Sorry about the other night's post, i was feeling quite low.
I've come to the resolve that i need to simply produce more. More time crafting words and more time authoring. (less time being a whiny, self-demining emo child)

I've been revising works. Expects some revised pieces tonite (sometime)

don't worry about me.

Adventures in a timeline of Marc

*GRUMBLE*

Ok, so you know how t'other day when i didn't post the new Munchausen tale because i was studing for my GREs? Well, as it turns out, i wasn't allowed to take them, 'cause i registered as Marcus Miranti, not William Marcus Miranti (the name on all my I.D.). Not only is it a major set-back for I, I now hafta pay out the ass (~100$)to re-register; during which i'm sure ther'll be problems, 'cause my SS # (not my schutzstaffel number but me social secerity number) will be the same, as with all my other info.
On top of all that, the good folks at ets.org alias: the GRE fucktards, tell me they can't change my name. I s'pose that prevents cheating. nor will they refund me or lemme pay 50$ to alter my information 'cause it's after the test date. But they did tell that in the booklet and online that it sez, persumibly, to "make sure you are registered as your legal name." Well EXCUUUUUUUUSEEEE MMEEEEE for not being able to see warnings that aren't in massive bold lettering. Only, I assume there is such a warning, the operator i spoke with, Shirley, had a hard time telling me where i might find such an admonition. (appearently there's a book?) unfortunately, barreled into the whole 'i'm gonna take my GREs' thing haphazardly. who knows, there might just be a place filled with information like that. Plus, i accepted the terms and conditions agreement, so, legally, they can tell me to piss off. Which they did.

sigh.

Ruby sez that they are in the wrong because i've always associated my self with the name Marcus instead of William. I'm sure that if Shirly knew all about my life, she'd agree.
Sometimes i feel like the whole academic system is a grandiose test meant to rule out the weak. like just being able to take the GREs is a test in of itself.
Or meeby it's just my life.

Anyway, In addition to dealing with that nonsence, i've developed an acute craving for Diablo 2. so my Munchausen chaptorial (serial) has been redused to mere scenes. I wounder if Dickens ever had these kinda problems? like getting distracted from Bleak House reading better novels or whatever victorians did for distraction from tuberculosis and sexual repression.

-Marcus William
p.s. Munchausen updates tomorrow. (or tonite, if my lvl 20 paladin can make it through ACT 2 without being beset upon by vicious Players)

Le sigh

well, sorry folks, but i guess my last week's post went unposted.

enjoy it this week.'cause this week's post will be late. (b)WHY!?!?(/B) you might demand. Well, it's 'cause i was s'posed to take my GRE's today, so i've been studying instead of writing. Well i come to find today that i can't because my info doesn't match. I'm a bit angry about it.

so the story will be post ponned.

Chapter 1: Stranger Happenings (fin)

Bitter stung her nostrals. A brown blob filled Lu’s vision. Slowly she began to make scence of it. eyes. a nose. kindly wrinkles, short black hair unblurred. Father Sabismo’s ancient face brought a smile. “Child,” the voice, a gruff murmur at first, grew into his rich, heavy cockney accent, “you fainted, easy now.”

Lu swung her legs off the oak pew bench, “Je… ah, Pardon. I…” She fumbled far the thin case concealed in her blouse. She took one, lit it and drew a long drag of arid smoke before asking Father Sabismo if he minded her smoking. he only shook his head. They sat in silence for a while. Thin reeds of smoke drifting into the air. The coffin was closed now. Lu suddenly stood. “I’m going to look at that man.” Lu placed a palm on the smooth lid. She could not stop here. to have come so far to see the man who brought her mom such pain. With a breath, she shoved.

The church doors flung wide with a sudden gallantry that turned the heads of all in attendance. A deep faced man strolled through the threashold. For an instant,  Mrs. Carrebelle believed she was staring at Elie VonMunchausen himself. yet, this man strolling in lacked the luster of granduar that famed the baron. but such is the way when stories become myth. a strong, jaw jutted forward, proud and reeking of noblity. not but the grey stubble of mutton chops on the great chin like carved granite. Lu closed her eyes. She had toiled about what it might be like to see the baron, her grandfather again after so many year. The emotional upwelling she had expect, prepared fore, came not. She watched him limp, his left leg aided heavily by a cane. even at 109, she thought, Munchausen moved too achingly, too stiff, too... something not quite Munchausenly. And the short blond haired boy padded along too close as if lead by leash and his face  painted too much concerned.

Lu turned to the coffin. before her a man. This, she suddenly knew, with out question, that this was no imposter. Laying so still, once a source of terror, was no more than a lifeless doll, harmless even. at 109 years aged the baron was handsome. His noble brow furrowed with an extravagant air. his square jaw and unquestible facial hair rang with nobility. despire his pale, aged skin and heavy, sick-soaked lids eyes, he looked as if he might leap from this very box and catch the next cannonball to Hungary. Lu cursed her earlier fear. Lu recalled that she was once told, death humbles all. But the Baron took to the grave with a vainglorious flare that there could be no doubt. Lu felt her knees weaken as hot tears blurred the peaceful body. This was the man that mother spoke of him as a curse. The one person that caused her so, so much pain.  

Selections from journal of Crewmen Carrebella

Sorry folks. but image, if will that instead of the Münchhausen tale  that you so anticipated, despite it being delayed, for being a tale of extraordinary, monumentality. (I've just signed up for a "word of the day" from VisualThesaurus.com",is in, fact not what you are reading, then I'm sorry.

However, these are the recouped projects of me.

<apple

I purchased this book and charcoals and I got a red pastel an I just started into the canvas, so to speak.

<Time is a River Rushing Over Us

You can see I'm just doodling, but I figured I needed to show what might keep us from the fabulous Baron Von Münchhausen.

Brainwash >

these are the attempt of me trying other methods and media to shout at. and be to armature at it.

I really liked working with just black and white. but I suddenly ran out of monochrome paper,thus I found myself with color.

 

 

 

Actually I enjoyed the blend of three colors dancing on a stage. although every thing looks kinda BLoo under this lens...

  <Untitled

I esptially enjoyed the use of crayon. It doesn't mark as well but provides a neat shimmer effect

<sunrise

I hope you've enjoyed enough to forget i tore you away from Münchhausen's fanastic adventures.

anyway, I'll post Münchhausen by Friday.

SEE YOU ALL NEXT WEEK, FOR THE HOLIDAYS!

