Dark Savants

A poem that I -think- is complete.

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A little peek from midnight’s window
Tells me there’s a limping doe
What a pity, what a pain
What a pretty little shame
And what a waste of Autumn flesh
A little peak through midnight’s window
Down the trail does see go
Down the trail doe she go
Down the tail, friend nor foe
But just her spot of sanctity
Though give it just a day and see
How these things sort themselves out
See how they become something bigger, or smaller
As the world decides their fit
Into the greater, grander, grosser, gleaming web of
Mystery
Of dusty pleas and destiny
Of dancing luminary sea
And see that sea
Come see with me!
There’s nothing to compare
To round the cape at stormy morning
Something dark and yet forlorn
Of emptiness, will sweep you up
And take you where you ought to go
So go, and treat once with despite;
This shadow isn’t lack of light
But rather it’s a lovely sight
But rather it’s the grandest show
Once you glimpse the misty wispy
Clouds that hang below the sky
And see the colors shifting simply
Simply lovely, sweetly sigh
A perfect truth you used to know
Will draw you deep into the throes
Of a place you had begotten
Towards the place that you forgot when
All the world had told you “no”
It’s lost, not gone
please put your faith
Into your own secret tongue
From which your soul is wrung and from
and from which all our worlds are sprung
The rooster crows and crow, he caws
And all the Universe of difference
Would lead neither one to doubt his advance
Too many are too blinded - think they’re fine
within their toil. But a look up from the soil
To the colored clouds above
Lets them hear their secret songs
And then dancing in among those secret words
They’ll realize
Finally, they’ll realize that while they never had it wrong
It was never what it could be.
It was never naked harvest near enough to honest living
It was never naked harvest… and the moon
The stars, now shining, show us each our secret sanctity
The coalescing colored clouds sing us each our secret song
The rooster crows, the crow, he caws,
The world decides what these things mean, if anything at all
And the doe, she limps along
And watching her through midnight’s window
Fresh from the fray
Full of failure and bound for more
I see the misty skies above
streaked with awe and pain and love
And I realize
Finally, I realize that nobody gets to the source of Trouble
Faster than the Dark Savants
I’m pretty arbitrary, when it suits me

Space is a big place

The other morning, after celebrating the birthday of a friend the night before, I came home at 3:00 AM and sat on the couch. I had intended to get on the computer to continue a conversation I had been having online before going home, but I was too tired to do anything physical, so instead I just lay there, thinking. Before long, I found myself pondering infinity.

I've done this before, on a limited basis, but I had never really appreciated the fullness of infinity. Even that morning, I'm sure I didn't reach the end of it. However, this morning I went further than I ever have. Space is a big place. It's difficult to think about it going on forever. There has to be an end somewhere right? There can't just continue to be new content, right? There's not just infinite black, right?

But then, what about the alternative? There can't just be an end to things. That's absurd. If existence just stops somewhere, then...well, just no. That can't be right. There are no walls in existence, are there?

Eventually, though, I found myself someplace I could accept. It's not so difficult to imagine Earth circling the Sun, nor the entire solar system, nor the Milky Way. It's not difficult to imagine other galaxies, even. I figure, then, that it just gets bigger and bigger. There's no largest increment that is charged with stretching on forever. It just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and as a result, every layer has a sort of finiteness to it. That's comfortable to me.

Of course, it can work in the other direction too. We, nor our cells, nor our atoms are the smallest thing out there. Maybe there's an infinite line of even smaller things. Maybe there's just an infinite line of things. We're just somewhere between the start and end to infinity.

Well...yeah. We're just somewhere between the start and end to infinity.

Also: What if the only relic an alien race will find of human existence is a doorknob?

Once upon yesterday

I heard a joke yesterday, and I realized it had been my favorite joke for a time, many years ago, but I had totally forgotten it:

What do you call a black pilot?

???

A pilot, you racist asshole.

I know how to do some things...

...things you only imagine. I could tell you what sorts of things they are, but I'm not going to, and I'll tell you why. It's not because they don't have words. They do, and if I used those words, you would understand the sort of things I was talking about. The problem, though, is that I have a very particular - pure, even - connection with what I know how do to. If I put words to these things and show them to you, you'll muddy them, and that's no good. I want to spend time with my pure things, and I don't need you to know what those things are to enjoy them. I'll just love them here on my own. Thanks.

I don't know if that really happened...

