there's a monster in my belly, a poem

there's a monster in my belly,

it's colored black and brown.

and every time i'm up about

i think it goes to town.

its claws are sharp and hairy,

they scratch around inside.

poke! screech. twang! snip.

they shear away my pride.

its eyes are always open,

like mine, they're green and blue.

they soak up their surroundings,

and take especial note of you.

its teeth are razor blades and thorns,

made for chomping right through stone.

i've been bitten a time or twelve,

though it's never hit a bone.

from time to time it travels,

but never far it goes,

just up the spine to my brain

or slithers way down to my toes.

i wish, i wish, i wish times three,

that this monster'd leave and let me be,

that it'd sneak off to a closet or under a bed,

and let me sleep and rest my head.

-------

My stomach hurts.  Chronically.  Keisha fell and hurt her neck a few days ago; she's been hardly able to turn her head.  She chiropractered it up yesterday, and is going back again today.  Hopefully she gets well soon.

Halloween was a success.  Avonlea was most beautiful, I must say.  She went as an artist.  She even painted her own pieces, though she was no fan of dipping her hands or feet in the paints.  Still, Mommy & Daddy insisted.  We then framed each of the pieces on some colored poster boards.  Then we took a black drape and taped up all the artwork.  We created a sign that said "Museum de Avonlea."  Keisha dressed up as a museum curator.  I dressed up as an avant-garde art critic.  I splatter painted a onesie and Avonlea wore it, black pants, a beret, and a penciled moustache.   She was quite adorable, though she was not a fan of the 'stache being drawn on.  All in all, Halloween was a success.

Happy Movember to all participants, as well as NoShave participants.  And super happy NaNoWriMo to those brave souls.  Perhaps next year I'll jump aboard again.  We'll see.

Scraps: A philosophical rambling, a poem, and questions without answers

Often, when a product is finished, there are a lot of leftovers.  The director leaves unneeded scenes lying on the floor.  A painter has too much red on his palette.  A writer has revisions upon revisions upon revisions.  Most of the time, this is done for the greater good of the product.  A movie is shortened and made tighter, saving the viewer from pointless scenes.  Any more red and the painting could have a completely different meaning.  Omitted useless words and phrases save readers from tedious pacing and plotting.

In short, the scraps are made obsolete.  Some would say pointless, but I'd disagree.  Without the scraps, a finished product would likely have a completely different look.  For example, a scene may be removed from a book because it's not working well, but having that scene in at first was crucial to the writer to get to the next point.  It served as a stepping stone that guided imagination and direction.

Ultimately, our life is one product.  When we die, the production stops and we're finished.  No more editing.  No more revising.  It's just us, shipped out to Quality Inspection.  And this train of thought has me thinking about the scraps in our lives.  What kind of stuff is left on our drawing boards?  How many unfinished stories have I written, now sitting idly in a Google Docs warehouse.  How many plans were made and discarded?  And how in the world is this relevant?

What has put me in this mindset?  I found a poem I scribbled down a while ago, just eight lines.  An unfinished thing if there e'er was one.  The first stanza I was insanely proud of.  Clever, methought.  Double meanings and all that stuff.  The second...

in love she fell with a rogue

whose blood was far below hers,

dashed across the jagged rocks

his bowels burst asunder.

ocean's song, an elegy,

the waves a gentle death tune.

she died from an angry blade

wielded by her father.

And there it sat.  There's editing needed.  There's always editing needed.  In life.  In stories.  In paintings.  In blog posts.  We're so concerned about perfection and passing the Quality Control test that we cheat ourselves of so much.  It doesn't help that Society screams for independence and self-reliance.  We must be strong citizens.  We must be productive.

And yet, I posit that most of us aren't able to cut it at being independent.  Not truly.  Still, we desire independence and selfness.  The dichotomy is fascinating.  On one hand, our base instincts are for self-preservation and self-happiness.  We want our opinions to be valued, likely above all others.  We want to be noticed.  We want to be special.  On the other hand, we can't handle the stress of being the sole responsibility of our opinions, and we want others to share that burden.  How selfish is that?  How crazy?

I think of God saying in Genesis 2:18 that it's not good for man to be alone.  Obviously loneliness is a problem if the Creator thinks it is.  But why?  Why is it not good?  (And again, why are my thoughts turned this way?)  Is Man, when left alone, ultimately going to turn to evil? 

[insert clever paragraph that relates scraps and these musings above in a nice, succinct way.  this is a strong first sentence here that uses a nice, simple transition and lays the ground for the next sentence.  this is a complex sentence, with six subjects that all agree with their predicates.  this is a question where i try to understand the previous sentence.  this is a parenthetical, cause why not?  this is the most important sentence i've ever written in my life and what everything really boils down to.  this is an emoticon.]

