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.