leaflet

I'm sitting at a coffee shop. A man handed me a leaflet as I was walking here today. I thanked him and put it in my pocket, with no real intention of reading it. It's not as if he really knows me. Sure, he took the time to give it to me, but did he write it? Are these his words? Did he give me one because he thought I'd care or because he hoped I would?

It's probably political. I'm tired of politics. Who is he to assume I ought to care whatever he's talking about? Am I not my own person? Am I unable to be adequately informed in this, what we are arrogantly terming 'the information age'? I have Google, CNN.com, Wikipedia. I'm a short walk away from a decent library. This little poorly made leaflet is supposed to tell me the truth. It's not going to.

I crumple the leaflet and throw it in the nearest trash receptacle, single-handedly discarding the work, hopes, opinions and beliefs of the man who met me in the streets, deeming them all irrevocably useless without so much as looking at it.

she blinded me with science

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: You knew it had to come sooner or later.)

I have had the distinct pleasure of studying with my love in the laboratory. I find myself amazed as she quantifies various exotic and dangerous chemicals, mixes, heats, experiments, measures. And mundane chemicals, as well! She is measuring and analysing the world around her, explaining how every aspect of everything that we see works.

She shows me what happens when she puts this metal in that beaker, and what happens when she applies this concoction to that compound and adds heat, or electricity. I can't help but feeling that something is missing, though, something important. Eventually I ask her what it all means--we know how it works, but what's the point? She smiles and draws me into her arms, kisses me, deeply, fully.

"Does that answer your question?" she asks, smiling. I nod and hold her tight. Here in the laboratory, I can understand the world.

you ought to be in pictures

I am taking a break from my normal updates to provide you with a link to a short film for which I have written the script. It is claymation, about two minutes long, and the first of a four-part miniseries. It is called Sophie Swanson, Titular Heroine, and chronicles the adventures of Sophie Swanson, star reporter for the local press. If these do very well we will continue the miniseries and begin a full-fledged series of claymation shorts.

The link, once more, is http://www.sophieswanson.com. I am very pleased with the results, and I am working on legislation to make it illegal for anyone not to be.

brevity is the soul of desperation

I slaved over this poem for days, spent every effort trying to make it absolutely perfect. She is unhappy with me, feels I don't care. She said she's going to leave me. I told her I'd write her a poem, and I swore it would be the best I'd ever done. She said fine.

I couldn't count the poems I've written in the past, poems of longing and desperate pleas. None of them are good enough for her. She deserves the very best, the very most that I can offer her. There is no question of failing. I think she understands, in a sense. She has left me alone, hasn't bothered me about it. Some might think she's given up, that she's already gone, that I should save myself the effort. Some would no doubt give up, but not me; I'm a poet, a hopeless idealist. I don't know when to quit.

It took days, but I finally finished it. I only hope it's good enough:

don't leave.

this bruise is probably symbolic

I have always prided myself on my peaceful ways, on using words and eloquence as a solution for all of my problems. I always felt that violence was the solution of the weak of mind, the silly, the barbaric. I am an educated and civilised man; I can solve my problems without raising a fist against my enemies.

Yesterday I started a fist-fight at the bar. It was barbaric, silly, and stupid. It was everything I felt. But I felt I had no choice in the matter. It had nothing to do with the man I fought; I barely remember him or what he did. It was everything to do with me. If you take away my education, my intellect, my civility, what do you have left? And even with all of that, what difference am I really making?

I allowed my confidence to waver. I wanted to make a difference, any kind of difference. So I hit him. I expected that I'd feel alive and empowered, that my ideals were nothing. But it was only when he'd walked away, leaving me on the wet pavement, did I realise that I had accomplished something far more important than that.

I got in a fist-fight with society, and society won. Society is remarkably resilient like that.