No we can't. Can they? Not according to the waiver we made them sign in triplicate. One copy for them, one copy for us, and another just for good measure. I mean, we aren't running out of paper.  A shout out for the trees, our stoic heroes. Arms wide open, ready for a hug. I use my paper in silent salute to you.

A change of scene

Well well, we meet again dear blog. This is my first test post via tablet. It is like typing on glass. It is somewhat satisfying despite the initial difficulties. A flat surface that can tell the difference between your finger tips and make sense of touch. If it can do it maybe we can to.

In a world of intensely intelligent beings it seems the only thing stopping us from communicating properly is ourselves. Surely with the proper education we could all communicate in any number of ways, be it touch, movement, sound, or patterns.  Why not? Why is one of the worlds scariest trials public speaking? Why do marriages fail because of a lack of communication? The inability to understand? it seems the only conclusion I can draw is that people need to learn to communicate, and people need to want to learn to communicate. Perhaps Babylon jumble wasn't just smitten, it was irreconcilable by those too wicked to even make an attempt.

Gizmos, Gadgets, Time

With the universe seemingly enlarging one would think we could have more time in a day, or at least label our time better. 12 hours for chatting, 15 for sleep, and 5 for figuring out your new phones. But, as I see it, something has to go, for we are all aspiring to the stars with our time. And, while we can control the contents of our day, we can't change the container itself. I suppose if we flew towards the sun at the speed with which it moved the technical day would never end, but that presents other problems. We have to sleep sometime, and always travelling in one direction with no end is the same as standing still with no end. Both limit you ridiculously when it comes to options and potential.
       Look at your day, now look at mine. Look back at yours. Now look back at mine. Aren't you happy you have your day? I'm happy to have mine. No two would be alike. All of them are 24 hours, though, and don't you doubt it. How many of these things will we get? Enough to throw them at being bored, that is for sure, or spending time doing something we hate for its uselessness, like reading the ingredients in a twinky. There is no justifying the end product on that one.
       I commit right now to spend my days better. The day isn't getting anymore hours, but those hours are about to get fatter, and if they spill over into tomorrow hopefully I can ride them like a wave into the sunset and my endless day will be now.

Riposte

The young boy looked up at the weathered man, bent like a lamp-post. "Do you ever think it will rain again?"
       "Aye." He muttered, but only after a few moments mournful hesitation. The lone lamplight of a single lantern sent ripples of shadow in the tilled, sun-baked, soil. In the distance other, happier, twinkles of light could be seen on other, more distant, farms. The stars shone overhead in a far-away place that looked like a more crowded extrapolation of themselves. At least, that is what the boy thought. Maybe way up there those farmers of the vast nothing were plentiful in their zilch. Those gaps of black were their own patches of unseen soil. Was the crop rich or non-existent?
       Like all who sought to grow on Turasian, the man and the boy came out in the last rays of a cruel red-giant. It asked no questions and spared no one it's unforgiving presence. These plucky few who stayed on the dying second-rock in a dying milky-way system knew little else but to farm. But, to farm in the night (when all of the plants are sleeping) is a silly thing, and to farm on a world that will see no growth without quickly ashing it is doubly so.
       They could leave. They could (heaven forbid) travel to the nearest station, a two day journey on foot, and get into plushy seats on a departing 842 EVAC, leaving this system for a better life like the hundreds that could be seen all evening; heard all day. They wouldn't, though. Grandpa was a stoic man the young boy knew. He gazed across the barren soil.
      The first rain would fall near the start of the season, in a few days one would hope. The farm wasn't much to look at until then. Rows of undisturbed dirt, mostly ash, that was so solid it could support a child's weight. The young boy only tested this behind Grandpas back, figuratively. Stoic men yell at curious children when they have curious fun on their stoic trials.
       The second rain, more prevalent and dangerous than the first, came near the end of harvest. The rush to garner the desert fruits before it spoiled, melted, scalded them was the most frightening time of the year. Most farmers--those that remained--had lost some of the fruit. Those that hadn't had usually lost more. A life, a limb, or perhaps just their facial hair (depending on your race). The young boy looked up once more at the weathered relative. He had been lucky, Grandpa. He had only lost his sight. One glance at the dying sun would grant you that. That was why home had no windows. That was why the only light the boy knew came from the small lamp his Grandpa now held and the lights of all those who lived off of the foolishly impossible, and dragged their relatives into it. Those on the distant farms, and those on the farms in the sky.
      The boy raised a silent arm above him in the utter stillness of the night and shook it in a wave. May your crops be ever rich, he wished, and your company ever bright.