In the end, this is too much for me to comprehend.  My life is infinitely more complex than I can fathom, with countless causes and effects, affecting both me and you, directly or indirectly.  I'm just thankful that I've been blessed with a loving wife and daughter, a wonderful family, and a great set of friends.  Most of all I'm thankful that Jesus loves me and understands all this stuff I don't.  I'm thankful for the brain He's given me, even though sometimes I wonder about myself. 

When I die and reach the end of production, I want my life to be one that glorifies God.  I want all the scraps to resonate with that glory, that I can look back and see how much He's changed me.  I look back now and see some already, and I look ahead with wonder at what He's gonna do next.

surviving, a poem

tossed,
scattered in the gales,
arms flapping and body spinning over
and over
and over
into a tree
stripped bare,
naked fingers pointing heavenward

he fumbles for a moment in the branches
before breaking free and plummeting to the ground

rain,
cold. piercing. personal.
slapping the body over
and over
and over
his eyes watch the clouds gyrate,
hefting automobiles and crushing houses,
sending them all hellward

he cries as a photo of his daughter dances above,
and sees her for a second before its whisked away

silence,
louder than the storm,
pulse throbbing over
and over
and o v e r
a n d     o      v      e     r
a     n     d               o          v          e          r
its rhythm a lullaby

he sleeps. he dies. he’s buried. he’s found,
barely breathing and busted up, but alive.

astonished,
his daughter’s eyes,
and she hugs and kisses him over
and over
and over
professing her love,
as does his wife,
beautiful as the morning sun

-----------------
It's tornado season.  After seeing the devastating pictures of Joplin, I thought it prudent to create something with a shiny side to it.  To all the Joplin tornado victims, as well as others, know that I'm praying for you.

On Language and "Ode to an Apostrophe"

Oh Apostrophe,
Apostrophe,
Thou art full of glory and splendour.

How grand you shine,
(thinly veiled rhyme)
as you substitute V for e'er.

For what would don't be
omitting just thee,
but a do and a not? 'Tis true.

And could've, would've,
should've, might've, must've,
all exist because of you.

Thou art not limited,
to language inhibited,
and it's this I'll love all my days.

Possibilities boundless,
in you letters soundless,
like nor'easter takes a T and an H.

For what can I do
but cave in and misuse
our infinite array of words?

How much can be said,
with a nod of the head,
or a ' and a ' and a '?

Most noblest of symbols,
how other ones tremble
in your presence they quake and they cower.

You hang in the air,
'twixt letters, how dare
anyone think they have power

O'er you?  For you are alone,
ensconced on your throne,
until eternity unravels.

And then when it does,
with a bang and a buzz,
to you all dead letters travel.

And as they begin
to chop, twist, and blend
together after catastrophe,

You'll create something new,
what else would you do
my forever, lovely Apostrophe?


So I was thinking about words and how I string them together to make sentences.  Then I was thinking about letters and how I string them together to make words.  Then I was thinking about the apostrophe and how it sometimes replaces letters and I was wondering what it's limits were.  I mean, in shorthand, there are no practical limitations, right?  I abbreviate government as gov't to this day.  There I'm eliminating six letters.  How horrible, I think.

And then there's 'ere and e'er.  I love these two words.  They're beautiful sounding and perfect in function.  And the My Morning Jacket song lyric everything'd be great/ everything'd be good/ if everybody gave/ as everybody should.  How awesome of a word is everything'd? 

Plus, when we speak, we throw around apostrophes like nothing.  I suppose this could be a regional phenomenon, varying with location, but still, I'd argue that each brogue has its own clipped words.  And I daresay none would disagree with me.

But this has got me wondering, can an apostrophe substitute more than just letters?  What about entire words?  Could a writer remove all the supplementary text and just leave the meat and potatoes?  And who the heck would wanna read it if they did?  I, for one, love the constant changing English language.  Its rules are baffling and abused, but I'm of the opinion that if a writer can successfully do so, then they have the power to do it, so long as it makes sense.  For what are words but things that have power because we collectively give them power?  What would the apostrophe be if folks stopped using it?

Just for fun, I tried speaking without contracted words the other day.  I didn't last very long.  It's too ingrained in my vernacular, I suppose.  Just thinking out loud.

Note:   I'm not saying I'm for the cutting down of words and letters to get an abbreviated society.  This, I fear, would be a dreadful mistake.  Personally, I loathe internet language.  Things like LOL and BRB drive me crazy.  When I get a text message written in complete disregard to the rules, I scratch my head and try to understand.  I believe that George Orwell's predicted newspeak from Nineteen Eighty-Four is the very textual way we communicate now.  I strive my best to refrain from this, and to respond to these types of messages with complete sentences.  Of course, from time to time, I succumb and need to save myself 1.3 seconds of typing by using an abbreviation.  Still, for the most part, this sort of thing drives me up the metaphorical wall.

