tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75119288937234574022024-03-14T01:17:19.065-05:00Amamankhet @ BlogspotCeci n'est pas un blog.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-65797403022097377392014-12-11T13:45:00.003-06:002014-12-11T13:48:38.614-06:0012-24-1986<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">When I was a boy, I had an idea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">It was just an idea; it wasn't a plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I ran to the precipice, then I ran back,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I looked over the edge into darkness...and ran.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Moment by moment and for year after year,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I have entertained thoughts of all I might have done</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">with a moment's less hesitation that day,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">another year to endure, or nowhere to run.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">The monsters of childhood will never quite fade,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">nor the lessons that battling them did impart;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I am reminded by scars that I still bear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">on my body, in my mind, and deep in my heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Fear turned to anger, and anger to hatred,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">and the slight, ugly sting of a selfish regret:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">how much easier to sleep might it have been,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">had I let myself settle that outstanding debt</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">as he himself taught me, might even have praised</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">had he raised me with even a little less fear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Had I loved him a bit less in that moment,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I would surely have shed something more than a tear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">But a tear is what I shed in that moment</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">of freedom, when I knew I was no longer scared.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Without word or deed I had already won.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I left him alone, because I no longer cared. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">And I left a warning, as plain as could be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">It was only a warning, it wasn't a plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">A bullet, stood upright, nearby where he slept;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">a reminder the monster was only a man.</span>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-43711832900451332802013-08-11T04:26:00.001-05:002019-08-24T17:34:13.448-05:00You cannot own what I own:<br />
such singular joys,<br />
you ignorant boys.<br />
They are mine, and mine alone<br />
<br />
You cannot know what I know:<br />
the mind, formed like pearls,<br />
presumptuous girls,<br />
needs stimulation to grow.<br />
<br />
You cannot see what I see:<br />
your eyes will turn blind<br />
and doubts cloud your mind,<br />
if you watch the world with me.<br />
<br />
You cannot love what I love:<br />
this summit of space,<br />
this depth of disgrace,<br />
the world, below and above.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-76124183038027236842012-06-20T01:29:00.004-05:002012-06-20T01:29:42.889-05:00У меня есть женаFour years - the first full term, if you will. You run on a platform of all the things you're <i>going </i>to do; care for everyone, keep a budget, trim the fat, uphold the common good, educate your young, honor your elders, defend what is yours, and promote the values that bind you together. You compromise on all of them here and there, not because you lose your way or falter in your commitments, but because you <i>have </i>to compromise sometimes in order to achieve most of those goals. At the very least, you have to prioritize a bit, and in the end you always have to cut some programs that really mattered to someone.<br />
<br />
But if you keep every promise you possibly can (even those that were ill-advised or over-stated), and always act within everyone's best interests, hopefully you'll be asked to stick around for another term.<br />
<br />
I don't know anything about politics, but marriage sure as hell works that way.<br />
<br />
<br />Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-28402187524541587452012-05-27T16:09:00.000-05:002012-05-27T16:09:03.639-05:00The Truth HurtsA schism due to indecision;<br />
regret and then recidivism<br />
beget a past split through a prism<br />
scattered by abrupt division,<br />
tinged with it's revisionism.<br />
What fool would such a path envision? <br />
Truth is a bludgeon in love's fission,<br />