-Marcus IRmiranti@gmail.com

Chapter 1: Stranger Happenings

A chill breeze harkens twelve strikes of the midnight bell. They came slowly, cold and bitter. Each strike a mourning wail. “A graveyard by the sea” was his request. In the north of Yorkshire, over looking the friged atlantic, this church, in grand colonial style, sat boldly. Pearched high on a short peninsula it over saw the rocky shoreline to the east and wind-scoured plains to the west. Quaint wooden stairs twisted down the rocky knoll to guide visitors up safely to the church doors. The wreaths of white lilies, that looked so peaceful in the morning, now, in the desolate gloom of the eve, haunted the stairs like drooping ghosts. Not a light fell from the skies. Not even the crystalline grace of the moon could shine with such sorrow in her heart. At the tenth long cry of the bell, the clouds, with a thunderous sob, unleashed a pouring rain across the English countryside. Below, a gaunt faced minister opened the doors of his funeral home to the awaiting grievers. Father Sabismo was less surprised that only one person had arrived, but that she had shown at all.
A black sedan rolled to a stop. The heavy rain pecked at the long Duisenberg. Lu stared out the rain spattered window. A once carefree young woman stared back, rain marred the face. She heard the Fredrick’s boots on the wet gravel. Guadalupe Carrabelle, Lu as she preferred, was a wealthy woman of the French aristocracy. At, least that’s what she wished people to believe. In truth, she was lowborn. Lu gazed past that tender face in the rain to the solemn church upon the ridge. How she missed the warm air of Haiti. The sweet tang of tropic rain. This place smelled of herring and sheep even when it was dry. She pulled the black, lance veil down and lit a cigarette. Blue eyes met her brown ones as Fredrick opened her door. A flush of red to his cheeks, he quickly dropped his gaze. They walked together. An umbrella with one hand and Mrs. Carrabelle in the other Fredrick lead her to the church awning. Lu whispered a thank you, pronouncing his name in classic French with a long /e/. She watched the boy trot, blushing back to the Duisenberg. Lu smiled slightly inside.
A gruff weather-beaten voice intruded on her. “Ms. Carrabelle? Ms. Guadalupe Carrabelle? ‘ello?”
Lu shook her head, “Mrs. Carrabelle. Je Suis.” Her red lips pulled a final drag from the cigarette, “Pardon, moi. dis is the Baron’s wake.”
“Father Sabismo.” the elderly man bowed. “Mrs. Carrabelle right-”
“Please, Lu es fine.” She interrupted, “to see an African child so far from home reminds me of mine. It is a comfort, father.”
“A child I ‘ave not been for a while, ma’am,” Sabismo chuckled, “nor ‘ave I seen Africa. Still I’m ‘appy to ease the family of the departed. Come,” the priest offered an arm. Lu slipped her gloved hand into the crook of the father’s elbow. He was a muscular man for the great age he carried. They stepped inside. The scent of pochulli hangs in the dry air. It is the scent of the grave. From far away a shadowed hand grips her soul. Each foot bringing her closer to the Baron then she’d ever been. Lu felt her heart jump. What cruelty was this! Certainly, the father could hear her heart pounding. It drowned out their footfalls, the patter of rain and the howl of the wind. lub-dub! It drowned her too. lub-dub! lub-dub! She fought to breath, to suck in that rank, grave air. lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! The casket stood before her now. Open. The peak of his nose rose above the swells of his cheeks. lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! Lu could take no more. She fell into blackness.



Ok, so I had hoped to get to the interesting, overarching, establishing plot part of this chapter, but today ran off, and i near missed my deadline.

STAY TUNED!

Good Morning, world!
Recently, in addition to my SwineFlew, I seem to have come down with some serious Disgaea-isis. It's a trouble, chronic illness that causes me to lose long tracks of time and periodic procrastination.

Yet, with treatment and a bit of rest, i am back and writing.
On another note, i've re-stuctured munchousen story. Update's tonight. Lezay, ug, 8:36pm

Treibly sorry

Hola! loyal readers.
Sorry about the absence of posts.
I came down with a case of the swine flew.
thats right. i didn't mistype. You see, a while back i discovered this pig, Herman. Anyhoo, we took him in for shelter. We had planned to send Herman to a friend of my mom who has a farm being that the swine had no brand or ID marks. Well, on tuesday I found out that Herman had escaped from a genetic research centre. And the guys in the black van that stopped by to retrieve him didn't seem very nice but, being the patriotic folks that I am I choose to return Herman. we didn't even mind their guns waving about and threatening remarks. Of course when we couldn't produce the pig, I took a totally uncoerced ride with them to their lair. i'd tell you about the trip, but i chose to wear a blindfold. i awoke sometime later, in a heated, rodent free cell.

long story short, if you've ever wondered if you might sleep with that jerk in the bar who told you: "when pigs fly" Well, i hope you saved their number.

In unrelated news, Thanks to Fro for his contriubtion to the Munhousen tale. I'll post the next instalment tomorrow.

OK!
First: Thanks, all for reading
Second: backed by popular demand i will be updating this space (as intially intended) more regularly
third: updates will now be weekly on tuesday.


I wanna do an interactive story but i need people to create characters.
rather, i want people to create a character to attend a funeral. the funeral is for one Baron Elie VonMunchousen. Their are three other guests when you're character arrives. Pope Sabismo the second, presumebly at the funeral for the baron to read the lord's prayer, is renown as the first african pope. His mahony skin blends richly with his ornate robes. He is talking with the late baron's well-known cohort, Finnius Maximous. Sir Maximous, of course known most for his invition of the first steam powered spider. Unfortunately Finnius' mechanized contraption prove an unrelaible form of transportation. The third guest sits off in the corner of the room. She is a broading sort, it seems. She holds a great, black, leather-bound book which she occationally glances at and turns her mocha-soft face into a black lace hankerchef and sobs. whats most striking about her is the gothic, almost medevil mourning gown she wears.

So You all should submit a describtion of your character, how they are related to the baron and who they interact with to IRmiranti@gmail.com and next week (tues or Tues the third of nov.) we shall learn more about the Baron and his mystrious death and his astranged aacquaintances. ;)

-marcus

Forsooth! Woe, how i've fogortten!

LO!
I nearly forgot about my blog space.
Sorry, ya'll

No moar chatter, heres a rough piece of poetry




I remember my first
the long slow breath of hot, stale air
I remember the slight high of smoke in my head and the sharp taste of tobacco on my tongue
I remember the ease of "hello"s and egarness of new commrades
I remember being able to run without labored breath
I remember giving them away, freely
I remember each day
each week
each month without a single moment of ashy breath
I remember not caring a flame
I remember not lying about my habits
I remember not wearing the reak, like shame
I remember needing,
not enjoyment like before
I remember shunning the box that i had paid dearly for,
giving to friends, strangers in order to heel temptation
I remember the bar
where i bought a new pack that very evening
I remember the five dollars last week
it's now vacant home in my wallet

I wish i could remember my last.

Adventures in a time of Marc

Aloha, faithful readers. Sorry about the infrequence of posts these days; (as with all days) My life has been interesting the last couple, so i hope the populus will forgive me.

-the following post has been posted on the fly; as such it is incomplete. stay tuned-

I wasn't going to post the life and time of my world here upon this page, rather i'd plan to post some more scribblings. However this correspondence will, assuredly, be fantastic reading (with the bombastic entrance concluded).

Wednesday was fun. I started that day by opening my first shift at a local, delicious bakery. All well and good. regular, early, if few, hours compared to my older job as a cook at the bistro, Monica's. the contrast of the two eatries are as different as the hours. From long and irregular night and weekend shifts (monica's) to early and ridged shifts (bagels). the later lacked regulation, perfering the empolyed to mange the bistro as it pleased. lose codes of conduct and an air of recreation unique to private establishments. The bakery, like a dove to a magpie, is rigulously formulatic. exactly eight hour shifts with a clear distinction between 'freetime' and work time. Yet, greater organization means more effectency, more opprotunities for an apt worker to be compencated.

What waits in store for our hero? next time on Ninja Chef Marcus: A Tale of Two Roles or Watch Out, Papika!

So that brings us to thursday which was spent stressed and agiated about the choices that brought our fair traveller to the rocky crests of Michigan. (which is a boring story)

moving on,

the weekend brought, for me, fun and friends as i watched two dear one enter the legal tradition of matrimony. 

an annoying walk from the forum

Ok.

So, i'm not a very opinionated soul, but the resent and increasing noise and trouble over health-care reform has bugged me to the point of blogging about it.