A Poem, Some Musing, and Six Halloween Pictures

"dark goes the night, smooth goes the date"
by logankstewart

change my clothes
out i go
a date tonight have i

long it's been
since my last sin
so long.  adieu.  goodbye.

lick my teeth
feel the slime
a blade goes in and out

you gasp "oh"
at my crime
blood falls from your spout

eyes go wide
from the cold
of steel on flesh on bone

hands dam up
staunch the flow
but you're already gone

quick as sin
toss my knife
in someone else's truck

see me smile
in waning light
unfortunate, their luck

wipe my hands
in the dirt
and off to eat i go

a date to get
a meal to split
and no one in the know.

I don't know what it is inside me that enjoys this sort of stuff.  It's not that I have hidden desires or twisted ideas.  I think, perhaps, that maybe it's the only way I can come to terms with the craziness of the world.  I've always been fascinated by the darker (see "On the Darker Side of Songs," "On Morbid Curiosity") things in life, though, oddly, I can't movies like Saw and Hostel.  There's just something unnerving about violence, something so gritty and horrible that it makes me sick at my stomach.  The dichotomy of my music tastes is astounding; I'm either listening to folky, acoustic tunes, which are often peppered with Darkness, or I'm listening to Contemporary Christian music.  It makes no bloody sense!

So if this is the case, then why do I find the recesses of my mind adventuring in such realms?  I'm happy.  I love life.  I'm not a disturbed person, and I have no horrific past that is buried below my surface.  I'm calm, patient, compassionate, nothing like the unsavory sorts from many of the songs and stories I hear/read.

Is it the passing of Halloween and the imminent autumn-like weather that turns my mind towards dark and heavy thoughts?  Is it from playing Fallout or reading The Passage?  I don't know what it is.  I think, perhaps, I'll blame it on....... Nic Cage.  Why not?  He's a fantastic guy.  I mean, have you seen Raising Arizona?  Okay then.

In Halloween's wake, I have some pictures.  There’s a Dr. Horrible pumpkin, which anyone that loves Joss Whedon should know, and anyone who's ne'er seen the wonderfulness of it should watch immediately and then be in the know.  It took about two hours or more to carve, and I was ready to quit before I was finished.  There’s a BOO Ghost, carved masterfully by the beautiful, pregnant (obligatory) wife.  It's cute.  There’s a close-up of Stella.  (We somehow never managed to snap one of Sofie close-up.)  There’s a full shot of both dogs, one as a flying monkey, the other as the wicked witch.  Keisha made both outfits.  And there’s my world-famous mullet champion picture, which I love, since the mullet is my actual hair color and blends seamlessly in with my sideburns and beard.

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cause and effect, a poem

dreaming,
eyes searching,
heart longing
breaking beyond the bound.
rise up
and vanquish.

flying,
arms pumping,
legs kicking,
beating gravity and ground.
out of the angry planet
and into silence.

floating,
limbs turning,
lips smiling,
absorbing light and sound.
leave behind troubles
and let go.

freezing,
teeth chattering,
bones shaking,
trav'ling homeward bound.
space is cold
without a jacket.

falling,
lungs filling,
voice screaming,
nearing solid ground.
unintended consequence
of freedom.

[Insert Creative Title Here]

Blogger and artist Greg Peltz has created three awesome Star Wars masterpieces.  If you like the picture of the suave Boba Fett above, check out the rest of his blog.  There's some neat artwork there.

the tingling in my foot

is spreading up my leg

it has been so for nigh a fortnight now

if i dwell on it for long

it almost sends me into madness

but i may flirt for a moment

with the gentle electric shock.

the bundle of nerves and veins below

skin and muscle and fat

pulsates and throbs up,

up my leg and through my twitching eye,

out with all the slime.

Had some music practice with Alex last night.  Put to music a song I wrote that sounds okay.  I hear it one way in my head, with drums, harmonica, electric stuff, piano, and guitars, but when we play it we have only a bass and an acoustic.  Not quite how I envision it, but maybe I can figure something out.

I'm considering canceling my DirecTV account.  Neither of us really watches it enough to warrant the cost.  Unfortunately, I signed a two year contract, and I've still got 12 months to go.  Canceling early charges a $20 fee per month for each canceled month.  However, if I stay with the satellite I'll be spending around $75 per month, so in the long run I could either waste $240 or $900.  How I hate wasting money.

as it travels up the body

it lingers around the heart

the beat beat beat is a kettle drum,

burning with life and indigestion,

a wildfire in the esophagus 

with tendrils reaching into my soul.

Too much going on right now in life.  Monday night tennis league keeps my Mondays busy.  Tuesday night is practice night with Alex.  Wednesday night is church night, wherein the full praise team plays until around 9:00.  I finally get a chance to see Keisha on Thursday, but come the weekend things roll on down the hill a bit too swiftly for my liking. 

