Sad Blogger Attempts Broadcasting Posted by Sad Blogger , 16.12.12 at Sunday, December 16, 2012, in

This is a repost of the original post. That wasn't redundant. That wasn't sarcasm. This could go on forever.

Anyhow, the old file broke so I've moved it to a new host and now you can enjoy it. Or not. I'm just saying it's here now.

An Ensemble of Es Entangled and an Eloquent Epic Expressed Posted by Sad Blogger , 24.11.12 at Saturday, November 24, 2012, in

(THIS WAS MUCH HARDER THAN THE OTHERS!)

Encumbered--or perhaps endowned--with Elephantitis of the extremities, Esmeralda Eenpalu is an excellent example of an enlarged Estonian. Exuding an ethereal elegance extrinsic to equivalent episodes, she enjoys her existence enthusiastically and effortlessly. Every evening Esmeralda would eagerly embark on the earnest enterprise of editing her estranged Ethan's eulogy, an elaborately engineered epitaph explicating his egotisitc and exiguous existence. Eventually, exhausted and expired and experiencing evident ennui, Esmeralda would extract her euphemism and escort her essence to an evanescent end.

What Rhyme's with Know-it? Posted by Happy Blogger , 23.11.12 at Friday, November 23, 2012, in

I love dreams
I love that reality is a dream and dreams are reality, at least that's how I feel most of the time.
I feel crazy. But crazy is perfect, and fucked up is perfect, so I will be perfect

I always say I just write thoughts- but as my crazy poet friend always says "thoughts are poetry, everything is poetry" I might as well admit that I have written another thing-a-ma-bob-that-I-have-problems-defining

the world where we live

in parallel skies we sit together

in parallel rooms we drink tea

in the delta waters we find infinite time

        it is easy to get found with you

here, things aren't complex

here, things find themselves

here, I don't worry that we don't collide

     in that place where we should belong

I hold onto reflections, intentions, perfection

I hold onto embraces, those traces, space

I hold on so hard

         that in waking makes me raw

you're disguised as the air

you're so gone that you're there

but I know you're waiting

              by the delta waters

there, we resume where we left off

there, we disregard earth's imprisonment

there by the delta waters

               is the world where we live

Yet another vague look into the depths of my dilemma. 

Yours truly, 

Happy Blogger

            

Future Me Will Laugh Posted by Sad Blogger , 23.10.12 at Tuesday, October 23, 2012, in

Now and then I bang out a poem that I feel might actually be worth sharing or even showing off. But that happens fairly infrequently in proportion to the amount of time I spend trying to write poetry or write anything, really. The creature below is not really the gem I was hoping it would be, but the short series of Emo-Kev Smodcast episodes that recently came out have got me wanting to have some sort of record of all the stupid shit that I've cranked out in my attempts to be creative or profound or unique or whatever. I do have other writing saved here and at home that might be worthy of self deprecating analysis someday, but at the moment I feel proud of most of it. This poem, however, I think is particularly pretentious and pontificating. It reads a lot like a child trying very hard to sound like a reflective grown up with grown up thoughts and observations. I mean if it's even a little good, then go me. But if it's as bad as it probably is, then I can't wait to go back and read this someday and cringe at my hopelessness.

these words have dragged themselves
across undustable hardwood and gnawed 
on ankles and stood on shoulders and 
pouted with disappointment that the
world is not much better from higher up

and it's strange now that they should
tumble back out from whatever dark 
closet they'd been shoved into maybe 
to commune with the rain in some 
desperate show of cliché melodrama to 
impress their friends

and what is it about rain that the 
annals of metaphorical and evocative 
imagery should hold it up in such 
high regard

as though the drops fell from a 
higher place than heaven and carried 
pieces of the souls they rolled over 
to get here and filled the world with 
the washed off flecks of ascended dirt

and life is just a shower drain for 
the departed

but for whatever reason and in spite 
of their insignificance these words 
long to count the raindrops on the 
window and clamor to curl up in old 
blankets and lust after strangers
trudging through the miserable layer 
of pre-winter on the sidestreet

Too Much Has Changed Posted by Happy Blogger , 9.10.12 at Tuesday, October 09, 2012, in