Lemme throw my hat into the ring:

It's very easy to sit (or stand) and complain about the principles -the concepts- of programs when you live a secured life. When i witness the grass roots "town-hall" meetings there people express there discontent with this healthcare reform somehow being the end of capitalism and their fears of an "America lost." i am appalled. not one. not a single person in the presses' coverage has been a person who looks to be without insurance. I don't mean to stereotype, but these folks tend to be white collar or union workers (or above); people who are guaranteed to have coverage. This reform is not about destroying an industry. Rather it is about making an industry more accessible. the fact is that the cost of healthcare is increasing three times faster then the cost of inflation. That means that for each dollar more my wage is increased the cost of a doctor visit increases by three (dollars). Now, when a company bares the boon and burdens for that cost, who cares but the CEOs? 

Well, many Americans aren't protected by companies' tax credits. I, like many, are not covered by any healthcare or insurance plan. I don't have 600$ a year to spend on my health. an as long as companies and unions are willing to pay 600$ a person for healthcare, insurance companies will charge 600$ a year for a health plan.

Believe it or not, that's the way capitalism works, babe. Sure, there's that Hippocratic oath that HMO personnel *should* take. but that's less for their benefit and more for your own. It's just like that "employees must wash hands" sign at McDonalds. I have worked as a cook. I have seen people treat those signs as a suggestion.

In my opinion it come down to this: We, as a people, need either healthcare reform of a cultural reform.

I know it sounds awkward, but take a step back and imagine a society where every other individual can diagnose the systems of a stroke, set a broken bone, intervene a heart attack, or even perform basic 1st aid. Now imagine a world where people don't hide their prejudice behind a facade of "fear of socialism."

That was too far.

At any rate, i never felt the need for a universal healthcare. I've lived a good life. a fat and privileged life. Yet, at every turned I've sought to escape my heritage. Last year of high school i spent in Mexico and southwest USA. After college, I took a low paying job in a slum part of Iowa City. I've seem people picking strawberries with gnarled broken fingers, I've hiked 20 miles across arid deserts in northern Mexico that were once irrigatable farmland, before the Colorado ceased to flow into the sea of Cortez, I've met people who can't afford their bi-polar drugs nor can they afford the cost of giving birth in a hospital, I've seen folk who must choose between eating or sanity. 

American society is a joke. When the an expectant mother musty choose between the drugs that keep her from slitting her wrists or hiring a natal physician, then something is wrong. When I as working for Monica's, a restaurant in Iowa city, I meet a man named Paulie. Paulie wasn't the easiest guy to get along with, but he was no monster. He was gruff and bitter and reacted like a man who spent his entire life fighting the world. He was a prep-chef. He had a medical problem that he had no money for: a pain in the foot. it took a month for him to save enough money for an operation to remove an inflamed nerve (which was thought to be the problem). the cheap surgery resulted in circulation lost in two of his toes. they were removed. two toes became five. Five toes became a foot. The hospital was able to save his leg. Another co-worker, Richard was baking bread one evening. He set a 500 degree pan on a shelf above him. José, a Spanish speaking member of our team, was lost in language as he stumbled to warn Richard of the falling pan and heavy boxes (¡cuidado!). I fear to imagine what might've happened if I was not around to shout in English. Richard did not have health insurance through Monica'

What i don't understand: the arguments against helping folks like Richard. When the US government decided to demonopolize the steel (steal) industry Rockefeller certainly wasn't complaining about socialism. When the US government decided the that 2nd amendment was great, but, perhaps some folks (those not fit to be tried in court) shouldn't own guns, no one shouted about their fears about "losing the America they know." If anything, healthcare reform would force competition for existing HMOs. which would force them to effect ways to lower their prices. Toothcare, for instance, is not life threatening. insurance companies would surely dominate by providing discounts with dental insurance. or they could encourage development of cheaper treatment and NOT tell the gubernatorial health insurers about it.

Let us just assume for a moment that healthcare reform won't cause the end of a free United States of America. Let's just pretend that President Obama passes this reform bill. Now, if governmental programs illustrate anything it is this: the majority of them fail to accomplish what they were intended for or do so poorly that the people seek help from the private sector anyway. ex: the Army Corp of Engineers, the CCC, prohibition, no child left behind, homeland security, the UBATF and countless others decrees.

So, seriously, just stop worrying about it all. If this healthcare thing does go arye, then take it up with the supreme court. that IS our(the people's) check on the gubernatorial process.

fuck! 

problem solving

in many ways i am too self agrandizing.

recentally i've been having an existentialist crisis.
Oscar Zeta Acosta is, perhaps, my favorate novelist. he wrote three books before disappearing mysteriously. until recentally I've always held the notion that great authors come from great feats. as such, i've lost sight of wat it means to be a writer.

Tony. a great wall of a man sat, leaning back, feet purched upon his coffee table. pragmatic would not be a word one might describe this aching body. his features, though old, never tired of thought. in the melon of a head lies the wisdom of ages, of love, of magic. but most of all, it is the life of experiances: an explorer in a world explored. in hortonville, wi, i've found my Delphi.

thank you.

the goatherders

Goat herders come in many forms. Those that are rough, throwing ewe, corralling them is stabled din. Others controlling them afar, through metallic fences, cold, unloving souls. This is the story of one goatherder.

He wasn’t born of them, rather a life he choose was an exterior to a yellow road. He supposed that if everyone came across two roads, most would take the one that looked less traveled. His first ewe wandered stumbling into his arms, stepping from the platform to meet his fortune. It fascinated him so. It would be nine years more until he’d raise his own flock.

The first three sister and their two brothers were born from Lee lot-04.07 and purchased with a small piece of farm land. He sought after them, guiding them from the falling creeks and treaturious ledges with a long genital shove from his curled shepperd’s hook.

 

...

prologue

who cares? the story isn't about what happened prior; it's about the now (on 'now') in which the players act. if background is needed then it is only needed to establish setting, tone, pasing, or to frame the events -the interesting- events of the story. that said, this prologue is merely a history of an up coming story. truly a prologue of prologues. writen before the story has began. writen before the tale's undertaking. writen as a prelude to a parible.

is anyone reading?

for those hardened and curious, i will instill in you, my captive audiance, the start of a story - the section reserved for exclusion but editors

To start from the very begining would be to begin at the stare of my tale. instead let me begin by starting at the event just before the following enchantment...

too much to say and not enough voice to say it in

fuck

death

freedom is:

-nothing to lose
-no attachment

only now can i see the fally of my attachment. for us; for us Americans, attachment is a drug, really. it is something we pay for. something we use. it is not something we tell our selves we could do without. we just assume that fact. for to know, one must ask.

-perception
-only feeling
-thought

only a concept, perhaps, but what are we if we live without philosophy?

-anima
-to be adventurous
-loneliness

people, friends, family, compatriots, camaraderie are but attachments

-a belief fully in the self
-trust of one's being
-trust in belief
-to be free is to be fearless. utterly fearless
-the only way
-to be trustful, trustworthy, trusting
-in a glass

inebriation

-in an action
-in the moment
-in questions
-in exploration


-marcus miranti

instead of an entry

instead of an origanal peice, as i've done before, i tought a bonus post for ya'll faithful was needed.
an insperation, i suppose: a representation of life done by stephan pastle.

also:



-marcus

yesternite = wednesday

so...
internets? finiky.
posting? sporotic.
thus? wednesday's blog is tonite.

Another Week

another 6 drinks and another week flies by!
i'm beginning to think this once a week thing is too far-in-between. it's another great break-through for me: i'm announcing a bi-weekly update and a bonus up, date when ever the fuck i feel like it.
anyways, this is only really exciting to me.
oh... another piece of news (today is sponcered by the word: "another" btw) i reported a while ago that i've got ADD and i've been suprised by the differencing reactions i've had to stimuli as compared to other people effected by the same stimuli. anyways, i'm trying something new: where i replace the methol- group prescription with another stimulate. ...no, not Crystal meth, but coffee. specifically caffeine. it's only been a day but the effects of three cups of coffee were, from my perspective, similar to Ritalin. curious.
i wanna write poem. i'm plan to entitle it "ode to gin" (at least a working title). something for next week perhaps.