Sigh no more.

unsettling to stare off

and have one eye dancing erratically,

feet slapping at its own tune.

hard it is to choose between

the tingling feet and

the twitching eye

but my choice would matter not,

as i'm gifted with both.

sinus clouds

i imagine
little clouds
of mischief causing trouble
getting bored
growing old
swelling.  how they double
in their size
expanding
beyond normal comfort
out the nose
down the eyes
a leaking ship at port
in my skull.
o what joy
'tis gulping down the air
normally,
what a pain
to eat it up in spare
bits.  o how
i want these
sinuses to clear up,
mischief managed,
clouds disperse,
am i asking too much?

Is it obvious?  Usually these sorts of things only attack me in the early spring and fall, but this year they decided to make a return.  If I remember correctly, I missed a day of work earlier in the year because of sinus joys, but I could be wrong about that.  I know I was definitely out for the food poisoning thing for a day or two.  I still haven't managed to eat at Subway since then, and I'm quite sure that Subway is not to blame for my sickness, but still.

Behold, the glorious return of congestion and omnipresent pressure.  I can't find my danged Vick's Nasal Spray, and I really want it.  The first time I ever used it I sprayed one shot up my nose and shrieked like a little girl.  I dropped the stuff, grabbed my burning nose, and waited for the intense cooling fire-spray to die down.  Now I spray it happily, relishing in the openness of the nasal passages.  I hate it when one nostril is impenetrable and I'm trying to get comfortable so I turn one way to clear the nostril and soon the stuff all drains to the other side, causing me to turn the other way and start again.  Eventually I just lay on my back and glare angrily at the ice cold air coming down from the ceiling vents and try to keep the dogs off my face.

Playing tennis last night did clear me up a bit.  Plus, it worked out my back a bit, too, and I'm not as stiff and immobile as I was yesterday.

We've got Clint all week.  Keisha is teaching a VBS class and he's in her class.  Then, on Friday, everyone is abandoning me and heading down to Daytona Beach.  Turns out Keisha got invited to spend a week with her mom and everybody at a time-shared condo.  Yes, she just in from a cruise vacation, and not a month later she's going on another week-long break.  How awesome.  She's going to ride down there with them and fly back from Orlando to Owensboro.  The regional airport runs excellent deals, and her ticket is going to be less than $100.  (Sometimes you can even get a one-way ticket for $9.99.)

Untitled Poem

blank stares and
half-way smiles
i'm gonna write a song for you

pounding heart and
a mouthful of lies
i'm gonna write a song for you

raspy breathing and
fluttering chest
i'm gonna write a song for you

shortened toes and
enlarged breasts
i'm gonna write a song for you

itchy palms and
painful fingers
i'm gonna write a song for you

broken hearts and
bumblebee stingers
i'm gonna write a song for you

brittle bones and
leaking veins
i'm gonna write a song for you

body's full of
different pains
i'm gonna write a song for you

I’m not really sure if I like the repeating “i’m gonna write a song for you” line.  I think something else would sound better, but I just can’t figure out what.

A Poem from a Bad Day

It’s strange, writing a post in advance like this.  But it’s something I wanna do.  I’ve missed too many posts recently anyway.  So do I write in the present, as if I’m writing this from Monday, 5/10?  Or do I write in the future tense?  Gragh!

Since I’m currently away on vacation, island hopping and stuffing my face without shame, I thought I should kick the week off with a poem.  I wrote this after a rather disagreeable few days between myself and my lovely, amazing wife.  I find poetry sometimes is the only way to express myself.

“bad day”

you know it's a bad day when you stare at the computer screen for ten minutes
and life slows to a cringing halt.
you hear the noises of the airconditioner,
muffled by your silent headphones,
unable to turn on music cause you can't find anything to fit the mood.
when you check your phone every few minutes,
hoping for a text back,
hoping that somehow you're forgiven for being stupid and insensitive.
when you can only scratch your head and wonder why.
why say it?  why act the way you do?
but you don't understand, cause you don't realize it at the time.
in the afterwards,
while you're blanking out at the screen,
you hear yourself in your mind,
replaying the conversation,
and it does sound rude.
so what if you were just trying to help.
use more tact next time.
when it's two days before your anniversary
and you're sick at your stomach cause you can't help but feel confused
upset
aggravated
sad
misunderstood
blessed
fortunate
worthless
when you're too afraid to call,
scared that your voice might fail you,
scared that your tones might be too harsh,
scared that your sarcastic tongue rebels against you again.
instead you wait for a text,
a few words on a small screen,
powerful enough to transform your day into something better than what it's been.
all the while you slowly sink into someone unrecognizable,
someone different than who you normally are,
someone burdened and full of self-loathing.
you want to somehow express yourself,
release the toxic energy within,
but you can't.  you don't know how.
you bottle it and drink it down,
suffocating and choking on it.
and you pray.  and wait.