Wow. It has been too long.
I wish I could apologize, however I have my reasons.
Let's just say September was too much for too many reasons.
Vancouver, School, Vancouver, School.
I love most my classes. Music History is another story. I'm working on it though.
I love my contemporary poetry class. It probably helps that my teacher is strangely attractive.
I went and saw Kimbra at the Commodore Ballroom.
It was not a concert, but a real life fantasy for me.
I was so close I could see her sweat, and what appeared to be paint on her arms.
I was in a trance. I could not stop staring at her. I was so focused that I completely missed the lesbian girls have a falling out, and some drunk guy with a hat stealing one of the lesbians away.
The band that opened for her were incredible. The Stepkids have it going on. They really do.
The bass player stole my heart. His bass lines and grooves were too much to handle. I have never felt so inferior to a bass player ever. What a beautiful mess!
I like writing poetry.
Although I recognize most of it is fairly depressing.
They are just things. Thoughts going through my mind.
I enjoy being by myself and clearing my head, however the clarity can be scary.
I can't decide what I like better, being in a consistent state of fog or in a state of scary acceptance.

This was the most recent one I wrote. It's just my brain thinking too far ahead and being all hypothetical and what not. I don't know. I figured I would share. This is is a nice place.

Shocking
Petrified
Terrified, maybe
Abrupt like that kid in class that won't leave you alone. 
And how do you cope?
You don't
You wear the mask, like a wig on your bald head, pretending you are okay. 

I remember Kindergarten
I remember way back when we wore wigs for fun
I remember cheating off your social test
We were the only ones to get 100%
I wore the mask of your brilliance

You asked me if I could take it away
k(no)w I tried. 
I mean, who knows really?
We can ask Him all the questions
though there are few a little suggestions

Hard like a diamond pill
I can't even imagine swallowing
There is one this I do know, 
is the difference between giving up and letting go.

-Happy Blogger

The Woeful Tale of the Dirt Under the Nails Posted by Sad Blogger , 18.9.12 at Tuesday, September 18, 2012, in

As a nail biter since the age of three, I've never clipped my fingernails before. I mean I have immaculate toes and I've been taking care of them since I was maybe eleven, the age it started becoming uncool for your parents to care about you or touch you. But with regards to my fingers, those nails have been chewed down to the quick for the past eighteen-almost-nineteen years. Of course I had short periods during which my mother plied me with an assortment of BITE-B-GONE or CHEW-NO-MORE products but I always developed an immunity to them relatively swiftly and my nails were back to their usual haggard nature. So it's quite a big deal for me to have not even touched them for the past two months.

It seems like such a simple thing, but I'm constantly in a panic over every little detail of these newfound extensions of my body. They seem so tough, but the slightest bend in the right circumstance is the most painful thing in the world. They also get DIRTY! Like nobody seems to talk about that. You always hear about 'breaking a nail' and how inconvenient that is, but at no point in my life have I heard the woeful tale of the dirt under the nails. It's constantly there. Like every twenty minutes I have to stop everything or this unsightly build-up is just gathering there, waiting for somebody to come along and notice how poorly I groom myself. Why does no one speak of this? Is it some sort of fingernail-owner taboo? Is there maybe some sort of network of catacombs where all the anguishing fingernailians convene to bemoan the soiled state of their prized digit caps? 

Like sure, I remember watching my brother getting his nails inspected in Cub Scouts but that made it seem like he just had to wash his nails out once a week. If that! If you only have to scrub out your nails once a week to keep them pristine, you'd have to imagine just letting them be for a couple weeks would still leave them looking at least decent. Only after maybe a month or so of serious neglect would they end up looking like rusted bear traps. But no, regular intervals throughout the DAY. All of the days. Always and ever.

I feel now--being as I've taken a sentence that I'd already written and made it into the title--that I should actually write a short story about the Woeful Tale of the Dirt Under the Nails. It sounds like a Nate the Great story or something of the like. 


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 749

For the forty-eighth week in a row, the sky was a dark, disquieting stockade stretched out low over the rolling flesh hills of the Index Finger Plains. The Dirt silently scanned the horizon from his vantage point on the tip of Finger Nail Ridge. His brow furrowed, he sighed at yet another day of inevitably fruitless scavenging. Yet another day of boiled water and dry grass. Of isolation and hopelessness.

The Dirt slowly descended the outcropping of rough skin to his shallow cave under the thin, jutting portion of the Ridge and meditated for the four thousandth time on how exactly it was that this had come to be his existence. Because it wasn't a life. A life has purpose and fulfillment and some sort of hope for the next day and the next. This was just being for the sake of satisfying some cosmic need to fill a void. The Dirt had no family, no friends, no memory of anything. Anything but occupying the den under Finger Nail Ridge and looking out forlornly over the miles of flesh the spanned out to the south.