but disregard is an incision.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-68947768670542395492012-05-13T19:22:00.003-05:002012-05-13T19:22:52.704-05:00The Medium Moderate / Insincere FilthForty years ago, I can imagine Bourbon St. in New Orleans was a wholly different experience; the locals who are old enough to remember and the tourists here on business who once came in their youth lament the change, but you'd hardly notice them anymore. The whole of the French Quarter and much of the surrounding area revolves around the service industry, as does the neighboring business district across Canal St. that is home to the less historic but ultimately swankier hotels, the Morial Convention Center, and the Sugar Bowl; in a post-Katrina town many of those service people are imports, with only a passing sense of the history of the town and the people, and even those born and raised in the Big Easy are too young to remember it as it was.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Much like the Las Vegas Strip, Bourbon St. is a relatively safe parody of what was once a genuine reputation for sin, indulgence, and vice. Bachelor parties, organized tours, conventioneers, and retirees are slowly chasing down and overtaking drunken students and dedicated hedonists as the primary clientele, and once you get past the ready availability of liquor and strippers, you realize that the food sucks now, everything is overpriced, and worse than being filthy, it's <i>insincerely so</i>. The public order laws, police presence, and company policies have been engineered to provide what is ultimately a sort of pervert's Disney experience.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All of this competes of course with the priorities of a much larger, richer city that wants to recapture or protect their history and help their own people; if you stray from Bourbon St. into the rest of the Quarter and on into the Marigny, you can still see some semblance of the old New Orleans of legend...but even that may not be there for much longer. The one adult themed store that caters to the traditional leather and S&M community is being drowned out by a trio of whitewashed chain stores that sell bland "intimacy enhancers" designed for vanilla couples, and for every storefront steeped in local culture and indigenous practices, there are five convenience store that sell cheap copies imported from China, from voodoo dolls to plastic versions of the sculptures, glass works, taxidermy, and other oddities. There are a few very good restaurants remaining, but many of them are sadly attached to a celebrity chef who is never actually present, or to someone that has insisted that New Orleans somehow needed fusion foods based only loosely on what was already one of the richest and most diverse culinary traditions in the world.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But the heart of it is still there in the people who remain true to the experience; brass bands wandering in front of Pirate's Alley, the smell of roux and bread, and a pervasive idea that even the most desperate of souls can revel alongside the local gentry and the tourists. The merchandise and services may be overpriced in places, but the soul of being in New Orleans is still entirely free of charge.<br />
<br />
Other than the toll it takes on your sleep and sobriety, of course.</div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-74733047942395454452012-05-12T15:00:00.001-05:002012-05-13T19:17:16.472-05:00She is a Diamond<br />
Untameable <i>adámas</i> is oft a condradiction:<br />
the hardness of her surface and the softness of her glow,<br />
her value in adornment and inherent rarity,<br />
the way she flashes brilliant when she's held and turned just so.<br />
<br />
What makes such a thing beautiful <i>is</i> her imperfections,<br />
a blueprint of her forming that observant eyes might see; <br />
inclusions give character, and her color hues the light,<br />
as if each and every flaw has been tailored thus to be.<br />
<br />
She hides it in the rough, but when purposely directed<br />
her nature is to radiate what she herself demands.<br />
To care for her is labor, and to know her is an art.<br />
She shines the most when polished, by patient and caring hands.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-40601761718662715692012-04-19T01:23:00.003-05:002012-04-19T01:23:43.333-05:00She Who Dances In The Glade<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A girl might dream of dancing light,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that in the forest flits and twirls madly;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a random, airy thing of faerie fire<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and silken wing, this daring sprite<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
who sheds robes and concerns gladly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to revel there in unrestrained desire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man might wander through that wood,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
discarding care, forsaking human toil<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of plow, and trowel, and stone-sharpened blade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to run and howl where two legs stood<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
