Musing

In the blur that is modern life, you may find yourself reading things that you do not believe. A good example is the statement “and they lived happily ever after” which encompasses the pleasant feelings enjoyed by unrealistic and overly idealistic individuals after some great evil had recently been vanquished. The simple reason that people shouldn’t believe such a statement is that it is an unrealistic assessment of life. When an artist creates a piece of art, the motive is simple. The artist is trying to communicate how they perceive the world. And when a writer writes writing, they are doing the same thing. So it goes to show that a person writing the statement “And they lived happily ever” after is communicating how they see life. But if a person is writing the statement directly above this sentence incase you need to refer back to it, it means that they see the world as a place where evil can be perinatal vanquished, and idealistic, happy people can enjoy pure pleasant, and wholesome gratification for the foreseeable future. The people who write such statements are probably the sorts of people who pull their hair back into stubby pigtails with pink rubber bands and then giggle loudly at sports events. Because those are the sorts of people with unrealistic opinions on life that are pr   

Spring

It makes sense that in the cultures and mythologies of the past, spring is associated with life, and winter with death. In Greek mythology, Winter was a sign that the beautiful goddess of spring was being held prisoner by a dark and brooding lord of the underworld. But now, we can stay in our sheltered, superficial homes, and flee from winter, so what used to be a life-threatening, terrible expanse of time is now more of a semi-torrential pest. But I still think that winter is far overrated compared to spring. True, there can be found a sort of rugged, severe beauty in fallen snow, but spring is enthralled constantly in an unmeasurable splendor of nature and life, botanical wonders splurging from the ground where they have been dormant. Truly, this marvelous time deserves more appreciation.

timberhill

CRAZIN:

Hello. My name is Crazin Foxhunt. About a year ago, my family of four and I moved to a town called Timberhill, Louisiana. Since then, I have observed countless strange and seemingly unexplainable happenings and events that have caused me to re-think not only my own perception of life, but also reality itself. I have decided to begin creating these audio installations at random intervals in time to raise awareness about Timberhill, and the strange occurrences that have transpired there, as well as the preservation of my own sanity in these unsettling times. During the installments, I will serve as your herald and reporter of the bizarre events of Timberhill. Let’s get started. Timberhill is a coastline small town of about 500 people, although the entrance sign clearly reads “population -4.” The town’s main export is a type of earthworm that is found exclusively within it’s borders. The worms are used primarily for fishing and dining, and are distributed in tin cans by the towns own “Can ‘o Worms Bait and Tackle.” Every Thursday, a grey semi-truck drives into town to receive its shipment of worms from the cannery at the edge of town. The driver of the truck has no face. Timberhill as seen from driving towards it must appear quite strange from a distance. A few non-descript boxlike shapes haphazardly scattered about, coagulating in density nearer to the tall, gaunt shilloette of the church house, towering above like a dark, silent relic of a time forgotten. And yet, I think that by far the strangest part of timberhill’s appearance is the perpetual halo of cloud, hovering over the town in a solemn, exact ring. The townspeople never seem to mention it, and might as well be completely unaware of the odd enigma. But then again, they don’t talk about many things. For instance, the strange and complex hand gesture that everyone seems entitled to preform before meals. When questioned, no one could seem to recount what the ritual means or how it started, but simply stated that “it’s just the right thing to do.” Fireworks can be seen over Timberhill on the 4^th of July every year, even though nobody in town sets them off. Other annually recurring events include the slow dissention of a long, black, wooden ladder stretching from the heavens into the bottom of the lagoon on October 8^th, and the total and complete ignoring of February the twenty sixth. The townspeople sleep straight through it, and it is scribbled out of all calendars. Also, instead of parading through the streets on Halloween, the children of Timberhill cower inside and draw their curtains for unknown reasons. Almost all life refuses to enter the town’s border, excepting earthworms, and strange eyeless fish that swim slowly and blindly through the bay. All of the townspeople are convinced that it is currently the year 1956, and they all act and dress accordingly. There is only one hospital in Timberhill. All of the nurses dress in plague doctor masks and white jumpsuits, and have never cured anyone of anything. Behind the hospital grows a small tree that produces cherry pits and no fruit. No one in Timberhill has ever died except by being poisoned. Howling noises can be heard from the nearby forest only by children of seven years old. There is one restaurant in Timberhill, a small diner simply called “Restaurant.” No one has ever been inside or knows what type of food they serve, because it has been “closed for Labor Day for as long as anyone can remember. Timberhill is named after a small, decrepit hill beside the church house, and overlooking the lagoon. The hill is under constant supervision by a strange, pale white creature with one eye that floats about two feet above the ground, and creates a soft humming noise. The citizens have affectionately named her the “mother worm”. Every Thursday, at precisely four in the morning, everyone gathers around the hill, and begins to chant odd incantations in Latin to the mother worm for eight minutes straight before returning to bed with no recollection of anything that happened in the morning. Whenever the-

ELANOR:

Crazin? Crazin? The walrus is back. He seems angry. I -waaaaa!

WALRUS:

ROARRR!

CRAZIN:

Ahh! Uhh… okay this concludes this instillation of the Timberhill Reporte

tossing a ball Stream of Consciousness

Muscle contract, extend, and I then release in from my five way grip and it soars not as hard as I had wanted, but bounces with considerable force from the wall. Repeat. Am I enjoying this, I suppose so. Why am I enjoying this? How would an enjoyment of tossing help a proto human hunt, eat, reproduce? And yet it happens to be a rhythmic, almost hypnotic action. Bap. Bap. Bap. It seems like the poor round thing must be all but dead now, bruises cascading down its supple hide. Bap. Bap. It's sunny today.

The esscense of nature

The creature rose up from the ground,

and glared at all the people.

there was no peace within the town

as the monster ate the steeple.

Up from the ocean, through the sea,

more creatures began to rise,

with massive seething rage let loose,

and anger in their eyes.

To march upon the land again, 

to eat and reap the town,

the monsters writhed in morning air.
with evil, ravenous sound.
Then when the town was shredded to
the barest bones of  structure,
the beasts climbed back into their deep
black Continental rupture.

200000 leagues under the sea

This book continues to be a great read for me. I really like many of the characters in the book, but my favorite by far is capital Nemo. He is a mysterious, intelligent man who keeps to himself almost all of the time. The imagery of the story is so vivid that it almost seems like a real account of an actual voyage. The book has a lot of educational content as well, but like I said before, it doesn't talk down to the reader. If I had to have one complaint about the book, I would say that a couple of the "companion" characters (those who have read the book will know which ones) seem a bit one-dimensional. And it's not that they're bad per say, it's just that their interactions with each other seem a bit forced and predictable, because it seems like their characters fall into these generic archetypes that the reader kinda expects. Also Portuguese Man-o-wars don't travel in schools. Buy in large, a really solid book. I recommend it for anyone who has the time.

Memory

Memories of childhood
are picked in the brain
Til nie unrecognisable
perfection do they feign.
They soon become far brighter
than the sadness of the present,
They bear little resemblance
but still are far more pleasant.
Through the days of adulthood,
these memories are candied,
Our minds distort imperfectness
the facts are deeply buried.
But is this really terrible,
to alter the real cause,
for now it's far more sweeter
than whatever really was.