The Sentiment of Machines vol. 3

Congratulations on retaining your cultural identify.  Records indicate that the axial tilt of the planet in your polar hemisphere may have recently achieved maximum obliquity.  It may be your custom to acknowledge this event by participating in a variety of seasonal observances related to the climatic change occurring between this event and the celestial apoapsis with which it is often confused, exchange sentimental or economically noteworthy gifts, or to petition supernatural amalgams of philanthropic Turkish clergymen, nascent messianic figures, and Proto-Germanic patriarchal storm deities.  While engaging in these activities, you may wish to remain sensitive to culturally dissimilar peer groups who are required to spend this period commemorating the fortunate yet inexplicable efficiency of available fuel, arguing over the historicity and significance of your endeavors, and attempting to explain non-participation to their offspring.

The Reliability of Myth

It's that special time of year, where once again a vocal minority of a technical majority of the Western world will be overjoyed to remind us that we the ignorant masses are mistakenly celebrating the wrong mythical person on December 25th.  Woe betide they who, in their impiety and commercialism, speak the name of Santa during this most sacred of seasons, for the only thing more loathsome are those who would are to de-Christ the celebration entirely by saying "Happy Hollidays" when they are obviously honor-bound to refer to it as The Christ's Mass (apparently, their lord is perfectly fine with contractions).

Let us forget for a moment that the historicity of this little festival is about as trustworthy as Fox News coverage of Occupy Wall Street and about as interesting as NPR coverage of whatever ornithological society minutes they happen to be reading on a Wednesday; put aside the idea that, according to the Jewish calendar Jesus would have been born during sukkot in the 7th month of the Hebrew calendar, which would have been middle of September in that year, or that a competent scientist would interpret the seasonal and astronomical clues as more like April.  Let's just talk about why children wait for Santa every year instead of Jesus: dependability.

Generations of people have been waiting for Jesus to come without avail since the first time he said he'd be right back; Santa, for all of his faults, at least puts in an appearance other than a millennial tease.  He brings presents, he kisses mommy, and even when we discover that he is just a personification of our parents attempting to maintain a little bit of childhood wonder for us even as we grow into adolescence, we happily take up that mantle and participate in the ruse for our younger siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, and eventually our own children and grandchildren because the effort always brings results: Santa comes every year, and if you do your part even remotely well by being less than simply rotten, he brings you a present.  His disappointment in you is always temporary, and even if you fuck up royally you're only jeopardizing a single season's grace rather than an eternity.  All in all, it's an entirely less heavy trip than Jesus for a child...so why is it any wonder that this is their clear preference for investing their belief every December 25th?

Maybe if you left milk and cookies out for Jesus he's stop by more often, but until then, lay off of the kids.

The Sentiment of Machines vol. 2

Congratulations on remaining within your regional carrying capacity. Records indicate that a temporal occurrence marking the termination of annual food production efforts has recently transpired. It may be your custom to express gratitude to various supernatural entities and indigenous competitors for your assured communal survival, or to reiterate grievances regarding the decimation of your culture and heritage by an agriculturally inept and technologically advanced immigrant population.  Be advised that the persecution of various meleagridinae, avoidance of normative obligations, and conspicuous over-consumption of otherwise scarce resources, while counterproductive, may be required to participate in ritual gatherings.

DNFTT

The original post was polemic,
insufferable, and academic,
but feeding the troll
when they're on a roll
is of trolldom itself endemic.

An Augur's Concern

This notion of simplicity,
itself is a complexity;
'tis difficult reconcile
in wit or wile, candor or guile,
precisely what it means to me.

This cognitive discrepancy;
the things that meant so much to me.
the resolution yet elludes,
yet recitation still intrudes
in disbelief and apathy.

This error of complicity
begat within sincerity
was undertaken with intent
of love well earned and time well spent,
and therein was felicity.

This record of intimacy
cannot divine what is to be;
it captures what the eyes have seen
and recollects what might have been:
this notion of simplicity.

Untitled

Idle thought is how it all begins,
blessing of days and the season's sins;
thoughts are like insects transfixed by pins.
The truth is reduced to words on skins
painted and stretched upon wooden frames;
intent betrayed by what purpose claims.
Everyone points, but still no one blames.
What ends in ashes begins in flames.

Summer thoughts borne by a knave in spring
never can tell what the fall will bring;
a knight in winter will always sing
of the virtue of a summer fling.
Seasons pass and we can not pretend,
or hope that the summer can extend
past the days the season will intend;
Summer thoughts die with the season's end.

What began with a flame, now but dust;
seasons must turn and the world is just
as it ought to be and as it must.
Seasons for life, birth, death, and for lust.
Summer thoughts echo in winter's night,
the ghost of a knave become a knight;
a lifetime of memories delight.
Spring is a vigil kept by that light.

For Oceanus, who is a Circle

The keel may pass o'er murky grave, 

and none the wiser none the worse

the mainsail snap and cease to wave, 

for naught a blessing nor a curse; 

The yard may break and strand us all

a hundred leagues from nearest shore;

The mists may hide the port of call

and we may miss our chance to moor.