(or later tonite)

-marcus

: D

has it been a week already!?

this is an update.
i had an idea today.
i forgot. well fuck.

-marcus

guests

Gutentag!
guess where i'm posting from. go on, guess. you'll never guess. just stop it. stop guessing now.

my couch outside! in the tranquil drizzling rain.
...is where i should be posting from.
alas! my home has been invaded by folks and friends. now i msut socialize and be friendly. grr bargey barge. awell.

now i msut go!

away!

hello cruel world!

ok.
first post in a while. I had a bit of creative writing i wanted to share about this huge man that walked into my restaurant the other day. but instead i'll stall by telling you(all) why i won't be sharing that bit of trivia.

I've reacquainted myself recently with online gaming (for better or worse)with the game, TEAM FORTRESS 2, (i suggest all who've not tested it do so now. they even have a noob server for noobs. and it's not abused, i think.) anyway it's sapped me. also the constant working and cleaning and doing things generally not writing related. However, i realize that with out other content this simply appears as hollow excuses. Letme say this: I was playing (2nite) when someone, overthe voice chat thing was speaking softly and childly. at first i thought nothing of it. eventually it dawned on me that it wasn't mocking child-speak but some sorta eastern European or perhaps Russian language. ...or some other language i've never heard before (believe me there are alot). fun right? lighting peoples' avatars on fire from across the world? i think so.

anyway, i've come to the conclusion to update necessary more regularly (if not consistantly). these pages will now update BIWEEKLY. ...hrmm, that sounds hard. lets start with once a week then move to a biweekly thing... yeah. THESE PAGES WILL UPDATE WEEKLY so, yeah, hurra!?


Marcus

p.s. i gots a new hat.

Horray!

i found me a beer that tastes better as it warms, which is good 'cause i just put Ruby, my GF down fer the night. She's had her wisdom teeth pull and is, well, painfully awake, but blistfully unpained. she's an amazing thing that buetiful creature. it takes her forever to get stoned and half a 12er to get tippizy - the bright side being that she can be higher then apollo on oxicodine and still be like normal. I've often thought she'd be a great dealer if she had the will for it. anyway i party myself at soem BIOSHOCK tonight, tho i know i promised writings. sry.

anyway, grammer national socialist leeg (nazi), try an' catch me!

-boo! ya! marcus

HEY! sup

so, i had intended to post some comic(s) today. However, my camera's broke. so... as soon as my camera's working again, expect some hilarity here.

please bare with.

in the mean time, i meant to tell the world about a comment a while ago. A few posts ago i was wrestling with a poetic notion: the problem of sound and hearing (i guess, one could put it). anyway, A friend of mine: Benjermen Lindsey (sorry if i spelt that wrong) suggested the very thing i had hoped to describe in a succinct phrase.
"when things get too loud, they become as impossible to hear as silence."
is what he said. so i just wanted to say, "thanks"

thanks, ben!

-marcus

distraction

recently i've started a new game. BIOSHOCK.
anyway it's kept me from my work, i suppose. But here's the thing, for those who don't know, Bioshock is a FPS that has a unquie mechanic by which the player by which i mean me by which i mean you can gain and use supernatural powers. things like electric bolts, telekensis, shooting flame and the like. Well, as i turns out, the game has one of my most desired ablity: the mutation to shoot bees from my veins.
I can't think of a cooler power then that. 'cept meeby teleportion.
'ust imagine: you're at the movie theatre. standing in line when some one cuts in front of you. "'cuse me sir, but... BEES!" then you unleash a swarm of bees to terrorize them.
mostly, i think, i'd use my bees as a smoke screen or something.

anyways, thats wats been on me mind.

-marcus

p.s. i'm throwing a pirate themed barbaque next monday. it'd be ARRRGmazin'!

time to think

A lingering notion

Time has come for me to admit trepidation. this is the first time is a while I've used my outlets for expression - public expression.I will use this moment to shout cares ,concerns, feelings and what not without a Dam.
I feel lost - alone. I am tried all the time. My mind wonders not freely but in initially distracting ways
Today i drove to Des Monies to deliver my dear companion, Ruby, for her family needs her. Almost as much as she needs distance from them. she is so stabilizing - cooling. But her lack of ambition saps my respect. I often dream; of her. Her a lowly barmaid of sold daughter who is apt yet only desires a good husband and easy life. Courtier fodder or material of the "perfect (17th century) woman." In these haunting i see her desire only what she can grasp. I've seen this woman of prowess working geisha style singing melodiously on-high for the pleasure of brothel patrons when she could move the stars as an earthly siren. I feel worse to see that it is not ignorance (not impotence) of skill but a willful resignation that her sullied performances are the 'best' she can mange.


Enigma

I awake and realize my dreams are not wholly of ruby. I see reflection in each nightmare. Myself.
Wonder if not we are alike - two sinking stones strung together willingly in hopes of buoyancy are we to find only deeper waters? Can I bring myself to bear question? Is it i who built this gilded cage? perhaps if i did not she might fly in my absence. or that i might be cut from my own compliance, as well? I cannot. I cannot. Lest she sink deeper. It is my love; It is my concern for her that is my rock. And i am hers.

Query

Why not can i cut this chain? may hap it is the sheer devotion her for me that moves me day to day? or the light of inspiration that flares when she watches me? or the dampening feelings of insecurity she moves in me? perhaps it's enough to have written this.
someone close will read this and think.



-sorrowfully yours, Marcus

thoughts

it's a wonder how the mere smallest seeming piece of information may be the most changing catalyst.

Questions

Part of the work that i've been trying is a piece of ...art, i s'pose, that is a book of questions.
anyway, i've misplaced the file.
but one of the questions i wanted to ask:

can sounds be made in such abundance as to become silence?

...hmmm, needs work.

-marcus

Today!

I realized i haven't posted in while.

I've been better about writing every day. Just not here but else where.

uh...

thoughts

Sympathy with the devil is helpful in the it helps one understand their only hell.

People might ask me, if they weren't so scared or bored or ignorant or put-downie why i don't believe in resurrection, heaven, afterlife, or so on. Basically if i believe there to be another life after this, i'd kill myself right now. i don't say that to be witty. I'd give anything to start anew. unfortunately, I am cured with perspective. I, more and more feel that this life might actually be Hell. Some parts of the Christian religion believe that hell is simply life without the present of God. others take a moar literal idea of and burning place of sulphur and torture. either way, the pains of day-today life feel... excruciatingly like torture. yet, everyone else make ease of it all. THATS the worst part, i think. I feel if i saw another struggle as i do, I might feel a mortality to life, but as is, i can't help but feel singularly stupid, bizzare or some other simonims that i can't thing of. preposition.

on the other hand, Everthing i am; everything that I do, i see simbalance in the actions and beings of others. 

Prehaps i'm wrong. lets just say that there's another life to be lived after this one. Be it in hell or otherwise. ...it doesn't matter 'cause i would live with the same ferocity that i live now. the extra life would be a bonus. ...hey i guess thats why they call it that. :)

 

-marucs

Of Kittens and Cats

i returnith from chicago.

firstly, i'd like to state my sorrow at the forgottenness of april 20th. I totally forgot. So, Mr. Rose, if yer out there, i need a hook up.

anyway, it was awsome.

if yer interested, see the Blog: Bright Orange Thread. 'cause all my misadventures will be posted there.

