A Poison Tree

A Poison Tree
by William Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

Dreamer, Wake Unto Me

I've come to the conclusion that the reason why the Dream Guardian prevents me from having any lucid dreams--sometimes going as far as to use violence--is because he knows that if I ever do succeed, I'll never let myself wake-up again...

"Yeah, But Big Al Also Says Dogs Can't Look Up." [Spring Semester '08]

I find myself thinking about a lot of things lately. Rather, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I have been trying to think about a lot of things lately. Unfortunately, whenever I make the attempt my mind gets muddled up in all the ultimately unimportant distractions in life. I think I'm going to try taking more solo hikes in the school's nature preserve, in order to free up ram in my head so that my brain can process some more important programs.

I really don't watch tv anymore, aside from my guilty pleasures in reality tv (which doesn't really count anyway, since reality tv isn't really tv). However, there are two programs which I follow with a near fanatical passion, those being LOST (whose fourth season premiere I missed tonight) and Heroes. Being the passionate geek that I am, I also look into any ancillaries these television programs put out in an attempt to enrich my viewing experience. For Heroes, they come in the form of graphic novels run by the NBC website. One of the previous chapters focused on the then-newcomer to the Heroes cast, West, an angst-ridden teenage boy with the ability to fly. The chapter posed an interesting point. While most of the Heroes characters do their best to hide their abilities from the general public, West never made such an attempt. He would fly around in broad daylight, sometimes mere feet above the very school which he was skipping out on. Why, you ask? Because people don't look up. I could not help but admire the insightfulness of this observation. We as a society, are so wrapped up in the responsibilities and pleasures of this world, that we sometimes completely forget the beautiful miracles around us. It is something which, unfortunately, is too often taken for granted. Since reading that chapter, I have made an effort to look up whenever possible, and each time my head returns to its starting position, my soul returns satisfied. At night, I gaze off into the infinite blackness of space and admire the glory of the starry sky. During the day, I watch as the clouds float by, amorphous, taking any form I desire. I marvel at the sheer span of that grand blue dome, and try to comprehend it. At dusk, the setting sun chooses not to go quietly into the night, and rends the sky with streaks of color so awe-inspiring that even heaven itself must become jealous. I have never once regretted looking up, and every time I do, life chooses some new way to thank me for not forgetting it.

I'm not sure exactly what kind of dogs Big Al was talking about, but I pity them.

If Only They Had Viagra Back Then...

I believe it is a widely accepted "rule of thumb" that when a person is at their own personal low, his creative potential is at its own personal pique...

Two semesters ago I posted a poem that I had read in my Creative Writing class by Maxine Kumin, whose...let's just say "uniqueness", had piqued my interest. I had no intention of making this a regular event, but it seems that fate has drawn me to yet another class with interesting poetry selections. This time around, it's my British Literature class.

Now, what follows is, according to my own preferences, a good poem. However, the material covered within is well within the boundaries of what several individuals I know would consider "pornography". Whether or not I agree with that is beside the point. The question that rests on my mind after reading this is "What exactly forms the line that separates literature from smut?" What exactly is the justification for a work like this to be kept in the literature section of a bookstore well segregate from a work like this?

While I appreciate the art behind this specific piece of 17th century literature, I must be honest and admit that I laughed out loud (LOL'd, for those of you that are computer savvy) at various points. May it bring you the same joy as it brought me.

The Imperfect Enjoyment
by John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightning, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done 't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart--
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made--
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his King or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valor is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to they prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt,
Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who didst refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

Unfinished

I get worried sometimes.

I find it difficult to finish things. There are days when I think I'll never actually finish anything I've started.

I think I get it from my dad. He'll start a project around the house or in the backyard and always leave it half done, never to be touched again until my mom nags him half to death about it.

I worry that I'll never fully realize my goals of learning Spanish and Japanese. Both are languages that I feel a strong connection to; Spanish is the tongue of my heritage and I've always felt a deep connection to Japanese culture. Yet after all these years my skill level with Spanish is at the Intermediate level at best. My Japanese is going slower than I'd like, since I'm teaching myself, but it's going well. Still, I wonder how long that will last. Will I be able to see it through to the end?

My biggest fear is the that I will never finishing my story. It's something that I have been working on for years. In my mind it's nearly a fully completed epic, but I've yet to fully commit it to corporeality. Why not? It's one of my biggest dreams, yet I can't seem to get around to actually making it happen. I always let other things take priority, even though I know I shouldn't. Even right now, my writing this blog post is a prime example of the very subject I am writing about.

Pathetic to the brink of comedy.

A Brave, New Year

And by the ticking of a clock, a new era rises and the old one is left to be neglected by the past.

Most people use the New Year as a chance to look forward to a new future, to make plans on how to better themselves; whether physically, morally, emotionally, what have you. Still, too often we--as humans--completely forget about the year past, as if it were a book to be closed and squeezed among other dusty volumes on a shelf. Instead, the entire New Year's experience should be looked at as a book that has finally been published after what seems like ages of work on it. Rather than ignoring it, we should read through the final project, despite how intimate of a connection we already feel with it. That way, we can be prepared to create an even better volume in the following year's publication. That, to me, is far more efficient than simply making ridiculous self-promises and hoping for the best as you dash haphazardly into an uncertain tomorrow.

So, in an attempt to practice what I preach, here are some things that I learned about myself and the world I live in this year:

--The internet is amazing; me and my generation are so spoiled, it's ridiculous.

--If I am not careful, I will never get anything done in life. It is my nature to leave things open-ended, unfinished, and unfulfilled.

--I am finally starting to figure out who I am. And it feels great, because for the first time it's beginning to feel like I am real.

--I cannot change the world, but I can affect individual people. All I can do is adapt, contort, and survive until I meet those chosen few.

--I always have and still can count my true friends on my fingers. For them, I am truly grateful.

--The ability to communicate using language is a beautiful miracle that people tend to take for granted. I am learning to appreciate it more and more each day.

--There is so much to this world that nobody ever gets the chance to experience. I have to see it all, even if it kills me.

--It does not matter what language a song is in, it's the music that speaks to you.

--Reading is one of the most important actions any youth can partake in. Without literature, society will waste away and the world will come to end.

--There's more to God than what religion has to offer.

And probably one of the most important revelations I have received this past year: there is no such thing as a mistake. Every action that I have ever taken was and will be necessary, for better or for worse. And I won't be able to tell what affected what until my final New Year's, when I can finally look back at the entire library on my book shelf.

The Power of Man

Going into this video, I was stoked. I could not wait to see some awesome explosion videos. By the end of it I was almost sick of seeing them, and couldn't help but think to myself, "My God, what have we done?"