On Thoughts and...Mreh

I've come to the startling conclusion that, as a writer, what I read will inevitably begin to effect my temperment. This doesn't happen to me usually. At least not in the "bang flash" style. More sneakily does the poison creep up on me until I find that it's quite too late.

For example, I've been lumbering for a few months now through Crime and Punishment. Now, I usually enjoy Dostoevsky buuuuut this book is...well... insufferably boring. That does not mean its not enjoyable; but its just not fun, really.

And dry.
I could start a fire with it.

Is it coincidence then that my poetry has taken a complete nosedive since November? Or that the muse has completely stopped talking to me?

"I cannot work under these conditions Pierre! Bring me fire. Bring me wood...and oats, lots of them. Damn, damn, damn--I must have electricity!"

I'm almost done with reading it though, I swear. Then I'll begin Keats and Wilde again. If they aren't enough to coax the muse out from her blankets I think I will have to shoot her. But I wrote a little bit of verse today...nothing special, and nothing that I wanna show right now. But at least its a start, I hate myself every time I post up Verse Libre. Because I'm very awful at it... and shouldn't subject the rest of the you to hearing what I have to say.

Have another sacrifice? Yes?

Ka-Blewey

Sumo King

My God! How long have I fevered, how much have I shivered--all the while thinking that I've been well, and warm.

I feel as if I've just awoken from a long, oppressive dream. How long has it been since I've seen the sunlight, since I've let its warmth caress my cheek: one month, two? And for the most absurd reasons. My brain fever has made it clear... I haven't been myself.

But today I returned to my youth, even if it was just for a little while.

And I think I'm back to normal again.

The Pessimist

Yep, she's fresh out of the oven. For those of you that are interested in getting a preliminary copy, please write me at beauchamp.andre@yahoo.com.

Please note that I will not send you a copy if you only offline me, or comment on this post asking for a copy. The reason is so that I can make a mailing list for future use in sending my works around on a greater scale.

Also, if you like the book and know of others that would enjoy it as well, please feel free to send it to them. The more the merrier.

Thank you.

Ironic?

The day that the US government begins to enact its stimulus package plan, the Dow Jones drops 400 points.

Heh

On Missing Her

Can I help but stave off sleep?
Your smile spans
The centuries,
Your essence is the very breath
My lungs demand to take.

Why deny
Them oxygen?

Palm of His Hand

In Indian mythology, there is a story about a young Monkey god and Bhudda. The Monkey god stood in front of Bhudda and told him stories about how wise, and how strong, and how fast, and powerful he was. He had surpassed many of the other gods, and had defeated all his enemies. There was no one that could stand before him. Finally, the Monkey god went on to say that he could go to the ends of the universe and beyond. Somewhere further then even Bhudda could go, if there were such a place.

All the time that the Monkey god was talking, Bhudda remained silent until finally he told the Monkey god that there was a place far, far, away that even he could not reach. At the end of the universe there was a mountain that had never been touched before. If the Monkey god could go there and leave his hand-print on the stone at the top of this mountain, then Bhudda said he would acknowledge him as the supreme being.

And so the Monkey god took off, traveling many thousands of years and innumerable miles, until he reached the mountain that Bhudda had told him about. He climbed it, put his hand print at the very top of it, and then returned to where he knew Bhudda would be waiting. When he got there, he laughed and rejoiced that he was now the supreme being. He had gone to a place that no one else could ever go. How could anyone now be better than him?

As the Monkey god reveled and boasted, Bhudda remained silent until, with a sigh, he said "Oh foolish, foolish child... turn around" The Monkey god turned around and, in the distance, saw the hand print that he had put on the mountain peak. Except, it was not on a mountain peak, but the tip of a finger. Perplexed, the Monkey god turned around, and saw Bhudda smiling. "Did you really think you were so powerful?" He asked. "You have not even left the palm of my hand."


I tell you this story because, to me, it is very applicable to a person's life. We, as humans, like to think that we are so strong in ourselves. We tend to think that we are invincible. We think that we do not need God because, if we try hard enough, we can do anything. But when we stop, step back, and think about it, can we really do anything that will stand eternally? No matter how far we go, no matter how fast we fly, no matter how much we think we know about something, we haven't even left our Creator's hand. Therefore, there is nothing to fear about anything, not even the future, because all is known to Him. He holds us, he loves us, and we can therefore be assured that he is with us through ALL things.