Superb in all its fashion

It was a wonder in every way. At every angle it seemed to say that everything was fine. It would all pass in the end. It moved with succinct grace and gargantuan; tip-toeing through the blue beyond with mass and incredulity, and they all danced. Danced in grand gestures of symbolism. The dance was the heart, the soul, of it all.
Though its life was only days, though it could only remain aloft for so long before it hit something more substantial than its vain innocence--vain ignorance. Yes, though reality finally claimed the superfluous thing, one would say it was quite superb in all its fashion. Indeed, perhaps that was the cry that its heart and soul screamed when it rushed to life-boats and spilled into the freezing ocean; like blood. Blood from the sinking ship.

No title

Conceptually the idea of a title is appeasing. Wherewith may we call you? Yet, for all the summary it may provide I must inquire as to the effective nature of it as a judge.

With people I may say my name is Cory, but the definition of me is still long coming beyond the exposition. We call exchanging names "introduction," and justly so. Unlike  so many book browsers today, we never judge a person by their title.

We often begin judgements with whatever sensual means we are given. You may take how I look and apply it to my name. Follow that with my voice and you are beginning to create a persona for me. I often wonder if these personas are something we learn to create, or something we must learn not to. Imagination plays with a younger mind, as does the simplicity of labeling. In high school it is easy for many children to associate others and themselves into specific categories that tell them who they are. What role  they play. What to wear, say, do, be, and all around live. All of this works fine until you begin to ask yourself questions or show signs of curiosity into true interests. Then one realizes the simply painted facade doesn't hold up to scrutiny. Worlds shatter with the realization that everyone (EVERYONE) is different. So we begin looking a bit deeper for a character of those charming, dreadful, and seemingly normal.

How do they think? What do they like? What do they hate? How do they feel, act, be? What mood do they bring with them? Are they intelligent? Beyond the common assumptions lie countless characteristics and idiosyncrasies that just wait to be discovered. And, like a key you may click well and fit flawlessly or you may not even make it the teensiest into the lock of a relationship, but you can still admire the keyhole, the person. You can still see them all around you.

And, unlike so many things that become what they are named, you and I define our name through what we are. 

Past the point of no return

Outside of broad-way I have often wanted to use this saying in *return* situations.

Those movies are past the point of no return, as are those books. Library, Netflix, you will never get them back.

My Utah State tax return is past the point of no return: IE: I'm not sure If I'm going to get back all 11 dollars of sweet return. The point of return has been past. No turning back now.

I think most things in time are past the point of no return. But, what is past that point? A point of return? Does this mean I exceeded the limits of some design and I am free to do anything I want? Well, I'm going back to the point of return, thank you. I have defeated you, expectations!

Stand aside, destiny. You are a point in time that I will eternally dodge. Creation has another manner of conversing, one that involves choices. May eyes see consequences forever more.

Mortality rates

What rate would you put on mortality? Or you, or you? Banana's live for a few days and fruit flies for a few hours, but despite how fast life goes they find ways to continue on. Maybe that banana's great great grandson will be eaten by president Obama! There's no stopping ambitious fruit.
         Fruit flies, on the other hand, are like some sort of outer-world alien. One banana could breed hundreds, and they would all die in a day... unless they were eaten by the president. Then we just hope they have lots of protein content.
         Our car recently started wobbling in the steering wheel. It has had a long and fulfilling mortality, but unlike many other productive specimens (some of which I have mentioned) it refuses to continue the family line and leaves the entirety of its mortal longevity up to us. Jerk.
        Though, perhaps I am being to hard on it. After all, people can continue the family line, but they must retain their individual characteristics. Perhaps cars have some level of idiosyncrasies that cannot be replicated. I know our vehicle has a lot of character.
         The entire subject matter of this is very rudimentary, of course. All things were created spiritually first and return to that state on death, but what happens after? Personal resurrection is grand, but are there going to be numberless concourses of fruit flies singing praises to the almighty? I don't want to be the first one unable to enter the Celestial kingdom because of a fly-swatter. But, I have faith. I'm sure the time will come for understanding, and I'm sure all will be fine in the end. After all, this is the gospel of peace, love, and joy; not of decaying fruit and undead insects. 