He'd dared to venture out over those miles once. He had braved the treacherous peaks and valleys of the Knuckle Range, traversed the sparse and bizarre grasslands of the Fewandfarbetweenhair Fields, and stopped only when he'd come to the intimidating expanse of the Backhand Woods. Had he known, the arduous journey through those woods would have brought him to the unfathomable breadth of the Forearm Wilderness and to even further regions and territories of untold enormity.

But The Dirt was just The Dirt and so he'd returned to his home under the Ridge and carried out his meaningless existence.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


The narration would then follow The Dirt's activities for a few more days. A series of strange and unfamiliar experiences would encourage him to once more strike out to discover some sort of answer to his questions. He would happen upon the Thenar Space and marvel at the landscapes found in the Digitus Medius Region, almost identical to those he had just crossed. And then...


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 991

It was uncanny. The Dirt was almost annoyed at how similar this place was to the Plains. As though just over the next embankment, he would see the familiar smooth slope of Finger Nail Ridge and the rocky incline down to his den. The thought percolated and festered in his mind and a dull rage rose up in his stomach as the expectation began to feel more and more real. Nearing the crest of the last hill, he closed his eyes in preparation for the sting of disappointment and glaring sense of futility. He felt his feet stop moving as he stood at the top of that hill with the cool air blowing against his closed eyelids. The silence was penetrating while he let his reluctant anticipation build.

But then he heard a voice.

The Dirt's eyes snapped open and his mouth dropped at the scene spread out before him. It was Finger Nail Ridge but it was speckled with dirt. There were maybe six or seven of them and they looked exactly like him. He took a step forward and the voice called out again,

"Mom! Do you see him? Who is that?"

They were a family. A family of dirt. He began to run now as one of them began to usher the others down under the Ridge to what must be their own den. Tears in his eyes, The Dirt was sprinting now. He'd never imagined that there might be others like him. That there was dirt out there with stories and interests and lives worth living. The tears turned bitter for a moment as he realized everything he'd been missing out on, but then flowed stronger and more sweetly as he filled with hope for the future. The children had all filed down into their home now, but the mother and father stood guarding the bank, eyeing The Dirt suspiciously as he neared them.

He skidded to a stop maybe thirty feet away from the couple, breathing heavily and anxiously wiping his tears away.

"Hi," he breathed.

The female dirt offered a cautious "Hello..."

The male wrapped his arm around his wife and stepped forward defensively as The Dirt straightened and moved to approach them.

"Now you just stay right there for a moment, Stranger."

"Please," begged The Dirt, "I just want to say hello. I've been alone for as long as I can remember. I've just wandered here and never could have imagined I'd meet anyone who looked just like me. What is this place?"

The couple glanced at each other and back to The Dirt.

"This is Finger Nail Ridge, the northernmost point of the Digitus Medius Region. Where do you come fr-"

And just then, the air erupted with the thunderous clangor of earth hitting earth as the Finger Nail Ridge that the Dirt had occupied for so long descended from the sky and scraped violently along the length of this miraculous new Finger Nail Ridge. The Dirt stumbled back in paralyzed horror at the nightmare playing out in front of him. As his upside home completed its crisscross of the dirt family's, it began to lift away from whence it came. The bloody, mangled carcasses of the family clung to the ascending Ridge and The Dirt watched the promise of a new life disappear into the sky. In a matter of minutes, purpose had been handed to him and yanked away again. And so filled with anguish and unspeakable hopelessness, The Dirt crawled down into the cavern that had once housed the answers to all his dreams but would now stand to serve as a reminder of the atrocity he had just witnessed and would forever question. He was nothing more than dirt under the nails.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------


Well...it's not quite as eloquent as I was hoping it would be. But it's the story I imagined from the beginning so it works for me. Sorry if it was a bit of a bummer. It does have "woeful" in the title.

