time and time again/Time Out/what time is it?

It's time to straighten up
time to fly right
time to stop falling with grace
time to start missing the ground
time to fly when having fun
time to take my head from out the clouds
time to put your feets on the ground
time to stop
It's time to look
time, now, to leap
It's time, Miller time
time to hold 'em
time to know when to fold 'em
time to come to your senses
time to come back from those fences
time to save in a bottle
time for parsley, sage, rosemary
thyme, too, at the fair
time to buy!
time: two o'clock
It's time to eat lunch


-Marcus

A study

So I wanna test some theories...

Basically, in a recent class of mine, psych 280, the professor mentioned one of his studies. In brief, that study indicated that persons surveyed who used Facebook frequently had a relatively high dissatisfaction of life. This stuck with me. There is also strong evidence that suggests a person's satisfaction of life is affected by the comparisons they make. Specifically, by comparing your success to more successful person, you'll survey as having higher dissatsifaction then if  you compare your success to persons less successful. Armed with this information, I'm planning on starting an experiment. as follows

Hypothesis: Because Facebook promotes high social monitoring in it's users there is a disproportionate representation of 'positive' status updates on Facebook. This results in frequent users' having a relatively low satisfaction of life.
Thesis: Increasing the frequency of 'negative' or depressive status updates should correlate positively to satisfaction of life in Facebook friends relative to the frequency of Facebook use. Therefore, if all my future status updates of my Facebook profile reflect negative events, the attitudes of Facebook friends should trend upwards in satisfaction of life.

However, I'm lost in coming up with an method to accurately measure the feelings and attitudes pre-experiment and post-experiment of Facebook friends. First thought is by survey, but I lack much of the authority required to get reliable survey results from people (at lest so i think). The alternative is to subjectively record the number and rate the degree of positive/negative posts on Facebook. the obvious problem is that I start with the assumption that people, more often then otherwise, display themselves in a positive light on Facebook. So that Facebook is an inaccurate reflection of actual feelings/attitudes. Maybe I could ask a select group of people to engage reflectively each week and record the number of times and duration they use Facebook and their mood at those times and weigh that against the number and popularity and mood of posts I record daily on Facebook.

...this all seems like something I should ask the Psych department at ISU about.

anyway, stay well, love, Marcus Miranti

Dear American

Real quick...

watching John Stewart I learn about the media in my country.
working at NPR at WOI I learn about the happenings of my world.
reading News Feeds I learn opinions of people who are a part of both.

It is my thought that the events in Egypt was accomplished by the people of Egypt was no small influance by the people of the United States of American.

Through the display of our society, not through poltics we, as a people, can inspire. Through politics, the people build a representation of their society.

I commend Obama for his actions on the matter.
It was not him, nor The Armed Forces of America,
our spear. Our culture, Egyptian culture
Effected great actions. Affected great new responsibility

The sun and the moon and clouds and stars

Lastly, the sun languishes.
Lately, the horizon of a grey sky.
smoke hot and sweet
smolders from red bitter light
in my palm. Thrown shadows like shards.
over the raised letters
Of my books once through
Did Escape they’d provide?
No more do words I find enthrall in
Tangle tales and adventures.
All have ended, all have gone

Lastly, the words falling
Lately, closed tome in my lap
Soft, stitched-by-hand
in quilted reds with pine
and hugging burgundy hues
Not sex nor booze nor food
Tastes pleasing on these lips
What was Siddhārtha’s choice?
Too tired to wake, too wakeful to slumber
Upon my side to lay
And consign to fitless dream
My Beautiful Annabel Lee

hear now, as I write:
I seek not pity, nor sympathy nor advice.
Only you, dear reader, your ears
or rather your eyes to listen
through finger tips tapping tick tick tacking
Only to say you, I, a pal - a cohort
like you, I, adrift - a question

2010, a revisit

how can one quantify life? the number of cheeseburgers eaten? how many friends you have? the ease of living?

I always subscribed to the idea that we are built of our experiences. Our souls are shaped by the experiences of life. As Lisa Simpson once told Bart, "nobody is born with a soul [it must be] earn[ed] through suffering and thought and love."


Looking back over the past year is an enormous endeavor. On the first, I entered 2011 much as I entered the world: sick, naked, confused and uncomfortable. Since then, my home was filled memoriums from the past. Reminiscing over shared experiences has brought our Ghosts - souls- closer together. Sharing the new events in our lives and creating even newer ones.

To stretch the growth analogy further, much as life most likely originated on the rock shores of the primordial sea. This year starts in the tumultuous turmoil of uncertain, war, economic and political strife. Yet, even now society evolves legs, lungs, eyes. Maybe it will develop means to communicate and work together with it's dissenting parts.