before, and search the sky and soil<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for scent of she who dances in the glade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And should their revelries conspire<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to bring them to the perfect place and time,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
each might know the other’s nature on sight<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and curse their human skin a liar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A beast may out of man thus climb,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a girl dream she is a dancing light.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-41682177661647374012012-04-09T16:52:00.003-05:002012-04-09T16:52:55.086-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/DCq7XJbah0s?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-10945115872931924142012-03-22T05:33:00.000-05:002012-03-22T05:35:14.375-05:00Recurring<br />
You know that dream...the one where you find yourself wandering the halls of a high school, nodding your head at guys and winking at cute girls? You're not sure how you got there. You don't really remember the layout and even some of the people; you think to yourself maybe it's more of an amalgam of lots of places and times than a strict remembrance, but it feels perfectly normal until you realize people are staring and pointing. And then you notice what's wrong:<br />
<br />
<i>Son of a bitch; I'm naked, aren't I?</i><br />
<br />
As I get older, two things occur to me. First, that dream isn't as intimidating or awkward as it used to be. Body image concerns and general embarrassment are a little like stage fright; some people have to get loosened up a bit and afterwards they're totally fine, and some people just need practice. Some people can't get past it, and some just never give a shit in the first place. The older I get, the less I am concerned about what people think of me in general.<br />
<br />
Second, when it happens in real life the judge isn't nearly as tolerant as one would hope.<br />Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-48982765958847625352012-03-08T15:22:00.002-06:002012-03-08T15:22:24.539-06:00문제 없어 / "Bai-bai"The phrase 문제 없어 (munje eobs-eo) means "no problem"; useful when responding to any number of inquiries, but perhaps most importantly it signals that you are having a good time while getting hammered on 폭탄주 (pogtan-ju) or "bomb drinks". If your host asks "it's okay?", knowing this little snippet of Korean will make them laugh, display that you are sober enough to continue drinking, and having fun.<br />
<br />
If at some point a co-worker mangles this phrase, and then begins speaking in Spanish, your Korean host may simply waive to them like a child and say "Bai-bai" to indicate that Elvis has left the building. P.J. O'Rourke said it best: the Irish of Asia. I'm a big man and I held my own last night, but it's daunting to see a man half my size keeping pace with the soju bombs; in the States it would be expected that someone my size could pound a few shots strategically hidden in a similar number of beers, but here they seemed genuinely surprised. If they tell you it isn't a competition, it's because they are assuming it probably isn't much of one, and they're likely correct; these guys do this once or twice a week all year long.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-42346132190006399582012-03-06T10:45:00.000-06:002012-03-06T10:45:05.423-06:00Taipei / Big SpicyThis is the most polite culture I've ever witnessed in my entire life; the most insulting thing I've heard anyone call anyone else is the equivalent of "dumb head", and people appeared shocked by the epithet. They drive like maniacs, weaving in and out of one another using yellow double lines, parking spaces, and sidewalks as suggestions rather than requirements...but it <i>works</i> for them because they pay attention and give way without fail. Most foreigners I think misunderstand when they see people wearing face masks that the person wearing the mask is afraid of getting sick, when in reality the person wearing the mask <i>is already sick</i>, and is being decent enough to make sure they don't fuck anyone else up. Respectful to one another, kind to foreigners with an infant's vocabulary and only passable pronunciation in their language (like yours truly, for instance), and genuinely pleased at even the most meager of effort to acclimate and participate, Taiwanese people may be the nicest in the entire world for all I can tell.<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I will acknowledge that they also may have also found it somewhat endearing that prior to learning anything more useful, I practiced the phrase "非常大辣" (fēicháng dà là), which means "very big spicy". Perhaps watching me turn crimson and give them a thumbs up while voluntarily eating what I can only describe as lava and noodles is simply entertaining.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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Regardless, I fucking love this town.</div>
</div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-89096893913259858952012-01-30T03:49:00.000-06:002012-02-08T01:19:42.247-06:00Agnosco vos patiamini at Manus Meum<br />
To all of those that I failed in my youth,<br />
the ones to whom I spoke an awkward truth<br />
or careless lie, in malice or in love,<br />
touched with iron hand cloaked with velvet glove<br />
to frame a moment still suspended here,<br />