Once again living up to my name,
   -Sad Blogger

a band on men tissues Posted by Sad Blogger , 31.8.12 at Friday, August 31, 2012, in

a nicotine
scribe imbibes
dreams and
beams unseemly
rhymes onto
blank screens
and cranks

on while

tumbling and

fumbled notions 

humble a 

stumbling ego 

emotions crumbled 

and mumbling 

we go

on just

anonymously fawning

or spawning
unjustly dramatic
lines robustly
drawn thusly
this damn
addict pines

on and

on and

on and

on.

overwhelming in waking Posted by Sad Blogger , 27.8.12 at Monday, August 27, 2012, in

i want every inch
a million lovely pieces
exquisite, beaming

Things I'm Thinking Today Posted by Sad Blogger , at Monday, August 27, 2012, in

Imagine scientists discover that there are latent characteristics ingrained in human DNA that based on sonic microsignatures embedded in common first names, would be triggered slowly over time until they manifested as personality traits towards the end of puberty. So like the DNA would react to the repeated usage of a specific name for a person and cause specific character quirks. Given that reality, would certain names be outlawed due to the violent or psychotic tendencies they would cause in people? Movie idea: a woman struggles to protect an Icelandic boy named Todd (a name identified as infecting recipients with kleptomania) who has somehow out-evolved his namesake. Hunted by the Nafn Logreglu, they attempt to flee the country and escape to Canada, where everybody knows that a name is just a name.

Goosebumps should be actual geese that sprout from your pores. They would provide a little bit of comic relief in tense moments, but would be a massive inconvenience when you were actually trying to get into those awe-inspiring moments. Then the goose roundup brigade would have to sweep through and everyone would be slightly miffed.

I want to fill my shower with dirt and a couple small patio tiles  and plant a smattering of different grasses and weeds in there so that every time I take a shower, I feel like I'm in a fantastical jungle. I'll use environmentally friendly shampoo to protect my shower weeds and use only cold water so it's actually like being a mountain man. And maybe I'll bury some worms and beetles in the dirt so they can skitter and squirm over my feet while I sing booming renditions of Irish drinking songs and old timey gravedigger hymns.

I imagine it's something everybody is going to be doing, but I want to have a the-night-before-the-end-of-the-world party on December 20. There will be giving of small gifts just in case we miss Christmas and we'll wear dumb paper hats and sing Auld Lang Syne just in case we miss New Years Eve. And everyone will be very happy and very sad at the same time because they'll be together and imagining what it would be like to never see each other again. And they will be rowdy because it's a party and they will be quiet because they are reflecting. And there will be confessions and revelations and new love and heartbreak...tears and smiles and songs and hugging endlessly. And the next morning, everyone will wake up and say that they knew nothing was going to happen the whole time but their friendships will be amazing because they were together and honest and real for the first time in their lives. Because it takes the end of the world for us to realize what people are worth.

My roommates got a new barbecue that they want to break in this Friday and I have nobody to invite to be the friends that I invited to the BBQ. I need to get me some friends. How does one acquire friends? This shit was so easy in elementary school.

I got yelled at for forty consecutive minutes last week because I've been understocking the stationary in my building and now we're going to be way over budget this month because we have to order a bunch of stuff so we can overstock all the floors to make up for the lower stocks of stationary last month. When I asked if it was money that was going to be spent anyway, I was told that it's better to spread the spending out over time so that we don't run through all the money at once and make it look like we're over spending. Motherfucker...that's what I was doing! By keeping just enough on the shelves, the client has what they need and I can tend to it as needed, and we order smaller amounts of stationary over time. But here I am being told that I'm providing poor customer service and putting everybody else's jobs at risk. I was literally told that if I didn't keep the shelves overstocked, the entire company would rate poorly on end of the year surveys and everybody would lose their jobs. That falls on me? Fuck your mother if you can find her.

Got a little bitter there at the end...sorry,
Sad Blogger

Hm Hmmm Hm Hmmmmmm...A Song to Sing Posted by Sad Blogger , 25.8.12 at Saturday, August 25, 2012, in

I had a dream this morning--I woke up shortly before noon simply from the fear of having to spend another day slinking around my house wishing I had enough money for food--that I was driving around with two of my favorite radio DJs in a place that looked extremely similar to Edmonton except that everyone was Jamaican. So presumably Jamaica looks a lot like Edmonton. 

By the way, I paused here for a moment because I remembered I had some smoked turkey and Havarti cheese. So I made a sandwich and I'm good. Don't worry about me.