More meaning

Letters have a distinct way of meaning more than they quantify. Five only has four letters. Twelve only has six. (And the same in retrospect). These words are quantifiers that don't quantify. They mean what they aren't. They mean more than they make. They translate language into introspective understanding of enumeration. But, try different words. Silent. Vocal. Deluge. These words mean something with no relation to numbers. They describe events and settings. They capture and entirely different thought process. Instead of a number on paper they become scenes. They become transcriptions of reality. Words are powerful.
Conceptually this is pleasing, but we all take words for granted. Stories fly from the press and publishing companies at an astonishing rate and whether they become believable or consuming works of art is an entirely different matter. Their idiosyncrasies must fascinate, their characters draw from us some form of empathy. Buildings and scenes must become some sort of alternate reality. When you look at a page of letters you see colors, light. You then proceed into other senses. Visually you see the words describing a smell, but they turn into something not seen but inhaled.  You see sounds and then hear them, but these processes happen so fast that a good reader becomes privy to far more knowledge than would otherwise be available. Then, you start to read things and see things you don't know about and you begin to jump gaps of creativity. You read about mountain alps when you live in Kansas and start to feel and smell and see things you can't have. Yet, this is not reality in the broad sense: this super-positioning of self. This is your specific reality (It is important to note) and once you have found it, once you have grasped your other world (however many you truly want), you are free to create whatever you like there.

Build me

   I am made out of bricks. Super-glue and Popsicle sticks. You may build me peace buy piece. But, some people prefer the pre-built kits. No questions asked. No instructions inquired. Look upon me and despair, mortal. As knowledgeable as a rodent without whiskers, paws, or snout. As knowledgeable as a mathematician in humanities! How do you maintain what you refuse to understand?
   New idea: try breaking me down. Oh dear! you can't. We do come built strong; just not by you. Look at tomorrow and tell me you aren't wasting your time, then. You could be laying piece by piece, yet you concede you are complete. You are finished. You have built all there is to be built. I disagree. And, so does Life the Inferno.
   Yesterday you had stick structured adhesives, today you have pine-ash. Yesterday you had ideas, today you have ignorance. Yesterday you knew everything. Yesterday you had. But, today is a confused tomorrow and you don't know how to fix it. Better learn fast, you are running out of time. And, if you see us smiling at you don't blame yourself. We're still just learning too. Some people just do it happier than others. Why not?

Where the snow falls

We have been in falling snow recently. I hear that in the distant states on the distant coasts it is worse than here, but here is our concern and there is theirs. Is it better to have copious amounts or minute portions? Teased or deluged, our preference?
    If I was to choose between all-at once or small increments (and, mind you, agony or pleasure be the preference) I would say yes to the agony and no to pleasure. I like to see all of my foe, but take joy in bite-size portions: always wondering what treat lies around the next corner.
    So let it all fall and I'll have my spring as early as I finish shoveling the walk. Who cares if the snow is 12 feet high, at least I know it is all I will be getting. But, alas, the weather is as divided as our needs and we only get what we are to deal with right now. It makes me wonder at people who get hurricanes. Maybe they're televisions look better soaking wet?

The recent adventures of Sunlight and Dawn

  They rose over the mountain tops to the usual scene. Houses just beginning to wake, smoking chimneys. The cold ground gleaming up at them.
  "This is as far as I go" spoke Dawn. "I shall await your return on the morrow."
  The Sunlight peeked over the mountain tops one last time before saying goodbye to his old friend (they were quite as old as friends could be) and leaping into the valley below.
When you are so grand and so large as Sunlight is you can make quite a stir in the world. Far beneath the insect-like hive of people began to move about as if something were hounding them. They started frying eggs and steering automobiles to the farthest corners of the Earth. Sunlight counted his influence as primary in their motivations. Surely his daily travel over their little township was quite the most remarkable thing that happened there. Many would say it was.
  By noon-time people started to settle in with his bright demeanor. Sunlight happily reached his highest point to look down at those who pleasantly stopped their hustle and bustle for a spot of lunch. They were in the midst of enjoying him with only small breaks by impudent clouds who dared stare between. The clouds were beyond his touch, though. They were consequence for deeds past done and pools past warmed. He stared at them sorrowfully who shadowed his gaze and influence. All they could do to that which was so dear to him. Sooner or later, like all mortal things, they would fall and he would strike again. And, again they would rise to taunt him in their petty way.
   Soon the time for descent was upon our friend, the Sunlight. He dove for the far horizon now, tiring quickly. He needed rest from this languid scene of work and play. The children were just running from their school houses begging him to stay a bit longer; grasping at whatever fragments of day that remained, but it was too late. His dive that began slowly sped and sped until the last evening rays of his power shot through windows and he could see books being read and workers rise and stretch as closing time approached. Still now he tired and tired, his eyes red with fatigue, but his face golden with the efforts of warming an entire world.  
  Somewhere else he was just stirring life that offered new sights and new sounds. And there, at horizon's end, was his good friend Dawn to waiting to greet him again.

