Friday, April 29, 2011


Tuesday, December 28, 2010


I've been doing a bit of reading. Though, which I think is amusing, what I believe starts out as a bit of innocent science fiction here, or a bit of semi-autobiographal fun there, turn out inevitably to be about someone with a mental illness.

Which is almost amusing because at one point Ms. Plath mentions her protagonist can only seem to get through works on abnormal psychology.

But this isn't the same, it's just an amusing little tidbit. This week I consumed a collection of Gene Wolfe's short stories, (wherein The Death of Dr. Island provided that book's tale of mental illness), The Bell Jar by the aforementioned Ms. Plath (Though, in hindsight, she's really Mrs. Hughes), and An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison. Mind is something I've been recomending to friends recently.

The J-Bot lent me the Gene Wolfe collection and today loaned me a collection of works by Max Klinger, as well as a paper on Painting and Drawing by Mr. Klinger. Need moar knowledge. And poetry. Much more poetry. Anyone want to suggest poets? I need more of them.

A Villanelle

By Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I life my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in"
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Friday, December 24, 2010

I love dwarves.

"1st Limestone 1051
Elf spit. I want elf spit over all this tower and would chortle. The bastard bellowed to plow a field. I am a hardened dreg. I never built a crop that was not murder. I told him I squeeze blood into a mug there is your ale."

I especially love people who write from the dwarven point of view- even more specially when that point of view comes from a certain game called Dwarf Fortress.

Even if you are a stranger to the game, this individual's journal is fantastic.

For her

A poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,-so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

You ever feel

You're an alien trapped in a coma
and everyone else is an extension of your consciousness
or alien beings outside in the other world
telling you to wake up
just let go of this dream land of nightmares and ghosts
wake up and let go
and everything will be fine

'Cause I hate when that feeling doesn't go away. 'Specially when I'm having a beer.

Just thought I'd share.

I need to not drink a pot of coffee in a day