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