Concerning Tauntauns, Theramore, and Tebow.

I know it has been quite awhile since my last post, but alas the holiday season tends to fry my brain quite thouroughly, so this post will not be filled with some random literary oddity, but with just the randomness of reality.

As some of you (prolly most considering the popularity of this blog) might have noticed, there was quite the epic tweetversation concerning tauntauns and their application in the fashion industry. For those of you who do not know what a tauntaun is, please consult wikipedia or The Empire Strikes Back, for it will not be furnished here. Now, as far as utility goes, the tauntaun ranks in my top five bipedal forms of transportation. (Also making the list, chocobos, emus,moas, and other humans) Its ability to survive in cold weather leads even the most scrutinous observer to produce the fact that tauntaun fur must insulate well. This I do not dispute. My trepidation in embracing the tauntaun coat is the fact that it stinks. Now some may say that the warmth the beast provides would override the odor, I believe this can really only stand on its own merit in extreme situations of survival. Take for example sewer rats, a plentiful fur supply if there ever was one. Not loved, so no one would complain about their loss, and adaptable to almost any condition possible. So why does no one wear sewer rat coats? Because they smell. Same with the tauntaun, it wouldn't work. Turpentine and flame couldn't get that smell out.

Aside from Star Wars universe fashion speculation, been goofing off on the WoW. Finished off the night in Theramore, with that prick of a fisherman, Nat Pagle. If i was the world's best fisherman, i'd be damned if i was gonna live in a swamp.

So Tebow lost Heisman, what is the deal that people aren't going to NoLa for the bowl? If i had the money i would be there right now.

Sorry for the abrupt prose, but it's late and i'm tired.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Where are you now, Cameron Fry? The world turns its lonely eyes to you....

Albrecht Durer

The horse slowly marched toward some imperceptible destination. All that went through its mind was the desire to gnash its teeth on some cruncy oats. The years of war and strife had not been kind to the quadriped. Its once lustrous white coat was now worn and unkempt, as if each of the tens of thousands of miles that its hoofs had seen had etched a miniscule burnish upon its skin. Now, like an ill-fitting coat, its skin hung ajar, leaving spectators to gawk in curiosity and shame. Still, somehow, the horse continued to meander forward. It was the steadfast devotion the horse had for its master that kept it going. Throughout the violence and the weariness, the master had always fed the horse and shown it affection. This knowledge and certainty of what lay eventually in the future pushed the drive of the horse. Yet, the exhaustion was inevitable. The horse tried to keep to rhythm of the hooves on the well-trodden dirt path constant, but everysooften a malicious root or capricious rock would force the weary stallion to adjust its path. Stay the course, the horse muttered to itself. (Now there are some that insist in this world that they can speak to horses and maybe even hear their faint whispers, this is ridiculously absurd, only horses can understand other horses, silly) Clipclopclipclopclippityopopop. The illucid song represented the wisdom that had etched itself into that equine brain over the years. Every obstacle, every charging beserker, even that hellacious sulfuric firestorm near Acre, the horse knew how to deliver its fare safely against those seemingly insurmountable odds. The battles and the voyages this steed had suffered and undertaken should have granted it notoriety on par with the mount of Alexander, yet alas there is no chronicler for the deeds of horses. As he meandered forward, the shuffling hooves still completing their task, the horse began feel an encroaching dark presence, nay two of them, seeming ready to envelop him in folly. Now if only the small, four leggedd nuisance that was accompanying them would stop running around his legs. It was getting difficult to continue without crushing the loathsome abberation.

It was a crisp fall afternoon in central europe. The scent of crisp autumn leaves mingled with the aroma of the freshly harvested hops. It was a great day to be a dog. And nothing was better than serving his master. The best was fetching birds and rabbits when they went hunting, because usually then the master let him have some of the spoils of the hunt. Though it had been a long time since they had been hunting. The landscape had change as well, there had been no birds that let loose a joyous song, and the rabbits were woefully skinny. Forests and mountains had given way to sand, more sand, and heat. There was little to like about this new place, and the dog was glad to leave it and return home. The only thing that kept him going was the presence of his master, whom he lived to serve and please. The increasing familiarity of his surroundings also lifted the dogs soul, almost as much as a soup bone. Yet, darting around the legs of the beleagured warhorse, the canine sensed that something was awry.

