Casual Harangues

Unsinkable

I launched her out to sea that day

It was to be voyage like any other

The waters were calm

And no other ships dotted the sea

I grew weary at this

And split into two

Captain and first mate

We entered chilled waters

Jagged peaks rose up among us

But the captain did not fear

“We never have before”

“Shut up” the captain said

“It’s different this time”

“I know what you’re doing”

The first mate said

“But we are not yet over the horizon

“Who’s in charge here?”

To this the wind and the rain replied

And chilled his bones

To such a degree

He could barely turn the yoke

The rain flooded the deck

The waves shoved at the sides

The wind strained the mast

The ice taunted them all

The ship lurched into a berg’s path

The captain cried out

But the first mate held faith

“No no no!!!

There is no hope here!

I will end this now!”

And he pointed the bow

At a wall of ice

The captain screamed upon impact

But the first mate was silent

The hull splintered all at once

Captain and first mate again became one

When they crashed into the sea

There I was again

Floating there

Again

In the frigid water

Again

I sighed

-Revan

Alright, I'm back, and I re-enabled comments.  Not much point of a blog without 'em.  I think I can handle the negative comments, but if you post one, prepare to be ignored.  I'm a pretty stubborn guy, and I'm not gonna believe in global warming etc. no matter what you write.  The rest of the media (and the university and....) didn't convince me; you won't either.  So take a hint.

Stuff has happened I'd like to post about, but it is the week of final exams so it'll have to wait.  I've got one tomorrow and three Tuesday.  My guess is this is gonna be the worst semester in my history, grade-wise.  Ugh.

-Revan

Oh look, it's an Imus post.

I'd like to ask just what is wrong with what Imus said.  I mean really.  People are called hos all the time, and while it might not be a nice thing to say, there's nothing racial about that.  As for nappy hair, well, unless you have a vendetta against that word, it fits the bill.  I looked it up.  Seems to be a pretty accurate adjective. 

Obama said this about it: “He didn’t just cross the line,”  “He fed into some of the worst stereotypes that my two young daughters are having to deal with today in America.”

Now just where did those stereotypes come from, Mr. Obama?  And just how are your daughters going to have to deal with them anyway when Al Sharpton puts to death anyone who insults a black person?

I invite everyone to read this article: http://www.newsday.com/news/nationworld/nati on/ny-sppow0412" title="http://www.newsday.com/news/nationworld/nati on/ny-sppow0412" target="_blank"http://www.newsday.com/news/n...,0,5683502.column

-Revan

Now, I know I sound insane in the last few posts (I still spoke the truth, but with insanity on the side), and this probably is not going to change your mind about me.  At first glance it is a very depressing story, but if you know the meaning behind it, it really isn't.  Without further adieu...

Adventures of the Dying Man

     & nbsp;   &n bsp;  He awoke with his head in two places at once: in his hands and also where it ought to be.  The head in the proper place, where the mind was, was filled with shock.  The head in his hands held no thoughts whatever, but was testament to the shock in the other.  In an attempt to gain comprehension, he let the shock fall way and turned to his surroundings.  There was the ground, where it should be.  There were his hands, still holding the head.  There was the gurgling brook advancing before him, coming from somewhere indeterminate.  He strained, and he could see it was forming a lake.  It was a majestic lake, filled with all the beauty and life he had ever known.  It was taking these and gathering them all in one place, so that all could see.  See they did, for he was aware of them and the ever-growing crowd they formed.  Gesture and gawk at the lake they also did, and stared in awe at the one who had created the brook that had formed the lake.  That one had spoken to him.  That one had posed a simple question, and he had answered with a word.  This word had revealed the beauty of the lake, and that is how the one knew to create it.  That one had responded to this word with another word, although the one did so with sealed lips.  He had had a feeling he knew the response the one would give before it was given, but that had not prevented the shock from filling his head.  He had nothing left to say to that one, and, that one, nothing left to say to him.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   There was a place he would like to be, and that place was not near the lake.  He craned his neck in an effort to see this place, but he could not see that far.  It was no matter—the flowing of the brook would lead him there anyway.  He needed only to follow it.  As it rushed by, he plunged his fingers in and let it swirl around them.  He traced the brook to its source, but when he found it, he discovered it was beginning to dry up.  He turned back to look at the lake.  It was true.  The lake was as large as it was going to be.  There was no more beauty or life that could be given to it.  It had already taken it all.  He turned back to the source.  From this source streamed something new to him but not to the earth.  From this source gushed death.  The death hit him in the face and knocked him down.  The death poured into his nose and his mouth and his lungs.  From there the death permeated his arteries, which carried the death along his body.  When the death realized it saturated his whole body, it commanded of him, “Be still.”  He could only obey, and he was taken from the world.  That one dying man could only stand there beside him and wonder at the beauty of the lake.

-Revan