in time, in words, and in memory clear:<br />
<br />
Forgive me for the ills I did bring you<br />
as you cherish joys that I did sing to<br />
calm your heart, or stay your troubled dreamings;<br />
the saint, the sinner, they were mere seemings<br />
formed of fantasies that belied a plan,<br />
draped upon the shoulders of but a man.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-36757025077338751392012-01-29T02:02:00.002-06:002012-01-29T02:10:08.402-06:00The Sweetness of Success & The Bitterness of DefeatSome time ago I embarked on two journeys almost simultaneously: I inherited responsibility for a critical but somewhat neglected function at work (whereupon the immediate professional advice included "ease into it, and try not to stress out"), and within 30 days I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes (whereupon the immediate medical advice included "set realistic goals, and try not to stress out").<br />
<br />
To frame both of these endeavors, gentle reader, I will confess to those that do not know me well personally that I am mildly famous in certain circles for my complete unwillingness to take anything easy. The new job was 180° out from the one that preceded it, and I was woefully, embarrassingly under-qualified academically; I'm not a hack, but I simply never had the benefit of formal education on any of the topics that required my opinion...so I spent 90 days cramming. I read dozens of books, called in some favors from friends, and -- unfuckingthinkably -- asked for help figuring some things out. It was maddening, but it was also invigorating. And then a third through that process, somebody told me my pancreas was staging a goddamned mutiny.<br />
<br />
So, I did what any reasonable person would do: I doubled down. I stopped smoking immediately, dropped most caffeine and all sugar out of my diet, and settled on a monastic 75 grams of carbohydrates per day when the nutritionist told me only a complete asshole would try to send diabetes into remission instantly with an Atkins diet. Partial asshole, I noted, was still on the table. My initial endocrinologist referred me to a partner who was, if I may be so bold, a total dick. My A1C was low enough that he took me off of one of the two medications I was initially prescribed at my first checkup. Confidently, I told him I would be ready to come off the second the next time we spoke; patronizingly, he smiled and said "let's not get ahead of ourselves". <i>Mother fucker</i>, I thought. <i>You do not know with whom you are dealing</i>. Having matured in my thirties and being humbled by the recent betrayal of my own body, I refrained from telling him to kiss my ass.<br />
<br />
Over the next few months I realized that checking my blood sugar three times a day was freaking me out and distracting me from work. In complete and utter disregard for the rules, I stopped doing it. It was always within a few points of where it was supposed to be, and being just slightly high made me stressed out...which made the next check even higher, as stress directly influences blood sugar, my endocrinologist (asshat) had warned. I managed to have two very painful, protracted arguments over my new professional space, and eventually was vindicated in both. After the second "uh...I guess you were right" moment from my detractors, the bullshit at work stopped and people began to take me as seriously as they had in my previous role. I returned to the doctor, who due to scheduling conflicts referred me to <i>another </i>partner, who checked my A1C and told me I could suspend the second medication if I wanted to, right on schedule. I couldn't help it; I told him to tell his little buddy (my second endocrinologist) to go fuck himself. Since it was optional, I did the smart thing and stayed on the second med anyway; basically, it was the difference between continuing to avoid carbs like they were kryptonite, and being able to have desert once in a while like a normal goddamned person, and in the end the prospect of an occasional taste of desert won.<br />
<br />
I finally felt back in control, and I was even caught up at work. Like an ass, I immediately rectified that by taking on another responsibility...and that's been my life for the last year or so: I devour work when I'm on the clock, I play hard and spend time with my wife when I'm not, and I revel in the fact that even as a diabetic, I feel like I can eat whatever the hell I want because I've stopped <i>wanting </i>to eat the shit that caused this problem. I can't stand the taste of high-fructose corn syrup now, and if I eat more than a very small portion of rice, bread, pasta, or even potatoes I feel like I'm going to have to digest and excrete concrete because of it, so I simply don't do that. I get almost all of my sugar from things like fruit and honey in moderate portions, and most of my carbs from vegetables. My cholesterol isn't perfect, but my blood sugar is controlled, my weight is down significantly, and I feel better than I did in my twenties.<br />
<br />