when ends the world, a poem by logankstewart

on a saturday
in november
during lunch
when ellie montgomery
reaches for the ketchup
to ruin her freedom fries.

on a tuesday night
in january
when thomas montgomery
hits a patch of slick road
after he's had a bit too much
and no one had a mind to stop him.

at eleven a.m.,
local time,
when a crazed zealot
decides to detonate himself and those around him
after listening to the lies
of those that should be silenced.

tonight,
when esther montgomery
finishes saying her prayers
and closes her tired, old eyes,
weary and ready to leave
and see her sweet family again.

when the gasses run out
and the internal combustion engine of Earth
goes quiet
when the sun explodes
when the black holes eat us all
for dinner
when the LHC malfunctions and things get crazy
and the dinosaurs come back
armed and dangerous

Random Bits & Pieces

• LOST tonight!
• Writing Wednesdays tomorrow.
• Bologna sandwich, raisins, pretzels, Doritos, corn flakes, semi-sweet tea, an apple, and tuna-noodle casserole or chili turkey dogs.
• Parenthood looks great, and it’s the same producers or something as Arrested Development. 
• Telos.

The Fog Comes on Little Cat Feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
                   ----Carl Sandburg

Yes, it’s a foggy, snow strewn day today.  Cold, but warming.  An altogether pleasant looking day, from inside, that is.  Puts in mind something like this:

Ah, how I love Calvin & Hobbes.  Especially the snowmen strips.  Those are some of the best.  I have all the collections, and on wintry days, I like to peruse through the strips and laugh all over again.

I’ve a busy, busy weekend lined up.  My city no longer offers passport applications, and the nearest place we could find was 40 miles North.  So, we’re going to turn in our applications tomorrow morning at 9:00, and hopefully be outta there soon after.  Then we’ve got an appointment to do our taxes, which I do in a town 30 miles south of my house.  Lots of driving for those two things.

After that, though, we’re free to celebrate Valentine’s Day.  Not sure exactly what we’re going to do other than eat and go watch Percy Jackson, but we’ll think of something.  For the rest of you, have a happy weekend, whether it’s with your valentine or not. 

I’m not sure how many of you like poetry, but this is one of my favorite poems.  It’s by Craig Raine, called “A Martian Sends A Postcard Home.”  It’s beautiful.  It’s mysterious.  The first time I read it, when I finished, I immediately re-read it, trying to figure out what was meant.  I think I figured it all out.

 

“A Martian Sends A Postcard Home”

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings --

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside --
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves --
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

Yes, it’s one of those days with poetry in them.  One of those where you see the beauty and bright lights of life in everything.  One of those days where nothing can go wrong.  One of those snot-draining, mucus tasting, stomach-churning days.

Did you read the poem?  Did you “solve” it?

Well I Dreamed I Saw the Knights in Armor

I feel refreshed.  I went to bed before 9 last night and had the lights off before 10.  Stella slept peacefully through the night, not waking me up, and it was wonderful.  Plus, no messes, and that, too, was wonderful.  I’m still a bit sick at my ole tummy, but that’s neither here nor there.

My acoustic-electric guitar is not working when I plug it into the PA system at church.  It’s not working when I plug it into any amplifier system.  So, since the new music minister is wanting to incorporate more instruments with the piano, I decided to take my guitar to the shop and see what’s wrong with it.  The guy said it’d cost me $45/hr for him to look at it, and he wasn’t certain he could fix it.  Wowzas, thought I.  I don’t ever play it plugged-in so I didn’t want to fork out the dough for a possible fix.  Maybe I’ll tinker with it myself and see what I can find.

On a related note, I don’t really know that much about music.  I know how to play several different instruments, but when people start talking about theory and strange chords, I get all confused.  I can’t read sheet music (well, I can, but very, very, very slowly, and I don’t like it) and I play mostly be ear or chords.  At the church I grew up in I’d play and the choir leader would say “In the Key of G” and then those of us that played instruments would play in the key of G.  I can do that.  But when fancy embellishments and stuff get thrown into the mix (I’m talking to you Diminished and Augmented chords), I struggle.

I also have no clue about the amplification of sound and stuff, either.  Since I never plugged up my guitar I never bothered to learn.  Perhaps one day…

I think it’s time for the final part of the mini related poems I posted.  Let’s see.  Part 3 (“see the man”) is here, Part 1 (“jettson mancer”) is here, and Part 2 (“the planning”) is here.  Here’s the conclusion. 