Options aside

     Options aside, there is really only one choice: the best one. Don't be fooled by the worlds vague counter-options and alternative plans. The best one is all that matters.
     There is much truth to be learned, but which is our cup of tea? Really to comprehend any we must start with a few basics, all of which can be found in Religion (of the LDS sort). Where we came from, where we are, where we are going. How to be happy. Who we are. Why we are.
     Even so there is much to learn, but a drop in the sea of time, a smaller drop in the oceans of eternity, is one way to fill our little bucket-heads.
     Feed me only what is best for me in any vocation. I have little time for the search and barely more for the learning. Here is the deal. If I find a truth I'll clue you in, but do the same. Savvy?
    There are many differing voices. Be open to contradiction and be edified by it (for or against your own view). We can't all be right unless we are, and we aren't if we disagree for any reason beside that of disagreeing. Under such circumstances consider yourself an offender and defender of truth. Shoot the bullet, and take it, all at once.
     Swallow as much as is necessary, but never more. This will help you avoid vomiting the filth back up. Take only what you should. Be careful where you go. You often take without knowing, and give back without a second thought. People often hear the lines we forgot we've heard.
     There are several things that not knowing teaches us, but mostly that there is always more to not know. With this view point may we ever be an open book written in permanent ink. A good story's characters contradict themselves. We call it learning. We call it dynamic.
     Options aside we stand by our decisions. We denote them. We live them. We are stuck in the whirl-pool of decision right now. Or is it a tornado? Whatever--swirling up or down--we all spiral towards a more final destination, but is it the right one?
     Never be afraid to ask questions. There are are too many options not too.
     Smile or frown you are about to start tomorrow (at last!); that day that is always a day away. In order to catch it you must plan well, otherwise it will always exceed your preparations.
     No doubt you may disagree, then inform. Collaborate. Enjoy.
    

Mix mash

Give me one ounce philharmonic orchestra, three teaspoons of pure light, a pound of life, and the lead singer from Coheed and Flyleaf. Mix well. Watch for drips. Cooking or chemistry, accidents happen. One lost drop and you may have some high-pitched Samoan man running around trying to be morbid until he explodes (They always do that...).
        Life is eclectic. The experience can be many flavors and, hardly all at once, all of them.
        Imagine your barn burned down the same day your daughter was born. In some age that might have labeled her as witch. Now it's just pretty cool. The feelings might out range each other. You might be sad because of the barn, or happy because of your daughter, but mixing both makes you manic and that isn't healthy.
        Let me say that without a smile on your face you would still look like a person, and with a frown you might not. Let's all be godlings and pray for those whose faces are permanently disfigured into chagrin, no matter how skilled at Schumann. Deep, dark, and wonderful to have a rootbeer after.
        Is this making any sense? Can anyone that hears understand? I want to meet this person, because there are times I don't, I just think I do (and that isn't always enough). But, let's move forward with confidence. There is no reason not to. Understanding aside, we can do things, incredible things, with a little effort. Father smiles on you all. Spread your wings, or fingers, or whatever it is you spread (even if it is butter).
       

Misunderstanding

      I'm no stranger to misunderstanding. Intuition without thought is as healthy as leaping without eyes. I've fictitiously ended my fair share of sentences, called elaborate plots to impossible endings, and reacted based on assumption more than enough times to know that thinking, not just feeling, is required in a daily life. Misunderstandings are prone and life is a call to understand as well as interpret. For me the feeling is natural, the thinking not. For some it is to be the reverse (unimaginable as it might seem). We all have our deficient senses. We are all imperfect. May we forgive these misunderstandings as easily as we make them.