And just as all of that shit was beginning to make sense, this last week both of these journeys took an unexpected turn. I saw a <i>fourth</i> endocrinologist (the first is still overbooked, the second was busy, and the third no longer works there...I saw his replacement), and she flat told me to stop taking the second med I was on for diabetes. No need, not even as a precaution. I am essentially in remission; I'm still a diabetic somewhere deep inside, but not functionally. For the time being my pancreas has decided we can be friends again provided I'm not an idiot. Immediately after getting this news, I get the announcement at work that the functional area in which I've been mercilessly beating my head against the wall for eighteen months is now stable enough that I should pass it along to a couple of people to keep the lights on and the rudder straight. It isn't that it's not important anymore, or that I didn't do well...it's just...<i>over</i>. My job was to stabilize it, and my boss feels that now that it's stable the business is going to stop focusing on it, so he wants me to pick up something else that's more visible. I'm flattered, but I'm also irritated; this last adventure was my third in the department in less than three years when I started, and it was supposed to be somewhat permanent. Just like the endocrinologist had insinuated that I couldn't get off of the medication in that short of a time, everyone at work had framed my new role as something that would <i>always </i>require attention. I'd eventually want to do something else, perhaps, but that function would need someone like me forever, and that simply isn't the case. Now that the specifications have been written and the major arguments have concluded, my superiors feel there is no more room to push the envelope in that space that is useful to the greater effort. I don't know that I particularly agree with that...but I am, as I may have mentioned before, the kind of lunatic who thrives on charging into the mouth of hell.<br />
<br />
I don't just love a challenge, I fucking <i>need </i>a challenge. I don't know who the hell I am anymore unless I'm doing something somebody told me isn't practical or, even better, <i>possible</i>. And that weirds me the hell out. When did an iconoclastic streak in my adolescence turn into a fucking pathological need? Everybody <i>enjoys</i> thumbing their nose at convention once in a while, or feeling like they've accomplished something that was improbable or simply difficult...but what manner of malcontent has an identity crisis when his boss tells him he can relax because his job just got easier, and his doctor tells him he's successfully mitigated an illness that <i>kills people</i> who aren't that fortunate. I don't exactly miss working 70 hours a week, and I sure as hell don't resent the notion that I'm probably not going to have to deal with neuropathy, renal trouble, go blind, or have to take insulin in my forties and fifties...but as completely absurd as it sounds, with those monsters slain I'm just sort of sitting here polishing my armor, sharpening my sword, and thinking wistfully about the next time somebody says those three magical words to me: You Will Fail.<br />
<br />
Bring it.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-80635402545907416242011-12-24T12:57:00.001-06:002011-12-24T13:02:47.293-06:00The Sentiment of Machines vol. 3Congratulations 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.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-65057180504615266622011-12-10T13:05:00.000-06:002011-12-10T13:05:36.922-06:00The Reliability of MythIt'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).<br />
<br />
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 <i>sukkot</i> 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 <i>why </i>children wait for Santa every year instead of Jesus: dependability.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Maybe if you left milk and cookies out for Jesus he's stop by more often, but until then, lay off of the kids.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-78167042312442243012011-11-24T00:00:00.005-06:002011-11-24T00:00:08.104-06:00The Sentiment of Machines vol. 2Congratulations 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 <i>meleagridinae, </i>avoidance of normative obligations,<i> </i>and conspicuous over-consumption of otherwise scarce resources, while counterproductive, may be required to participate in ritual gatherings.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-16159335635146356772011-10-28T10:58:00.001-05:002011-10-28T10:58:15.961-05:00DNFTTThe original post was polemic,<br />
insufferable, and academic,<br />
but feeding the troll<br />
when they're on a roll<br />
is of trolldom itself endemic.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-11649651153753081862011-09-30T14:26:00.000-05:002011-09-30T14:26:15.524-05:00An Augur's ConcernThis notion of simplicity,<br />
itself is a complexity;<br />
'tis difficult reconcile<br />
in wit or wile, candor or guile,<br />
precisely what it means to me.<br />
<br />
This cognitive discrepancy;<br />
the things that meant so much to me.<br />
the resolution yet elludes,<br />
yet recitation still intrudes<br />
in disbelief and apathy.<br />
<br />
This error of complicity<br />
begat within sincerity<br />
was undertaken with intent<br />
of love well earned and time well spent,<br />
and therein was felicity.<br />
<br />
This record of intimacy<br />
cannot divine what is to be;<br />
it captures what the eyes have seen<br />
and recollects what might have been:<br />