-marcus

The Driver

The bottle is my companion. Suzie? she follows me. Like vultures follow the cattle across the desert.

He is a broken man, Edger, slumped and bitter clutching a 750 in a pale-white fist. beside him, the impassive form of a cat curled a restful nap. He is curled him self, folded against the wall. Bent from end to end. A ragged, unshaven face is hidden behind bedraggled, dirty, wavy locks. If one were to approach, the figure would lash out with undetermined swipes. threaten to relive him of his precious liquid, and the slumped man would fight the devil him self. He is a naive, a braggart, a drifter. he is alone -at least he believes. Suzie, the feline companion that trails him, is a solid black Tabby. She was rescued from a cold, friendless future. In his leathered appreal she found safty and comfort. She is his traveler, for better of worse. Suzie lays inches away from her drunk Savior. In an hour she will awake, stretch, and position her self close to his heart -his chest- and purr with sleepy satisfaction should his breath be steady. Unbeknownest to the drunkard, Suzie has saced him seven time before. Once by viciously biting, clawing at his neck, she startled Edger to simi-consciousness from and opium induced sleep earning her a sprained paw and crooked tail in the process. Still she stubbornly stayed with him. He would tell you that Suzie traded two of her lives for his.

Tonight, Edger was in a foul mood. Even before he started drinking, he rolled into a local shop and flung open the doors. He floored a bar patron who voice his preference of dog to "useless, lazy, lady kittens" He left the premises quickly to buy a bottle of mid-shelf rum at a quaint liquor store with money earned as a working farm-hand. Edger loved his work. What ever it might be. Often he was paid the best to lift. seeding, and corralling was similar enough. He didn't even mind the Mexican laborers who shouted at him in a mix of Spanish and Spanglish (all of which he pretended to understand). He smiled and laughed when it seemed appropriate, or some times for no apparent reason. Working was when he smiled the most. He loved things that stole his time and concentration. Unfortunately, work was slow. Nothing to be harvested and no establishment were hiring in these times. So, with not buy his thoughts and Suzie to fill his down time, Edger turned to a patron this night.

Her name was Vidette. Silken black hair spun down, over her sweet round face. dark eyes, broad forehead and amber skin. Vidette, Ve, as she like to be called, was of Cazella stock. Born in another place, she served as a waitress at a local delicatessen while her brothers worked the same farm as Edger. She was a picture of Grace and discipline.


....So fore those not in the know, I've gained much time from my recent work place. not for them cutting hours but of my own accord. (they took full advantage of my willing absence.
Anyway, this has given me much time to write, write, write.
Like i've ment, to, every day i will.
This is a sample of the stuff i've been writing. Displayed, for the first time. Congratuations, world. Expect moar.
Based on what (how) people comment (if they do) will dictate my future postings.

-love, Marcus

Up-n-coming Out-n-going

Well, faithful readers i've to update my blog -fer once. Hurray!

Anyway, I felt insulted today. i over-read some interesting news about my place of work. We're not going out of business. But the fact that i had to hear that we were so close to being closed down with out anysorta notice. Save that peoples' work hours were slashed. perhaps it's just me, but i feel that i'd be more devoted to my work if i didn't hafta learn of misfortune through deduction. It makes me feel as if my employer doesn't care or doesn't think that i could understand. or worse, doesn't know. Which is worse 'cause, as an employee, when i think my boss doesn't know, i stop doing any 'extra' work. I don't work an iota harder then i hafta.
I simply feel that if an employee must give two weeks' notice then a company must, as well. The place i work at is the economic blood that i live on. If i know that i can help prolong my employment i would, or at least take more time not being paid to look for another job.
it's just overwhelmingly belittling.
And i don't just say that because my pay check was recently declined from my bank 'cause my work place had insufficient funds to actually pay me.

Anyway...

in other news: I plan to travel, vagabond style. I will leave at the end of April and flee wind-in-my-hair-gravel-beneath-my-tires style to... to.. well i dunno yet. But one things fer sure, I'll visit an old friend. Then, perhaps, Cali or Florida Or Canada Or Mexico
...shit, i just remembered, i need a passport. well, we'll find out.

I'm smart, I have will, I can do anything and i am capable. I can certainly make my way.
incidentally, Mom, Dad, I'll see you again. ...sometime.

-loves, Marcus

p.s. Also, I'm writing every day now. I hope to exend this to my Blog. I plan to Blog each day on my travel. forsure. But eachday until then, too.

i sure wish
i was better at this

2dya

i found a thing
it's awsome.
but it's not realy minre.
it's the sate's 'cause the dumb asses involved don't want it.
...so...
it's mine.
it's a couch. broken, brust andf destroyed, but it's mine.
the only challenge is getting it from poitn A to piont B.

Richard, A frined, has said couch.
I wish to contidute it to the Delt's Viking Daze.
It will become possible.

Viking Daze is a three (two day, concective) event whgere things are burnt and beer is drank and fun is made.

'nuff said,

-amrcsu

p,s. I thing my c0-w0rkers are getting wize to me.
p.s.s richard, stop pretending this is how i act all the time. I'm not an idiot all the time.
... just most of the time.


-marcus.

32t932poajfdpojfa psdosd oas [akf

i've nothing to say

an idea

I have an idea!!!!
!!!
!!!
!!!
!!1

Beer 1: no record
Beer 3: no record
Beer 2: i did this. I feel ok. lucid. awake. as logical as i've ever been, i s'pose.
12:38 - switched to a time system to aid in acracy.
12:39 - new beer and the last of the beer. hmm... got Gin?
12:43 - realized that older beer was only half empty.
got anpother one anyway

12:44 - interupted by roomate to ask: "do you have another song, marc?" blew him off (no, not like that, sickos) Thinking about playing the same song again.

12:48 - actually finished 3rd beer. still thinking of playing the same song. aslo just updated my facebook to alter my public of my log. this log.

12: 51 - the effects of alchol on decision making skills is appearent. short;y into my forth beer i thought i might watch some Naruto Shippuden. the relationship between poor disisions and alchol abuse is no longer a mystery. also iu think this may actaully be a third, not a fourth. hmmm.
still thinging of playing "my dick" by Miky Avalon

12:58 - tired of waiting for "Naruto" to buffer, typed some stuff.
also i is fact: only three beers by me have been consumed

1:06 - bored and tired, gave up pursuit of this log.

1:40 - feeling very, very depressed. still havn't played that song.

1:50 - finally stopped watching Naruto, and instead watched "it's always sunny in philadeliphia. felt much better and cheery.

1:59 - finished third beer.
can't decide if to drink more.
proof between treible teen animes and depression, confirmed.

2:09 - to help decide, poored a gin and juice over another episode of its
always sunny in philly.

2:16 - retrurned not with a gin'n'juice but with a wild irish rose in gin. it's hanis.
Irish rose is like jiuce. so yeha

2:30 - played "my dick"
My dick, bigger then a bridge
your dcik, looks like a little kid's
My dick cost a late-night fee
your dick got the HIV
My dick is, like supersized
your dick is like two fries.
my dick good good lovin'
your dick look like maccolky colkeen
my dick sick an' dangerious
your dick quick an' painless

2:47 - itt's 2 4dy seven
wonderifbooze hows hurt brain.

3:00 - finished drink. need to piss.
sry tmi
added my figerprints to my computer's security.
i guess. but tit was fun, so yeah!
7 nesiary wards: Yeah, what, ok, no, dood. ok. thats only five. but those are the only five words you need to carrt out a conversation. two agreements, two wildcards anf an acquization. (thats not a ward but i 'll remeinber.)
anyway.
I'm gooing to bed now.
audios

3:10 - no want moar bberr.