Anyways, we were speeding down hills and past schools and yelling in bad Jamaican accents and laughing our asses off and it was a great time and all that but for the life of me I can't remember why. Like why were the DJs there and why were we driving around in a ridiculous old VW cabriolet? The last thing I remember from earlier in the dream was standing in the foyer of some old house that I think my brother and I had just moved into with my dad. My brother had taken off for some reason and my dad and I were arguing about what the reason was. Then I got a call from my mom saying he was just driving around and thinking and suddenly I was also driving around but it had nothing to do with my brother. The subconscious is weak, man.  You give it a small problem, and it just fast-forwards to some goofy far off place where everything is green fields and Jamaican accents.

But I remember a lot of details about the house. The house that was apparently my dream house. Because it was in a dream and it was a house. C'mon, people. But I mean there was nothing particularly pretty about it. A lot of the walls were pink and it had gray carpet throughout and where there weren't pink walls, there were cracked and worn wood panels. I don't remember walking into the house for the first time in the dream. We were just kind of all of a sudden settling into the respective rooms that we'd decided were ours. There were already a few select pieces of furniture in the house as well, but I couldn't tell you if it was ours or just already there.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Before getting to the house, I remember we were driving in circles around this massive, empty parking lot outside of what I'll assume was a shopping center. We were trying to get to a bridge that was connected to the parking lot. I can't remember who was in the car. I want to say it was my dad because that's who we were with later but the person kept telling me where to go and how to drive so it's more likely it was my mom. Anyhow, we finally got onto the bridge and we were crossing this massive, hardly-moving river to some hilly, grassy island. MAYBE THAT WAS THE JAMAICA PLACE! I dunno. But the bridge turned into this tunnel kind of thing and suddenly, because it was a dream, we were walking instead of driving. It wasn't necessarily spooky...it still felt like the beginning of an 80's adventure flick...but the tunnel had kind of a mid-century military kind of feel. Or maybe older. Kind of steampunk meets art deco. I feel like the walking part didn't last very long though. It's more like we were driving across the bridge, then suddenly we were just standing in this sort of antechamber. There were these two old people there now as well and we were all waiting for this hatch thing to open. Like you see on submarines or whatever. It gets foggier here. I'm sorry.

Then I think the hatch opened. Or the dream fast-forwarded again or something and we were gathered in this old shack thing. It looked like the bar from Fawlty Towers except it was like a hundred years old and faded and dingy. And it wasn't a bar. It was like one of those places you see in Discovery series about people who collect weird stuff. An oddity museum, I guess. But we had cream sodas and were lounging around like we were waiting for someone to show up. I don't remember anything after that. Maybe I woke up for a bit and answered a text or something.

Anyhow, after returning to sleep and taking a trip back to Dreamland, my brother and Dad and I were standing in our new abode and just sort of looking at each other like well, here we are. I think some time passed, though, between that point and the next part of the dream that I remember. You know? Like it seems weird that some scenes would be connected to other scenes so you have to assume something else happened in between. Either way, they were talking in some room or another about whatever dumb thing (maybe they weren't even saying words...maybe my mind was just making Peanuts-like, muted-trumpet noises to make me think they were talking...WHO KNOWS) and I decided to take a tour of the house. You know, check out my dad's room and all that. And this is why I've decided that dreams are whack.

For whatever reason, my subconscious decided that the house had a main entryway thing and then immediately opened into a bedroom on the right. Nothing to the left. Just come in the door, stairs straight ahead, bedroom to the right. That bedroom opened into a dining room and then a kitchen towards the back of the house and had another set of stairs going up from the right wall. Here, I'll make a picture:

That was my impression of the main floor. So coming up the stairs, I'm expecting a similar layout. Sans kitchen and dining room, of course. But it ended up being something more akin to this:

So my question, then, is where the hell do those middle stairs on the main floor go and where do the far left stairs on the second floor go? I mean in the dream, I believe I remember coming down the stairs and ending up in the bedroom on the main floor. But there are no stairs there. So some sort of mind trickery went on in this dumb dream and I want to know why! Actually, I don't really care. I just liked the bizarre layout of the house and the way the entertainment room was considerably separate from the rest of the house. I think living room/watching TV areas tend to be really central and accessible. I like the idea of it being kind of hidden away and private. 

Well that really ended with a bang...

Telling other people about your own dreams really is the worst. It always ends with you trying to figure out what the next part or why you thought it was so cool while your friends or family kind of look at each other like does something seem fundamentally wrong with him? Well I tried. I promise not do it again. But I had a lot of fun making the house diagrams, as lame as they are. Whatever. You try it, assholes.

I used to like you people,

Sad Blogger