this notion of simplicity.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-5946594759397806002011-08-14T18:26:00.002-05:002011-09-02T20:30:57.597-05:00UntitledIdle thought is how it all begins,<br />
blessing of days and the season's sins;<br />
thoughts are like insects transfixed by pins.<br />
The truth is reduced to words on skins<br />
painted and stretched upon wooden frames;<br />
intent betrayed by what purpose claims.<br />
Everyone points, but still no one blames.<br />
What ends in ashes begins in flames.<br />
<br />
Summer thoughts borne by a knave in spring<br />
never can tell what the fall will bring;<br />
a knight in winter will always sing<br />
of the virtue of a summer fling.<br />
Seasons pass and we can not pretend,<br />
or hope that the summer can extend<br />
past the days the season will intend;<br />
Summer thoughts die with the season's end.<br />
<br />
What began with a flame, now but dust;<br />
seasons must turn and the world is just<br />
as it ought to be and as it must.<br />
Seasons for life, birth, death, and for lust.<br />
Summer thoughts echo in winter's night,<br />
the ghost of a knave become a knight;<br />
a lifetime of memories delight.<br />
Spring is a vigil kept by that light.Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-41293198576487133442011-07-31T02:22:00.000-05:002011-07-31T02:22:37.300-05:00For Oceanus, who is a CircleThe keel may pass o'er murky grave, <div>and none the wiser none the worse<div>the mainsail snap and cease to wave, </div><div>for naught a blessing nor a curse; </div><div>The yard may break and strand us all</div><div>a hundred leagues from nearest shore;</div><div>The mists may hide the port of call</div><div>and we may miss our chance to moor.</div><div>Endeavors come, endeavors go,</div><div>and not all ships survive the sea,</div><div>But sink or sail you surely know</div><div>you are where you are meant to be.</div><div> </div></div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-76757818777970085262011-07-04T13:20:00.000-05:002011-07-04T13:20:37.889-05:00In the Hands of the AnemoiBlowing East and then blowing West, with rage and then a soft caress;.<div>mocking, absent, in jibe or jest, deceive then callously confess.</div><div>Adrift without, and with distressed, consigned we only acquiesce</div><div>to drown or thirst in this, our test; the winds blow not to curse or bless.</div><div><br />
</div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-16744533751264014512011-06-20T23:59:00.039-05:002011-06-21T21:57:15.855-05:00Tengo EsposaFor 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.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>We compliment one another, we invigorate one another, and most importantly we make each other want to be <i>better people;</i> for all of this and more, I am glad to call her my wife.</div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-12748558868884839922011-06-09T16:53:00.000-05:002011-06-09T16:53:11.822-05:00Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">A pesar de</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">que</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">estoy hecho</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">de</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">carne</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">, no</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">soy</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">sólido. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Obwohl</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">ich</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">spreche</span><span title="Click for alternate translations">, ich habe</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">keine</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Stimme</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Anche se</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">fa male</span><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">, io non</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">lo sento</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Si</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">dormio</span><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations">, non</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">somno.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"> </span></span></div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-89224990691058207632011-06-06T00:00:00.018-05:002011-07-22T19:11:45.908-05:00Wo Ernsthaftigkeit und Süße habt Sie du treff."Liebst du mich?" du fragte,<br />
"Ich liebe dich" antwortete ich.<br />
"Sind Sie ehrlich?" du fragte,<br />
"Ich liebe dich" antwortete ich.<br />
"Ich will endlich..." du sagte <br />
"..glauben dich", und lachelts du mich.<br />
"Ich liebe dich", ich sagte<br />
"mein Schatzenlich, ich liebe dich."Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511928893723457402.post-88244326738046828642011-06-05T21:26:00.001-05:002011-06-05T21:29:35.749-05:00...And Tempestates Can Kiss My AssA flotilla is oft hard to navigate<br />
<div>(such ships are complex in the aggregate),</div><div>but regardless of weather</div><div>we're still sailing together</div><div>so 'tis better to steer now than calculate.</div>Amamankhethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05425737263667500172noreply@blogger.com0