-marcus

So my girlfriend's lookin' for a car...

my girlfriend's lookin' for a car.
this is a picture of moss growing on the rust on the car.


...i just had a thought. People don't give the time-to-think a enough value these days. daze. dais. dayz.
Anyway, this is a buetiful moment.

A day in the life of Marc

drunk.









again.

posting.













again.

I just realized, Red and Green are really easy to confuse people in remembering.

i mean people have a hard time recalling if it was Green or Red.

working

i've been working.
this might usally mean that i'm tossing pizzas, microwaving chocolate cakes or broiling noodles and sauce, but, for once i actually mean writing. (exciting, i know.) the problem i face is how to create an interesting action scene.

Neil Gaimen, usually starts with a violent act; other, Victorian writers might start with people approaching their setting (or one of them (settings, i mean)) in either case, i want a 'hook' to take the reader's attention from their sucky life into the life of my characters.

When i read a novel, the thing that attracts me to it is the passion of emotion. Anger. goofiness. sorrow. delight. fear. excitement. The trouble is that i find my self trying to emulate this, yet i i have a hard time making such an experience true to me. you see, faithful readers, i've had a problem that i choose to ignore. that problem is that i don't feel things anymore. I feel as if passion has escaped my life. I think too much, such as to complicate the simplicity of the things i think about.

no, no, thats not it. I think it's just that i feel i'm just a really boring person. which, of course, makes me think my thinking is boring. ...it's a double edged sword i guess.

a part of me knows this isn't true. but the dwelling on my boring nature, for sure, is boring.

merh.

-marcus

found something

i know ya'll internet savy folks with attention spans might know of this but i thing this is awsome, so check it out!

also, a note:
I've set my self a deadline in the coming months to finish a novella to submit to publishers. So, up-coming posts will be few and far-in-between but story based.
...or random tidbits.
like "Blind Mary" by Gnarls Barkley is the best song ever -amoung a selection of fifty best songs ever.
blind mary. emails me, and i'll send you a copy and you'll want more Gnarls Barkley.
irmiranti@gmail.com

-marc

this is the story of a rock

Backed by popular support, A story.

this is the continuation of another, unfinished post seen: here Which is the second part of tale. the first part

or, for the lazy (and my own interests of continuity):

She never liked to known "a rock." by rights, she was stone, a boulder, heaved and thrown, cracked and stolen from bedrock. time had placed her atop a screne hill overlooking a meandering river and, for the forseeible future, it was her final resting place. Stone had never bothered to count the laps of sun-and-moon as they chaced eachother across the heavens. She imagined that sometime ago, long ago, one had stared to chace the other; time had errased predtor from prey and the sun-and-moon simply followed.

In time a more industious spieces settled in the forest along the river. the herd called themselves "villiagers." Their herd lived in a village frequented by other, similar folk, "merchants," "travelers," "warriors," and more exotic and mundane names. it was all too confusing to the Rock. Soon she simply called them all "Folk." as it happened, one summer's morn, a Folk stopped by. It was a man. She marvled at the Folks' need to name themselvs.

this man was differnt then other Folk. the man stayed with her. He built a shelter by her and sang songs on the warm nights about her, about the wind, about anything and about nothing. Winter came and the rock began to fear the man would leave; as she had become so accoustom to him. She antisipated, like geese at the frost, he would take to the winds. When he didn't, the Rock was overjoyed. He sat on top of her in the setting hours and a woke each morning with the sun.

the winter was long, but so too was the following spring and summer. The rock had become found of this Folk. of this man. But she began to desire her solitude. His trips each evening wore a path in her moss. His dwelling buried around her and cramped her, ans stole her eastern winds. cooking fires scarred her and the man's present chaced away much of her beloved forest game. and the man's home attracted merchants to the village, to her; their steps wearing a trail in her beutiful prairy grass flowers. But still she loved the man. She love the man's love. so, again, she rejoyced when winter came and the man warmed her.

One evening, the man dragged home a deer. Normally the man cleaned his kills by the river, but winter grew close and winds were fierce. the man cleaned the deer and hide next to her. He had no time to sing that night. Time grew hasteily to Folk, and this man was no different. the rock knew the man was meant to be bird and not a rock.

that night when the winds tore and rain stung, she did not shelter the man as she had done before. The storm raged. late in the maelstorm, the rock, on Rain slick mud, moved for the first time in ages. as she slipped away, she turned a last, love long glance to the man hundled in deer furs.

The rock rolled down, down, down and with a mighty dive jumped in the river below.

The man looked on, traquility upon him. the rain softened and ceased. the skies lightened with the approch of dawn. the rosy welcoming hugs of dawn warmed the man's equanimity into a burning wanderlust. a song on his lips even before his first step.

Miles she rolled on the river bed, pushed brutally on by fridged waters the rock's heart suddenly warmed. The man's song reached her here. If it is possible for a rock to do so, She smiled broadly.


-marcus

The Adventures in a Timeline of Marc

I have a companion. A rat. Her name is Panchu. I love her; sometimes I wonder what her world is like. Rats show, like many social animals, compionship thought mutual grouming. For human-rat relations this often means a loved rat licking your teeth; much like those birds and hippos. Unfortunately, I don’t really enjoy a rat in my mouth; but then again, I wonder what it’s like to be human. Most human reactions I’ve encounterd involve me interacting with others about similarity between our other interaction with other humans. …with in societial norms. …like sex, rivalery, compenition, records, experiences with overcoming adverities with others, experience with mian-altering substances, emoinal extremes, and percular interacts with other humans. ..or weed. ..or fighting. ..which might sound like “rivalery or compenition” but is more skill and thought oriented then “who can kick a ball further”. …perhaps “philosophy” would be a better term then “fighting” . I find the act of aggression to be a quandry of-neh, a demand of- how others are going to react. I mean: the expression of the thought,’ if I push this line, here *point* that you’ve drawed here. What, exactly are you going to do?’ I mean, ‘fighting’. Philosophy is,essentially, the same thing. ‘cept it is the mental world instead.

I love talikg

-marcas

p,s. punctation is awsome.


p.p.s. I'll give anyone 100$ of my poorly growen savings to spot the 4 punctation errors.

today...

so today... well, yesterday, actually, but yesterday is a whole day away, so lets call it today 'cause thats when i'm posting.
anyway, yesterday i talked about the feeling of being better acquainted with underclass -the poor. the lowerclass, 90% of the nation's workforce- well today the feeling of, what most blame on the economy, which i think is aburserd as the problem, the way i see it is people borrowing more money then they can or want to pay back; issue of credit lines that people are crazy about; I personally use cash for just about every thing -save internet purcheses, which i have a PayPal account. tangents aside, the world of the moneyly challenged was more real today (yesterday) when a co-worker came in to find out why our employer had bounced his pay check. then, a delivery i took to a guy whose credit card had been declined to a place where his phone had been turned off. (which is wierd 'cause he must've call to place the order) but he paid 19$ and 99 cents for his meal and my tip on a check which we foolishly accepted.

Last post i talked about dropping a bowl of soup and being reminded about the fleeting nature of sustenance when living on a knife's edge. Well when that percious meal hit the ground the panic i felt is more akin to losing twenty dollars you thought you had pocketed. and today (yesterday) i meet a guy who spent his last twenty dollars on food and was essentially broke.

interesting times.

I've been told thats an ancient curse of sorts. I don't belive it, but then again i seek adversity.