There's a game I play online. It's entirely text-based. I like it perhaps a little too much. In it, there are six major organizations: four cities and two forests. I have a character in every one of these places. The most recent one is in the "dark forest," in a guild of druids who praise the spirit of Crow. Crow has four "Aspects:" Blood Thirst, Black Sorrow, False Memory and Dark Spirit. For an advancement task, my character wrote about one of them:

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CONSIDERATIONS ON FALSE MEMORY

Of the four Aspects of Brother Crow: Blood Thirst, Black Sorrow, False

Memory and Dark Spirit, False Memory captivates me the most. The

significance of the Aspect is that everything in Crow's past is

wonderful; no ill has every come of His actions. False Memory tells us

we are able to re-write our histories to fit our perfection, a

perfection born from serving the Glomdoring.

Of course this is indisputable. However, False Memory, as all Aspects,

may be interpreted differently among individuals. Crow, a known

trickster, is able to alter His past, so banishing any semblance of

weakness or wrongdoing. What memory is false here? Perhaps it is that

Crow conjures successes to cast away His failings. A trickster such as

He will happily insert tales of greatness into a checkered past, some of

which may not be true. He floods the world with False Memory painting

Him in a superior light.

I disagree. I believe that the failings are the faulty recollections. I

cannot accept that Crow, beholder of the pure Dark Spirit, could ever

have been a futile creature in any respect. Rather than swarming the

past with False Memory to cowardly disguise, Crow instead purges False

Memory from record, expunging unfounded accusations of imperfection.

There are many slanderous claims issued towards Crow from around the

Basin; there are many who claim Crow to be an inferior and menial force.

By the power of His Black Sorrow Crow recognizes these claims as the

result of a fear of Him, and of envy. In hopes of disfiguring the beauty

they cannot themselves achieve, they bombard Crow with tales of

ineptitude and loss. These comprise the False Memory Crow faces, and

thus it is His foes who rely on deception in order to serve their

purposes.

Because of Crow's perfection, His foes struggle to invent condemnations.

Much of what they say, then, rests upon the the changes in Crow's life

and work. They distinguish change as admittance of a past mistake, be it

a mistake in means, methodology or pursuit. This is fool's logic. Crow,

with Blood Thirst thriving within Him, works diligently towards His

goals; at every turn He executes carefully calculated actions that bring

Him nearer to His infinite, ultimate end. A change in means is to be

expected as the world shifts. A change in methodology is applied

precision, whereby Crow aptly deals with situations individually. A

change in pursuit does not exist for Crow; it is His foolish desecrators

who mistake short-term goals with the long-term goals He flies towards.

Thus, a blind outsider might think Crow changes, might think Crow has

been wrong in the past. In fact He is never wrong. He simply does what

is needed when it needs doing, even if what He does resembles a fault in

the eyes of the ignorant.

Some may think to disarm this argument by mentioning Crow's renown for

playing tricks. "False Memory is only deception," they demand, "for Crow

knows only how to lie." What they do not understand is that Crow is

playing the tricks, not relying on them like some crutch for the weak.

Crow's games are for His amusement and pleasure; they are a ridicule of

those slander-spewers who do lean upon deceit to get by. His trickery is

His pleasant respite in His continual efforts, and by no means is it a

sign of weakness. Crow has no weakness, and any indication of such is a

False Memory, requiring dispelling.

Praise be to Brother Crow.

How to build a flower

So a few weeks ago, my grandparents invited me to dinner. My grandfather called me up one day and invited me for food the next day. Now, every time we get together, there's somebody else there. Every time they invite me over, my aunt or cousin or uncle or great aunt or great uncle or some friends of theirs or some combination thereof will also be there, making it a group event, and keeping me from just spending time with my grandparents. I've actually once tried to spend time with just them--it was the first time I called and asked to come over. When I got there, my great aunt and uncle were there. I didn't mind so much, because I like them a lot, and I don't know dinner with just my grandparents would be (potentially a little awkward). When I got the call the other week, though, my grandfather very specifically mentioned "there's no lineup of people; it'll be just us the three of us." I was looking forward to it, out of curiosity, largely.

When I got there, we spent a little time watching Olympic coverage, and then I was told we were going out to a restaurant to meet some friend of theirs. I wasn't surprised, really. We were going to an Italian Place in Mountain View called Frankie, Johnnie And Luigi, Too!. We were to be dining with a couple: Bob and Antoinette, along with a man who apparently is simply called "The Doc." I was really looking forward to meeting this guy. When we got to the restaurant, my expectations about the man with the mysterious appellation. He was a white-haired shorter, older man hunched over a can, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and inspecting things with a fittingly somewhat evil-looking appraisal, especially when he was having trouble hearing something. It turns out he was really nice, as with everybody there.

