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Sat, Aug. 21st, 2004, 09:19 pm
grimarcher: (no subject)

MurderersCollapse )

Wed, Aug. 4th, 2004, 03:09 am
grimarcher: Deus Non Est Hic

Today the human race stands in the bleak light of discovery, as Man’s true place in the universe has been determined. For millennia scientist, theologians, and philosophers have pointed the spyglass upwards into the black fields of space, and downwards into DNA, and further into atoms in order to catch a glimpse of the Truth; any reason for mankind to be here, or anywhere. Today, the wheels of that journey have ceased moving. An answer has been found, and the Truth is as depressing as it is anticlimactic.
A joint venture of computer engineers, black hole physicists, and mathematicians have published their finding – yes, singular. Three generations of searching have yielded a unified theory of everything, and the ramifications of such, being that there is no great design for us. We are alone in our quiet little corner of the universe.
The book, tactfully entitled A Mathematical Exploration of Quantum Gravity and its Relation to Human Behavior and the Cosmos is an imposing read. In short, don’t bother. The editing is horrific; 20 pages in, and the reader is swimming in scientific jargon. But a panel of scientists explained the meaning of it in layman terms and that, according to their findings, the universe was created 8.4 billion years ago, by a big bang, just as postulated, and Homo sapiens share a common ancestor with an ape.
Here is my take on the matter. If there is nobody controlling us from On High, and we are truly alone in the universe, then we have achieved what some have always dreamed of: freedom. We have the psychological freedom to do whatever we want with ourselves, because in the end, nothing we do could possibly matter.
For those of you who don’t know, suicide rates are skyrocketing, and will continue to rise till the very last weak-willed religious person decides his or her god has left them ends it. I predict murder rates are going to shoot up exponentially, starting with the scientists that published Quantum Gravity. Maybe they’ll even be crucified as heathens by the stronger Faithful.
But in the end – and here’s the important part – after we’ve gotten all the hysteria out of our system, humanity will undergo an enormous change. Most of the worlds’ peoples will continue their lives as if nothing has changed, because none of it has, since they never thought about the existence of God anyway. For the others – myself included – a new paradigm will form, of people trying to find meaning in the vacuum. And that means creating one. People will pick a reason to live, and devote themselves entirely to it. Some already have. I doubt this is news to anybody.
But as we all begin the first day of the rest of our lives, remember that one word. Freedom. Millions have died for it, and now we are forced to live with it.

Fri, Jul. 23rd, 2004, 01:52 am
grimarcher: Thoughts from the early morning...

We all need to start writing more, goddammit. There is no excuse for slacking off here! just kidding.

A Time for SleepCollapse )

Now, what I would like is if everybody could tell me what sort of mood they feel this piece carries. Just one word would be nice, but if it has to be more, that's acceptable.

Sat, Jul. 17th, 2004, 11:58 pm
grimarcher: The Legend Timothy Sexton

This short vignette represents a combolation of the man I hope to be, and the man I'm afraid I will become.

The short storyCollapse )

Mon, Jun. 21st, 2004, 08:34 pm
originalskin: From Here to the Hereafter

[This is just a set of lyrics I worked up for my new band position, and I was wondering what y'all thought of them. I thought the community was appropriate, because it is written work, technically. Think of it as a poem, I've seen plenty of those.]

Sitting in my mother’s van,
Sucking down life and listening
For the sounds of our hearts
And the secret track on Sticks and Stones

And you’re not sure,
But I know well
That I’m not ready

And you sing

From here to the hereafter
I’ll always be in love with your song,
But that don’t mean that I love you
So keep singing while I sing along.

And whether we take the time to notice
That the time and weather have changed
Our hearts and minds open fire on
The fiery open plane.

And you sing

From here to the hereafter
I’ll always wait with your song,
But that don’t mean that I’m waiting for you
So keep singing while I sing along.

And you sing...

Wed, Jun. 16th, 2004, 10:49 pm
ayte: Assuming

Time tempts me.
Every beat, every breath, every whimpered moment
that I lie in the darkness fills me with more emptiness
than the beat, than the breath, than the moment before.

Sweet little girl inside, sweet breaking point, sweet weakness.
The darkness I knew before, the soldier standing guard,
the evil I once blamed for me, my sadness,
that evil isn't beating me, that evil isn't small.
That evil isn't even evil at all.

This beater, this hater, this woman is me.

I cannot love the weakness
I cannot love the shame
I cannot love the needy
Or the object of my blame.

I spurn the weakness, hate the fear
I neglect the place that burns

I am the unmaker
The hand behind the whip
I am the unmaker
The thought controlling bitch
I am the unmaker
I neglect, I tear, I hate
I am the unmaker
This woman is me

Wed, Jun. 16th, 2004, 10:49 pm
ayte: Death Seed

Inside my heart there lies a seed,
Long split and broke apart,
At first a sprout, but now a vine,
Still wrapped around my heart.