By title, you expected some sorta list of greatest and worst moments. At the very least a fictionalization of 2010 to reminisce about in 2011.Well, you thought wrong. Actually, I was going to. But I'm way to lazy for that... so enjoy this picture instead

Also, if you haven't already, you should vote down below (it's on the side bar). I'll update on Sunday based on the responses.
-love and peace, Marcus Miranti

A day in the life of Marcus: Fotography is Phun

Where in, I discover the joy photoing

Potted Pepper in B/W

The original snap shot

Painted in Colours

I play around with the other tools for a little

 S'potted

 is my favorite

Backlogs

Dec 15th 2010

This is the season when people gather in the streets their gossip turns to holiday cheer between puffs of smoke or icy breath. Snow falls lazily and steady. Hinuet, as the native peoples of the north like to say, drifting, settles white over dingy cityscape. Winter has come. And with it, the hurley-burley of anticipation. Schools prepare for break as students prepare for examinations. Mothers and Fathers search shelves and kiosks for gifts. Children, red-nosed cold troumping through the school grounds; a flurry of activity - snowballs flung and flinging. Soon, the calendars will flip forward to a new year and people will forget the merriment of the season. With gifts gotten and snow fallen Winter will continue cold and bittersweet. Eventually Spring will come slowly like a great tilting weight. All the while utterances in frozen breath dangle - puffy clouds of curses on the cold and snow and wind. Sooner still Winter's chiding forgot as Summer is made out of Spring. Unbearable heat and noise and the price of petrol these days! Can you believe it's going to rain? The kids will play in the hot, weedy air blistful. Those of us, charged with age, squirm and sweat in the languishing days of August. Suddenly the wind refreshes too much; it harks of chill. Stalks of corn grow amber in the setting sun.

Where does the time go? Looking back can we see the deeds of Winter last? No great impact do the seasons have to us remembered - none not righted by work of men. Then, do the seasons' passing impress upon us at all? What works of grandeur did Summer leave last Fall?

There is a tree nearby. See it now: a tall, burly thing. Its trunk is ashen - almost dark not quite brown. Its branches are fingers stabbing open palms at gray cloud and sky - all its leafs long since fallen. In the snow it hides before your eyes - colored muted night. Unremarkable thing. Be still and watch close now: from simple seed to tree and sapling inbetween; Tiny leafs prod up through Spring's soft mud. A weed at first then a yearling. Now it is shooting high a great bouffant of verdant green - cool shadows in Summer sun. Foliage colored brightly orange and yellow-brown paint the winds of Autumn. Now, grown and weathered, steeped in snow this tree still creeps its longing branches out and higher. Or perhaps it slumbers hinuet all around.

Cross Roads

1:38am sep 16 2010

Why keep a Blog?

I suppose I do it to maintain a frail connection to writing. To language. I loved language and literature. I enjoy analytical reading and discussing symbols and themes. writing too.

What happened?

I graduated. Nobody was interested in literary critiques or theory. I saw no jobs at the BA level -none, that is, that tailored to my interest. proof readers. I'm terrible at detail work. editing/publishing. I wanted something more academic. Teaching. I discovered that no place wanted some one with four-years of interdisiplary study with out teaching accreditation.

Why not freewrite? journalism, or fictional work?

Attempts at creative writing were abysmal. I found too quickly that I had no subject for which I had passion. perhaps I'm too high-minded, but I could not bring my self to write articles about thing for which I did not care. As it turns out, I am a stubborn wordcrafter too. I could start. But I never allowed myself to generate enough material to work with before I tried to revise it. Ultimately, I became discouraged. I convinced my self I was a terrible writer - a self-fulling prophecy compounded by my refusal to practice or even seek out side inspiration.

Is that why you returned to College?

I guess. I felt, after two years floundering and living off my parents' money, that i was most productive in the influence of an academic setting.

Did you want get a Masters in English?

yes, no. I wasn't sure what focus - what drive I had to justify further education. I didn't want to fall into the trap of continuing schooling for the lack of an other interest. I wanted to want to be in school.*shrugs* Truth is, I didn't try. I submitted one application -late- to University of Iowa. but mostly I was scared. scared to try. just like with my writings i was scared to put all that emotional effort - a significant portion of my being- to the judgment of the masses. My own fragile ego and insufficient self-esteem predicted my doom, my failure. In part, failure to find a job translated into failure to be accepted. So I took an easy way.
Another degree?
yes. I reenrolled as an undergraduate. at a school known for it's exceedingly low expectations. (but you didn't hear that from me).

You said you were scared. Is that the reason you choose Iowa State University?

No. By now I feel much more confident I my abilities. Actually, I found myself living in Ames because I was living with my love, Ruby. It was too late to apply for a postgrad position, you see. Nor did I find the opportunities at ISU that compelling.  Further, Ruby keeps talking about moving to Germany. I figured I could stay in Iowa for a year (two at most) and while I look for a nice Masters program, I could brush up the ol' GPA. and, hey, why not explore some other interests while I'm at it?