-marcus

an interesting thing happened to me on the way home from the forum

so i went to college and graduated. Then i went promptly into lower-class america. Why? I fancy myself a writer. some of my favorite writers wrote about or garnered insperation from the poor lower class.

Wordsworth. Dickens. Gilman. and to a lesser extent, Hawthorne and Wolfe. event Ray Bradbury, the author of the novel got me interested in creative writing had characters from the lower-middle class.

So, when i left Cornell to seek my fortune, i sought the slums and meager means to keep myself. When i found a job at a restaurant it was serendipitous. 'here,' i thought 'i can work and get food (occasionally).'

anyway, no more then tonight did the realization of my perdictament hit me. Recently, i ran out of money. literally. Went my place of employment changed the payday dates. I deposited my rent check before I cashed my check. As i lacked sufficient funds. my bank has a neat program were when i over draw, then they pay the differnce and only charge me 27$. thats right 27$. but there is a charge... but i digress...

so without money i was walking home with a handf full of soup (which that we were throwing away (to old)) that i dropped I realized the sadness of this life. "sad" isn't right. Sad makes me think "pathetic." and it's not that. ...Woeful. thats right. I live with great people who help support me. I love them. But in the moment that hot dinner- future meat- hit the pavement i felt my hunger more then any before.

I've said befor that i've not lived enough hardship to make a good writer. but i feel that understanding hardship brings me closer. It makes me wonder about all the world that doesn't have such an arrey of safety nets.

-marcus

for your consisteration

i've started reading The Inferno again. and its got me thinking. I'm no theologian. i don't spend alot of time or interest on the dogmas of common religions. I've got my own belief and thats enough, i don't feel the need for reassurance from others on my own knowledge(or ignorance) of the spiritual world.

never the less, there is, in religious mythos things that are... confusing to me. Enough so to draw my interest. Yesterday, someone mentioned thewayofthemaster i explored the site and decided that if it had a laugh track it would've been hilarious. instead, thousands (and more then i care to count) follow this deity.

Anyways, inflammatory commentary aside, one of the things about the Christian god that is curious to me is this:
#1 his is the pinnacle of morality.
we might agree, the christian world and i, that God is morally prefect. in fact, i would go so far as to suggest the Christian faith portraits a god that is Perfect. Plato's perfect.
#2 we mortals are *not* perfect. different branches of Christianity express differing views to the imperfections of humanity. Ranging from unforgivably sinful to mildly making up for the sins of our forebears. Justhesame, it can be agreed that Humans make a poor comparison to God. Yet we are made in the image of God. from wat i understand of the Christian faith, this means that we're all little replicas of God running around. And as it's suggested in Genesis and Milton's Paradise Lost, Adam and Eve were perfect. Letme diverge here a second. lower case perfect is different that captial Perfect. if anyone's read anything by Plato or wat Plato said about wat Socrates had said then we know that the mortal realm is just copies of the celestrial realm. so, then if humans are imperfect and they are a copy of God, then God must be Imperfect. However, it would be said this is untrue as Humans are given Free Will, and thus have the capacity to choice (or be influenced to) be imperfect. thus the imperfections of Humans alone don't reflect on God's
#3m the problem i see, however, is that if Free Will is the hinge that turns perfect images of the Perfect into imperfections, then doesn't that suggest that God, the Christian view of God, has no Free Will?

hm.
it's a conundrum.

I've got more to say on this topic, but maybe another day.

-marcus

lucjky

i found a shiny penny today.
it sparkled dear.
i bent to pick it up
and in my pokect it shines.

it's not a poem.
just a statement of fact.
i got a penny
and thats that.

-marcus

novel hiaku

a novel idea
i have. but how to give it
form is the question.


hiaku is easy
but often they are abused
five syllabol line.

blue moon makes fuzzy
life toleratable, yes.
moonshine also good.

this is the story of a rock

She never liked to known "a rock." by rights, she was stone, a boulder, heaved and thrown, cracked and stolen from bedrock. time had placed her atop a screne hill overlooking a meandering river and, for the forseeible future, it was her final resting place. Stone had never bothered to count the laps of sun-and-moon as they chased eachother across the heavens. She imagined that sometime, long ago, one had been prey and the other predator, but the roles where lost with the ages and only the path remained. although the hill was sparce of trees, the river feed the valley. It grew rich with greenery. fauna flourished and she watched with great interest the ballet of animal life, of caution and need, of death and survival, of sex and courtship, of solitude and socialism.

i think i otta stop posting here when i'm drunk ulnoe

too late? never?

I’ve lived too good, too happy a life to be a good artist. The canon demands me to be as interesting as the stuff I’m to write.

-marcis

The Adventures in a Timeline of Marc

so i had a great day to day!

soo many stories. to many to say here, now. but i wil shar this tidbit from yesternite.

it started when i learned that mine and my girlfriend's days off matched. I was bedding down for the nite, when i received the notice that tomorrow we should do stuff. she was reading while i had just stepped, dried, from the shower. i thought mabe i could be inticiting. i was try to finger out wat i anted to sleep in when i noticed all the really soft cosy things girls wear. It's always bothered me that differences in standards between women's clothe and men's. liek why did women wear long dressy dresses, so clearly designed to aerate the 'boys' of men. why women can buy and wear stuff from the "men's" isle, but a man doing the same was so bad. So as these thoughts passed my head, i began to try on her clothes, especially the tight and sexy. Needless to say, her face was a picture of worry.

in the end i learned that skirts are very comfy but dress are not; that boxers still make the best lose underwear, while briefs are aborently uncomfortible yet bikinis are a soft as they are supportive; and men have no use for bras. also that my girlfriend has an inherent worry that i'm going to leave her for some man now.

but seriously, what ever material they make women's underwear out of they should make men's briefs out of too.

...moar next time?
who knows!
thats The Adventures in a Timeline of Marc.
Tune In Next Time When...


-marcus, the creepy writer.

this is a story of a man

this man was a traveller by nature. he love the wind and the rain and the sun and all things that came and went with them. as it happens, in his travels, the man came to a great crossing. a fork. the path he could follow or the river. he sought a hillside to ponder. upon the hill sat a great rock. it was the most beautiful rock the man had ever seen. it was not precious ore from which this stone's beauty arose. rather the way it had been torn from the very earth and shifted and scarred bestowed it a sublimity unmatched by anything the man had ever witnessed. so awed was he, the man vowed to stay by the stone until... well, until even he didn't know.

the man had never seen such an unmoving object that was so well travelled. he lived by the rock. sat with it and watched the setting world. told it jokes, shared secretes. he would run his fingers over the moss on the rock's soft north side and caress the deep unhealed scars of it's southern. he would lay his back on the rock's warm western face and read long passages from his favorite tomb and some times from his own dairy. those were special times. in return, the rock kept him sheltered well against storm, as a small cavern it provided on it's eastern side. from there the man could wake each day to the river below. it kept him warm with the many game of deer, rabbits and more from the woods. feed well, too.

for many years the man lived with this rock. often other travellers would wander by going each their own way. each would stop and look out from the hill and breathe the rock's beauty before embarking once more. often the man would stare into the eastern sky and watch with tearied eyes the freeness of the stars, of the seasons, of the sun and moon and wind. he would stare down at the restless waters below in curiosity. where did that water go? for where did it come? he would lay a palm on the rock. it needed him and he could not leave it. "someday, someday," he told him self each night.

this story is not yet over. the man still waits, for what? he is unsure.

switch up

so tonight i decided that we needed something new in our apartment. so, i pooled my roomates from the vast corners of our flat and we played a game of Clue (tm). it was fun... for a while. then with the game finished, we discussed our stratigies and logic thurough the game.

then we each returned to our areas of the flat.

dodidily doo.
dodidily doo.

same ol'
same ol'

Sukiyaki western Django

oh my goodness!
the best movie ever EVER! i saw last night.
sukiyaki western Django.
buy it
watch it
by anymeans necessary.


that's my official endorsement.
-marcus

KITTEN!

i have a new kitten!

so, sorry about the delay in posting but i've been having a intermitten internet.
also, i've downloaded the first 3 seasons of american dad. in a legal and non-fraudulate manor having paid the creators and producers for their intellectual proporties.