After we had some nice delicious dinner (I had chicken fettuccine alfredo), we were sitting around chatting in our nice little corner booth. When we got there, the place was crowded, but by the time we were finished eating, it was pretty much cleared. While we were idling, I did what I usually do at restaurants: make a flower from a napkin. It's something I learned a long time ago in a book called "The Giant Book of Sneaky Feats," which is very literally a book teaching the reader how to be a show-off. From it, I also learned how to slice a banana without disturbing the peel.

I had had some dessert, and as a result, I had an ornate glass goblet, on which I placed my flower. That's the furthest I usually go. This time, though, I had Antoinette encourage me to continue on. The final product was pleasing to me. We happened to have a sugar cube from somebody's coffee order, and also some cherry stems from my ice cream. While we were waiting to be seated, I knocked a toothpick from the holder, and stuck it in my pocket, so I had that to carve a little hole into the sugar cube, into which I stuck the cherry stems. I set that on the flower and sprinkled some yellow pepper flakes over the result, giving me the best restaurant flower I've ever made. Whee.

Good game. Check it out.

I'm very fond of Internet Checkers, which is a game preloaded on to various computers I get, apparently because of Windows. Checkers is a simple game, but a fun one, and playing against a live opponent is facilitated by this program. In fact, it's so simple that you can only communicate with your opponent with a list previously chosen comment.

It's interesting to me that they add this capability even though it's so limited. Some of them ease an abandoned player ("Sorry, I have to go now" "Be right back..."), while others ease the impatient ones ("I'm thinking...").

The sentences I use most often are the simple little ones reflecting everyday politeness. I begin every game with "Hello. Good luck!" The exception here is if my opponent has turned off their chat, by which my opinion of them is immediately lowered.

From this point on, there are several possibilities which will ultimately determine how much I like a person, based entirely on their skill and how they use the chat box, if at all. The first area people can get points is the greeting. If they have chat open, and they respond with a "Hello," I give them points. It's not uncommon to then receive either a "Thank you!" or a matching "Good luck!" If this does happen, they get further credit. Overwhelmingly, they don't say anything, but so long as they haven't turned the chat off, I consider this acceptable.

From here on, skill does most of the talking. I do not consider myself a master at checkers (I played at the intermediate level), but I feel l like I have a pretty solid grasp of the game. It's not uncommon for me to be totally obliterated, nor is it uncommon for me to sweep the board and claim victory with ease. I will, however, always endure until the bitter end.

The reason for this is that, all too often, I will suddenly be winning, and my opponent will leave the game. This is offensive to me, a player, who wants to play his game. That loses them major points. Sometimes, if they're ballsy, they request a draw. Yeah. Right. At least it's better than leaving. I will always reject a draw unless I feel like it's well-deserved. At this point, if they continue playing, they basically regain any potential lost points.

Towards the end of the game, I have to decide my closing comments to my opponent. "Good game" is the option I use, but I have come to use it sparingly, and only if I really thought the game was good. There are some criteria for this:

-If I win too easily, it was not a good game.

-If I win too easily and I wasn't trying, it was definitely not a good game.

-If I wasn't trying and I lose, it was not a good game.

-If I was trying and my opponent mops the floor with my face, it was not a good game.

-If I wasn't trying but it didn't seem like the opponent was either, it was a good enough game.

-If I was trying, and there was a struggle, it was a good game.

Now, these are general circumstances, and each game deserves its own consideration. Generally, though, a "good game" is issued. There can, however, be great games. These are recognizable by the massive about of conversation that goes on between my opponent and me, even considering our limited contact. This has happened to me twice.

The first time, it was a long and hard game, where we kept essentially equal. Eventually, a large jump was made by both of us, and we found ourselves equally matched with very few pieces. I sent out a ":-)", which was returned. We whittled away at each other until we each had only one piece left. It's possible that I'm lying here, and that (s)he had just one piece, and I had two, but we were both being stubborn and not letting the game end. This resulted in a draw, and lots of smilie faces.

The second time was a game that was mostly in gridlock, until suddenly most of our pieces were destroyed. At one point I was at a clear disadvantage, about to lose, but turned things around just a tiny bit. At this point I was offered a draw. I still had a piece on the board, so no thank you. A move or two later I was bound to lose and I put out the "good game," which I like to do early in case my check-mate leaves too soon, but my opponent then made the one move that guaranteed defeat (it was surprising, considering that there were several moves that would have guaranteed a win). (S)He threw me a sad face, which made me feel sort of terrible. I sent out a "it was luck," so to help him/her feel better, and several other "good game"s and a "thank you!". The game then ended.

Both of those games were sort of sweet to me. It felt more or less like an actual conversation was happening. I know that none of you care, but that's okay. I'm only writing this for a class assignment anyway. This isn't to say, of course, that I'll never get into it. I'm just not into it now.

Goodnight.