And how do you feel now?

Red, Red Wine

Stay close to me
I am fine.
Lemme clear my my mind.

communication
difficult.
Like a kitten in a box

I find it hard to get out

On me

 For now, i have an income. I suppose that's something to be proud of because, recentally, there was threat against my current employment. But all this has got me thinking of things. Things I own, would like to own and my own self.

As I write this I am drunk. Drunk as hell. So take me with liberty when i say I've never been had much attachment fir possessions. I grew up with Buddhist thought. I was given a car by me parents for which has given me much aid and support. yet, it is not in owning the car but the experience of it that I value most.  Recently, however, I've been pulled into enjoying ownership of things. Things around me. Not so much that I care more about the objects. No, rather that people I care about - a person I want around me- has need for items in her life. Specifically, plants. Plants to surround and beautify the area. (one could do worse then have want for beauty and growth.) My upbringings have taunt me the eight-fold path and the four noble truths. of which include the despisement of objectification. I should not want objects not desire  for - make an object out of- a living thing.

Why? I now ask. Why? Don't i deserve something? Don't I deserve things -reward- for my toils? The love and hardships my closest companion express are to create, to grow, to expand and enjoy the fruits of her (or his) hard work. I can't see how that could be a bad thing.

Perhaps I've strayed from the beliefs of my upbringing. Where before I cared not but for others I think of myself, of my own gain and loss.  Where once there was contentment there is, now, distension. I want. I desire. I need. I postulate having and not having. I addition to my growing selfishness is the feeling of ambition. I want recognition for my works. I'm no longer content to do. To work enough to drink and play is no longer enough. I want to express my deepest thoughts and cry My Desires to the sky.

For  those readers not known, the Eight Fold Path is a Buddhist teaching of life. they seek to teach Wisdom, Ethics and philosophy. All towards the attainment of the four noble truths: (which, as follows, should sound familiar to used to evangelical Christianism.) First: there is suffering and it is unavoidable. Second, the origin of your pain is beyond your ability to fix. third, you can cease your pain. The way to stop your pain is to follow the eight fold path. It is hard to turn away from what is/was taught to you. I don't know if it is for better or worse (not a plug for the gawd awful comic)  but i am turning from it. I am embracing ambition, desire and need. I want. I seek and I will attain.

   -Marcus Miranti, Freedman

New.s

So much has happened recently. I'm not sure where to start. first, I got thrown out of a state park. then, I meet a whole new group of people I call "Addies." I got to hang with some old friends and meet some new ones. I enrolled at ISU. (hurray educations)  I got a scanner I'm totally stoked about. Finally, just may, in general has been a fantastic adventure.

Sunday.
 I traveled several hours to Mt Vernon (affectionately: MV) to attend the Sponge Wedding of Kristine Foster (OOO! Shiny) and Lizz "Keps" Kepsel. Anyway, after a wondrous drive through rolling hills where long, tuffed grass frolicked, wind-wavened like ocean waters, I rolled into the Pal around 2:30 and set up camp. It was oppressively hot. So humid that even blood-sucking insects were too tired to feast. Natey found me dropping payment for the well attended campsite (Although why they charge i haven't a clue. From almost every fire ring drifted lazy smoke of forgotten embers. The Wedding went fabulously and the reception got underway.  We started on the great quantity of drink provided. I, too, thought it pertinent to pack pilsner, though, as i found, it was excess. which made the next events harder. When the shelter's reservation ended (about 5 o'clock) Park Ranger Joe-Mama showed up, demanded we vacate. But not before we dumped all our booze for his sadistic pleasure. the bastard. Our Precious precious booze and cut our party short. we had minors (of which i was unaware) so for not getting ticket and fined i s'pose that is fair. NO. Fuck that! It wasn't fair at all! I'm 24! I have a right to carry beer in a cooler in a park that allows alcoholic beverages. I wish I was less compliant.

Later.
because being kicked out of a state park wasn't enough adventure for an evening, I found myself in Iowa City meandering the Ped-Mall. The rows of pedestrian only streets (well, two lined such to form a 'T') fell willingly under the shade of broad leafed trees. I found a spot under one and sipped a delightful sangria provided by Mundo's Saloon. I read The Time Machine in the orange setting sun. all the while sending out thread for further use of my time. I pasted up Jordan (sorry) and Darcy (also sorry) to return to Cornell College campus. I've not been to Cornell in a ages. the specific reasons for my enforced absence is too long to delve into now (though, with some persuasion, I could be encouraged to regale the populous). more to the point, I found Alro along the way to hang out with a group of folks who will be known to me henceforth as "Addies." Much as entire generations have been cataloged with language (e.g. Hippies, Metalheads, ect.) I've labeled another sect.