And tightly wrapped, though squeezing hard,
This new plant still does grow;
Now strengthened vine, wrapped tight, wrapped fine,
Now bursting leaves and stalk

My ribcage burst with foliage,
My stomach wrapped with twine,
And ever downwards, futile searching,
These roots still prick my spine.

I'm overgrown, both flesh and bone, with this small seed of sorrow.

Just water, soil, shine
To make this seed a vine,
Yet no strong feat has yet returned
A plant from whence it's spurned

How to collapse so huge a sorrow?
How to return to seed?
There is no strength that I could borrow,
And to whom'd I repay the deed?

I'm overgrown, both flesh and bone, and nothing changes me.

Tue, Jun. 1st, 2004, 12:32 am
ayte: Pixel Market

Marketing the fear and desires of a PC generation,
an airbrushed, photoshopped life regeneration.
Passing on the sorrow,
the soul-bleeding reparations
like the born and bred Kazaamunists we are.

Take it back,
send us forth,
an army for your hatred,
a hospice for your love,
a fleet of little humans for your angered hungry gods.

Give us butter, give us oil,
give us flat screened distractions,
give us info, give us terror,
give us bombs, and give us lovers.
I don’t want more and we can’t bear less,
so forget all that and take this test.

I feel this hunger,
in myself, in my world,
and this asphalt stretch beneath me.
Driven forward, driven onward, driven inward.

Take this pill,
vault this wall,
grab this pistol,
hide this soul.

Carpeting and vinyl,
supersized, miniaturized, screwed and bolted in,
double-paned and insulated,

bear it in mind,
bare and open minds,
heartbeats and spirographs, and fluctuating memory.

Rewire, rework, rebuild.
Hard disk's spinning.

Try again, deep-fried sin, dopamine and Ritalin.
Heal your brothers, heal each other, raise your hand,
fuck another.

Sun, May. 30th, 2004, 02:13 am
ayte: opening

I see a doorway. A plain, heavy, white doorway, at the end of the hall. It's a long hall, with doors all down the sides. But those doors are all open. I can only see into the rooms nearest me, a little farther away I see just a portion of the side walls, the later just the doorjam. The doors near the last door, the closed door, are just frames to me, at this angle.

At this moment, only the farthest door holds any interest to me. I believe it is my human curiosity, combined with my sense of symmetry that does this to me. In this hallway, 50 doors on either side, I care nothing for room 27 (halfway down, on the right), even less for room 12 (6 doors down on the left). I wonder only at door 101. It has no number. I can't see that from here, but I know it won't when I approach. I know this becuase I've seen the door before, and because it would be silly to think that it would be numbered. Door number 101 isn't the same. Door number 101 might be more like door number 1 that hangs open and empty behind me.

I could say that my curiosity extends to every room in the hall, that the only reason I will not explore them all is because I have been here before. That is a lie. I have already seen all there is to see here (and probably more), save the last door. But that is not why I feel no urge to search these rooms. Truth knows that I never felt strongly curious about any of the rooms. Not until I found I could never know what lies beyond door number 101. The first time I arrived I acted much as I act now: single minded, callous, and unexcited by these peripheral portals. I stride quickly down the hallway, with nary a glance to the rooms I pass.

This floor of the building (all I know of the building) has all sorts of rooms. There are living rooms, small apartments, hospital rooms, playrooms, and a garage with large and locked doors, save the one always open to the hallway. This building, this floor (are there others? What is behind door 101?) is insanity. It's diverse and without discernible order. I am convinced the rooms rearrange themselves between my visits. And it is utterly devoid of life.

The first time I entered the yellow playroom with pastel hot air balloons plasteres to the walls, a modest beach call rolled across the floor, as though abandoned. I had to catch a tea kettle once, as it whistled away into steam. The kettle almost burnt before I found the room by sound. Everything echoes here.

It is a dream landscape. It is filled with my memory, I think. There are some rooms I have no present memory of, but with the number of recognizable rooms filling this hall, I've come to believe these unknown have merely been buried beneath my concious mind.

There is an empty circus tent, one wall hard and predictable, the others fabric, light, red, flowing with an unknown breeze. It is presumably constructed of the vague memory of the circus I visited in Germany at the the tender age of three.

Sometimes the hall seems to hum with sounds just ceased.

I am tired of this world. There is only one ending to this dream, as is usual in dreams of this nature. I know I must open the final door. No matter how long I spend within the rooms and spinal hall, there is no waking until the Door is opened. Once I sliced myself, from elbow crook to wrist (a wound most often deadly before the second arm is harmed) with a serated bread knife I found in a drawer in my grandmother's kitchen. It was her tea kettle I once let burn. I bled the Euphrates before I ended the pain. I'm not sure how I got the Door open with my warm, slippery mess all over the handle.

In the end I open the Door. I open it to a whiteness so bright it fills my ears with blindness.

I wake up to darkness, screaming and thrashing at my ignorance. I calm and cry myself into a second sleep, now dreamless.

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