One of These Things ....

So I am playing soccer on two teams, one co-ed and one all males, in the intramural outdoor soccer league.

This is the men's team I am on. Can you guess which one is me?



One of these things is not like the other, on of these things just doesn't belong ...

posted by Pacer 11/10/2002

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

You Want Literature?

You want literature?
I'll give you literature
With all those little fools sitting on the quad with their little pens
Circling and highlighting words here and there they wish to compare
Welllllllll
Compare those words since they are all you'll get
Not being able to write your own, keep the fresher minds down with your classes of unknowns
Those ancient words you hold so dear like some teddy bear against your chest at night to keep those nightmares away
Those nightmares, the ones in which you can't write
Becuase you can't

That's why you're all about, right now, reading in your little books from other people's works

None of your own, for you have none, so you have to take another's and twist it and turn it and try and reshape it into what YOU want, not what it is

Pathetic

You want literature? I'll give you literature.

A sailor went to sea sea sea
To see what he could see see see
But all that he could see see see
Was a great big sea sea sea

Full of people who can't see see see
Beyond their own sea sea sea
Into another sea sea sea
So who can say they actually see see see?

And these are the people you see see see
Standing up here trying to see see see
Reading something they'd never see see see
And never really knowing what it is to be be be

You want literature?
Try making your own
Instead of sitting in those offices with your red pens slashing away at your protege's
Cutting them down and killing their minds so they might, some day, be more like you
Dead
Dead to the literary world
Except in the critical mind
Of the fool

You want literature?
Make your own.
Or, at least, stop killing the minds of the free.
Just let them be and stay
Stay in your little sea.

posted by Pacer 11/06/2002

Tuesday, November 05, 2002

Rain

The soft velvet dancing shoes made padded sounds as they skipped over the doorstep and down the stairs as she ran out into the street. In a rush, and reminiscent of a movie scene, she held her dress with her left hand to keep it from coming in contact with the rain-soaked ground as she rapidly kept looking in all directions as if she were lost. Or had lost something. Or had lost someone.

What it was that made her do this she did not quite know. Most of the evening had been a blur. She was sure the wine had a bit to play in this, but she knew it was not this alone that kept half-completed images running threw her mind like an incomplete and quite fuzzy slideshow. And so she continued to look in a frantic manner, her heart beating quicker each second as she became more desperate.

It began as innocuous an evening as any, she guessed. Any including a ball at the local embassy, that is. She had grown up around this atmosphere of politicians and ambassadors and well-to-do, however, so the events of the evening were normal fair. It was him, however, that changed all that. The problem is that she didn't know who that "him" was.

The evening went by with her in a daze. Mingling near the table of refreshments. His black tuxedo and carol black hair with matching coal black eyes. The dance floor. Feet whirling. People moving. Images and sound and light danced in her head. The conversation was a series of fragments in her memory. She had been lost in the moment, nothing had really been computed yet.

The normal political rot was talked about, of course. Liberal or conservative. Why. What did you think of the Middle East. Far East. Europe and America. People and places. Standard fair. Nothing out of place, nothing to throw her off like this.

Then why? It was the eyes. And his bearing. And his shoes and hair and teeth as he smiled. And it was ... nothing. She did not know.

The drizzling rain brought her back to reality as she began to notice something cold creeping into her moment. Rain. Dampness. Her dress was ruined.

It was not him maybe. It was the idea of him. It was the idea of something more than this routine. This mundane. This drag. But how many of him had come. And gone. And come again. She began to realize the dream was that of a man trying to grasp at water, saying "It's mine, as soon as I catch it and hold it."

In the middle of the old cobblestone street she sat down. She could feel the water soak up into her dress, but she cared not. The valet came over to ask if she was all right.

"Lost." Was all she said.

He looked at her with a puzzled look and said, "Is there any place I can help the lady find?"

"Life."

posted by Pacer 11/05/2002