Lets Play "I Spy"

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, but please don't panic... we've asked for the ugliest face in Paris and here it is. Do not laugh, this could very well be my finest hour!

Epilogue

Ta-da!

In the absence of anything more creative, here is something I’ve always wanted to write. (Stalkers, please take note at this point.) It’s just random bits of personal information/opinions. Regardless of the theory that it’s supposed to be impossible to write a complete self-biography I assure you that I will someday.

The first piece of verse I ever wrote was when I was 6. I liked my big sisters best friend and she laughed at me when I showed it to her.

I can crack all my toes and both my ankles.

Spanish originally was my first language.

My entire family is Star Trek fans and, when I was a kid, I had a thing for 7 of 9. Ariel too… but she’s a cartoon character.

My first short stories were rip-offs from Sherlock Holmes Case Book. Yes… my detective even smoked a pipe too, damnit!

I used to hold, in depth, psychology sessions with myself and write it all out on paper. I was both doctor and patient. Quite fun, actually.

I don’t care how gross it sounds, plum sauce and salted apples is pretty much the bomb.

Really now, during the battle of Blenheim what were Tallard and Clérambault thinking?

I once began to write a script for the purpose of sending it to the Wachowski brothers to show them how Matrix 3 should really have ended.

I don’t like papaya in any way, shape, or form.

The first pet I had was a turtle and I loved her. Her name was Snaps. I wrote a book on Turtles in dedication for her. She ended up boiling to death.

I once went for 36 hours without sleep to protest some punishment my parents gave me.

When I’m drunk I’m known to either tell the harsh truth or lie about nearly everything.

And yes… well there you have it. Oh wait, I’ve never licked a sparkplug, and I’ve never sniffed a stinkbug, and I’ve never painted daises on a big, red, rubber, ball. I’ve never bathed in yoghurt, and I don’t look good in leggings, and I’ve never been to Boston in the fall.

Heh..I really wanna see the new Veggietales movie. Those guys are brilliant!

A Peek Into the Muse

I was rummaging through some my poetry the other day and I found this piece. It's not too old, wrote it somewhere around June last year, when just about everything I put to verse was in tribute of the sea. Now, I'm not usually one for praising my works, but this one is not all that bad. Rhythmically, it follows the same pattern as most of my quatrains do and, I know, a writer is supposed to be open to trying new things and all that stuff. However, I adore the raw flow of my 8,6,8,6 on the count. Now, if that were feet that would be a different story, but I've found English Meter to be too stuffy for my own liking. Besides, with syllables one has more freedom for personal taste in alliteration and assonance then they would under the demands of the iamb.

Anyway, I'm rambling. What I really like about this piece is the wonderful blend of color I put into it. Not so much afternoon tones, but the bright sunlight of the morning or the dull red blaze of the setting sun. When writing it, I swear, I could almost taste the salt. But enough of that, just read it for yourself:

The Village by the Sea

The winters’ fog does sleep upon
A filmy, sunken sand
While mothers' sons do play anon
The solid, stony land;

A playful breeze tossed to the shore
With foam upon her heels—
Her salty sweat does sing of lore,
Of Angelfish, and eels.

And fishermen set sail within
The charming grasp of sea,
Their limbs, to water, as akin
As grass is unto me.

Where creeping turf and tundra grow
Clambering up the cliffs,
The whistling waves do beat below
With loud and violent fists;

The morning sings while whalers come
To gather bric-a-brac,
For, when the rising tide is done
They’ll go a-whaling back.

Their iron tubs a hollow gourd
(Hence their daily toil)
But, whence they’ve whaled—almighty Lord—
Lard be turned to oil!

The monstrous beast with foaming jaw
And terror in its eye,
Is ready prey by Natures law
To deal out death, or die.

Hark! The whale-ship with harpoon
Is ready now to strike,
And bets are made with bronze doubloon
As if the beast will fight;

Yes, fight it tries with ivory teeth
Yet steel does pierce its skin,
Until its breath is brought to cease
And flail its dorsal fin.

And, when they're through, to dock they come
To taverns on the brink;
For when the day is good and done
Forget all else and drink!

The stars reflect upon the shore—
A dazzling diamond haze—
Recalling thoughts of nights before
And thoughts of future days,

While lighthouse flares do part the mist,
For fishermen at night
Return to maidens they once kissed
To finish their delight.

Near docks and dunes recalled by me:
The little village by the sea.

En route to Budapest

Just for the record, I have never been to Budapest proper. Though I have heard that its gorgeous this time of year.

Don't know why I labeled the post such, it just struck a fancy at the present moment.

For a truly bizarre tale click here. Tis a tad weird but, assure you, you shall not be disappointed.

And yes... I'll come up with something better next time around, yes?

The True Writer--Rejection!

Gotta love them Irish..hahah