“ghost”, or "isabella's secret, pt. 4"

she lays in bed
she hears him breathe
softly beside her
beneath the cold sheet
she smiles
she frowns
she dreams

harsh vivid colors
of jetson's green eyes
his tree bark brown hair
and his bright, crimson blood
splattered across his split neck

she ignites awake
as fire and gasoline start
willing the images away
with the fear in her heart
she cries
she moans
she pleads

loud desp'rate prayers
of repentance
her sins haunt her
and he does, too,
sleeping in the bed next to her

the end draws near
from the disease eating at her body
the wicked cancer
the horrible guilt
she smiles
she frowns
she breathes her last

Looking back, those poems were dark.  I liked them, though.  My favorite was definitely “see the man.”  I liked the rhythm of that one.  It seemed like Poe.

I’ve finally started contributing to a retirement fund.  I have a 401(k) option at work.  I’ve read through the stuff.  My eyes glaze over.  My mind numbs.  I struggle.  I have no idea what the heck it means.  I remember Macroeconomics in college, which I took as a Grad student, a 200 level class, and found it one of the most difficult classes in my entire college career.  That said, if anybody knows of any good, simple sites where I can learn about 401(k) and stock and savings and stuff, let me know.  I just randomly picked 5 different things, put 20% of my input to each, and said good luck.

Not much substance today.  Still working with headaches.  Australian Open is on.  I may get to play some tennis tomorrow, even, if it’s dry outside.

A Little Bit of Everything

Egads, man!  It’s not like I’m trying to go all random on you, but it just happens, y’know?  Like rain.  It just happens.  Just every once in a while my brain kicks in all random-like and stuff.  But what do you expect?  My blog’s not called Rememorandom for nothing.  First off, there’s an artist who’s captured my heart.  Ever wondered what STAR WARS would look like in a steampunk setting?  Yeah, me neither, but this guy did, and it’s awesome.

If you click on that picture or the link above you can find out more about the designer, and other works he’s done.  For those nerds out there, you’ll enjoy, as the man did some DC and Marvel characters, too.  I really like the Obi-Wan, the Stormtrooper, and Grand Moff Tarkin.  All are awesome, though.
Ever just have one of those days when a song plays over and over and over and over in your head, always the same line.  No?  Ok.  Never mind then.

Me and Alex have been working on making our own music, writing our own songs and stuff.  We’ve got one demo out right now, based on Isaiah 57:14-21.  Maybe we’ll get a finished product over the next week or two and I’ll post it up here.  I find it easier to write poetry as opposed to songs, usually, but I’m trying.
Speaking of poetry, how about I post up “isabella’s secret pt.1”?  Y’know, so you won’t think I’m all bent on dark stuff.  Cause “see the man” was dark, dude.  Dark as the outer darkness of space.  This one has a different tone.

"jetson mancer" or "isabella's secret pt. 1"

jetson mancer
was a dancer
that's how he spent his nights.
making money
with his honey
isabella poorsight.

he was comely
she was homely
but soon the two were wed.
'ere long he'd cheat
and oft repeat
with women in his bed.

isabella
had one fella
that was jetson mancer
she could not see
the treachery
and sadly got the cancer

If you’re interested, between those two poems you should be able to piece together what’s coming in Part 2.
You guys and gals wanna see the homemade muffins I made?  And by homemade I mean homemade.  From scratch.  No boxes and such rubbish.  I found the recipe from a new blogger’s site here, thought it looked good, and decided to make ‘em.  The recipe was pretty simple and it made one dozen like it was supposed to, but I lost two due to crumbling.  I guess I didn’t let them sit long enough in the trusty Pampered Chef stoneware muffin tin.  Anyway, this is how they turned out.  Rather tasty and fancy, if you ask me.  Check out the blog and the recipe if’n you’re hankering for something delicious.










The cold spell’s sitting strong here in Kentucky.  Heck, in most of the US it’s cold.  I guess that’s why it’s called winter?  It snowed somewhere between two to four inches last night, but thankfully most of the roads were navigable.

I got an email from the library letting me know that the complete series of Firefly is now available to me.  As a Buffy and Dr. Horrible fan, I just had to get it and watch it, especially since it’s got a huge following.
Another new blog I’ve started following is The Sound and the Fury of Kristopher A. Denby.  Mr. Denby shares his thoughts and ideas on various things one typically shares their thoughts and ideas on, like music, books, movies, politics, etc., but I really like his opinions.  Plus, he must have some Celtic heritage or something, and that’s a doubleplus in my book.  That, and he loved The Name of the Wind, so that sealed the deal.  (There’s a review on that book from 12/20/2009.)

There’s not much left to add.  Brandon Sanderson is doing a Q&A over at Goodreads on the Fantasy Book Club about Warbreaker.  I’m currently using 443 MB (5%) of my 7409 MB Gmail space.  Reading about the atomic bomb’s effects on Japan are heartbreaking.  I didn’t even think The Blind Side looked good, but I guess since it’s a “true” story and stuff it must be?  Why’s it making so much money?  I’m so excited for Lost’s final season to start up in February.