Addies.
groups of people characterized by others by their corrosive behavior, favor to excess, and constant use of inebriates. I usually shy from heedless categorizations of subcultures. Recently, I've seen the function of label (as abstract and closed-minded they might be). Addies are born of extremity - but this isn't about them. (actually it is, but i want to wait to talk about this class of person). I would dwell longer of this subculture. In living moment to moment is truly liberating in this: there is a bliss in not caring about the next.

At night.
I sat, bent head listening to the spiny clatter of boxes from 2am delivery. It was the elementary school. from it's rooftop, under waning stars we smoked and now we waited. cold dew soaked my clothes. my ears pounded with each new, muttering step of our  blockade. I, for my part, took our siege to use. I wrote to the stars. to my plight. to all i cared to address. Once the milk was unloaded, a sudden shuttering alerted us to freedom. Thought we were unable to loss one of the party members from the chilled roof top, I left a cashe of  blankets for her safety. Though, as i suspected, she was in more than capable hands and was later retrieved.

Home.
I returned exausted and defeated. the loss of 12 hours and 24 units of beer sapped all my enthusiasm. Thankfully, Arlo a great friend of mine accompanied me a short way. The day was bright and the flowers seemed to smile and dance on the springtime breeze. I thanked my benefactors for their aid and comfort and supply but I shall not the company again of Addies. Not for a while. The sun set before me in great orange sky as I pulled into the rock drive of home. there i rested in the arms of equally tired Ruby, who waited patiently my return.

A new Year!

My own personal new year's has come and gone. I celebrated the passing of my 23rd year in fitting style and ushered in the dawn of my 24th in true dissobertude. 

as the merriment abates I prepared for a grand party this weekend. And with it enact sweeping changes in my life. A resolution towards another three hundred some odd days. Firstly, I've separated Fiction work and Non-Fiksun work. Mr. Wordy has a new side. (by which i mean site). At tumblr.com I'll post stories of the fictional world. Blogger will be events and stories of my life. I choose Tumblr because an intellectual great has started a Pizza Blog. It is a sociological foray into food and community. he'll be reviewing experiences at a different locations of notable 'za.

In other news, i've learned that i can make several posts in a day.

Drink and be merry!
-marcus

I wanna Review an album

Demon Days by the Gorillaz

Now that I've got your attention:

I'll bring you up to date. i recently decided to be my own Corporation. I thought: Damnit! if a Corporation can have the same rights as me, I ought to have the same rights as millions of different minds. Right?
I wanna apply this to my own life. (Also, it shouldn't be as hard as it is to get iTunes to upload some album work.)

I am going to explode keeping this review in. but i would be amiss to forgot to thank you. for reading this now as I've drawn the curtain on myself, This Life of Mine. To Hope and Bob, congratulations. and i miss you and thanks and words escape me now. must remember to touch this up in editing the Skarins, of course. arlo, Fro, sabi too, where ever you are, good luck. (next year at the Sexiterium!) To my friends in the business world out there (Nicole, Brenna, the kchrisophers, mom&dad and the Familia). Feet. the Sharmas to whom I own no-end-of-gratitude. Words, in general. I like words. And of course, you, the readers.

I must remind my self, I'm not working for just one guy any more. I'm now also a corporation. like a whole bunch of guys and I think to myself: "i can't let this bunch of rad dudes look bad just because of me." And I jump into shape. (I really like this living-like-a-company thing.)

Speaking of... didja hear the falling twigs? Spring! and with it a whole new world of AmeriCare. I can't wait to get some care. I've been holding my breath since he announced it.and that's not good for the lungs.

Ok the review. Demon Days by the Gorillaz. it's what you've all gathered here for. Sat through all this yammer for. *i grasp for an opening statement* it simply blows me a way. I am sad to say, i am a man of little words. (if only cuz it'd be nice to have a bigger vocabulary.) I'm unsure if it's my having to much too say or too little? or the masterful technical work and the album's arrangement. but hear me, the result of listening to the album and blogging simultaneously. From 2-D's glorious vocals to Danger Doom's sonic brilliance, the album is a solid piece of work. The Gorillaz brand of electronic/Punk/Rap is damn-near unique. With Murdok's baselines crushing your speakers it's impossible not to get lost in the sound. Del (the funky Homo sapien) blesses the CD with some very fantastic jams. Just when you think they've over-reached, Del pulls us in for a spin and provides to very interesting -tantalizing- audio art to get us interested. I haven't yet had an opportunity to get a hold of their newest album (though i hear it's Amazing!) that said, Demon Days is my favorite Gorillaz work.

Get a copy of it, stick it in your ear. It is great.

thank you to all those I've meet in this travel.
-Marcus Miranti

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!