What a dumb dog, thought the knight, he is gonna get himself killed running around those hooves like that. It was only because the stallion was old and had survived countless battles that the rapacious playfulness of the hound had not startled the horse. With much regret the knight realized that this long and steadfast relatinship might have to come to an end soon. It seemed wrong to have an animal so valiant turned into an adhesive. This melancholy turned into trepidation as he sensed that there was something amiss in his surroundings. He pulled taut on the reins and the horse abruptly came to a halt. The dog needed no coaxing and took refuge beneath one of the stallion's legs, visibly shaking. The world stood still, the sun was swallowed by the moon, and all that was light turned into darkness. Two figures, one on each side of the path, arose in the gloom and snickered. There was no aid, the knight would have to face this task by himself. The pallid figure was excruciatingly skinny, yet his skin was pulled so taught that one could see every bone in his body. His eyes were dark and sunken, his face contorted into a macabre grin that seemed knowingly to have the endgame in its favor. In its left hand was perched an hourglass, framed by what seemed ivory, or was that bone? Only a few grains were left in the upper tier, and the hand which held the hourglass seemed poised to beckon the knight forward. The right hand grasped a scythe firmly, the knuckles ready to burst out of the skin containing them. There was to be a reaping, and it was up to the harvest to resist. A torn, tattered, and hooded black robe hung onto the maniacal frane. Whatever menace the first figure eminated was dimmed next to the vile putrescence of evil which was the second's aura. There was nothinh human about it except the two arms and legs it possessed, and it was only a similarity, not in form. The legs were that of a goat, and the hooves burned the very earth it touched. The torso was that of a wolf, and the arms were stolen from a mantis, though albeit surely one that did not pray. The head returned to the form of a goat, bleating out its curses from a forked tongue. The horns on its head as gnarled and crooked as the soul it possessed. Yet they still pitched their sweet songs, this devilishly macabre pair, yet the only honey was in the lies and falsehoods of their promises. Yet, somehow the knight was allured by these dastardly sails pitches. He was tired, and had he not stared death in the face a thousand times before. Maybe it was time to put down his lance and hisn convictions. The imaginary comfort of corrujption felt so warm......

I was at : 4308 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

The Hand of the Medusa

1966 Rolling Stones

Je suis l'ange de la mort, perché sur la crâne des mécontents. Je me nourris sur la désespoir et la folie de la condition humaine. Je suis partout et je suis nulle par. Me voit dans le miroire, parce que vous ne me faites pas d'attention dans l'éspace réel. Toutes les cauchesmares et les voix invisibles sont des maniféstations de ma douleur, de mon éxistence. Ma parole c'est silent, mais elle dérange les plus fort des ésprits, immobilise les plus forts des hommes. La mort, c'est un fait, et moi, son noble servant, obéissant, terrifiant. La chaire pourrie des ripoux me semble un canard rôti, le sang des violents d'un Bordeaux éxtravagant. Vous-vous croyez digne de me regarder aux yeux? Alors, vous êtes courageux, parce que mes yeux sont la porte de l'enfer, et le regard la scythe de la mort elle-même. De me connaître, c'est de connaître le désastrre et la catastrophe, de goûter la nile de la haîne. En verité. personne me connait, il ne peuvent pas, je suis l'homme qui force des autres à traverser la rue. Je suis la solitude vue par les suicides, je suis la feu des maniacs de pyro. Des kleptos essayent de me voler, mais tous qu'ils peuvent voler, c'est leurs âmes. La condition humaine c'est d'éviter la mort, de m'ignorer, mais sans la mort, on n'est pas humain, on est sur-naturel. Donc, je suis la condition humaine.

The mental great white north

Looking up from the bed,
The fan blades twirl around.
Always trying to gain some ground,
Yet never seeming to get ahead.
They eyes dialate,
The darckness encroaches.
The glittering broaches,
Resigned to their fate.
Excitement is sparse,
The clouds are grey.
Yet those I encounter push me away,
Society is a farce.
To say that culture is bleak,
Is still too bold.
A curse borne by the old,
Remenisence is what they seek.
A riot must start
For minds to be swayed,
New foundations made,
To create what is art.
For jester is dead,
Screeched in the sky.
The end brought night,
For prisoners cast in lead.
A failure to change,
A want for stasis,
Misery in it's basis,
Humanity's mange.
Some young, some old,
Do not stir.
At this lack of fur
They see still equals gold
And was is new is evil.
Through ignorance they speak,
For their minds are weak,
But not is their will.
Artists must take up this fight
And tear off the blanket of snow,
To let the human spirit glow,
And fade into the night.
Culture must not become a tundra,
A mental Great White North,
We must sully forth,
Don our trusty fedora,
And unite for art.

I was at : 2800-2908 NW 83rd St, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Marlowe at the Bistro

Every decision is a progression of a journey. A turn at the fork in the road, if you will. The only things that you can count on is yourself and the existence of said journey. There is hoping that the vessel you have procured for this trek is seaworthy and will bear you upon this trip with as little displeasure as possible. Yet there are inevitabilities that make the bile jump from liver to tongue. We do not all start on the Thames and finish upon the Congo. Each person must find his or her fluvial metaphor of importance and follow it to it's terminus. Though there is one thing that one must recommend, and that is a guide. Freeslaven or Virgil for those who err on the side of caution, for Kurtz is not someone to be trifled with. Though there are those who wake up alone in the jungle, for the rest of their expedition has gotten waylaid by the perils of their own journey. For these lonely explorers, awareness is key, for there are many a hyena that smile and laugh to your face, yet as soon as you turn your back, they claw and bite at you, jeering all the while. While it may seem that you are trapped deep in the Heat of Darkness, with danger all around, remember there is no Stanley without Livingston, or vice versa. Those that build slowly and suffer the incertitudes of doubt and misfortune tend to not waver and suffer the catastrophic fluctuations of those that find immediate success. Yet, be forever wary of those hyenas, because they can be found among those that try and keep themselves closest to you. The longer they are within close vicinity, the more damage they can incur. If impossible to distance yourself from these savage beasts, do not be afraid to arm yourself. For a jackal that has tasted the knotted hide of a bullwhip mixed with his own blood will be all the more cautious on his next approach to your camp. Yet it seems we often remember crossing the brambles more than the pleasant meanderings across the plains. This is for each thorn, each jagged pain serves as a lesson, for mistakes are only costly when they go unheeded. Some say you need a compass to navigate these waters, I say you need a muse. For it is only she who can guide you to and help you conquer your inner Kurtz.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4245 NW 77th Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Do kiwis dream of sheared sheep?