Yeah.  That’s about it.  Maybe something else tomorrow?  Maybe, possibly, even some musing.  People say she’s crazy she got diamonds on the soles of her shoes…

Blog Updates and a Poem

If you read my blog on my actual blog page, as opposed to Google Reader or Facebook, then you’ll definitely notice the change in colors that you’re seeing.  The background changed from the dark green to an even darker green and the header changed a bit, too.  I’m not afraid of change; in fact, I try to embrace it whenever I feel I should.  Being the new year and all, I figured I should change up a few things here.  For one, I’m not sure if I’m going to continue posting weekdaily, but for now I am.  We’ll wait and see, eh?

I also added a Creative Commons license at the bottom of the page, but I’m not really 100% sure why.  Whatever the case, it’s there.  And I’ve removed my 2009 Reads (so far) and replaced it with 2010 Reading Deck and 2010 Reads.  I also updated my Otherwheres section, complete with many of the blogs I frequent.  Check out some of the new ones if’n you’d like.  (If ya liked it then ya shoulda put a ring on it…)

It’s cold here in good ole Western Kentucky.  The wind chill right now is –2, and the actual temp is 12.  And it’s supposed to snow up to 4 inches tomorrow night.  At last the harshness of winter is upon us.  Nothing like a good, cold winter day, though.  It’s the hard season.  The dead season.  The mean season.  And I like it.

So I wrote a series of related poems the other day.  They’re a bit on the darker side of life, dealing with things that old folky songs tend to deal with.  There are four parts total.

"see the man" or "isabella's secret pt. 3"

in the black of the night
through the woods filled with fright
see the man!

down the road of despair
through the winds of stale air
see the man!

how he dances
how he writhes
how he twists
how he cries
see the man
see the man
see the man!

in the room of bloodied walls
through the doorway past the halls
see the man!

'neath the floor of wood and stone
through the dirt that's white with bone
see the man!

how he snarls
how he screams
how he shudders
how he dreams
see the man
see the man
see the man!

in the house of isabella
through the lies and in the cellar
see the man!

in the room rests a skeleton
through the scent of the smelly one
see the man!

now he's silent
now he rests
now he sleeps
now he's dead
see the man
see the man
see the man!

And now a part no one will care about except Dave.  I’m slowly filing my way through Oblivion.  I can’t decide whether or not I want to cure my vampirism.  I like the perks of the stat boosts, and feeding doesn’t really pose much of a problem for me, either.  The sunlight thing is kind of annoying, but only in the upper stages.  The weakness to fire, though, just plain sucks.  It just hit me how massive this game is.  I’ve only completed around 35% of the game’s quests, and I’ve been playing for many hours.

That’s really about it for today.  Writing Wednesdays up tomorrow.  I hope you are enjoying the tale, if you’re reading it.  I’m having loads of fun writing it, which is really the more important thing, methinks.  But I want the readers (the few of you that there are) to like it, too.  (If ya liked it then ya shoulda put a ring on it…)  It’s different and original, but at the same time I’m making use of clichés and tradition (thanks to The Odyssey for inspiration).  There are models and there are creations, and you can probably see both, maybe, if you squint and get the right light shining on it.  Blah.  Now I’m blushing.  It’s too hard to talk about my own work.

See the man!

a zombie christmas eve, by logankstewart

sing, burning tree, a sweet and fiery melody
of love and fear.
through colored lights on darkly nights
and hopes of a better year.

cry, spoiled child, a bitter and sorrow filled sob
of not getting your desire.
but look at yon tree, and how bad it can be
to find yourself on fire.

hear, loud room, stuffed with voices grand,
laughing at the table.
for something's not right with the world tonight,
i present a christmas fable.

lock up the door,
seal up the house,
for the world is over tonight.
the zombies are here,
their intention is clear,
for the world is over tonight.

santa is dead,
the reindeer are fed
and christmas is over tonight.
his brains have been eaten
by prancer and comet,
see their dark faces,
see their thick vomit,
and christmas is over tonight.

the elves are to blame
for this turn of events.
humanity ends tonight!
tired of their slavery,
from years working hard,
covertly they worked
and played their trump card.
humanity ends tonight!

spread through the air
with carols and snow,
the world is over tonight.
we'll turn on ourselves
unable to resist
and the world will be over tonight.

when the sun rises tomorrow
and no one wakes up
will the elves realize what they've done?
when all that's left
is a shambling, starving, mob,
will they regret their actions?

and years from now,
when only zombies remain,
will little zombie jimmy
ask for christmas a brain?

mourn, upset reader, for having wasted your time here
on this pathetic work.
if you need a reason to celebrate the season
it's that things could always be worse.

merry happy christmas, folks. brains!