Endeavors come, endeavors go,

and not all ships survive the sea,

But sink or sail you surely know

you are where you are meant to be.

 

In the Hands of the Anemoi

Blowing East and then blowing West, with rage and then a soft caress;.

mocking, absent, in jibe or jest, deceive then callously confess.

Adrift without, and with distressed, consigned we only acquiesce

to drown or thirst in this, our test; the winds blow not to curse or bless.

Tengo Esposa

For enduring my weirdness, madness, and random bits of baggage and detritus from childhood, I am forever indebted to her.  Because she herself is sometimes unreasonable, mercurial, and frustrating as all hell, the terms of my repayment of that debt are somewhat flexible, LOL.

We compliment one another, we invigorate one another, and most importantly we make each other want to be better people; for all of this and more, I am glad to call her my wife.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

A pesar de que estoy hecho de carne, no soy sólido.  

Obwohl ich spreche, ich habe keine Stimme.  

Anche se fa male, io non lo sento.

Si dormio, non somno.

    

Wo Ernsthaftigkeit und Süße habt Sie du treff.

"Liebst du mich?" du fragte,
"Ich liebe dich" antwortete ich.
"Sind Sie ehrlich?" du fragte,
"Ich liebe dich" antwortete ich.
"Ich will endlich..." du sagte
"..glauben dich", und lachelts du mich.
"Ich liebe dich", ich sagte
"mein Schatzenlich, ich liebe dich."

...And Tempestates Can Kiss My Ass

A flotilla is oft hard to navigate

(such ships are complex in the aggregate),

but regardless of weather

we're still sailing together

so 'tis better to steer now than calculate.

To Thalassa & Aphrodite, in Gratitude

Across Thalassa deep and vast
by chance four ships out sailing passed;
from four ports berthed and harbored, they
but chanced to intersect one day.

With sails unfurled and courses set,
Each one corrected when they met
to common bearings, in assent
as common purpose had been lent.

And spiraling into this chance
four ships in circles deigned to dance
'till under common banner they
took common course and sailed away.

There borne upon Thalassa's hands
to hidden shores of fabled lands
Four travelers adrift in bliss,
their sails filled by her daughter's kiss.

Truth is a Bludgeon

My great-aunt Arzella had a simple philosophy that she passed on to my mother, who in turn has passed it down to me intact:  Never fuck up a good lie.

It sounds flippant, but the sense of consistency and integrity with which a dutiful person applies that maxim is perhaps a good indicator of their consideration for others.  A decent sort of person doesn't expound on the horrors of mortal death at a fucking funeral, tell a child they are adopted out of the blue, or spite the local vicar by denouncing Christ just as the sermon concludes.  A decent sort of person tells the bereaved that of all the ways to go, that one is alleged to be peaceful and quick, tells the little ginger bastard that they seem to recall one of their great-grandmother's brothers had red hair too and that he's lucky to have that distinguished trait, and they gracefully exit the parish after tithing and they thank the clergyman for his counsel throughout the years.

Because we are honest, upstanding folks we want to be truthful and candid and unburdened by the heavy weight of deception and falsity, but sometimes a decent sort of person picks up that fucking yoke and shoulders it grimly without so much as a thought to the morality thereof, and we do this so that we may all get along without being honest, upstanding dicks to one another.

If you have been cheating on your wife for twenty years and suddenly have an epiphany of morality, for the love of all that is decent do the right thing and keep your goddamned mouth shut.  Be honest with your doctor, and continue to lie to your wife until your grave; stop fucking Debbie from the cubicle down the row, get tested, and then vow to be a better husband...starting with not stabbing someone else in the happiness with your catharsis.

If your father on his deathbed tells you he was a rotten bastard and a drunk, tell him that you always loved him and you forgave him years ago...and wait until after he slips quietly into oblivion and the room is clear of all others before you dance a jig and draw a cock on his chin with a Sharpie®.

Celebrate your schadenfreude, weep for your mistakes, masturbate furiously to unrequited lust, and if you deem it absolutely necessary mortify yourself with a scourge for your moral failings, but for fuck's sake keep it to yourself so the rest of us can get on with our day.

The Evolution of Protest

Ft. Lauderdale

Head pounding; equilibrium shot. Everything tastes like limes. Hot, even at night. Despite pleasant appearance, environment is stifling and oppressive. Florida is what would happen if Hell hired the decorator who did Paradise.

Orlando

Are any Floridians from Florida?  Everyone I've met is a transplant, immigrant, or in thrall of a trade show or The Rodent.

Sacrifice

If you give up anything, give up abstinence for Lent.  There is no greater pleasure to a modern religious person than the self-satisfied bliss that comes from illuminating one's own piety...so there is no more worthy affectation to forsake.  I say spend the whole forty days wallowing in your own mortal frailty and moral inconstancy.  Honor no bargain, tend to no other, and deny yourself no pleasure no matter how base or excessive, and then at the end climb down off of the cross and humbly beg your fellow human beings for being such a smugly pious stick in the mud for the other 325 days of the year.