There is no ticking of a clock or wristwatch (where did I put that thing by the way?) that marks the dark discontent which enshrouds my eyes. This eerie silence is only cut short by the occaisonal flurry of rain and the occaisonal auditory hallucination. A Guy Ritchie movie flickers across the television, forcing my eyes to occaissonally dart to something other than the cell phone screen on which this post is being written. This is not Alphaville, nor is it Saigon, this is Gainesville, a trap for the mind and soul from which their is no return. Guess i will try my hand a Poe-esque short story.

The blank sheet of paper screamed at him, hurling insults and darting curses as if were a game animal that had just been tagged and knew that its breaths were becoming a rare commodity. The words of anguish were whizzing by him like machine gun fire and yet there was silence. The torment that his ears were suffering was not born in the physical world, but in that side space of existence where one cannot seperate the real from the imaginary. Rain danced upon the rooftop as if flocks of mosquitos were ramming into the windows by the millions. And yet the page stared back at him in that mocking, blank fashion. What was he to fill it with? Words of wisdom, a few bolts of humour into the thunderstorm of humanity, or the spider web strand fragility of existence that plagues some forlorn human souls? Despite these hypotheses, there was no experimental text that could lead to a successful conclusion. The rain droned on, and the page remained blank. Some springs runneth over and others run dry, not due to any measurable geological cause, but simple which hand of fate has been washed. Today the paper could have been the Sahara.
He sat down, tilted his head to the side and glared at the paper. What cruel mistress had promised him a muse and sent him in its place a harpy, nay, a Gorgon. For a mind that had seemed so full of fantasy and ambition was now frozen in granite, forced to go through eons of erosion before ever seeing the surface again. He drew out his trusty pocketknife from his pocket. This was not one of those fanciful devices which seemed to hold every tool, gadget, and wiget a man could need beneath its slick exterior. It attached neatly to his keys and contained one blade and a pair of scissors. The exterior was anything but sleek, as there were numerous pits and scratches where the device had been put to use under duress. It was this tool he took and and began to cut the piece of paper. It was a cathartic experience, as he seemed to be cutting at the very life of those caustic voices. It was difficult at first, the shrieking words of contempt seeming to multipy and reach a crescendo before eventually tapering off and dying altogether. When they were finally silent, looked at the remains. Twelve identical rectangles now sat before him, each emitting and eerie glow as the white reflected off the candlelight. He started to remember the days when he fooled around with origami, and wondered if the activity of making something physically would somehow translate mentally into opening up the creative process, which had seemed to bottle itself up with the most stubborn of corks. Yet indecisiveness swept over him again, what should he make, what would symbolize the rebirth of his creativity. He thought of his ideas marching by him, and yet he failing to grasp on to any of them. Then it came to him, as obvious as gravity to a black hole, he would make a little troupe of soldiers. As chinese emperors had done so before him, he would make a symbolic army to demonstrate his prowess. As theirs was of terracota, his would be of paper.
A frenzied pace of activity soon followed, as he created a suqad of men to represent his ideas; murder,suicide,revenge,love,loss, and lust, they were all there. After an hour or so, he leaned the chair back and admired his handywork. There his little soldiers stood, waiting to provide him inspiration for their appropriate theme, much like small statues of the muses during antiquity. As quick as a quark, the storm outside intensified, and he went to make sure that the windows were latched hardily. Just as he was inspecting the las one, it blew open and extinguished all the candles in the room. He quickly closed the window in the dark and began searching for some matchez. He failed to notice when the lightning illuminated the tenebrous spaces of the house, something else was moving. He moved towards the table, only to trip over the fallen chair. But how did it fall? He braced his arm to bring himself up, only to discover that he had severly twisted his ankle, maybe even have broken it. The adrenaline had somehow masked the pain. He further adjusted his arm to maneuver himself into position so he could stand on one leg. That was when he felt something scurry across his arm. At first it felt like it was a large insect or maybe even a spider, but the contact seemed to be a bit too scratchy for that. And like water pouring through a breaking dam, the voices of malice returneed.
Think you can destroy us by changing our form? You are gravely mistaken! Soon scratches began occurrong all over his body, becoming deeper and deeper until they broke the skin. They soon started becoming more concentrated higher up on his body. Surely his neck could not fall to this paper army?

Prolly absurd, but what the hell its late anyways. Hope you enjoyed the read.


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4231 NW 77th Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,