Regret

It's that sick feeling in your stomach the morning after,
knowing that you've violated your own principles mixed
together with filth.
It's the sobering feeling of regret.
But how can you say no?  Why does it rise from your own mind,
daring you to contradict yourself?
You smell the aroma, you see the smiles of the happy people,
the vibe of the good crowd and you know you're hooked.
You know you will fall to the temptation.
You know that no matter how resilient you are,
you're just another piece of chaff in the maelstrom of life,
unable to keep your word and integrity.

If that possibility of regret showed itself before,
if you could see the results of the actions prior
to taking part,
how much wiser we would be.  How much stronger.
Resistence seems unnatural, impossible.
Caving is inevitable.
But why make the choices you make?  Why choose stupidity?
Is it the false hope that one more time will be okay?
Why subject yourself to something you know you'll regret?

-------

Yes, I regret eating New China Buffet last night.  I admit it.  Once again I resolve myself to abstain from buffets, especially Chinese buffets, but I know my promises are empty and weak.  I'm only human.  Well, mostly...

The Bells, by Edgar Allen Poe

This is one of my favorite Poe poems.  I feel like sharing it, since it’s the season for Poe.  I like the way this poem flows and the feelings it gives.  It’s definitely better to read aloud, which I recommend you do.  Above all, enjoy.

I
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II
Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! -how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III
Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

 
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people -ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells,
Of the bells -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

First September Morning

Happy September One, everybody. Today is the International Planetary Convetical on Sar-al-Hai, the National Internal Convention on Ahl-sai-Hay, and Labor Day's Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve here in His Majesty's Empire, the great and famous United States of America. Odd's are, you just thought it was another day, albeit the first one in September, unless you don't celebrate September One and instead live in your own universe where there is an August Thirty-Two. If that's the case, I'm not sure how to proceed.

Have you all seen the previews to the movie 9? I would embed it here, but YouTube prohibits it, telling me that I can't do that for some strange reason. I don't know why that is. To my understanding, YouTube and Google are thick-as-thieves and owned by the same folks, so everything should be intermixable. Well, I'll just have to link it again, here. The movie looks awesome. It's produced by Tim Burton, the mastermind behind so many awesome films that I won't even mention a single one of them. The film is insanely animated, and the CGI is mind blowing. The story is quite epic, too, involving some strange mommet named 9, looking to survive after the fall of humanity in a ruined and deadly earth. It encounters death at every turn and it's quest seems bleak, thus it is truly epic in scale. I recommend watching the trailer just to see how beautiful the film looks. 9 comes to theaters on 9/9/09.

Last night I joined the Yellowbanks Dulcimer Society. I'm probably 30-40 years younger than every other member, and to my knowledge, there are only 3 other males in the group of fifteen or so. But I had fun, even if it was a tad slow at first. Eventually we got to the music part, whereupon I was blown away by the speed and skill of the dulcimer players in the room. I can play my dulcimer very slowly, but I want to get better, so I joined with hopes of improving my skill and learning these old songs. (I also brought my guitar and played a little rhythm on a few songs, adding a bit of diversity to the dulcimer-filled room.)

By the end of the day I should be at around 90% on my ipod journey.

I got a new book in the mail yesterday. It's my second book that I'll be reviewing for Thomas Nelson Books, a Christian publishing company. This book is called Called To Worship, and it explores worship throughout the Bible. I'm looking forward to jumping on this as soon as I finish Before They Are Hanged. (Thanks to Shellie for sending me the link on how to become a Book Review Blogger for Thomas Nelson. You can check her blog out here. She churns out book reviews left and right.) If you're interested in getting free books and reviewing for Thomas Nelson Books, there's a HTML box at the bottom of my blog you can follow.

How about we end this post with a poem, celebrating the day?

It's September One today.

What else is there to say?

Should I investigate the way

that I can keep up in this fray?

How much should I really weigh

on September One's day?

The sky is blue, not grey,

heartburn and reflux is not OK

and I hope it's not here to stay.

So now I leave you, If I may,

And bid you all a pleasant, fond, and strange September One Day.

An Ode to Excel

I can't figure out Blogger and how to get this to show up nice and pristine to where you don't have to click the image to enlarge it. Everything I do blurs and distorts the image. If you can't read the image, I believe you can click on it to enlarge it.

Well, that's that. *Ahem*

Some updates it is then.

1. I've got just over 50 albums left to get through on my ipod journey. That's exciting.

2. It's hard to make myself stop reading Before They Are Hanged. So far, so good. Thanks once again David.

Sorry for the weak post today, folks. Life is catching up with me, if you can imagine. But I'll be back.

Song Lyric: "Adia I do believe I've failed you..."--Sarah McLachlan, Adia