...so, you know. thats been whats up.

thats all for now.
laters, marcus

today

I love Kitties.

went to the humane shelter. bad choice. fell in love with an adorible kitten (2 months). She's really not that cute: kinda scrawny and akward. She's my soul mate. I picked her up and she bent over backwards trying to lick my hands. adoribly ungraceful.
they named her "Whopper."
thats somesorta animal abuse.

anyway, now we're going to try to figure out if and how we can abopt her. Although we've no plans for the future.

yay!
-keep it real...ish. Marcus

Dreams

So i had a dream last night that i must simply share with someone.
so you, faithful readers, get a glimpse into the elusive Marcus psyche.

I was at an open house or, perhaps a museum. I dunno it was some place incredibly not fun. dream me figured if i was going to be here, i was going to be high. The thing is, i was with a bunch of friends from work: Ian, Lynn, Sorrell, and someone else i can't recall. and everyone else wasn't interacting with us. So i happened to have my pipe with me and weed. I started packing it such that it wouldn't attract attention, but i bumped into Ian and dropped the bowl. Fortunately this gave me someone to smoke with. we proceed to go smoke up. It was great 'cause my weed was shwag-ariffic, so when someone produces a bud... well, then i woke up.

i guess, though, that's why they call it a dream.

...blogging...

Untill recently, I've not taken serious thought about my own blog. What i wanna do with it.

I've tried ranting. I'm not very good at it; as i've discovered that i've accepted the fact that i really don't Know anything (safe that i know i don't Know).

I attempted to use this as a public record of my personal writing exercises. Unfortunately, I feel better writing by hand, with quill and parchment, such that a "scribbling" blog isn't comfortable.

I felt i might post finisheder works here. Yet, i worry that someone might stumble and steal my ideas. (it's not an actual consern. I just need three things to make the post look thorough.)

Anyway, My new plan is to simply use the blogosphere to facilitate a form of socialization. kinda like shouting exposition into an empty room. I figure that if I get comfortable speaking with my fingers, i'll be able to "talk" more. Also, I plan to pratice drawing again and post my sketches up here.

also there's this:


later!

Title

something, here.

sooo.... peanut butter paste...

well, it seems each year is not with out it's food contamination. samolna on Spinch, Tomatos (found to actually be jalapeno peppers) and now in peanut paste. as if 2006's "mad beef" wasn't enough.

alas, that is the inherent problem with storing massive amounts of life sustaining matter in a single area.

2day

i'm too angry at myself to express things to day.

p.s. sorry about yesterday's incomplete post; i got called away rather urgently.   actually, i'm not sorry at all

g'day!

long time, no blog.

I can't think of anything really to express today. So i'll go with an interesting event. Recentally i've been telling (making up) a story aloud to myself (and my girl, albeit she's generally asleep).

it is the tale of the Sticklebacks, a curious creature from deep in the forests. they stand a mere three feet (adverage) and are covered with fine, leafy green feathers. genterally the feathers are aspen shaped.

and now for something entirely different

so i've discovered a crazy think about myself.
I'm ADD so i take a stimulant for concentration reasons and what forth and yahoo and so on.

so when i found myself in a conversation with a coworker who wished to obtain aderal (addy, only because i can only assume he doesn't know about the wide varity of simlar drugs and the wide range of side effects). instead of purchasing illegally from someone who might actually make use of the drug or has long ago discovered that it was better as an income supplement then as medical treatment, he planned to fake add or adhd and secure a legal perscription.

Intrigued, i asked him why.

Appartly it made him wake in both mind and body such that he could not study all semester and "cram the night before." I'm no stranger the all-nighter. I can testify to the problematic test sleepiness. One of ritalin's (or Methylphenidate, the drug i was suggested) side effects is its infuriating insomina. along with teeth grinding, eye strain, muscle hypertention (ect) is a personal distaste of the drug. I hate it.

I switched away from pill drugs and even non-stimulant ADD medication, but ritalin is still the most effective to date. Currentally i'm prescribed a dermalpatch pharmaceutical (daytrona) which works pretty well, as it leaves my system in about 30mins after i remove the patch and i even grind my teeth less ^.^

unfortunately, it is not prefect.

but back to B----: as i said, he simply wanted a pharmaceutical that would energize him. Much like caffeine but more brain interactive and longer lasting. I suggested meth. (not really, i told him it was goin' be alot easier and cheaper to purchase one pill at a time)

well all this got me thinking. In my memories, i found that products that slow you down -depressents- like alcohol and weed make me more intense (to a point, i mean if i consume alot of booze i'm goin' pass out or try to climb a restricted building) but things like coffee and ritalin slow me. it's as if when my biological processes are speed up (as caffine does) my active neurologicals are normalized; and when in the presence of a depressent (alcohol) my mind is suddenly under clocked and perceives everything. I wonder if anyone has noticed this effect.

Unfortunately (actually, fortunately), the only barbiturate i've tried is alcohol. i was give codeine for a flu when i was little, but i can't recall how that effected me.

just a pondering.

sorry nothing new today.
well, maybe later.
the world seems to be catching up with me

A little History

as in this is as old as history

In the year 3000 (approximately) a dramatic event caused a deadly change across the planet. Species all over the globe have stood before the test of time. Many died off. A few managed to survive; most, however, have struggled on through mutation and selected evolution. Including the infamous human race. Humans have been know in the evolutionary chain as intuitive, resourceful and above all, adaptable. To the point of manipulating the subtle events far beyond their own lives and reach. Little of man has changed; like all flora and fauna the hardier have survived (as have the nimble and the brutally resourceful). curious enough, survival was only impart due to random, beneficial mutation; a while before the "Black-Out" science had perfected the art of gene manipulation and the completion of the “General Genome Referencing By Genius Encyclopedia” simply referred to as “The Genome Tome” helped gene augmentation thrive. What followed is still unknown, but by the middle of the 27th century, the world governments had banned gene therapy, cloning, artificial creation, and cross-species insemination. With this came a sweeping change. All but three copies of The Genome Tome were destroyed as were all known bioengineering facilities. All experiments were ceased and eradicated. few historical documents survived. what we know from this era is in the salvaged writing of rebels and what can be gleamed from the culture. Of the three known copies of The Genome Tome, one was safe guarded by the Federation of the United Free Nations. Another turned up in 2889, where an underground origination (Las Personas) used the book’s information to synthesize an army of incredible strength to “free” the people. It was a war of extermination.

It was fought across space and engulfed earth in fire and death. It was a war that had no humanly end. what was meant to eradicate bore the fruit of a new life. a cosmic restart button. It is possible that this war never ended, only paused, waiting for humanity to rebuild itself so that it might continue unabated in out future. Nevertheless, in the the "Black-Out" that crafted our world today.

Thats all the history for today. Tune in tomorrow for more.

here i am; rocking like a hurricane.

hi there 2day there will be content.

oh, hey! it's 2009!

oh yeah i almost forgot. it's a new year

they really should have a holiday for this sorta thing. anyway, new post with content tomarrow

(i promise)

luvs.

-marcus